Toward the west the surf purred in an oddly gentle way at the edges of the fishing village. Toward the south the stars were sharp and bright; toward the north they dimmed a little in the persistent radiation of what had once been San Francisco.
“Your steed is here,” the Pope said, with something like laughter in his voice.
“Steed?”
“We may be as poor and as persecuted as the primitive church, but we can occasionally gain greater advantages from our tyrants. I have secured for you a robass—gift of a leading Technarch who, like Nicodemus, does good by stealth—a secret convert, and converted, indeed, by that very Aquin whom you seek.”
It looked harmlessly like a woodpile sheltered against possible rain. Thomas pulled off the skins and contemplated the sleek functional lines of the robass. Smiling, he stowed his minimal gear into its panniers and climbed into the foam saddle. The starlight was bright enough so that he could check the necessary coordinates on his map and feed the data into the electronic controls.
Meanwhile there was a murmur of Latin in the still night air, and the Pope’s hand moved over Thomas in the immemorial symbol. Then he extended that hand, first for the kiss on the ring, and then again for the handclasp of a man to a friend he may never see again.
Thomas looked back once more as the robass moved off. The Pope was wisely removing his ring and slipping it into the hollow heel of his shoe.
Thomas looked hastily up at the sky. On that altar at least the candles still burnt openly to the glory of God.
Thomas had never ridden a robass before, but he was inclined, within their patent limitations, to trust the works of the Technarchy. After several miles had proved that the coordinates were duly registered, he put up the foam backrest, said his evening office (from memory; the possession of a breviary meant the death sentence), and went to sleep.
They were skirting the devastated area to the east of the Bay when he awoke. The foam seat and back had given him his best sleep in years; and it was with difficulty that he smothered an envy of the Technarchs and their creature comforts.
He said his morning office, breakfasted lightly, and took his first opportunity to inspect the robass in full light. He admired the fast-plodding, articulated legs, so necessary since roads had degenerated to, at best, trails in all save metropolitan areas; the side wheels that could be lowered into action if surface conditions permitted; and above all the smooth black mound that housed the electronic brain—the brain that stored commands and data concerning ultimate objectives and made its own decisions on how to fulfill those commands in view of those data; the brain that made this thing neither a beast, like the ass his Saviour had ridden, nor a machine, like the jeep of his many-times-great-grandfather, but a robot . . . a robass.
“Well,” said a voice, “what do you think of the ride.”
Thomas looked about him. The area of this fringe of desolation was as devoid of people as it was of vegetation.
“Well,” the voice repeated unemotionally. “Are not priests taught to answer when spoken to politely.”
There was no querying inflection to the question. No inflection at all—each syllable was at the same dead level. It sounded strange, mechani . . .
Thomas stared at the black mound of brain. “Are you talking to me?” he asked the robass.
“Ha ha,” the voice said in lieu of laughter. “Surprised, are you not.”
“Somewhat,” Thomas confessed. “I thought the only robots who could talk were in library information service and such.”
“I am a new model. Designed-to-provide-conversation-to-entertain-the-wayworn-traveler,” the robass said slurring the words together as though that phrase of promotional copy was released all at once by one of his simplest binary synapses. “Well,” said Thomas simply. “One keeps learning new marvels.”
“I am no marvel. I am a very simple robot. You do not know much about robots do you.”
“I will admit that I have never studied the subject closely. I’ll confess to being a little shocked at the whole robotic concept. It seems almost as though man were arrogating to himself the powers of—” Thomas stopped abruptly.
“Do not fear,” the voice droned on. “You may speak freely. All data concerning your vocation and mission have been fed into me. That was necessary otherwise I might inadvertently betray you.”
Thomas smiled. “You know,” he said, “this might be rather pleasant—having one other being that one can talk to without fear of betrayal, aside from one’s confessor.”
“Being,” the robass repeated. “Are you not in danger of lapsing into heretical thoughts.”
“To be sure, it is a little difficult to know how to think of you—one who can talk and think but has no soul.”
“Are you sure of that.”
“Of course I— Do you mind very much,” Thomas asked, “if we stop talking for a little while? I should like to meditate and adjust myself to the situation.”
“I do not mind. I never mind. I only obey. Which is to say that I do mind. This is a very confusing language which has been fed into me.”
“If we are together long,” said Thomas, “I shall try teaching you Latin. I think you might like that better. And now let me meditate.”
The robass was automatically veering further east to escape the permanent source of radiation which had been the first cyclotron. Thomas fingered his coat. The combination of ten small buttons and one large made for a peculiar fashion; but it was much safer than carrying a rosary, and fortunately the Loyalty Checkers had not yet realized the fashion’s functional
