Forbidden Sanctuary (15 page)

"What is he going to do?"

"He has given us until one o'clock our time to put in motion steps for the return of Tenon. If we haven't done so by then, he will let it be known that he has switched positions on the tax-exemption bill."

"And what are you going to do?"

Clement sighed. His father always asked him that:
what are you going to do?
What are your plans? You must always be aiming for something, always have something in mind. Do your best, get ahead. "Did I ever tell you about the moment when I decided to become a priest?"

"No, your Holiness."

A little surprise in Collingwood's voice, perhaps? Or a little irritation? Wondering if the old man's mind was starting to wander? "It was during the Blitz. World War II, you know. A bomb hit our house. A beam fell on my father and me. My father died instantly. I wasn't injured badly, although my back hasn't been right since. But I was trapped, under the beam, with my dead father. It was only for a few minutes, though it seemed like an eternity. It was long enough to decide my life.

"For all he was a devout Catholic, my father had a kind of Protestant outlook on life. He believed that hard work was virtue, that if one did one's duty and made one's plans, then one would be rewarded. He was right: he was a moderately successful shopkeeper, widely respected, a pillar of the Church, had a son who never gave him any trouble. And then his house fell on top of him and crushed him to death.

"This of course is the situation that turns most people into bitter atheists. God works in mysterious ways. I was twelve at the time, and not aware of the appropriate reaction. To me, hurt and scared and sad, what had happened meant this: the things of this world are of no importance. Your home, your possessions, your very life can be of little value if they exist at the whim of a crazy German who needs living space. If anything matters, it must be what is beyond life. My father's body was a broken toy, but his soul was with God. I knew at that instant that I could only tolerate this life if I devoted my own to what lay beyond it.

"Well, you may wonder what this has to do with Gibson's threat."

"I presume it means you will not give in to it," Collingwood said.

Clement smiled. "Am I that transparent?"

"Your decision is nevertheless surprising," Collingwood noted. "What we believe at age twelve is not always what makes us act at age seventy-two."

"Yes, you are quite right. When I was beneath that beam I did not have every church and monastery and parochial school in America to worry about. Just my own fatherless future. No matter. What are the chances of Bernardi being found?"

"In the short run, slim, I would say. Bernardi is no one's fool. Ultimately they are bound to catch him, I suppose. But the alien ship is supposed to be leaving soon. If Bernardi can hold out until the ship goes, then Tenon's chances of survival are presumably pretty good. Of course, all of this seems to rule out putting pressure on the Numoi to change their ways, but it doesn't—"

"Yes. We will need to tell the world, to justify what we are doing. If Gibsow wishes to reverse his stand on the tax bill, we must make clear that he is doing so out of pique at us, because we are trying to keep him from sending an innocent person to death for his religious beliefs. We must show that extraordinary events demand extraordinary responses, even from such a conservative Church as ours."

"This is quite exciting, Holiness. I—"

"Yes, well. We live in exciting times. Can you write me a statement?"

"By one o'clock our time?"

"Better make it noon. There are a few cardinals who will have to see it first, and they will then have to be given artificial respiration."

"Of course. And my—uh—indiscretion?"

Clement shrugged. "You should have told me. You know that. Tell me from now on. There are few enough people I can trust in this world, Anthony. I would like you to be one of them."

"Yes, your Holiness." Collingwood looked appropriately chastened. He knelt and kissed Clement's ring before departing.

Clement sat back down. He felt nervous but strangely happy, now that the first impulsive step had been taken. He was certain that he could face down Fontanelli and the rest of the cardinals. They could fuss and fume and threaten, but ultimately a Pope is beyond anyone's threats, if he chooses to be.

And why had he chosen this issue on which to be unyielding?
The Holy Spirit,
the mystical part of him was inclined to say, the rational part countered:
this is just too clear-cut.
One cannot send a person to his death in exchange for a tax break.

Clement tried to imagine himself as a hunted man on an alien planet: friends, culture, everything gone. All that remained was the fact of your existence, and that was tenuous at best. What keeps you alive? What was the purpose of running, if there is nothing to run
to?

It was not so different, he reflected, from lying in darkness, a beam across your back, in the midst of pain and death. To survive in either case, you had to decide that what mattered was you and the infinite, not you and your friends, or you and your world. And your existence matters only in that it gives glory to God.

Yes. The alien had risked martyrdom, after his own lights, had given up everything for the glory of God. In the abstract, Clement knew he could do the same, but only once in his life had he been called upon to prove it. Well, good for Tenon then. He was young. He knew what he believed in, and he acted on it.

Also, he had been very lucky so far. Good—then Clement would be a part of his luck. He glanced at his schedule. Should he tell them now, or wait for Anthony's statement? The Congregation of the Faith could come later, if necessary. But no, he would get the statement first. Best to know exactly how he was going to throw the Church into an uproar, before he actually did it.

Chapter 14

Claude Bacquier glared at his assistant as she tiptoed meekly in and laid the statement on the desk in front of him. She was afraid of him, he knew, and with good reason. Diplomats need not be diplomatic with their assistants. A lot of pressure built up in his job; he had to get rid of it somehow. If he suffered, his staff suffered too.

