A Canticle for Leibowitz - Walter M. Miller [129]
The doctor hesitated. “I think it would be proper to make such a promise with respect to patients who belong to your Faith.”
Abbot Zerchi lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, “but that’s not enough.”
“Why? Others are not bound by your principles. If a man is not of your religion, why should you refuse to allow-” He choked off angrily.
“Do you want an explanation?”
“Yes.”
“Because if a man is ignorant of the fact that something is wrong, and acts in ignorance, he incurs no guilt, provided natural reason was not enough to show him that it was wrong. But while ignorance may excuse the man, it does not excuse the act, which is wrong in itself. If I permitted the act simply because the man is ignorant that it is wrong, then I would incur guilt, because I do know it to be wrong. It is really that painfully simple.”
“Listen, Father. They sit there and they look at you. Some scream. Some cry. Some just sit there. All of them say, “Doctor, what can I do?’ And what am I supposed to answer? Say nothing? Say, ‘You can die, that’s all.’ What would you say?”
“ ‘Pray.’ “
“Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? Listen, pain is the only evil I know about. It’s the only one I can fight.”
“Then God help you.”
“Antibiotics help me more.”
Abbot Zerchi groped for a sharp reply, found one, but swiftly swallowed it. He searched for a blank piece of paper and a pen and pushed them across the desk. “Just write: ‘I will not recommend euthanasia to any patient while at this abbey,’ and sign it. Then you can use the courtyard.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I suppose they’ll have to drag themselves two miles down the road.”
“Of all the merciless-”
“On the contrary. I’ve offered you an opportunity to do your work as required by the law you recognize, without overstepping the law I recognize. Whether they go down the road or not is up to you.”
The doctor stared at the blank page. “What is so magic about putting it in writing?”
“I prefer it that way.”
He bent silently over the desk and wrote. He looked at what he had written, then slashed his signature under it and straightened. “All right, there’s your promise. Do you think it’s worth any more than my spoken word?”
“No. No indeed.” The abbot folded the note and tucked it into his coat. “But it’s here in my pocket, and you know it’s here in my pocket, and I can look at it occasionally, that’s all. Do you keep promises, by the way, Doctor Cors?”
The medic stared at him for a moment. “I’ll keep it.” He grunted, then turned on his heel and stalked out.
“Brother Pat!” Abbot Zerchi called weakly. “Brother Pat, are you there?”
His secretary came to stand in the doorway. “Yes, Reverend Father?”
“You heard?”
“I heard some of it. The door was open, and I couldn’t help hearing. You didn’t have the silencer-”
“You heard him say it? ‘Pain’s the only evil I know about.’ You heard that?”
The monk nodded solemnly.
“And that society is the only thing which determines whether an act is wrong or not? That too?”
“Yes.”
“Dearest God, how did those two heresies get back into the world after all this time? Hell has limited imaginations down there. ‘The serpent deceived me, and I did eat.’ Brother Pat, you’d better get out of here, or I’ll start raving.”
“Domne, I-”
“What’s keeping you? What’s that, a letter? All right, give it here.”
The monk handed it to him and went out. Zerchi left it unopened and glanced at the doctor’s pledge again. Worthless, perhaps. But still the man was sincere. And dedicated. He’d have to be dedicated to work for the kind of salary the Green Star paid. He had looked underslept and overworked. He’d probably been living on benzedrine and doughnuts since the shot that killed the city. Seeing misery everywhere and detesting it, and sincere in wanting to do something about it. Sincere-that was the hell of it. From a distance, one’s adversaries seemed fiends, but with a closer view, one saw the