Forbidden Sanctuary (16 page)

Damn.
He threw the paperweight toward a metal wastebasket across the room. It went in with a resounding bang that made his eardrums throb. That helped some.

Not enough.

* * *

Ergentil had wanted to sit in on this latest meeting, but Zanla had forbidden it. That was his right. He had not been nasty about it, however, and had promised to talk it all out with her afterward. Was it possible that he was preparing himself, slowly, for the disagreeable task of admitting she was right? Not very likely.

The problem between them was personal, of course, but also doctrinal, and that was what worried Ergentil the most. The Ancients had always been at their fuzziest in describing the purpose of these journeys through space.
To teach us humility,
Gontor had said, by bringing us into closer contact with all-that-is. Lesser writers had said that humility would be taught by meeting creatures of other races, but generations of crews unreturned and crews returning with the same stories of blackness and void had made these predictions suspect. There was still support, though, for the theory that their ultimate goal was the discovery of rational alien life. And that was what Zanla had seized on in formulating his policy toward the aliens: what is the good of just seeing this life, he had argued, without communicating with it, without learning from it?

Hard to disagree with in the abstract. But Ergentil had quickly seen where it was heading in reality: toward a mindless lust for the aliens' awesome machines and weapons. How had we managed to live for so long without being able to speak with someone on the other side of the planet at the pushing of a button? Why have we never invented these marvelous devices that explode on signal and kill thousands of one's enemy?

And this, Ergentil knew, was wrong. It verged on heresy, like that of the old cult, never entirely suppressed, that insisted on worshiping the Ship, despite the clear pronouncements of the Ancients that the Ship was the means and not the goal. These alien machines would quickly and utterly destroy the delicate balance between life and thing that had been the great achievement of her civilization. Already people grew complacent, ignored the old ways, forgot the meaning and greatness of what had been accomplished: look at how this new religion attracted them. They were ripe for conquest, intellectually as well as physically. These meetings with the aliens were simply preparing the way.

She knew, of course, that people considered priestesses to be a sour, dreary lot, always calling down the wrath of the Ancients on the decadent modern ways. They much preferred the more dashing, pragmatic Masters. But it had always been that way. She had her beliefs and she would fight for them; she had her job, and she would do it.

There was a knock on her door. "Enter," Ergentil said glumly. It was Zanla, looking ill at ease in enemy territory. She motioned to a chair, and he sat down in silence.

"It does not appear that Tenon has been returned to us," Ergentil noted.

"Your conclusion is correct."

"What did this Bacquier tell you—or is that no business of a priestess?"

"I didn't come here to talk over repairs to the waste-disposal system with you."

Ergentil made an ironic half-bow. "Then?"

"Tenon is in the hands of a religious group that has beliefs similar to the followers of Chitlan, according to Bacquier. They are demanding that Earth make tolerance for these Chitlanians a precondition for further development of relations between them and us."

"But that is absurd," Ergentil exploded. "How dare they?"

Zanla spread his hands in a gesture of ignorance. "Tenon evidently heard of them through one of the interpreters, escaped, and sought sanctuary with them. They are now keeping him in hiding. This group is evidently large and well organized and legal. Bacquier says—"

"
Bacquier says, Bacquier says.
How do you know that anything he says is the truth?"

"I don't, of course. He could be holding Tenon himself, and have found out all this about Chitlan directly from him. The story does have a surface plausibility, though."

"Well, what do you suggest we do then? Wait around here as long as his story remains plausible? Let the Council inscribe our names in the Square of the Ancients, let the aliens perfect their transportation and weapons and follow us home?"

"It is my feeling," Zanla responded slowly, "that we must make some positive effort to get Tenon back. I agree we should not sit here idly and let events take their course, but I also think that leaving Tenon behind is dangerous to the security of Numos."

"Then what do you propose?"

Zanla was silent. Ergentil threw her arms up in disgust. "Nothing. You have nothing."

"If I do not have a plan by midday tomorrow, we will leave without Tenon."

"And if your plan does not work?"

"If I have a plan, it will work."

They stared at each other. Of what value was the dignity of her position, Ergentil thought (hardly for the first time), if ultimately she had no authority in a situation like this? Zanla was the Master. He had the power to play out his game to the bitter end. She motioned him out of her room. At least she had power here.

He stood up. "I know you do not agree, but—"

"It has gone too far," she interrupted wearily. "No matter what the outcome, Numos is in peril. Let that be your burden, Master."

He bowed stiffly and left.

Vomurd,
she thought. Playing out a game whose outcome is predetermined. Was it predetermined that her world would collapse, that the Chitlanians would take over her temples, that these soulless aliens would sit in the Council Palace? What a cruel trick for existence to play!

She recalled the first Departure she had ever witnessed: her initial year at the temple school, fresh from the countryside, shy, in awe of everything, but especially the Ship. The previous one had not returned, so this was a gleaming, brand-new creation, standing proudly in the triangular
golossi,
awaiting the brave crew that would give meaning to its existence.

The monitors had roused them in the chilly predawn and herded them through the gray streets to their place of honor not far from the stairway. "Remember," Marsta had whispered to them, "if you are good girls and learn your lessons well, then someday you too may go on the Voyage."

