Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction, page 367
* * * *
Cardinal McGavin took a peyotadrene-mescamil combo and 5 mg. of metadrene an hour and a half before his meeting with Cardinal Rillo; he had decided to try to deal with Rome on a mystical rather than a political level, and that particular prescription made him feel most deeply Christian. And the Good Lord knew that it could become very difficult to feel deeply Christian when dealing with a representative of the Pope.
Cardinal Rillo arrived punctually at three, just as Cardinal McGavin was approaching his mystical peak; the man’s punctuality was legend. Cardinal McGavin felt pathos in that: the sadness of a Prince of the Church whose major impact on the souls of his fellows lay in his slavery to the hands of a clock. Because the ascetic-looking old man, with his colorless eyes and pencil-thin lips, was so thoroughly unloveable, Cardinal McGavin found himself cherishing the man for his very existential hopelessness. He sent forth a silent prayer that he, or if not he then at least someone, might be chosen as an instrument through which this poor cold creature might be granted a measure of Divine Grace.
Cardinal Rillo accepted the amenities with cold formality, and in the same spirit agreed to share some claret. Cardinal McGavin knew better than to offer a joint; Cardinal Rillo had been in the forefront of the opposition which had caused the Pope to delay his inevitable encyclical on marijuana for long ludicrous years. That the Pope had chosen such an emissary in this matter was not a good sign.
Cardinal Rillo sipped at his wine in sour silence for long moments while Cardinal McGavin was nearly overcome with sorrow at the thought of the loneliness of the soul of this man, who could not even break the solemnity of his persona to share some Vatican gossip over a little wine with a fellow Cardinal. Finally, the Papal emissary cleared his throat—a dry, archaic gesture—and got right to the point.
“The Pontiff has instructed me to convey his concern at the addition of psychedelics to the composition of the communion host in the Archdiocese of New York,” he said, the tone of his voice making it perfectly clear that he wished the Holy Father had given him a much less cautious warning to deliver. But if the Pope had learned anything at all from the realities of this schismatic era, it was caution. Especially when dealing with the American hierarchy, whose allegiance to Rome was based on nothing firmer than nostalgia and symbolic convenience. The Pope had been the last to be convinced of his own fallibility, but in the last few years events seemed to have finally brought the new refinement of Divine Truth home.
“I acknowledge and respect the Holy Father’s concern,” Cardinal McGavin said. “I shall pray for divine resolution of his doubt.”
“I didn’t say anything about doubt!” Cardinal Rillo snapped, his lips moving with the crispness of pincers. “How can you impute doubt to the Holy Father?”
Cardinal McGavin’s spirit soared over a momentary spark of anger at the man’s pigheadedness; he tried to give Cardinal Rillo’s soul a portion of peace. “I stand corrected,” he said. “I shall pray for the alleviation of the Holy Father’s concern.”
But Cardinal Rillo was implacable and inconsolable; his face was a membrane of control over a musculature of rage. “You can more easily relieve the Holy Father’s concern by removing the peyotadrene from your hosts!” he said.
“Are those the words of the Holy Father?” Cardinal Mo-Gavin asked, knowing the answer.
“Those are my words, Cardinal McGavin,” Cardinal Rillo said, “and you would do well to heed them. The fate of your immortal soul may be at stake.”
A flash of insight, a sudden small satori, rippled through Cardinal McGavin: Rillo was sincere. For him, the question of a chemically-augmented host was not a matter of Church politics, as it probably was to the Pope; it touched on an area of deep religious conviction. Cardinal Rillo was indeed concerned for the state of his soul and it behooved him, both as a Cardinal and as a Catholic, to treat the matter seriously on that level. For after all, chemically-augmented communion was a matter of deep religious conviction for him as well. He and Cardinal Rillo faced each other across a gap of existentially-meaningful theological disagreement.
“Perhaps the fate of yours as well, Cardinal Rillo,” he said.
“I didn’t come here all the way from Rome to seek spiritual guidance from a man who is skating on the edge of heresy, Cardinal McGavin. I came here to deliver the Holy Father’s warning that an encyclical may be issued against your position. Need I remind you that if you disobey such an encyclical, you may be excommunicated?”
