Forbidden Sanctuary (5 page)

"At least to publicize it," Angela replied. "Get it on the news, get priests to preach about it, put pressure on the UN."

"That's a tall order," Bernardi mused. "Clement has his hands full as it is. This might just make things worse for him politically."

"That's his judgment to make," Angela pointed out. "If we don't tell him the facts, he can't make the judgment. Will you at least bring it to your friend's attention?"

"Oh, I wouldn't call Collingwood exactly a friend. He's not the kind of guy to have friends. Still, we are acquainted."

"Will you do it?"

He thought for a moment, then sighed. "Collingwood is nothing if not thorough. He'll need your statement signed. He'll also probably want the particulars of your background. To check up on you, find out if you can be trusted."

"Of course, of course," Angela replied excitedly. "When will you speak with him? The Numoi are leaving soon, you know."

He smiled. "I'm intrigued by—what do they call it—
vomurd?
Not very persuasive evidence, I suppose. If you're part of the pattern, though, it's... well, intriguing." He reached over onto the desk and grabbed the previous day's newspaper. He searched through a couple of pages, then began reading aloud. "'Pope sends personal envoy to bishops' synod. Monsignor Anthony Collingwood, Pope Clement's private secretary, arrives in New York today to attend the American Synod of Bishops at the Biltmore Hotel. It is expected that Collingwood will help map plans to fight proposed legislation to repeal the tax-exempt status for religious property. Also on the agenda will be a discussion of the theological implications of the aliens, and various proposals for changes in the liturgy. A Vatican spokesman said...' Well, who cares what the Vatican spokesman said. The point is, Collingwood's close enough for a visit, just when we want to see him. God works in mysterious ways, would you say?"

Chapter 3

"They have a kind of sculpture," Sudmeta was saying. "Only it is not made with stone or clay, but with concentrated light, so powerful that it produces a three-dimensional image that one cannot tell apart from the real thing."

"Rubbish," Rothra growled. "Another lie to make us afraid. They go too far."

"But you've seen their communicators, you've seen their engines," Sudmeta exclaimed. "Do you have to see each wonder before you will believe in it?"

"Certainly. Why should I believe anything they say? They have every reason to lie, don't they?"

"Of course," Lilorn remarked, "if we were allowed off the Ship, we wouldn't have to take their word for everything."

The three of them looked over at the priestess Ergentil, who returned their stares impassively.

Zanla sighed. They were all tired and irritable. He had pushed them too hard, and these constant squabbles were the result. They were all angry with him, he was sure, but only Ergentil was in a position to say so. "What do they call this sculpture?" he asked calmly.

Sudmeta consulted his notes. "Holo—holo—"

"Never mind. Just make sure it's legible for the archive. Anything else?"

The officers were glumly silent.

"All right, now what happened on the lower level?"

"A fight," Rothra replied. "Clia was washing the floor, evidently, and Marshan walked over it while it was still wet. They are both in the infirmary."

"And these are the cream of the Numoi?" Zanla remarked.

"Perhaps we should leave now," Ergentil said, "before we start killing each other."

"The time for the Departure is set," Zanla responded coldly. "It will not be changed because of a floor-washing incident."

"I think there may be concern that this incident is a manifestation of deeper problems," Sudmeta said carefully. "Ships have stayed out to the maximum before, of course, but never under these stressful conditions. If there are a lot of bonding problems—"

"Then we will keep trying until the problems are solved. Are there any other topics?"

No one spoke.

"All right. Hand in your notes. Samish has the schedule for tomorrow.
Alm a Numos."

The others muttered
Alm a Numos
and departed, leaving Zanla alone at the far end of the oval table. He took the notes and carefully filed them on the long shelves behind the table. The shelves were close to being full. When he was finished he sat back down and stared at the empty seats around the table.

He had little respect for his officers. They had expected an easy Voyage to a safe setting. How they had blanched when he had twirled them off in an unknown direction, guaranteeing them death or glory! Well, they had not died, but still they were querulous, fretful, immature. Clearly not fit material for the Council.

Clearly not fit.
His hand tightened on the table as he thought of himself at the time of his first Voyage, a wide-eyed Novice eager to lay down his life for Numos... so he had thought. It is all so easy, until you are in the Ship, and you look into the eyes of your bondmate, and you at last understand what it is that they ask you to do. How could he judge these officers harshly? They grumbled, but they obeyed. What more was needed?

Ergentil, on the other hand... but it was not her place to obey. They were equals before the Council, though he was Master of the Ship. He didn't lack respect for her, he just couldn't deal with her. A part of him felt like apologizing every time he spoke with her, and he was strong enough now to despise such a feeling, and to dislike the person who evoked it in him. What he was doing was right, and neither his officers' complaints nor her cold stares would change that.

He tried to stop thinking, and listened to the silence in the room. He breathed in the alien air. "You will either be my greatest success or my greatest failure," his teacher Elial had said once. "Perhaps you will be both."

