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Project Pope

Clifford D. Simak

Prologue

Thomas Decker was half an hour from home when Whisperer stopped him in his tracks.

—Decker, said Whisperer, speaking inside Decker's mind. Decker, now I'll get you. This time I will get you.

Decker swiveled about on the game trail he had been following, his rifle raised, held away from his body, ready to snap to his shoulder against the first sign of danger.

There was nothing in sight, nothing stirring. The heavy growth of trees and brush came down close against the trail on either side. It all hung motionless. There was not the slightest breeze, no flicker of a bird. There was absolutely nothing. Everything was frozen, as if eternity had clamped down.

—Decker!

The word was inside his mind. There had been no sound, nothing spoken. The only sound was in his mind and he had never been able to decide, in all his previous encounters with Whisperer, if there
had
been a sound inside his mind. He just knew the words, lodged there in that area of his brain in the front of his head, just above his eyes.

—Not this time, Whisperer, he said to the other, speaking to it as it had bespoken him, no words uttered, but forming the thoughts and words inside his mind for Whisperer to read. Today I'm not playing any games with you. I've played the last game with you. There won't be any more.

—Chicken, said Whisperer. Chicken, chicken, chicken!

—To hell with your chicken businesss, said Decker. Come out and show yourself and see if I am chicken. I've had it with you, Whisperer. I'm up to here with you.

—You are chicken, said Whisperer. You had me in your rifle sights last time and you did not pull the trigger. Chicken, Decker, chicken.

—I have no reason to kill you, Whisperer. Actually no wish to. But, so help me God, I'll let you have it just to get rid of you.

—If I don't get you first.

—You've had chances at me, said Decker. You must have had a lot of chances. So let's quit this bickering. Let us stop this horseplay. You don't want to kill me any more than I want to kill you. You just want to keep on playing. I'm sick of your silly games. I'm hungry and I'm tired and I want to get on home. I don't want to play hide-and-seek with you, chasing you up and down the woods.

By now he had figured out where Whisperer was located, and he shifted slightly in the path to face the spot where Whisperer was hidden in the underbrush.

—You had good luck this time, said Whisperer. You found a lot of gems. Maybe even diamonds.

—You know damn well I didn't. You were with me. You watched me all the time. I sensed you.

—You work hard, said Whisperer. You should find diamonds now and then.

—I'm not looking for diamonds.

—What do you do with what you find?

—Whisperer, why all these silly questions? You know what I do with them.

—You give them to the captain of the ship to sell at Gutshot. He steals you blind. He sells them for three times what he tells you that he gets.

—I suspect he does, said Decker. But what the hell? He needs the money more than I do. He's putting together a stake to buy that place on Apple Blossom. Why this sudden interest, Whisperer?

—You do not sell him all?

—That is true. I keep the better pieces.

—I could use some of your better pieces.

—You, Whisperer? What would you want of them?

—Shape them. Carve them. Change them.

—You are a carver, Whisperer?

—Not an accomplished carver, Decker. Just a hobbyist.

Now he knew exactly where Whisperer was located. If he made the slightest move, he would let him have it. Whisperer wasn't fooling him with this talk of gems and carving. It was just a lot of talk to throw him off his balance.

He might as well, Decker told himself, put an end to it. For months now, this hidden clown had been pestering him, trailing him and watching him, jeering at him, threatening him, getting him to play the silly game, making an utter fool of him.

—I could show you, in a stream not far from here, said Whisperer, a place where there are many gems. There is one piece, a large chunk of jade, I want very much myself. Get the jade for me and you can have all the rest.

—Get it yourself, said Decker. If you know where it is, get it for yourself.

—But I cannot, said Whisperer. I have no arms to reach, no hands to grasp, no strength to lift. You must do it for me. After all, why not? We are friends. We have played games enough to even be old friends. We've been at it long enough.

—Once I get my hands on you, said Decker. Once I get you in the sights again.…

—What you had in your sights, said Whisperer, was not me. It was a shadow, a shape I made that you would think was me. When you saw the shape and did not shoot, I knew you were my friend.

—Friend or not, said Decker, shape or not, shadow even, next time I'll pull the trigger.