“Would you be genuinely sorry to see that happen?” Cardinal McGavin asked, wondering how much of the threat was Rillo’s wishful thinking, and how much the instructions of the Pope. “Or would you simply feel that the Church had defended itself properly?”
“Both,” Cardinal Rillo said without hesitation.
“I like that answer,” Cardinal McGavin said, tossing down the rest of his glass of claret. It was a good answer—sincere on both counts. Cardinal Rillo feared both for the Church and for the soul of the Archbishop of New York, and there was no doubt that he quite properly put the Church first. His sincerity was spiritually refreshing, even though he was thoroughly wrong all around. “But you see, part of the gift of Grace that comes with a scientifically-sound chemical augmentation of communion is a certainty that no one, not even the Pope, can do anything to cut you off from communion with God. In psychedelic communion, one experiences the love of God directly. It’s always just a host away; faith is no longer even necessary.”
Cardinal Rillo grew somber. “It is my duty to report that to the Pope,” he said. “I trust you realize that.”
“Who am I talking to, Cardinal Rillo, you or the Pope?”
“You are talking to the Catholic Church, Cardinal McGavin,” Rillo said. “I am an emissary of the Holy Father.” Cardinal McGavin felt an instant pang of guilt: his sharpness had caused Cardinal Rillo to imply an untruth out of anger, for surely his Papal mission was far more limited than he had tried to intimate. The Pope was too much of a realist to make the empty threat of excommunication against a Prince of the Church who believed that his power of excommunication was itself meaningless.
But again, a sudden flash of insight illuminated the Cardinal’s mind with truth: in the eyes of Cardinal Rillo, in the eyes of an important segment of the Church hierarchy, the threat of excommunication still held real meaning. To accept their position on chemically augmented communion was to accept the notion that the word of the Pope could withdraw a man from Divine Grace. To accept the sanctity and validity of psychedelic communion was to deny the validity of excommunication.
“You know, Cardinal Rillo,” he said, “I firmly believe that if I am excommunicated by the Pope, it will threaten my soul not one iota.”
“That’s merely cheap blasphemy!”
“I’m sorry,” Cardinal McGavin said sincerely, “I meant to be neither cheap nor blasphemous. All I was trying to do was explain that excommunication can hardly be meaningful when God through the psychedelic sciences has seen fit to grant us a means of certain direct experience of his countenance. I believe with all my heart that this is true. You believe with all your heart that it is not.”
“I believe that what you experience in your psychedelic communion is nothing less than a masterstroke of Satan, Cardinal McGavin. Evil is infinitely subtle; might not it finally masquerade as the ultimate good? The Devil is not known as the Prince of Liars without reason. I believe that you are serving Satan in what you sincerely believe is the service of God. Is there any way that you can be sure that I am wrong?”
“Can you be sure that I’m not right?” Cardinal McGavin said. “If I am, you are attempting to stifle the will of God and willfully removing yourself from His Grace.”
“We cannot both be right…” Cardinal Rillo said.
And the burning glare of a terrible and dark mystical insight filled Cardinal McGavin’s soul with terror, a harsh illumination of his existential relationship to the Church and to God: they both couldn’t be right, but there was no reason why they both couldn’t be wrong. Apart from both God and Satan, existed the Void.
* * * *
Dr. Braden gave Johnny a pat-on-the-head smile and handed him a mango-flavored lollypop from the supply of goodies in his lower-left desk drawer. Johnny took the lollypop, unwrapped it quickly, popped it into his mouth, leaned back in his chair, and began to suck the sweet avidly, oblivious to the rest of the world. It was a good sign—a preschooler with a proper reaction to a proper basic prescription should focus strongly and completely on the most interesting element in its environment, should be fond of unusual flavors. In the first four years of its life, a child’s sensorium should be tuned to accept the widest possible spectrum of sensual stimulation.