No, not both. Not both. He took the literature folder off the shelf, and began studying for the morning's session.

Chapter 4

Al Bernardi swizzled his scotch and soda and glanced at his watch. He knew exactly how it would be. Collingwood would arrive fifteen minutes late, apologizing profusely but intimating that he had been delayed by matters of far greater import than a meeting with an old schoolmate.

And who could deny it? He had managed to put a reality beneath his surface, and if the surface still seemed unpleasantly affected, that might be because old impressions die hard. Or, more likely, because Collingwood was incapable of acting naturally in front of Bernardi; his achievements were meaningless when confronted with a person from his past. Like an adult transformed into a dutiful child before his mother, Bernardi thought. Our previous selves stay with us, ready to take over at the slightest provocation.

This provocation had been planned, of course. Bernardi had tried and failed to get Collingwood's room number. So he had checked the time the bishops' meeting would finish, and stationed himself in the busy lobby, like a spy looking for a man with a red carnation. He had sat there for over an hour as most of the American hierarchy trooped by. When he finally caught sight of Collingwood, it was almost too late to pretend a chance encounter. He would have preferred to have had Collingwood notice him first, but he was heading for the elevator deep in conversation with some cleric, so Bernardi had to cross in front of them, stop in feigned surprise, and say, "Hey Tony, this is my turf. You oughta have permission."

Collingwood looked up. The gears whirred and produced a smile and a handshake. "I have a papal dispensation, Al."

Not a bad response. No one could accuse Collingwood of being stupid. "I'll let it go this time. But you'll have to let me buy you a drink."

The smile wavered. Was the hesitation real or surface? "Gee, Al. I'd love to, but—"

"Doesn't have to be right now. I'm going to be around."

A suitable pause to consider his schedule. "Ten o'clock in the lounge?"

"I'll be there."

And he was, wondering now why he hadn't been truthful with Collingwood.
I have something very important to discuss with you, Tony. Could I have a few moments of your time as soon as possible?
Why make a game out of it?

I'm no better than he is, Bernardi reflected. At least, the past affected them both in the same way. For if Collingwood was quick to assert his position, Bernardi could not help trying to deny its importance. To beg for a few minutes of Collingwood's time would be to admit his superiority and to accept a change in the roles Bernardi's memory had assigned to them. No longer could he be the wry, detached observer while Collingwood was the pitiful power-mad adolescent. That shouldn't be important, of course; the attitude was quite probably sinful. But it existed.

They had met as undergraduates at Fordham. He was the tough New York City kid, Collingwood the pampered child of a wealthy professional couple from upstate. They were drawn together by their religion, and by the growing feeling both had that perhaps they were prepared to devote their lives to it. That made them rare birds, even on a Catholic campus.

But two people with vocations can be as different as any other two people, and Bernardi quickly found he had little else in common with Collingwood. He lacked ambition, had a tendency to be lazy, drank a bit more than was good for him, refused to take anything very seriously. Collingwood, in contrast, was ascetic, deadly serious, and, most important, so consumed with ambition that Bernardi still had difficulty crediting it. Walking back together from Mass one morning, he had jokingly said to Collingwood that the only reason he wanted to become a priest instead of going into politics was because presidents only rule a couple hundred million people, whereas popes rule almost a billion. Collingwood had laughed, but he had also blushed, and Bernardi knew he had cut very close.

But in those days Collingwood's ambition was forced to be rather unfocused. He was in love with power and its trappings, but what power was within range of a nineteen-year-old? He ran for student government but failed miserably; electoral politics wasn't his game. He got appointed to a faculty-student committee to restructure religious education, but its proposals were ignored. It was, oddly enough, a part-time job that gave him his first real taste of power. He became a typist in the president's office, and suddenly found himself with access to all kinds of information about what was going on in the school.

"It's great, Al," he had gushed. "I help his secretary with the correspondence. Did you know that Father Keenan was reprimanded last year for his relationship with a coed in one of his psych classes? That's probably why he's on sabbatical. And did you know that Father Heffernan has asked to be laicized? Wouldn't he be the last one you'd expect?"

Bernardi had felt obliged to shrug. "So what?"

"So what? Knowledge is power, Al. You've got to know what's going on."

"What're you going to do? Blackmail Keenan?"

"No, but I'll know enough not to ask him for a letter of recommendation. You've got to be on the inside to get ahead."

"So who wants to get ahead?"

The answer was obvious. Collingwood was not one to miss an opportunity. He got in good with the president, received recommendations from
him
instead of Father Keenan, ended up in Rome at Gregorian with all the rest of the future bishops and cardinals, then on to some postgrad study at Oxford, where he somehow managed to attach himself to Cardinal Herbert, whose coattails he held onto all the way to the top. Meteoric. And Bernardi had done things his own way, ending up out in the woods teaching obnoxious rich kids the rudiments of civilization.