Project Pope (17 page)

“Bickering!” said the Pope in his cold, terrible voice. “What is this you're doing if not bickering? And worst of all, you've bickered before two humans who would not have been aware of it.”

“I, Your Holiness, am aware of a great part of it,” said Ecuyer, “and had my suspicions about the rest of it. As for my friend Dr. Tennyson—”

“Yes, Tennyson,” demanded the Pope, “what about it?”

“You can rest easy, Holiness,” said Tennyson. “If you wonder whether I am thinking of mounting a crusade to inform the other members of Vatican, I can tell you I have no such intentions. I'll just stand by and watch, with some interest, what happens here on out.”

“As for the outside universe,” said Roberts to the Pope, “there need be no fear that the word will be carried by the two humans who joined us recently. Neither of them will be leaving.”

The Pope grumbled, “I don't know. There is this Decker human. He turned up out of nowhere. Have any of you ever learned exactly how he got here?”

“No, Holiness, we have not,” said Theodosius.

“If one of them can get in without our knowing it,” said the Pope, “another can get out. The humans are a slippery race. We must watch them all the time.”

“They are our brothers, Holiness,” said Theodosius. “They have always been, and they still are. There is an unspoken pact between robot and human. Through all the years, they have stood side by side.”

“They exploited you,” said the Pope.

“They gave us all we had,” said Theodosius. “Had it not been for humans, there would have been no robots. They fashioned us in their shape—no other race would have done that. No other race has. Other races have made machines, but no robots.”

“And still just now,” said Tennyson, “you have told me that I can't leave Vatican. That I would not be leaving, neither the woman nor I. Is this the measure of the brotherhood you speak of? Not that I am surprised; I expected it.”

“You were fleeing for your life,” said Theodosius. “We gave you sanctuary. What more do you expect?”

“But Jill?”

“Jill,” said Theodosius, “is quite another matter. I am convinced she does not want to leave.”

“For that matter,” said Tennyson, “neither have I any great desire to leave. But should I want to, I would like to think I could.”

“Dr. Tennyson,” said the Pope sternly, “the matter of whether you are to leave or are not to leave is not the subject under discussion. Let us leave it until another time.”

“Agreed,” said Tennyson. “I'll bring it up again.”

“Sure,” said Ecuyer, “you'll bring it up again.”

“Now,” said the Pope, “allow us to get back to a consideration of Heaven.”

“It seems to me,” said Ecuyer, “that the problem is quite a simple one. Is there a Heaven or is there not? If there's not, all this discussion is entirely pointless. Why don't you go and see? Vatican has the means to go almost anywhere—”

“But there are no coordinates,” said Roberts. “The Listener Mary's cube shows no coordinates. We must know where we are going before we start out.”

“Mary may make another trip,” said Tennyson. “Is it not possible that on the second trip, or on subsequent trips, she may be able to provide coordinates?”

Ecuyer shook his head. “I don't think she will be going on another trip. I don't think she wants to go. I think she is afraid.”

Chapter Twenty-two

The day was misty, with lowering clouds that sliced off half the height of the mountains and lent to the land a gray-wool quality. The path that Tennyson had been following began to rise, and as he went up the hill, the mist cleared enough for him to make out the cabin that crouched on top of it. He was certain it was Decker's place. He wondered if he would find the man at home or if Decker might be off on one of his rock-hunting trips. Tennyson shrugged. No matter. If Decker was not home, he'd turn about and go back to Vatican. It was a pleasant day to walk and chances were he would have taken a walk in any event before the day was over.

Decker came around the corner of the cabin when Tennyson was halfway up the slope. He was carrying an armful of firewood, but he waved with his free hand and shouted a greeting that was muffled in the heavy air.

He left the door open and when Tennyson stepped through it, Decker came back from the fireplace at the opposite end of the room and held out his hand. “Sorry that I had to leave you on your own,” he said, “but I wanted to get rid of that load of wood. It was heavy. Now let's sit down in front of the fire. It's a good day for it.”

