The Machine's Child (Company) Read Free

spoke, the creak of the insubstantial chair when he shifted his weight.
    “But I am no more than thou art,” Nicholas said at last, bitterly. “A
made thing,
an alchemical homunculus. How shouldst thou comfort my soul, when neither thou nor I have souls, but only spirits? So might a clock comfort an astrolabe.”
    “Ah, well, sir, I’ve no soul, to be sure; but it might help to talk, all the same.”
    Nicholas lay back with a sigh, and gazed at the lamp.
    “I have been disputing with myself,” he said, “since I have awakened into this unnatural life of horrible marvels, on the nature of Almighty God.”
    “And how doth that make thee feel, lad?” inquired the Captain. Nicholas drew a deep breath and went on:
    “In regarding now the thing I am, that standeth outside mankind like a phantom, and observing how the world waggeth these late ages, and seeing the low truth of creation (which evolution my reason must accept, though my heart sickens)—I cannot reconcile myself with the several proofs, laid before mine eyes, that contradict my faith.”
    “Well, that’s a predicament, to be sure. You ain’t the first one to run aground on it, neither.”
    “What have other men done, Spirit?” Nicholas pleaded.
    “Why—I reckon they worked it out as best they could, sir. Some folk paid no heed to the contradictions. Some dumped the whole Bible andwent over to the Goddess, though that ain’t turning out no better, it seems. Most folk don’t trouble with religion at all, like my Alec. He gets along fine.”
    “He feels no pain?” Nicholas cried. “He feels no horror at this void of pointless time?”
    The Captain stroked his beard, scowling. “Well, he didn’t use to, when he thought he’d just go out like a light once he died. You showing up like you done puts a new look on everything, don’t it? Wherefore I might prepare me for squalls . . .” He cocked an eye at Nicholas. “What dost reckon it’ll take thee to work out an answer to that crisis of faith of thine?”
    “I would a thousand pounds I might study Scripture again. Oh, that I had my books that were burnt!” Nicholas gripped the blanket with both hands.
    “Then turn and look there, sir. See that text plaquette on yer night table? The thing what looks like green glass in a little window frame. Go ahead, pick it up. The other lads is both asleep, they won’t hinder thee. That’s a book, sir, of the kind we use in this day and age. My boy hath it to look at figures, but it hath a million texts in it beside. I’ll just open it for thee.”
    Nicholas caught his breath. The dark glass lit up and bright letters appeared, informing him that he beheld THE OLD TESTAMENT , diligently corrected and compared with the Hebrew, by William Tyndale and finished in the year of Our Lord God A. 1536, in the month of September at Vilvorde.
    He was struck speechless.
    “D’you like that, eh? Look, when thine eye comes to the bottom of the page, the book knows and goes on to the next one for thee. Nor needst thou a candle, for the book maketh its own light. Be’n’t it a wonder, lad?”
    “Ay,” said Nicholas, immersed in the translator’s preface. He pulled himself away with some effort and looked at the Captain in awe. “I had Tyndale’s New Testament when I lived. Is he still read amongst the generations, after so long?”
    “Well . . . in certain circles. His work ain’t lost, anyhow; trust Dr. Zeus to see to that.”
    “Then one martyr at least did not waste his death,” said Nicholas, sighing as he turned the plaquette over in his hands.
    “Now, Nick, lad: see canst thou find there a God what don’t insult a man’s reason, eh? For I reckon my boy might need to grapple with the Eternal afore long, and I’d just as soon I had an answer for him what makes sense. Thou’lt have any books thou desirest, so it’s done. I got other folks’ holy scriptures, too. Buddha and that lot.”
    “. . . Ay,” said Nicholas, drawn in again by the