He managed to keep from snapping at her for being so slow in getting the damn thing, but he couldn't bring himself to thank her for it. So he just tried to ignore her while she beat her retreat. Then he adjusted his cuffs, picked it up, and read.

He already knew what was in it; he just wanted to see it in print, to confirm its reality.

"....We have been made aware of the existence of a certain religion on the home planet of the Numoi.... While we do not advocate interfering in the internal affairs of the Numoi (even if that were possible), we do feel that the study of this religion should be made the highest priority in the humans' dealings with this race. And we feel, further, that it should be made clear to the Numoi that the people of Earth hope and pray that the existence of this religion will not be threatened...."

And what the hell is that but interfering in their internal affairs, you stupid old goat,
Bacquier muttered inwardly. He found the use of the pontifical
we
particularly irritating. Who are
we:
You and God? You and the half-billion people who don't go to church, don't remember any of your dogma, and don't agree with half your opinions, but who call themselves Catholics because they had some water poured over them when they were too young to object?

People like me, Bacquier realized.
Speak for yourself, Clement.

"....We are protecting this person because he has asked us for sanctuary, and because to return him to his masters would be to condemn him to certain death. We are fully aware of the consequences of our action, both for the Church and for relations between Earth and the Numoi. We feel, however...."

Fully aware.
Merde.
Bacquier thought of all he and Aronson had accomplished in the past few months: building the compound, getting the interpreters who learned the language, negotiating the information exchange, choosing the scientists, arranging the system, keeping everyone happy, working toward a stable and mutually beneficial relationship in a situation where all the doomsayers had predicted interplanetary holocaust. His Holiness was fully aware he might be causing some little problems. His Holiness was blithely ruining the greatest triumph of Claude Bacquier's career. His Holiness could go—

"What is it?" he barked in response to his assistant's buzz.

"The Secretary-General, sir."

Bacquier took a deep breath and picked up the phone. "Bacquier here."

"Ah, Claude, this is most distressing, is it not?"

Ashanti's voice betrayed no hint of distress. Neither would his. "It certainly complicates matters, sir."

"President Gibson was just speaking with me. He seemed quite distraught."

Noted. "He would have every reason to be."

"And so would you, Claude. Certainly you have the most difficult task of all: explaining the situation to Zanla."

Again, noted. "Would you have any suggestions as to how this task might be carried out?"

"Well, certainly it should be done immediately. Emphasis should be placed on the largeness of our planet, the swiftness of our transportation systems, the degree of similarity of the Numoi's appearance to ours, the lack of control we have over the Pope. Point out the diligence of our search, the help that this new information has given us. Hint very carefully that this situation is due in part to his own carelessness in supervising his crew members."

"I take it, then, that if Tenon is found he will still be returned to the Numoi, despite the public knowledge that he will be put to death."

"That is our present intention. You may also, however, obtain assurances from Zanla that Tenon will not be harmed."

"What if he refuses to give such assurances?"

Bacquier could visualize Ashanti's thin, enigmatic smile. "What he says is not what matters. What we report that he says is what matters. Is that not true, Claude?"

"Quite true. I will speak to him immediately. A statement should be available for the evening news."

"Excellent."

Bacquier hung up. He always found conversations with Ashanti quite satisfying. Everything was calm and clear and ordered. Everything was in perspective. He stood up and buttoned his suit coat. He would apologize to his assistant, and then see Zanla.

* * *

Paul Aronson waylaid Bacquier in the lobby. "What are we going to do?" he asked.

Bacquier shrugged. "Tell Zanla what's happening. Keep looking. I just spoke with Ashanti."

"Did he mention anything about changing his mind—about keeping Tenon when we find him?"

Bacquier shook his head. "It's no good, Paul. You know we can't do that."

"An hour's interview—that might be enough. Look, Ashanti might not even have to know."

"I understand how you are feeling, Paul," Bacquier responded in his best diplomatic style. "But you know I can't do that. The policy is set. Please understand." He squeezed Aronson's arm and hurried off.

Aronson gazed after him.
No, you do not understand,
he thought, and he trudged back to his office. Stacks of reports and meetings summaries cluttered his desk, but he knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate on them. His staff had given him a paperweight for Christmas—a sparkling blue pyramid. He picked it up and hefted it in his hand, wondering if he would get any satisfaction from pitching it through his window.
Not enough,
he decided. He sat down and sulked.

His job had its highs and lows, and right now he was in one of the lows. A distressing sequence of events had been playing itself out in his mind more and more frequently lately: the Numoi leave, with their secret of faster-than-light travel still intact. The years go by, the Numoi never return, and scientists batter their heads—no, he batters
his
head—against the unyielding problem. And what good would all the facts about Numian zoology and geology and sociology be, without an understanding of this one difference that set them above and apart from humans?

Damn diplomats.
Just an hour with the guy, to ask a few questions that might revolutionize our understanding of the universe. Was that being a pig-headed scientist?