“The hand of the god is in all, Mr. Parker,” Dr. Prithivi told him. “Should you prove that it is not to be found, it would be the not-finding. And the not-found, also.”
“All right, that’s a philosophical position that cannot be attacked, since it already contains the refutation of any attack. But because it can’t be attacked, it can’t be demonstrated either—it’s simply your private belief. My point is that that wasn’t what you were talking about. You were trying to find a real, visible, apparent Hand of God—to take His fingerprints. I’m saying they may not be there. The dancing lion may be nothing more than a figment of George’s imagination—a dancing lion. Levitation—which is what that was—has often been reported in connection with other paranormal abilities.”
“This may be so,” Dr. Prithivi said, “but possibly we should ask him. George, when you were dancing with the lion man, did you perhaps feel it to be the god?”
“No,” Little Tib said, “an angel.”
A long time later, after Dr. Prithivi had asked him a great many questions and left, Little Tib asked Nitty what they were going to do that night. He had not understood Dr. Prithivi.
Mr. Parker said, “You have to appear. You’re going to be the boy Krishna.”
“Just play like,” Nitty added.
“It’s supposed to be a masquerade, more or less. Dr. Prithivi has talked some people who are interested in his religion into playing the parts of various mythic figures. Everyone wants to see you, so the high spot will be when you appear as Krishna. He brought a costume for you.”
“Where is it?” Little Tib asked.
“It might be better if you don’t put it on yet. The important thing is that while everybody is watching you and Nitty and Dr. Prithivi and the other masquers, I’ll have an opportunity to get into the County Administration Building and perform the reprogramming I have in mind.”
“Sounds good,” Nitty said. “You think you can do it all right?”
“It’s just a matter of getting a printout of the program and adding a patch. It’s set up now to eliminate personnel whenever the figures indicate that their functions can be performed more economically by automation. The patch will exempt the school superintendent’s job from the rule.”
“And mine,” Nitty said.
“Yes, of course. Anyway, it’s highly unlikely that it will ever be noticed in that mass of assembler-language statements—certainly it won’t be for many years, and then, when it is found, whoever comes across it will think that it reflects an administrative decision.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then I’ll add a once-through and erase subroutine that will rehire us and put George here in the blind program at Grovehurst. The whole thing ought not to take more than two hours at the outside.”
“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Nitty said.
“What’s that?”
“This little boy here—he’s what you call a wonder-worker.”
“You mean the little girl’s leg. There wasn’t any dancing lion then.”
“Before that. You remember when those railroad police ladies threw the gas bomb at us?”
“I’m pretty vague on it, to tell the truth.”
(Little Tib had gotten up. He had learned by this time that there was a kitchen in the motel, and he knew that Nitty had bought cola to put in the refrigerator. Little Tib wondered if they were looking at him.)
“Yeah,” Nitty said. “Well, back before that happened—with the gas bomb—you were feelin’ bad a lot. You know what I mean? You would think that you were still superintendent, and sometimes you got real upset when somebody said something.”
“I had emotional problems as a result of losing my position—maybe a little worse than most people would. But I got over it.”
“Took you a long time.”
“A few weeks, sure.”
(Little Tib opened the door of the refrigerator as quietly as he could, hearing the light switch click on. He wondered if he should offer to get something for Nitty and Mr. Parker, but he decided it would be best if they did not notice him.)
“ ’Bout three years.”
(Little Tib’s fingers found the cold cans on the top shelf. He took one out and pulled the ring, opening it with a tiny pop. It smelled funny, and after a moment he knew that it was beer and put it back. A can from the next shelf down was cola. He closed the refrigerator.)
“Three years.”
“Nearly that, yes.”
There was a pause. Little Tib wondered why the men were not talking.
“You must be right. I can’t remember what year it is. I could tell you the year I was born, and the year I graduated from college. But I don’t know what year it is now. They’re just numbers.”
Nitty told him. Then for a long time, again, nobody said anything. Little Tib drank his cola, feeling it fizz on his tongue.
“I remember traveling around with you a lot, but it doesn’t seem like . . .”
