Julian Comstock: A Story of 22nd-Century America (56 page)

"I'm sure I don't."

"Movies!" He grinned. "At least a dozen of them—movies on celluloid film, in metal canisters, from the days of the Secular Ancients!"

"I thought none had survived."

"I thought so too, until we uncovered these."

"Have you seen any of them?"

"Not yet. They're fragile, and they don't run in the simple projection machines we use. But I assigned a group of mechanics to study them and work on the problem of duplicating them for posterity, or at least rendering them into a form more easily viewed."

This was all wonderful and daunting. I took books from the shelves and handled them reverently, fully conscious that they had not been regarded by sympathetic eyes since before the Fall of the Cities. Later Julian would give me another book he had culled from among the Archival duplicates, a short novel called
The Time Machine
 by Mr. H. G. Wells, about a marvelous but apparently imaginary cart which carried a man into the future—and it fascinated me—but the Archive itself was a Time Machine in everything but name. Here were voices preserved on browning paper like pressed flowers, whispering apostasies into the ear of a new century.

It was dark by the time we left, and I was dazed by what I had seen. We were silent for a time as the carriage and its military escort passed along Broadway and into the grounds of the Presidential Palace. But I had been thinking about what Julian had said regarding movies, and I was reminded of that project he used to talk about so passionately, namely
The Life and Adventures of the Great Naturalist Charles Darwin.
"What about
your
 movie, Julian?"

I asked. "Have you made any advancement on that front?" Julian was busy these days with matters of State; but in his spare time, he had admitted to me, he still contemplated the project, which might now be within practical reach; and he had begun writing a script for it.

On this occasion he was evasive. "Certain things are difficult to work out.

Details of plot and so forth. The script is like a horse with a nail in its hoof—it isn't dead, but it won't move forward."

"What are the problems exactly?"

"I make Darwin the hero of it, and we see his fascination with beetles, as a child, and he talks about the relationship of all living things, and then he gets on a boat and goes looking at finches—"

"Finches?"

"For the shape of their beaks and such, which leads him to certain conclusions about heredity and environment. All this is important and true, but it lacks ..."

"Drama," I suggested.

"Drama, possibly."

"Well, the boat is a good touch. You can't go wrong with a boat."

"The heart of the thing eludes me. It won't settle down on paper the way I want it to."

"Perhaps I can help you with it."

"Thank you, Adam, but no. I would rather keep the business to myself, at least for now."

If Julian's cinematic work-in-progress lacked drama, the incidents of daily life did not, especially regarding his increasingly hostile relations with the Dominion of Jesus Christ in general and Deacon Hollingshead in particular.

Sam told me he feared Julian was involving himself in a battle he could never win. The Dominion had a devious history and deep pockets, he said, and Julian's best bet would be to ingratiate himself with the Senate, and be sure to keep the Army on his side, which would give him greater leverage in any po liti cal wrestling match with Colorado Springs.

But that was strategy for the long run; in the short term it was the threat to Calyxa that concerned us. Julian's capture of the Dominion Archive did not result in the withdrawal of the Writ against Calyxa ... nor did it seem that Julian would be willing to surrender his prize, now that he had it in his possession, even if such a bargain had been offered. But he continued to insist that Calyxa was safe; and I could hardly believe otherwise, since it would require a wholesale revolution before the Dominion could march onto the grounds of the Executive Palace and take her into their custody. In all likelihood, Julian said, Deacon Hollingshead wouldn't even issue a summons to court; if he did, Julian would see that it was quashed.

In light of all this he began to take a greater interest in the events that had resulted in the Writ of Ecclesiastical Quarantine in the first place. "This Church where you were Found In," he asked Calyxa, "is it still in operation or did Hollingshead shut it down completely?"

The Parmentierist friends Calyxa had made in the city continued to keep her informed of developments. She sat on a sofa in the guest-house (this was late in March, on a windy night), her swollen belly prominent under a maternity dress Mrs. Comstock had obtained for her.
She looked beatific, I thought, with her coiled hair for a halo; and I could not so much as glance at her without smiling to myself.
⁸⁹

"Its former location has been seized and put up for auction," she said.

