The Ninth Configuration by William Peter Blatty Page A

like me to do it for you now or would you prefer to wire the Pope before I talk to Associated Press? Because once that happens, Hud, I warn you, there won’t be frocks to go around. Better put yours on now so they’ll think you’re sincere.”
    “I would like to hear your proof.”
    “Put on the frock, Hud. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
    “Let me hear the proof.”
    “You crazy, stubborn kid, Hud. Don’t come sniveling to me later when you can’t get a job cleaning altars.” Cutshaw stood up and began to pantomime tennis serves. “Have you ever heard of ‘entropy’? Say it’s a race horse and I’ll maim you.”
    “It is related,” said Kane, “to a law of thermodynamics.”
    “Pretty slick there, Hud. Maybe too slick for your own damn good. Now where am I heading?” demanded Cutshaw.
    “You tell me.”
    “To where the universe is heading. To a final, final heat death. Do you know what that is? Well, Hud, I’ll tell you. I am Morris the Explainer. It’s a basic foos of physics, an irreversible basic foos, that one of these days, by and by, the whole damn party will be over. In about three billion years every particle of matter in the entire universe will be totally disorganized. Random, totally random. And once the universe is random it’ll maintain a certain temperature, a certain constant temperature, that never, never changes. And because it never changes, the particles of matter in the universe can never hope to reorganize. The universe can’t build up again. Random; it’ll always stay random. Forever and ever and ever. Doesn’t that scare the living piss out of you, Hud? Hud, where’s your frock? Got a spare? Let me have it. I shouldn’t talk like this in front of me. I swear, it gives me the willies.” Cutshaw stopped pantomiming serves and flopped on the couch, where he curled up in the fetal position.
    “Please continue,” Kane prodded.
    “Do you accept my foos of physics?”
    “Yes, I accept it.”
    Cutshaw scowled, looking up. “Don’t say ‘it,’ okay? Say ‘foos.’ Say, ‘I
    accept your basic foos. ’ ”
    “I accept your basic foos,” said Kane.
    “Good. Now follow.” Cutshaw’s speech became slow and measured. “It’s a matter of time before it happens, before we reach that final heat death. And when we reach that final heat death, life can never reappear. If that seems clear, Hud, paw the ground twice.”
    “That’s clear.”
    “Okay. Now, let’s take a simple disjunction. Either matter- matter or energy-is eternal and always existed, or it didn’t always exist and had a definite beginning in time. So let’s eliminate one or the other. Let’s say that matter always existed. And bear in mind that the coming heat death, Hud, is purely a matter of time. Did I say three billion years? Let’s say a billion billion years. I don’t care what the time required is, Hud. Whatever it is, it’s limited. But if matter always existed, you and I aren’t here-do you see? We simply don’t exist! Heat death has already come and gone!”
    “I don’t follow.”
    “Of course. You’d rather confess. Give me the frock and I’ll let you confess. Let no one write ‘Obdurate’ on my tombstone. Call me flexible, Hud, and confess.”
    “Captain—”
    “Warren, then. Call me Warren.”
    “I’ve missed a connection,” said Kane, “in the argument.”
    “My next impression: a human fly.” Cutshaw shot up from the couch, flew at a wall and made a number of earnest attempts at running straight up its side. After his fifth abortive try, he stood and glowered at the wall. “Fairbanks is right,” he muttered, vexed. “Something is wrong with these fucking walls.” Then he glared at Kane. “You’ve been missing connections the whole of your life. Foot! You are dumber than a prize dauphin. Look: if matter has always existed and if heat death is a matter of time- like, let’s say, a billion billion years-then, Hud, it’s got to have already happened! A billion