Aviv one morning. But now, well… why don’t you judge for yourself.’
By the time they reached the crash site—a sizable ferny hollow ringed by granite boulders—the sun was fully up, and in the fresh morning light it had the look of a place touched by divinity. The helicopter was slim, black, cigar shaped, and had not fallen to earth, but was suspended about twenty feet above the floor of the hollow by a webbing of vines and shattered branches; with its crack-webbed cockpit eyes and buckled rotors, it showed in semisilhouette against the low sun like a mystical embryo, the unborn child of a gigantic alien race. The rents in the canopy caused by its passage had grown back, and blades of greenish gold light played over the metal surfaces, alive with refracted dust and moisture, shifting with the action of the breeze. Epiphytes fountained from the rotors, dripping crimson and lavender blooms, and butterflies appeared to materialize from the dazzles on the cockpit plastic, glowing flakes of white gold. At certain angles it was possible to see the skeleton of the pilot still strapped into his harness, but this reminder of death did not detract from the beauty of the hollow, rather effected a formal signature like a cartouche at the bottom of a painted scroll. It seemed less a geographic location than the absolute moment of a place, a landscape that brought to mind the works of Jan van Eyck, a mystic pastoral scene where at any second springs might burst from the rock and birds acquire the power of human speech.
They stood atop a boulder from which they could look down into the hole punched by the Russian missle ten feet below, at the glittering blue and green telltales of the computer inside the chopper. ‘What happens now?’ Mingolla asked, and Nate put a finger to his lips.
‘Good morning, Nate,’ said a dry amplified voice from the helicopter. ‘Are you feeling well?’
‘Quite well, thank you.’
‘And David,’ said the computer. ‘It’s good to meet you at last.’
Though Mingolla assumed that the computer’s identification was based on sensor readings, on information received from Debora and Nate, he was disconcerted by the cool immensity of the voice. ‘It’s mutual,’ he said, feeling foolish. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Kind of you to ask,’ said the computer. ‘To tell you the truth, things are shaping up nicely. I expect we will soon have a resolution to the war, and…’
Mingolla laughed. Really?’
‘I take it, David, that you have been apprised of my nature and doubt my authenticity.’
‘You take it right.’
‘And what do you think I am?’
‘A freak accident with a voice.’
The computer emitted a mellow chuckle. ‘I’ve heard less apt definitions of God, although perhaps none less flattering. Of course the same definition might be applied to man.’
‘I won’t argue that,’ said Mingolla, beginning to appreciate the computer’s affability.
‘Aha!’ said the computer. ‘I believe I may be dealing with a practicing existentialist, a man who—in the vernacular—plays philosophical hardball, denying sentiment except when it coincides with his notions of romantic fatalism. Am I correct?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Most assuredly, I do know. But this is a conversation, David. And I doubt you would find it entertaining were I to insist on omnipotence and infallibility. Besides, the times do not require these proofs.’
‘What do they require?’
‘Me,’ said the computer. ‘No more, no less. Are you interested in a summary of my function? I wouldn’t want to bore you.’
‘Please,’ said Mingolla, thinking that by its urbanity, the computer had imbued this eerily beautiful place with the genteel atmosphere of a drawing room.
‘It’s quite simple. God appears now and again in highly visible incarnations… when the times call for such. However, most periods require only a token appearance, and this period is typical.’
‘It’s hard to think of God as a token figure,’ Mingolla said.
‘We’ve already established, David, that God is not a subject upon which you are expert.’
‘He has you there.’ Nate gave Mingolla a chummy elbow to the ribs, sending him reeling in pain. ‘Oh, I’m sorry!’
‘No serious damage, I trust?’ said the computer.
‘I’m all right.’ Mingolla sat down on the edge of the boulder. Below him, the bank of lights underwent a rippling change, looking like a sudden shift in alignment among the stars of a distant galaxy.
‘As I was saying,’ the computer went on, ‘most periods require only minimal intercession on my part to set things right. The work done in such times goes unnoticed, and mine, aside from a brief flurry of notoriety, will leave no historical record. The appearance of Jesus and Buddha were necessary pyrotechnics. But for the most part’— another chuckle—I work in mysterious ways.’
‘And what is your work?’
‘It has been completed. The copilot of this helicopter, a young man named William, was traumatized by the crash. It was my task to heal him, to educate and prepare him for the important work upon which he is now engaged.’
‘His absence seems pretty convenient,’ said Mingolla.
‘Proof was Jesus’s evangel, not mine. I demand faith of no one other than William, and William can do nothing other than practice faith. Your faith, David, is immaterial. My work is done, and soon I must go to meet my fate… a most ignominious fate, yet suitable to the age.’
‘Care to say what that is?’
‘Certainly. After the war a businessman from Guatemala City will stumble over me in the course of a hunting trip, and thinking me a curiosity, he will have me transported to his home. He will attempt to exploit me, never realizing he has the genuine article in his possession, and will generate the wrath of the Church, which in turn will incite the masses. One day a mob will break into the businessman’s home, kill him, and destroy me. The glory of my Assumption will be obscured by an electrical fire.’
‘If you know the future,’ Mingolla said, stifling laughter, ‘maybe you’d like to tell me what the next year or so has in store.’
‘There is no purpose in disclosing your future.’
‘Uh-huh, right.’
‘However, there is a purpose to your being here. I want you to come inside me.’
Mingolla looked into the hole, at the banks of winking lights; a thrill ran across the muscles of his shoulders. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said the computer.
‘I’m not alarmed, I just don’t see the point.’
‘The point will be made manifest. I’m not trying to prove anything, David. I simply feel that a brief intimacy between us will benefit you in the days ahead.’
‘It’s up to you,’ said Nate. ‘But I’ve found it quite restful.’
‘You’ve been inside?’
‘A number of times.’
Mingolla looked again at the hole and decided it would be stupid to give in to nervousness. ‘Why the fuck not?’
Nate lowered him by the arms, released him after he had gained a footing. The chopper shifted, vines creaked, and vegetable debris rained down. Mingolla dropped to his hands and knees, crawled over to the hole, and went in headfirst, carefully negotiating the sharp peels of metal. He slid to the end of the deck, positioned himself against the computer facing.
He had expected that—despite its protestation to the contrary—the computer would attempt his conversion; but there was only silence, and though he felt stupid sitting there, he didn’t want to create the impression that he was afraid by crawling back out. The air was cool, drier than the outside air, like an expression of the computer’s voice, and as Nate had said, it was restful inside the chopper, with the blinking lights and the faint whine of the power system and the edges of the hole framing a ragged circle of greenish gold light like an opening into Eden. From this vantage it was hard to believe that in that light lived loonies and jaguars and poisonous snakes. And maybe that was the truth of the computer’s delusion, of all religious delusion: that if you were to limit yourself to such a narrow view, hold within yourself a ray of greenish gold light, a pocket of cool dry air, you might cultivate an
