Contact - Carl Sagan [133]
"Do Buddhists believe in God, or not?" Ellie asked on their way to have dinner with the Abbot.
"Their position seems to be," Vaygay replied dryly, "that their God is so great he doesn't even have to exist."
As they sped through the countryside, they talked about Utsumi, the Abbot of the most famous Zen Buddhist monastery in Japan. A few years before, at ceremonies marking the fiftieth anniversary of the destruction of Hiroshima, Utsumi had delivered a speech that commanded worldwide attention. He was well connected in Japanese political life, and served as a kind of spiritual adviser to the ruling political party, but he spent most of his time in monastic and devotional activities.
"His father was also the Abbot of a Buddhist monastery," Sukhavad mentioned. Ellie raised her eyebrows.
"Don't look so surprised. Marriage was permitted to them, like the Russian Orthodox clergy. Isn't that right, Vaygay?"
"That was before my time," he said, a little distractedly. The restaurant was set in a grove of bamboo and was called Ungetsu-the Clouded Moon; and indeed there was a clouded moon in the early evening sky.
Their Japanese hosts had arranged that there be no other guests. Ellie and her companions removed their shoes and, padding in their stocking feet, entered a small dining room which looked out on stalks of bamboo.
The Abbot's head was shaved, his garment a robe of black and silver. He greeted them in perfect colloquial English, and his Chinese, Xi later told her, turned out to be passable as well. The surroundings were restful, the conversation lighthearted. Each course was a small work of art, edible jewels. She understood how nouvelle cuisine had its origins in the Japanese culinary tradition. If the custom were to eat the food blindfolded, she would have been content. If, instead, the delicacies were brought out only to be admired and never to be eaten, she would also have been content. To look and eat both was an intimation of heaven. Ellie was seated across from the Abbot and next to Lunacharsky. Others inquired about the species-or at least the kingdom-of this or that morsel. Between the sushi and the ginkgo nuts, the conversation turned, after a fashion, to the mission.
"But why do we communicate?" the Abbot asked.
"To exchange information," replied Lunacharsky, seemingly devoting full attention to his recalcitrant chopsticks.
"But why do we wish to exchange information?"
"Because we feed on information. Information is necessary for our survival. Without information we die."
Lunacharsky was intent on a ginkgo nut that slipped off his chopsticks each time be attempted to raise it to his mouth. He lowered his head to meet the chopsticks halfway.
"I believe," continued the Abbot, "that we communicate out of love or compassion." He reached with his fingers for one of his own ginkgo nuts and placed it squarely in his mouth.
"Then you think," she asked, "that the Machine is an instrument of compassion? You think there is no risk?"
"I can communicate with a flower," he went on as if in response. "I can talk to a stone. You would have no difficulty understanding the beings-that is the proper word?-of some other world."
"I am perfectly prepared to believe that the stone communicates to you," Lunacharsky said, chewing on the ginkgo nut. He had followed the Abbot's example. "But I wonder about you communicating to the stone. How would you convince us that you can communicate with a stone? The world is full of error. How do you know you are not deceiving yourself?"
"Ah, scientific skepticism." The Abbot flashed a smile that Ellie found absolutely winning; it was innocent, almost childlike.
"To communicate with a stone, you must become much less…preoccupied. You must not do so much thinking, so much talking. When I say I communicate with a stone, I am not talking about words. The Christians say. `In the beginning was the Word.' But I am talking about a communication much earlier, much more fundamental than that."
"It's only the Gospel of Saint