Project Pope (43 page)

“That I did,” said Theodosius, “and I mean to see it done.”

“You have first to prove it is not Heaven,” said John. “Should you fail, the same to you.”

“I would think,” said the cardinal, “that you have it twisted all around. I would argue that the onus lies with you—not that I must prove this place of Mary's is not Heaven, but yours to prove it is.”

“Why is it, Your Eminence, that you are so hostile to Heaven?”

“I am not hostile to it,” said Theodosius. “I would much hope that there is a Heaven. But not the kind of Heaven you dreamed up.”

John turned about and this time he went up the stairs, saying nothing further.

Still the rumors ran.

Did you notice that Theodosius is sitting on a stool? No robot before him has ever sat so long upon a stool. Someone told me that it is a punishment—that His Holiness has told him that, in all humility, he must perch upon a stool.

And the Old One? What's the Old One doing here? He has no business here. Do you notice how he and the cardinal stick so close together, as if they were firm, fast friends? What business has a cardinal of Vatican to be friends with a ravening beast such as the Old Ones are? I tell you there is more to all of this than meets the eye.

But another objected, saying you must remember that an Old One, this same Old One, some say, brought the dead Decker and Hubert home to Vatican, a neighborly and compassionate thing to do.

Brought them home! exclaimed another. It was the least that he could do, since more than likely he was the one who killed them in the first place.

These and other rumors. Vatican went wild.

No work was done. Crowds gathered along the perimeter of the esplanade, leaving the central area free since, by some kind of popular osmosis, it seemed to be understood that whatever was about to happen would take place out in its central area. The basilica stairs were jammed with watching robots. Wood-cutting crews, harvesters, cowherds, haulers, steam-engine operators, all dropped what they were doing and came trickling in. End of Nothing humans left their jobs and businesses and zeroed in on the basilica. Someone began ringing the bells, and this continued until Theodosius got up from his stool and went storming up the stairs and put a stop to it. Even some of the Listeners, who rarely mingled with the Vatican hosts, came out to see what was going on. A hastily put-together corps of technicians, wholly without authorization, installed a huge video screen on the basilica's facade and hooked it up to one of the papal audience panels. Within minutes after the hook-up had been made, the cross-stitch visage of His Holiness appeared upon the screen, saying nothing, but joining the watch.

Nothing happened. Hours went by and nothing happened.

The crowd that had been noisy with constant chattering grew quieter as the sun went down the western sky. The tension grew.

“Could you have been mistaken?” Theodosius asked the Old One. “Could the message have been wrong?”

“The message was as I gave it to you,” said the Old One.

“Then something has gone wrong,” said Theodosius. “I just know something has gone wrong.”

He had counted too much, he told himself, on everything going right—on his two human friends returning with word that would set Vatican on its proper track again, putting an end to the premature, infantile infatuation with Heaven and with saints.

He tried to console himself. If, in fact, everything went wrong, it would not be forever. He and some other people in the Vatican, perhaps not many, but a few, would keep the flame of hope alive. Vatican would not go down to a saintly darkness that would last forever. It would not dream the remainder of its life away. Sometime, centuries from now, people would weary of the sterile saintliness and would turn back to the search for knowledge which, in time, might lead to the true faith. And if, sometime in the far future, it should be determined that there was no true faith, that in fact it was an uncaring universe, it would be better to learn this and face it than to go on pretending that there had to be a faith.

Thinking all of this, he had bowed his head in a prayerful attitude and now he heard behind him a sudden rustle of attention. Jerking up his head, he saw what the others saw.

Jill and Tennyson stood on the esplanade, no more than a hundred feet away. Above them he caught a glimpse of a momentary glitter, as if a patch of diamond dust were shining. He wondered momentarily if the glitter might be Whisperer.

He started to rise from the stool, then sat down again with a weak-kneed knowledge something had gone wrong. For out in front of Jill and Tennyson hopped a strange monstrosity. It looked like an octopus standing on its head, and as it hopped, it made a plopping sound.

Out on the esplanade, Tennyson spoke to Whisperer.