Tennyson pulled his knapsack off his shoulder, reached into it and hauled out a bottle. He handed it to Decker.

“I found I had an extra one,” he said.

Decker held it up to the light.

“You're a lifesaver,” he said. “I went through my last one a week ago. Charley sometimes brings me a couple, but not always, not on every trip. He's short himself, I suppose. He steals it, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Tennyson. “If Charley is the
Wayfarer
captain. I never knew his name.”

“That's the man,” said Decker. “How well did you get to know him?”

“I imagine not at all. We talked off and on. He told me about Apple Blossom.”

“His retirement planet. Most everyone has a favorite planet. How about you, Jason?”

Tennyson shook his head. “I have never thought about it.”

“Well, go on and sit in front of the fire. Put your feet up on the hearth if you want to. You can't damage anything here. This place is built to use. I'll join you as soon as I can find two clean glasses. No ice, though.”

“Who needs ice?” said Tennyson.

Seen from the inside, the cabin was larger than it seemed from the outside. There was only the one room. One corner was fixed up as a kitchen with a small wood stove and shelves attached to the wall. A kettle was simmering on the stove. A bed stood against one wall. Above it was a shelf of books. In the corner next to the fireplace was a flat-topped table and on it stood a group of small carvings. The
Wayfarer
captain, Tennyson vaguely recalled, had told him something about the carvings.

Decker came back with two glasses. He handed one of them to Tennyson and poured. He set the bottle on the hearth within easy reach. Settling back into his chair, he took a long swallow of the liquor.

“God, that's good,” he said. “You forget how good it is. Each time you forget.”

They sat in silence for a long time, drinking, looking at the fire.

Finally, Decker asked, “How go things at Vatican? Up here on my hill, I hear rumors, but that's all. The whole place, Vatican and village, crawls with rumors. A man never knows what to believe. Generally I wind up believing none of it.”

“Probably you are wise,” said Tennyson. “I live at Vatican and half of what I hear is hard to believe. Once I get really settled in, I may know better how to evaluate what I hear. I met His Holiness the other day.”

“So?”

“What do you mean—so?”

“What was your impression?”

“Disappointment,” said Tennyson. “He seemed petty to me. Maybe on big, deep, important questions he can be all solid wisdom. But on the little worries, he is as confused as the rest of us. Maybe more confused. I was surprised that he would concern himself with all the pettiness.”

“You talking about the Heaven business?”

“How would you know, Decker?”

“Rumor. I told you there is rumor piled on rumor. Heaven is all the village talks about.”

“Much the same is true at Vatican,” said Tennyson. “There's a lot of mumbling over the question, which it seems to me is a simple one. Mary either found Heaven or she found someplace else that she thinks is Heaven. I understand Vatican has ways to go and see. But they flap their hands and claim there are no coordinates. Mary maybe could go back and pick up coordinates, but Ecuyer is doubtful she will go; he thinks she is afraid to go.”

“And what do you think?”

“My opinion is worthless.”

“Nevertheless, what do you think?”

“I think Vatican, the real Vatican, the official Vatican, wants to wash its hands of it. Vatican officials are the ones who are afraid, not Mary. Mary may be afraid as well, of course, but Vatican is afraid right along with her. No one in authority wants to know what it's all about. It appears to me they may be afraid it actually is Heaven.”

“Undoubtedly you are right,” said Decker. “The cardinals and the other theological hot-shots have spent these thousand years trying to get things figured out. They're clever—you have to give them that. They've pulled in tons of data from all over the universe—whatever the universe may be. Chances are it's not what you and I think it is. They've fed this data into His Holiness and His Holiness, like any sharp computer, has correlated it, probably to a point where they may think they are beginning to see the shape of things, or at least glimpse the shape of things. They may have built up a tentative, but beautiful, theory, perhaps rather delicate in its structure. Mostly it hangs together, mostly the different factors fit, but there are bound to be discrepancies. With certain modifications in the basic theory, the discrepancies may be made to fit. Vatican, more than likely, is just now beginning to believe that another thousand years is all that is needed to nail the whole thing down. And then this silly woman goes to Heaven and Heaven, the authentic Christian Heaven, is the one thing that will knock that beautiful, lovely, half-formed theory all to hell. It is the one piece of evidence, should it prove to be true, that would negate all the rest of it.”