—We could be friends, said Whisperer. We've spent an infancy together. We have romped and played together. We've grown to know one another. Now that we have matured …

—Matured?

—Yes, Decker, our friendship has matured. No more play is needed. It was only a rite. Perhaps it was foolish of me to inflict the rite upon you. A rite of friendship only.

—A rite? You're crazy, Whisperer.

—A rite you did not recognize, did not understand, and yet you played it with me. Not always willingly, not always in good temper, often cursing and frothing and thirsting for my blood, but you played it with me. And now that the rite is done, we can go home together.

—Over my dead body will we go home together. I'll not have you cluttering up the cabin.

—I would not clutter greatly. I would take little room. I could squeeze into a corner. You would not even notice me. And I need a friend so greatly. I must pick a friend so carefully. I must find one that is tuned to me—

—Whisperer, said Decker, you are wasting your time. Whatever the hell you are driving at, you're wasting your time.

—We could be good for one another. I would carve your gems and talk with you on lonely nights and sit before the fire with you, and there would be many tales we could tell each other. You, perhaps, could help me with Vatican—

—With Vatican! yelled Decker. What in the name of Christ have you to do with Vatican?

Chapter One

Jason Tennyson, fleeing for his life, came in low over the precipitous mountain range that lay to the west of Gutshot. Immediately after he caught sight of the lights marking the town, he pressed the ejection button and felt himself flung upward with a greater violence than he had expected. For a moment he was enveloped in darkness; then, as his body spun, he saw the lights of the town again and thought that he also saw the flier. But whether he saw the flier or not, he knew, was of slight importance. It would continue over Gutshot, angling slightly downward over the ocean that hemmed in the tiny town and spaceport against the towering mountains. Some fifty miles out to sea, if his calculations were correct, the flier would go into the water and be lost. And lost as well, he hoped, would be Dr. Jason Tennyson, lately court physician to the margrave of Daventry. The radar at Gutshot space base undoubtedly had picked up the flier and would track it on its course across the water, but at its low altitude, the base would soon lose contact with it.

His fall was slackening and suddenly, as the chute popped open to its full extent, he was jerked sidewise and began swinging in wide arcs. An updraft caught the chute, forcing it back toward the looming peaks and slowing the swinging; but in a moment it slid out of the updraft and was floating smoothly downward. Tennyson, dangling at the end of the lines, tried to make out where he would land; it seemed toward the south end of the spaceport. He held his breath and hoped. He threaded his arms through the chute straps and clutched his medical bag, holding it close against his chest. Let it go well, he prayed—let it continue to go well. So far it had gone surprisingly well. All the way he had held the flier low, rocketing through the night, making wide circuits to avoid feudal holdings, where radars would be groping skyward, for in this vicious world of contending fiefs, a close watch was always kept. No one knew at what time or from what direction raiders might come swooping in.

Peering down, he tried to gauge how close he might be drifting to solid ground, but the darkness made it impossible to judge. He found himself tensing, then consciously willed himself to relax. When he hit, he had to be relaxed.

The grouping of lights that marked the town was some distance to the north; the spatter of brilliance that was the spaceport was almost dead ahead. A blackness intervened to shield out the spaceport lights and he hit the ground, knees buckling under him. He threw himself to one side, still holding tightly to the bag. The chute collapsed and he struggled to his feet, pulling on lines and shrouds.

He had landed, he saw, close to a group of large warehouses at the south end of the port. It had been the bulk of the warehouses that had cut off the spaceport lights. Luck, he realized, had been with him. Had he been able to plan it, he could not have chosen a better landing site.

His eyes now were becoming accustomed to the night darkness. He was situated, he saw, near an alley that ran between two of the warehouses. He saw also that the warehouses were set on pilings; a foot or so lay between the ground and the foundations of the buildings. And there, he thought, was where he could hide the chute. He could bundle it together and push it as far into the space as he could reach. If he could find a stick of some sort, he could even push it farther. But all that was needed was to push it far enough that it would not be spotted by a passerby. This would save him considerable time. He had feared that he might have to try to dig a hole or find a clump of trees in which to hide the chute. All that was necessary would be for it not to be found for several days; hidden underneath the warehouse, it might not be found for years.