—What the hell is going on? he asked. You brought along the Plopper.

—I just sort of grabbed hold of him at the last second, said Whisperer. When he exploded in our faces, I somehow got inside his mind, something I had not been able to do before, although I'd tried. I don't think I planned to bring him along with us, but he just sort of came.

—The last time I saw him, said Jill, he was big and fiery.

—Well, said Whisperer, it seems he got over that.

—Do you know what he is? asked Tennyson.

—I'm not entirely certain. It becomes slightly complicated. Smoky thinks he is a god, a god that he could use. Worship him and use him, paying for his help with worship, which, after all, is what you humans do as well, but in a slightly different way. Not quite so cynically, perhaps, as Smoky.

—And is he—a god, I mean.

—Who's to know? Smoky thinks he is. He figures he has gotten hold of something none of the other Bubblies have and that he can use it to achieve his ends. Get the right god, you know, and you can do anything. Near as I can make out, Plopper thinks he is a god as well. Which makes two of them thinking it, and where does that leave us? How many people must think a thing's a god before it truly is?

Plop, plop, plop, went Plopper.

Theodosius had risen from his stool and was walking out to meet them. The Old One, spinning slowly, moved along beside him. Behind them the people clustered, the robots and the humans. They jammed the staircase that ran to the basilica, they perched on every roof, they spread out as flankers on both sides of the esplanade. On the facade of the basilica, the cross-hatched face of His Holiness stared out at them.

Theodosius held out his hand to them, first to Jill, then to Tennyson.

“Welcome home,” he said, “and our heartfelt thanks for the journey that you made for us.”

Plopper, bouncing madly, hopped an intricate fandango around Theodosius and the Old One.

“You,” said Theodosius, speaking to Tennyson, “have met Decker's Old One, but I doubt that Jill has met him.”

“I am pleased to meet you, sir,” said Jill.

The Old One wheezed and hummed and finally he said, “It is my privilege and pleasure to have met the two of you and to welcome you back to End of Nothing.”

The crowd had started slowly edging in, a close-packed semicircle about the four of them—five, if one counted Plopper.

“First of all,” said Theodosius, “out of sheer curiosity, what is this bouncing horror you brought along with you? Does it have significance?”

“Your Eminence,” said Tennyson, “I rather doubt it does.”

“Then why is it along?”

“You might say it got caught up in a traffic jam.”

“Our intelligence is that you reached Mary's Heaven.”

“Yes, we did,” said Tennyson, “and it is not Heaven. It is a research center similar to Vatican. We did not have the chance, however, to explore it. It seems we got entangled in local politics.”

A robot elbowed his way through the crowd and came up to stand alongside Theodosius. Tennyson saw that it was John, the gardener.

“Dr. Tennyson,” asked John, “what proof can you offer that it is not Heaven?”

“Why, no proof at all,” said Tennyson, brazening it out. “No documentary proof. Can you not accept our word? I would have thought a human's word would be enough for you.”

“In a situation such as this,” said John, “no unsupported word is good enough. Not even a human's word. It seems to me you humans—”

“John,” said Theodosius, “where is your respect?”

“Your Eminence, respect is not a factor. We all are in this together.”

“The Tennyson speaks the truth,” said the Old. One. “He radiates the truth.”

“You thought, perhaps,” said John to Tennyson, ignoring the Old One, “that this bouncing betsy you brought might serve to support your story. Pointing to it, you would ask if such a thing would be found in Heaven.”

“I thought no such thing,” said Tennyson, “for if I should do that, then you would ask that I prove it was, indeed, from Heaven, and not picked up otherwhere.”

“That I would have done,” said John.

The crowd cried out in a single voice and thereupon surged back, still crying out in wonder and in terror.

“For the love of God!” exclaimed Theodosius, standing straight and rigid.

Tennyson spun around and there they stood: Smoky and Haystack and Decker II, huddled in a row, with the equation folk standing guard on them.

—The equation folk must have understood what was going on, said Whisperer. I wondered if they did and felt certain that they didn't. Could this be the proof you need?