"But Pastor Stepney managed to avoid arrest. The Church of the Apostles Etc. continues to meet, at a new location ... and with a different congregation, since the first batch are still in prison."

"I'm curious about this church. We might do ourselves a favor by learning more about the case, as a way of anticipating any new move Hollingshead might make."

"Stepney seems like a good man," Mrs. Comstock remarked, "though I only saw him from a distance. I was impressed with him, despite his radical doctrines."

(She said this even though she knew the words would make Sam, who was also visiting us that eve ning, shudder and scowl. She gave him sidelong glances to gauge his reaction, which I suspect she found entertaining.)

"I could take you there," Calyxa said, "if I were allowed to travel freely in the city."

She was far too close to her term to entertain any such idea, and Julian quickly demurred. Then Mrs. Comstock said, "Well, I for one would like a chance to speak to Pastor Stepney, and get to know him. Perhaps I could go with you, Julian, if Calyxa will tell us the current address."

"The last thing we need," Sam growled, "if for you to be 'Found In' a second time. I won't sanction it."

"I didn't ask for your
sanction,
" Mrs. Comstock said stiffly.

Julian forestalled the argument with a wave of his hand. "I'm the one who's curious," he said. "And I'm the one Deacon Hollingshead wouldn't dare to arrest. Perhaps Adam and I can go to this man's church, with enough Republican Guards to warn us if the Dominion tries some trick."

"It would be dangerous even so," said Sam.

"Is it Hollingshead you're afraid of, Sam, or the charismatic Mr. Stepney?"

Sam didn't respond to Julian's impertinent question, but lapsed into a brooding silence.

"It might be a fascinating Expedition," Julian repeated. "Will you come with me, Adam? Tomorrow, say?"

I said I would. In fact I wasn't much interested in Pastor Stepney's apostate church. But I was interested in Julian's interest in it.

"Stepney is just the type to intrigue Julian," Calyxa said as I climbed into bed beside her that night. March breezes rattled the big bedroom windows, and it was pleasant to huddle under the thick blankets with my arm around my wife.

"Probably a fraud, like most of these unaffiliated pastors, and his doctrines don't interest me. But he was generous to the Parmentierists who met at his church, and he talked a good line, whenever I happened to overhear him. Not the usual small-church fanat i cism. Much about Time and Evolution and such topics, the sort of thing Julian likes to babble about, and he's as eloquent as any Aristo."

"Julian thinks of it as Philosophy more than Babble," I said.

"Maybe so. Either way, it's thin gruel for a working woman or a mechanic with a grievance. Here, fold yourself around me, Adam—I'm cold."

I did as she asked, and we grew warm together.

Pastor Stepney's former church in the Immigrant District having been seized and sold, he had moved his enterprise to the loft of a crumbling ware house alongside one of the canals of Lower Manhattan. Julian disguised himself in the clothing of an ordinary working man, and I wore the same, and we walked up the wooden steps to the loft by ourselves, though there were Republican Guards in plain clothes outside, ready to warn us if the Dominion's men arrived in any force.

A sign had been tacked to the door at the top of the stairs, engraved in an ornate script with the words:

CHURCH OF THE APOSTLES ETC.
God is Conscience
— Have No Other —
Love Your Neighbor as Your Brother

"That's a noble sentiment," I said.

"I suppose it is. More often honored in the breach, though, I imagine.

We'll see." Julian knocked at the door.

It was answered by a woman in a tight red dress and a heavy shawl. In appearance she resembled one of the less virtuous women who frequented the neighborhood, perhaps a few years past her peak of desirability; but I don't meant to insult her character, only to offer a description. "Yes?" she said.

"We would like to meet Pastor Stepney," said Julian.

"There's no service on at the moment."

"That's all right. We don't require one."

"Well, come in." The woman admitted us into a small, barely-furnished room. "I'll tell him you're here, if you tell me who you are."

"Pilgrims in search of enlightenment," Julian said, smiling.

