So much for that, I said to myself as I watched the news item on TV. They shot down God, or rather God’s voice. Vox dei, I said to myself. Gone now from the world.
There must be many happy parties going on in Moscow.
Well, I thought glumly, a great epoch in the history of man has reached its end. Nothing will instruct us, nothing exists in our sky to cheer us when we are down, to lift us up and keep us alive, to heal our wounds. In Washington and Moscow they are saying, “Man has finally come of age; he doesn’t need paternalistic help.” Which is another way of saying, “We have abolished that help, and in its place we will rule,” offering no help at all: taking but not giving, ruling but not obeying, telling but not listening, taking life and not giving it. The slayers govern now, without interference; the dreams of mankind have become empty.
That night as Rachel, Johnny, and I, plus Pinky our cat, lay together on the big bed in our bedroom, a pale white light began to appear and fill the room.
Lying in my place on the bed I realized that no one could see the pale light but me; Pinky dozed, Rachel dozed, Johnny snored in his sleep. I alone, awake, saw the light grow, and I saw that it had no source, no location; it filled all spaces equally and made every object strikingly clear. What is this? I wondered, and a deep fear filled me. It was as if the presence of death had entered the room.
The light became so bright that I could make out every detail around me. The slumbering woman, the little boy, the dozing cat—they seemed etched or painted, unable to move, pitilessly revealed by the light. And in addition something looked down at us as we lay as if on a purely two-dimensional surface; something which traveled and made use of three dimensions studied us creatures limited to two. There was no place to hide; the light, the pitiless gaze, were everywhere.
We are being judged, I realized. The light has come on without warning to expose us, and now the judge examines each of us. What will his decision be? The sense of death, my own death, was profound; I felt as if I were inanimate, made of wood, a carved and painted toy . . . we were all carved toys to the judge who gazed down at us, and he could lift any—and all—of us off our painted surface whenever he wished.
I began to pray, silently. And then I prayed aloud. I prayed, strangely, in Latin—a Latin I did not know—phrases and whole sentences and always begging to be spared. That was what I wanted. That was what I asked for over and over again, in many languages now, in every language: for the judge to pass over me and let me go.
The pale, uniform light gradually faded out, and I thought to myself, it’s because the satellite is gone. That’s why. Death has flooded in to fill up the vacuum. Once life has been destroyed, that which remains is inert. I am seeing death return.
The next day Rachel noticed that Pinky seemed sick; he sat without moving, and once, as he sat, his head fell forward and struck the floor, as if from unbearable weariness. Seeing him, I understood that he was dying. Death had claimed him, not me.
I drove him to the Yorba Linda Veterinary Hospital, and the doctors there decided that he had a tumor. They operated while I drove back home. “We probably can save him,” they told me as I left, seeing how disheartened I was, but I knew better. This was what had been ushered in, for all the world; the first victim was, of course, the smallest.
Half an hour after I got back to the apartment one of the veterinarians phoned. “It’s cancer,” she told me. “There is no renal function, no urine production. We can sew him back together and he’ll live a week, but—”
“He’s under the anesthetic still?” I said.
“Yes, he’s still open.”
“Let him drift away,” I said. Beside me, Rachel began to cry. My guide, I thought. Dead now. Like Charley. Look at the forces in the world that are now unchecked.
“He must have had these malignant tumors growing for some time,” the vet was saying. “He’s underweight and dehydrated, and—”
“He died last night,” I said, and I thought, He was taken instead of me. Me or Johnny or Rachel. Maybe, I thought, he wanted it that way; he offered himself, knowing. “Thanks,” I said. “I know you did what you could. I don’t blame you.”
The satellite had passed from our world and, with it, the healing rays, like those of an invisible sun, felt by creatures but unseen and unacknowledged. The sun with healing in its wings.
Better not to tell Sadassa, I decided. At least what Pinky died of.
That night, while I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom, I abruptly felt a firm, strong hand placed on my shoulder from behind: the grip of a friend. Thinking it was Rachel, I turned. And saw no one.
He has lost his animal form, I realized. He never was a cat. Supernatural beings mask themselves as ordinary creatures, to pass among us, to lead and guide us.
That night I dreamed that a symphony orchestra was playing a Brahms symphony, and I was reading the album notes. The words came to an end and there was the name:
HERBERT
My old boss, I thought. Who’s been dead these years from his heart condition. Who taught me what devotion to duty meant. A message to me from him.
After the name there appeared a musical stave strung in catgut, indented into the soft paper as if by five claws. Pinky’s signature; after all, Pinky could not write. I thought, My dead boss, who taught me so much and who is dead, reborn as Pinky? To lead me
