The Murderer at the Door

He is seventy-three, and a younger writer has just published the objection that everyone has been waiting to see him answer.

His life's work rests on one claim: a lie is wrong because of what it is, not because of what it causes. Now here is the case. A man is hiding your friend in your house. A murderer knocks and asks where the friend is. You know. Surely, here, you may lie.

His own system gives an answer, and he can see it clearly. The answer is no. Not even here. Because the moment you allow one exception, the rule was never a rule — it was a preference that held until it was expensive.

He also knows exactly how that sounds said out loud, and that it is the sentence his enemies will quote for the next two hundred years, and that most readers will conclude the whole system is monstrous.

He can publish the answer. Or he can leave the case unanswered, and let the system keep its reputation.