"We get five or six of those a day," the woman said. "Pilgrims are cheap as fleas around here. Sit down, I'll find out if he has time for you."

She vanished through another door, and we perched ourselves on the small bench that was the only available seat. A few pamphlets had been left on the rough pine table in front of us.
The Evolving God
 was the title of one.

"He takes an interest in Evolution," I said. "That's unusual for a clergyman."

"I doubt he knows what he's talking about. These impostors seldom do."

"But perhaps he's sincere."

"Even worse," said Julian.

Then the adjoining door opened, and Pastor Stepney himself came into the room.

He was a handsome man. Mrs. Comstock and Calyxa had already testified to that effect, and I could not say they were wrong. Stepney was a tall, slender youth—he looked no older than Julian—with lustrously dark skin and wiry hair. But his most arresting feature was his eyes, which were penetrating, opulent, and of a shade so dark it was almost umber. He gave us a benevolent smile and said in a soothing voice, "How can I help you boys? Come for some spiritual wisdom, have you? I'm at your ser vice, as long as you don't forget the donation-box on the way out."

Julian stood up at once. His demeanor had utterly changed. His eyes grew wide with astonishment. "My God!" he exclaimed. "Of all the Stepneys in New York City—is that
you,
 Magnus?"

"Magnus Stepney, yes," the pastor said, backing off warily.

"Don't you know me, Magnus? Though we're both years older now!"

The young pastor frowned a moment more; then his own eyes expanded in astonishment. "Julian!" he cried, a grin breaking out on his face. "Julian Comstock, by the grace of God! But aren't you
President
 now?"

It took me a while to sort out this unexpected development, but I won't compel the reader to share my own confusion. It was obvious that Julian and Stepney had met before, and from listening to their conversation I garnered a few salient facts.

Stepney invited us into his sanctuary—which was the greater part of the ware house loft, fixed up with benches and a makeshift altar—so that we could talk more comfortably. I use the collective "we," but in fact it was Julian and the pastor who talked—I kept out of it. They had embarked on a series of reminiscences even before Julian remembered to introduce me.

"This is Magnus Stepney, an old acquaintance of mine," he said eventually.

"Magnus, this is Adam Hazzard, another friend."

Pastor Stepney shook my hand, and his grip was strong and genial.

"Pleased to meet you, Adam. Are you also some high functionary in the Executive Branch, operating in disguise?"

"No, just a writer," I said.

Julian explained that he had gone to school with this man (boy, in those days) before he was sent to Williams Ford to protect him from his uncle. The school they had attended was a Eupatridian institution in which bright Aristo children were taught what ever it was considered decorous to know about arithmetic and literature. Julian and Magnus had been fast friends, I gathered, and a continual terror to their overseers. Both had been intelligent in advance of their years and impudent in their relations with authority. The friendship had been prematurely severed by Julian's evacuation to Athabaska, and Julian had lost track of his former acquaintance. "How on earth did you come to be a pastor of a scofflaw Church?" Julian asked.

"My father wouldn't toady to the Senate in some conflict over a dockside property," Stepney said, "and he was punished for it, and forced to flee to Mediterranean France for his own safety. My mother and I would have followed after a prudent time, but his ship was lost at sea. My mother was all the family I had after that, and smallpox took her in '72. I was reduced to accepting any work I could find, or making it for myself."

"And this is the result?" Julian asked. "The Church of the Apostles Etc.?"

"By a long and winding road, yes," said Stepney.

He gave Julian an abbreviated account of those difficult years, while I listened with half an ear. I supposed all this meant that Pastor Stepney was a fraud, and his Church nothing more than a vehicle for extracting cash donations from gullible parishioners. But Stepney spoke modestly and apparently sincerely about his religious beliefs, and how they had moved him to create the apostate sect of which he was the master.

This caused Julian and Stepney to launch into a vigorous discussion of Theology, the Existence of God, Evolution by Natural Selection, and such topics as that, which I inferred had been the subject of their childhood conversations as well. I was necessarily left out of such talk, and I passed the time by looking over the crudely-printed pamphlets Pastor Stepney had left scattered about the place.