“I'm not sure,” said Tennyson, “that what you say is the whole of it. Maybe what Vatican fears is a wholehearted reversion of the unofficial Vatican, the under-Vatican, to the Christian faith. That faith undoubtedly still has the capacity for a strong hold on your ordinary robot. You must remember that many robots are Earth-forged and thus closer to humans than the more modern robots that were constructed since the exodus from Earth. Among humans, Christianity still remains a powerful force. Five thousand years after Jesus, it still is a faith sufficiently satisfying to be accepted by huge masses of humanity. While Vatican is not adverse to most of their robots continuing to believe, marginally, in Christianity, it would be a great embarrassment and an impediment to the work that Vatican is doing if there was a strong, perhaps fanatical, resurgence of the faith. Heaven, I am convinced, could do exactly that.”

“Certainly you are right,” said Decker, “but I still believe that what Vatican fears is any factor that would upset the theory of the universe they seem to be evolving.”

“But wouldn't you think,” asked Tennyson, “that they would want to know? What are they gaining by sticking their heads in the sand, hoping that by doing nothing, Heaven will go away?”

“Eventually,” said Decker, “they will come around to a practical point of view. Whatever else they are, they are not fools. But right now they're recoiling from the shock. Give them a while and they'll get their feet back under them.”

He reached for the bottle and held it up in invitation. Tennyson held out his glass. Decker filled both glasses and set the bottle back on the hearth.

“Think of it,” said Decker. “A concept built up painfully through the centuries by a rather ordinary life form on an ordinary planet of an ordinary sun, finally culminating in what amounted to an act of faith, continued by that faith, fed by that faith, and now threatening to topple a millennium of concentrated effort by a brainy group of thinkers. Man is not the smartest animal in the galaxy, by no means the most intelligent. Could it be possible, Jason, that man, through sheer intuition, through his yearning and his hope, could have found a truth that—”

“I don't know,” said Tennyson. “No one does.”

“It is an intriguing thought,” said Decker.

“A terrifying thought,” said Tennyson.

“If only Vatican were not so single-minded, so hell-bent in their effort to discover the final faith and truth of the universe, do you have any idea of what they could do, what they represent?”

“No, I don't,” said Tennyson. “I have no idea what they have.”

“They know the answers, I am certain, to questions few others have ever thought to ask. They have dug deeper, I am convinced, into the core of universal knowledge than anyone possibly could guess. They have the clout, the power, the glory that would overshadow this galaxy if they could bring themselves to use it. Thank God, they can't bring themselves to use it. They are so obsessed with this other business, they have no room for power and glory.”

Decker set his glass on the hearth, got up and went back to the kitchen area, lifted the lid of a kettle and used a spoon to stir whatever was cooking in it.

In the corner, hovering a few inches above the table on which sat the small group of carven stones, a small puff of diamond dust sparkled in the light from the flickering fireplace flames. Tennyson jerked upright, slopping some of the drink out of his glass. The other day, he remembered, the day that he had first met Decker, he'd seen this glitter of diamond dust poised over Decker's shoulder. He had turned away his head and when he'd turned it back, the glitter had been gone. But the same glitter—he was sure it was the same glitter—this time did not go away. It stayed above the table.

Decker came back to the fire, picked up his glass and settled in his chair.

“How about staying for supper?” he asked. “I have stew, more than enough for the two of us. I'll stir up a pan of cornbread and pop it in the oven. We'll have it warm. I've run out of coffee, but I have tea.”

“Tea is fine,” said Tennyson.

“I'll crank up Old Betsy and take you home,” said Decker. “It'll be a dark night. Walking, you might lose your way. Unless you'd want to stay the night. You could have the bed. I have extra blankets. I could stretch out on the floor.”