Braden turned his attention to the boy’s mother, who sat rather nervously on the edge of her chair smoking a joint. “Now, now, Mrs. Lindstrom, there’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “Johnny has been responding quite normally to his prescription. His attention-span is suitably short for a child of his age, his sensual range slightly exceeds the optimum norm, his sleep pattern is regular and properly deep. And as you requested, he has been given a constant sense of universal love.”
“But then why did the school doctor ask me to have his basic prescription changed, Dr. Braden? He said that Johnny’s prescription was giving him the wrong personality pattern for a school-age child.”
Dr. Braden was rather annoyed, though of course he would never betray it to the nervous young mother. He knew the sort of failed G.P. who usually occupied a school doctor’s position; a faded old fool who knew about as much about psychedelic pediatrics as he did about brain surgery. What he did know was worse than nothing—a smattering of half-assed generalities and pure rubbish that was just enough to convince him that he was an expert. Which entitled him to go around frightening the mothers of other people’s patients, no doubt.
“I’m… ah, certain you misunderstood, what the school doctor said, Mrs. Lindstrom,” Dr. Braden said. “At least I hope you did, because if you didn’t, then the man is mistaken. You see, modern psychedelic pediatrics recognizes that the child needs to have his consciousness focused in different areas at different stages of his development, if he is to grow up to be a healthy, maximized individual. A child of Johnny’s age is in a transitional stage. In order to prepare him for schooling, I’ll simply have to alter his prescription so as to increase his attention-span, lower his sensory intensity a shade, and increase his interest in abstractions. Then he’ll do fine in school, Mrs. Lindstrom.” Dr. Braden gave the young woman a moderately-stern admonishing frown. “You really should have brought Johnny in for a check-up before he started school, you know.”
Mrs. Lindstrom puffed nervously on her joint while Johnny continued to suck happily on his lollypop. “Well… I was sort of afraid to, Dr. Braden,” she admitted. “I know it sounds silly, but I was afraid that if you changed his prescription to what the school wanted, you’d stop the paxum. I didn’t want that—I think it’s more important for Johnny to continue to feel universal love than increasing his attention-span or any of that stuff. You’re not going to stop the paxum, are you?”
“Quite the contrary, Mrs. Lindstrom,” Dr. Braden said. “I’m going to increase his dose slightly and give him 10 mg. of orodalamine daily. He’ll submit to the necessary authority of his teachers with a sense of trust and love, rather than out of fear.”
For the first time during the visit, Mrs. Lindstrom smiled. “Then it all really is all right, isn’t it?” She radiated happiness born of relief.
Dr. Braden smiled back at her, basking in the sudden surge of good vibrations. This was his peak-experience in pediatrics: feeling the genuine gratitude of a worried mother whose fears he had thoroughly relieved. This was what being a doctor was all about. She trusted him. She put the consciousness of her child in his hands, trusting that those hands would not falter or fail. He was proud and grateful to be a psychedelic pediatrician. He was maximizing human happiness.
“Yes, Mrs. Lindstrom,” he said soothingly, “everything is going to be all right.”
In the chair in the comer, Johnny Lindstrom sucked on his lollypop, his face transfigured with boyish bliss.
* * * *
There were moments when Bill Watney got a soul-deep queasy feeling about psychedelic design, and lately he was getting those bad flashes more and more often. He was glad to have caught Spiegelman alone in the designers’ lounge; if anyone could do anything for his head, Lennie was it. “I dunno,” he said, washing down 15 mg. of lebemil with a stiff shot of bourbon, “I’m really thinking of getting out of this business.”
Leonard Spiegelman lit a Gold with his 14-carat gold lighter—nothing but the best for the best in the business-smiled across the coffee-table at Watney, and said quite genially: “You’re out of your mind, Bill.”
Watney sat hunched slightly forward in his easy chair, studying Spiegelman, the best artist Psychedelics, Inc. had, and envying the older man. Envying not only his talent, but his attitude towards his work. Lennie Spiegelman was not only certain that what he was doing was right, he enjoyed every minute of it. Watney wished he could be like Spiegelman. Spiegelman was happy; he radiated the contented aura of a man who really did have everything he wanted.
