Free The Celestial Blueprint and Others Stories by Philip José Farmer Page B

Ssassaror; I, of the Terrans. That is inevitable, for we are the only skinless men and, therefore, irresistible. After the war is won, we’ll leave for the stars. How do you like that?”
    Rastignac smiled. It was weak, but it was a smile. His bracket-shaped eyebrows bent into their old sign of determination.
    “You are right,” he replied. “I have given it much thought. A man has no right to leave his native land until he’s settled his problems here. Even if Lusine hadn’t killed the Earthwoman and I had sailed away, my conscience wouldn’t have given me any rest. I would have known I had abandoned the fight in the middle of it. But now that I have stripped myself of my Skin—which was a substitute for a conscience— and now that I am being forced to develop my own inward conscience, I must admit that immediate flight to the stars would have been the wrong thing.”
    The pleased Mapfarity said, “And you must also admit, Rastignac, that things so far have had a way of working out for the best. Even Lusine, evil as she was, has helped towards the general good by keeping you on this planet. And the Church, though it has released once again the old evil of alcohol, has done more good by so doing than . .
    But here Rastignac interrupted to say he did not believe in this particular school of thought, and so, while the howls of savage warriors drifted from the wharfs, while the structure of their world crashed around them, they plunged into that most violent and circular of all whirlpools—the Discussion Philosophical.

THE CELESTIAL BLUEPRINT
    by Philip Jose Farmer
    I
    The arrogance with which B. T. Revanche strode through the outer office of Bioid Electronic was enough to convince anyone that he was a V.V.I.P. His little eyes straying neither to left nor right, long fat cigar stabbed straight ahead, quilllike hair bristling in all directions, he was a stout little porcupine of a man. And like that spear-backed creature, he knew that no one would stop him. If they did, they’d regret it— so help them!
    Very few people ever paced so fearlessly through the waiting rooms of Bioid. Most persons sat a long time on the “heel-cooling” chairs, and when they were summoned to enter the Sanctum Sanctorum, they were seldom escorted by a Bioid treacher.
    But B. T. Revanche—contrary to rumor, the initials did not stand for Blood Thirsty—walked into the skyscraper that overlooked the free city of Messina, and did not bother to announce himself. Taking it for granted that he’d be recognized wherever he went, he did not even switch off his personal anti-espionage field.
    Such a gesture of simple courtesy would have seemed to him an affront to his prestige.
    He brushed aside those who looked as if they might get
    in his way, stepped into an antigravity elevator, and was whisked up fifty stories to the immense suite of Bioid’s GHQ. There, a gold-plated treacher picked him up and preceded him, barking out his name with flattering precision.
    “Make way for Signor Revanche! One side or a leg off, please! Lo, he cometh!”
    Revanche frowned, and bit down on his cigar. He didn’t like the slightest suspicion of levity in regard to himself.
    Despite a twinge of annoyance, however, he was impressed by the offices. Blazing slogans hung along the walls: Bioid is more than skin deep! Our trinity : Art &  Science &  Da Vincelleo! Perfect both inside and out! For the Gods —and Da Vincelleo!
    Diagrams and sketches of the great Messinan’s works hung here and there—drawings of the human body in various positions, along with pictures of Bioid robots in corresponding postures.
    Poised on plastiglass were germanium brains, startlingly life-like statues that breathed, and a mounted gorilla, last of his species, shot by the great Da Vincelleo himself. If you stepped on a plate set in the floor while admiring it, it would reach out for you—reach out and roar loud enough to scare the shorts off you.
    B. T. Revanche paused for an