The girls were all appropriately solemn, but none more so than Ergentil, as the crew, in their ceremonial tunics, filed slowly across the Square of the Ancients, across the stones inscribed with the names of those who had not returned, ignoring the huge crowd that surrounded them, eyes fixed on the glorious blue pyramid, proud of themselves, proud of their race.

And then they had gone inside, and Ergentil waited, hands clasped tight to the edge of the stone bench, as the sun rose and the shadow of the pyramid lengthened, lengthened, and she visualized the men and women, eyes closed, minds linked, ready to become part of all-that-is, willing it to happen....

And the shadow hit the far edge of the square, and the gleaming blue Ship shimmered and disappeared, leaving behind a crowd that stirred and buzzed, and a girl whose soul longed to be with it.

So now you're here,
she thought. Part of the dream. At odds with the Master, ignored by the crew, no longer sure of yourself or your religion. If the Ancients could have found a way to take that childish faith and make a pill out of it, they would have been far better off.

Still, the pattern had begun. There was nothing to be done but see it through. Masters went on several Voyages, Priestesses on only one. This was
her
Voyage; there would be no other.

Chapter 15

"Jesus Christ, you shoulda been there," Fitzgerald said. "I've never seen him so ticked off. I thought the walls in the Oval Office would crack. You ever seen Gibson when he's in one of those fits?"

"No, sir," Madeleine West replied.

"I'll bet he had an even worse one when he heard what the Pope did. He was pretty calm by the time he got back to me, though."

"What did he say?"

"Well, full speed ahead, of course. He also wanted a progress report, which is why I called you, obviously. Got the guy yet?"

"Sorry."

"What
have
you got?"

West took a deep breath, marshaled her facts, and began. "We interviewed Bernardi's fellow priests at the Jesuit residence. No one saw him leaving or returning that night. He took a tan '99 Plymouth Excelsior minicoupe; apparently none of his personal possessions are missing. The conclusion is that he didn't return there after getting Tenon. There's no way of knowing how much money he had, but it couldn't have been a great deal. We put the Plymouth into the police computer identisystem as a top priority for the East Coast and Midwest. At ten this morning it was discovered parked on a side street near Penn Station in New York. There was a parking ticket on it written at 2:07 the day before yesterday, so we may assume they were in the city at some time before that. We have so far been unable to trace anything of their movements between Greenough and New York, and I doubt that we'll be able to."

"What about after New York?"

"Nothing. They could have taken a train, a plane, rented a car, you name it. However, without much cash they couldn't get very far unless they used a credit card. We're checking on that now."

"Hard to believe this guy Bernardi'd be stupid enough to use a credit card. It'd be like sending us a map."

"I agree. But there might be someplace he wanted to get to, where he'd feel secure. He might be willing to let us know the city he was headed for, let's say, aware that he'd have a day or two's head start. After all, he couldn't keep driving that Plymouth."

"He might still be in the city, though."

"That, I think, is more probable. Bernardi was raised in New York. He has all kinds of relatives and friends there. My feeling is that he came home for help—transportation or lodging. We've just got to do some legwork and see if that's true."

"What's this guy's background, anyway? He seems like kind of an odd one."

West reached for the paper on the far side of her desk. "Born 1961, New York City. Attended local parochial schools and Fordham University—where he met Anthony Collingwood, by the way. After graduation, entered the Jesuit Order in 1983, studied—"

"Yeah, yeah. Very interesting, what's the real poop, though?"

"Well, he's an only child. Father died when he was young. Very likable, athletic, socially active growing up. Sort of a natural leader, evidently, and religious besides. Not extremely brilliant, but the kind who gets things done. Talking to a couple of the Jesuits, I got the impression that he's been rather a disappointment to them. They seemed to have hoped he'd revitalize the entire order or something. Instead he just does his job and makes friends—including some strange ones, like this Father Gardner in Greenough, who appears to be kind of a loser. Bernardi teaches English, Italian, and coaches track at an exclusive Jesuit prep school near Greenough. The students adore him."

"Streetwise, huh? Tough? Maybe bored?"

"Hard to say. He certainly didn't waste any time getting involved in this affair."

"I think you've got your hands full, Madeleine."

"We'll see."

"So what will you do now?"

"I'm going to head back to New York and run things from there. Not much left to work on here in Massachusetts."

"Good, I'll tell the President the investigation is on the move."

West smiled. "Incidentally, uh, are there any limitations on us because of the Pope's statement?"

"Not that anyone's told me. I guess we may take some heat, but the UN people are trying to take care of that. Did you hear Bacquier's statement?"

"No."

"He just talked to Zanla, says the Numoi have no intention of putting Tenon to death. It's all a misunderstanding and so forth."

"Is that true?"

"Beats me. Why don't we just pretend it's true and see if that doesn't help the cause. Keep me posted, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

West didn't like these controversial cases. They always got messy, she reflected on the flight back to New York. She liked good guys and bad guys. She liked witnesses who were eager to cooperate. She didn't like having to worry about what the President, or the Pope, thought about what she was doing.