Spiegelman opened his arms in a gesture that seemed to make the whole designers’ lounge his personal property. “We’re the world’s best-pampered artists,” he said. “We come up with two or three viable drug designs a year, and we can live like kings. And we’re practising the world’s ultimate artform: creating realities. We’re the luckiest mothers alive! Why would anyone with your talent want out of psychedelic design?”
Watney found it difficult to put into words, which was ridiculous for a psychedelic designer, whose work it was to describe new possibilities in human consciousness well enough for the biochemists to develop psychedelics which would transform his specs into styles of reality. It was humiliating to be at a loss for words in front of Lennie Spiegelman, a man he both envied and admired. “I’m getting bad flashes lately,” he finally said. “Deep flashes that go through every style of consciousness that I try, flashes that tell me I should be ashamed and disgusted about what I’m doing.”
Oh, oh, Lennie Spiegehnan thought, the kid is coming up with his first case of designer’s cafard. He’s floundering around with that no direction home syndrome and he thinks it’s the end of the world. “I know what’s bothering you, Bill,” he said. “It happens to all of us at one time or another. You feel that designing psychedelic specs is a solipsistic occupation, right? You think there’s something morally wrong about designing new styles of consciousness for other people, that we’re playing God, that continually altering people’s consciousness in ways only we fully understand is a thing that mere mortals have no right to do, like hubris, eh?”
Watney flashed admiration for Spiegelman—his certainty wasn’t based on a thick ignorance of the existential doubt of their situation. There was hope in that, too, “How can you understand all that, Lennie,” he said, “and still dig psychedelic design the way you do?”
“Because it’s a load of crap, that’s why,” Spiegelman said. “Look kid, we’re artists, commercial artists at that. We design psychedelics, styles of reality; we don’t tell anyone what to think. If people like the realities we design for them, they buy the drugs, and if they don’t like our art, they don’t. People aren’t going to buy food that tastes lousy, music that makes their ears hurt, or drags that put them in bummer realities. Somebody is going to design styles of consciousness for the human race, if not artists like us, then a lot of crummy politicians and power-freaks.”
“But what makes us any better than them? Why do we have any more right to play games with the consciousness of the human race than they do?”
The kid is really dense, Spiegelman thought. But then he smiled, remembering that he had been on the same stupid trip when he was Watney’s age. “Because we’re artists, and they’re not,” he said. “We’re not out to control people. We get our kicks from carving something beautiful out of the void. All we want to do is enrich people’s lives. We’re creating new styles of consciousness that we think are improved realities, but we’re not shoving them down people’s throats. We’re just laying out our wares for the public—right doesn’t even enter into it. We have a compulsion to practice our art. Right and wrong are arbitrary concepts that vary with the style of consciousness, so how on earth can you talk about the right and wrong of psychedelic design? The only way you can judge is by an esthetic criterion—are we producing good art or bad?”
“Yeah, but doesn’t that vary with the style of consciousness too? Who can judge in an absolute sense whether your stuff is artistically pleasing or not?”
“Jesus Christ, Bill, I can judge, can’t I?” Spiegelman said. “I know when a set of psychedelic specs is a successful work of art. It either pleases me or it doesn’t.”
It finally dawned on Watney that that was precisely what was eating at him. A psychedelic designer altered his own reality with a wide spectrum of drugs and then designed other psychedelics to alter other people’s realities. Where was anyone’s anchor?
“But don’t you see, Lennie?” he said. “We don’t know what the hell we’re doing. We’re taking the human race on an evolutionary trip, but we don’t know where we’re going. We’re flying blind.”
Spiegelman took a big drag on his joint. The kid was starting to get to him; he was whining too much. Watney didn’t want anything out of line—just certainty! “You want me to tell you there’s a way you can know when a design is right or wrong in some absolute evolutionary framework, right?” he said. “Well I’m sorry, Bill, there’s nothing but us and the void and whatever we carve out of it. We’re our own creations, our realities are our own works of art. We’re out here all alone.”