Decker II was walking down the esplanade toward them.

“Why, that is Decker,” said the cardinal. “And it cannot be. Decker's dead. I said a mass for him.…”

“Later, Your Eminence, I'll explain,” said Tennyson. “This is a different Decker. Another Decker. I know it is confusing.”

They stood and waited for Decker II. Tennyson stepped out several paces to meet him.

“I suppose,” said Decker, “that this is Vatican.”

“Yes, it is,” said Tennyson. “I am glad to see you.”

“I don't mind telling you,” said Decker, “that back there, at the end, it was getting very hairy. You damn near got us killed.”

“I almost—”

“You were dealing with a maniac,” said Decker. “An alien maniac. Aliens alone are bad enough, but—”

“Yet you were one with him. You seemed to be his man. What was it you called it—a triad?”

“My friend,” said Decker, “in that hornet's nest back there your first thought is survival. To survive you do what you must. You have to be fast on your feet and shifty in your attitude and you must go along.”

“I can understand,” said Tennyson.

“And now I must speak to the man in charge,” said Decker. “You're not the man in charge, are you?”

“No, I'm not,” Tennyson told him. “The man in charge is His Holiness, on the wall up there. But I think you had best speak to Cardinal Theodosius. You'll get along with him better than you would with His Holiness. When you speak to the cardinal, you address him as Your Eminence. It's not necessary, but he likes it.”

He took Decker by the arm and marched him up to Theodosius.

“Your Eminence,” he said, “this is Thomas Decker II. He desires to speak with you.”

“Decker II,” said the cardinal, “you drop in on us unceremoniously and with no warning whatsoever, but I'll be glad to listen.”

“I speak for an alien being who is a fugitive from his home planet, Your Eminence,” said Decker. “He is that egg-shaped bubble out there and I call him Smoky, although he has a more proper name.”

“It seems to me,” said Theodosius, “that I have seen this Smoky, or one of his fellows, a number of years ago. And now, please, eliminate all the palaver and get on with what you want to tell me.”

“Smoky throws himself upon your mercy, Eminence,” said Decker, “and begs sanctuary of you. He can't return to Center, for if he did, his life would be forfeit. He is truly a homeless creature and fallen from very high estate. He is quite humble now.”

“He sounds in bad shape,” said Theodosius.

“He truly is, Your Eminence. He petitions you—”

“Enough of that,” said Theodosius. “Now, tell me, is this place he fled from known as Heaven?”

“Not to my knowledge. I have never heard it called that.”

“Are you aware that one of our Listeners made an attempt to visit your Center—is that what you call it?”

“Yes, Your Eminence, that is what we call it, the Center for Galactic Studies. And, yes, we are aware that someone or something that fitted the description given me by Tennyson of your Listeners had tried to infiltrate the Center, but we frightened it away.”

Tennyson glanced over his shoulder and saw that the equation people had spread out so that Smoky and Haystack stood relatively alone. Hopping frantically toward them was Plopper, making straight for the Bubbly.

It reached a position in front of Smoky and began hopping up and down in place, going very rapidly.

“Oh, my God,” cried Tennyson, “not again!” He lurched around and started running toward the two of them. Behind him he heard the pounding of feet and Decker yelling at him, “Get out of the way, you damn fool! Get out of here!”

Tennyson kept on running. Decker came up beside him and reached out an arm, thrusting at Tennyson, hitting him on the shoulder and sending him sprawling. Tennyson tried to keep his feet beneath him, running hard and side-wise to regain his balance. But it was impossible to stay upright, and he went plunging to the pavement, striking on one shoulder and skidding, finally coming to a stop piled up in a heap.

Decker was yelling at Smoky in the Bubbly language. “No, Smoky! Don't try it. Haven't you had enough? You're finished, I tell you. You are all washed up; you haven't got a chance.”

Haystack also was bawling at the Bubbly. “You and your goddamned pet! You'll be the death of us.”

Haystack yelled at Decker. “Get out of the way! The fool is going to do it.”