Free Deus Irae by Philip K. Dick Page A

said Dr. Abernathy. “True? What’s truth? Would it detract from a single SOW’s devotion were he to look upon the
wrong
face, so long as his feeling were proper in terms of his faith? Of course not. I’m not trying to denigrate those you may consider my competitors. Far from it. It is you that I value. A Pilg is a risky thing at best. What would be gained by losing you? Nothing. What would be lost by losing you? A soul and a good painter, perhaps. I should hate to lose you on a matter of such small consequence.”
    “It is
not
a matter of small consequence, Father,” said Tibor. “It is a matter of honesty. I have been paid to do a thing, and by God!—yours or theirs—I must do it properly. This is the way that I work.”
    “Peace,” said Dr. Abernathy, raising his hand. He took another sip of coffee, then said, “Pride, too, is a sin. For by this, Lucifer fell from heaven. Of all the Deadly Seven, Pride is the worst. Anger, Avarice, Envy, Lust, Sloth, Gluttony—these represent man’s relationships to others and the world. Pride, however, is absolute. It represents the subjective relationship of a person to himself. Therefore, it is the most mortal of them all. Pride requires nothing of which to be proud. It is the ultimate in narcissism. I feel, perhaps, that you are a victim of such sentiments.”
    Tibor laughed. Then he gulped coffee.
    “I fear you have the wrong man,” he said. “I’ve precious little of which to be proud.” He placed the coffee cup before him and raised his metal hand. “You would call
me
proud—of anything? Hell! I’m half machine, sir! Of all the sins you’ve named, it’s probably the one with least application.”
    “I wouldn’t bet money on it,” said Dr. Abernathy.
    “I came to discuss religion with you,” said Tibor.
    “That’s true,” said Dr. Abernathy, “that’s true. I think that that is what we are discussing. I am trying to place your task in proper perspective before you. More coffee?”
    “Yes, please,” said Tibor.
    Dr. Abernathy poured and Tibor looked out the window. Eleven o’clock, that moment of truth, was passing over the world, he knew. For something had just gone out of it. What it was, he would never know.
    He sipped and thought back upon the previous evening.
    “Father,” he said, finally, “I don’t know who’s right or wrong—you or them—and maybe I’ll never know. But I can’t cheat somebody when I tell them I’m going to do a thing. If it had been the other way around, I’d give you the same consideration.”
    Dr. Abernathy stirred and sipped. “And maybe we wouldn’t really have cared if you could not have found us the Christ for our
Last Supper
,” he said, “so long as you did a good job. I am not trying to dissuade you from doing what you think is right. It is just that I think that you are wrong, and you could make things a lot easier on yourself.”
    “I’m not asking for easy things, Father.”
    “You are making me sound like something I am not trying to be,” said Dr. Abernathy. “It is only, I repeat, that I think there is a way in which you could make things easier on yourself.”
    “In other words, you want me to go away for a time, pretend to have seen the face I should see, paint it, and be done with it,” said Tibor.
    “To be quite frank about it,” said Dr. Abernathy, “yes. You would be cheating no one—”
    “Not even myself?” asked Tibor.
    “Pride,” said Dr. Abernathy, “pride.”
    “I’m sorry, sir,” said Tibor, lowering his coffee cup. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”
    “Why not?” asked Dr. Abernathy.
    “Because it wouldn’t be right,” said Tibor. “I’m not that sort of man. As a matter of fact, your suggestions have given me second thoughts about your religion. I believe I’d like to postpone my decision with respect to converting.”
    “As you would,” said Dr. Abernathy. “Of course, by our teachings, your immortal soul will be in constant