Project Pope (15 page)

What she could not accept was that implied area beyond the borders of either space or time, that implication of a never-never land that could exist with no need of either time or space and, presumably, without the steadying hand of the physical laws that went with them. It was one, she thought, with the energy of thought, with the thrust of mind—and “energy” might not be the right word, for energy was a familiar component and as such could be ruled out of this other place. It all was one with the robots using the power of thought to operate the ships with which they ventured not only across the known universe, but into the areas beyond.

As far as the rest of the history of Vatican was concerned, it was straightforward narrative—the initial landing of the ships from Earth, the early pioneering days, the construction of Vatican itself, the construction, continuing even to this day, of an electronic pope, the bringing in of humans, the setting up of the Search Program, the development of new capabilities in the newly manufactured robots.

The entire project had been well thought out by the robots from the very start. Before they had ever left the Earth, they had known what they were looking for—an out-of-the-way planet where casual visitors were not likely to blunder in on them, where they would be left alone to carry out their work. But they must find, as well, a planet where it would be possible for humans to live. The robots could have lived on almost any sort of planet, and had it not been for the human factor, the search for their base of operations would have been much simpler. But never for a moment had the robots considered embarking on their project without human help. Whether at that time they had evolved the principle of the Search Program, which was based solidly on humans, was not completely apparent from the record, although Jill was inclined to believe that they had. The old bond with humanity still existed; the ancient partnership still held.

Just how many ships the robots had used to transport themselves and their equipment to End of Nothing, or how they had originally acquired the ships, also was not written out in black and white. The best estimate she could arrive at was that there had been no more than three. Several trips to and from Earth had been made, the later trips to bring in materials that could not be accommodated on the first flight, with the last trip bringing in the humans whose descendants still lived upon the planet. Eventually the ships had been broken up for the metal and other materials that could be salvaged. Once again, it was not clear when this had been done, but it made sense, Jill told herself, that it had not been until the thought-driven ships (if they really were thought-driven) had been built.

The robots had done much more, at first glance, than it would have seemed could have been done in a thousand years—that is, until one considered that robots need take off no time to rest or sleep. They could work around the clock, if need be, for weeks and months, perhaps for years, on end. They were never tired or sleepy. They were never ill. They felt no need of recreation or of entertainment, and she found herself wondering, bemusedly, what a robot might do for recreation, or for entertainment. They did not have to take time out to eat; they never paused for breath.

And the remodeling of robots, the designing of new robots (a new generation or generations of robots) was simpler, too, when one thought about it, than would be the mutation and evolution of biologic forms. The genetic shufflings that must take place to bring about appreciable modifications in biological systems would require an enormous amount of time. Natural biological evolution required the death and birth of many generations to pass the gene mutations on and to allow the long, slow process of adaptation. But in a robot society all that would be required to bring about desired changes and new capability would be the redesigning of new forms and mechanisms and the engineering that it would take to translate the blueprints into being.

Behind her a footstep sounded, and at the sound she turned around. It was Asa with her sandwiches and the glass of milk.

He put them down, carefully, in front of her and stepped softly to one side.

“And now,” he asked, “what would you have me do?”

“For the moment,” she said, “nothing at all. Take a rest. Sit down and talk with me.”

“I need no rest,” he said. “I have no need to sit.”

“It's not against your rules, is it?”

“Well, not against the rules.”

“Even cardinals sit,” she said. “When His Eminence, Theodosius, comes to visit me, he often sits and talks.”

“If you wish,” said Asa, perching himself upon the stool the cardinal used on his visits.

She picked up a sandwich and took a bite. It was roast beef and tasted good. She picked up the glass of milk.

“Asa,” she said, “tell me about yourself. Were you forged on Earth?”

“Not on Earth, milady.”

“Then here?”

“Yes, here. I am a third-generation robot.”

“I see. And how many generations might there be?”

“There is no way of telling. It depends on how you count. Some say five, others seven.”

“That many?”

“That many. There may be even more.”

“Have you ever been to some of the places the Listeners have found?”

“Twice, milady. I have made two trips.”

“Ever outside of time and space?”

“On one of them,” he said. “One of the two, I was outside of time and space.”

“Could you tell me what it was like?”

“No, I cannot. There is no way to tell. It's another place. Not like here at all.”

Chapter Eighteen

Once again Tennyson was in the place of equations and of diagrams, and this time some of them could be vaguely recognized.

One, he was convinced, was Ecuyer. The diagram somehow had the look of Ecuyer and the equations that were associated with it, in some manner which he could not comprehend, spelled out Ecuyer. Maybe the color, he thought, for Ecuyer's diagram and equations were gray and rose, but why gray and rose should be Ecuyer, he could not imagine. Certainly, he thought, color should have little to do with it—rather it would be the shape of the diagrams and the components of the equations that should determine what they were. Tennyson fought mentally, sweating and gasping, clawing at his intellect, to factor out the equations, but that was impossible because he did not know the conventions and the signs.

Deliberately he backed away from Ecuyer, or what he thought must be Ecuyer. Deliberately, but fighting every step that backed him away. View it all from another angle, he told himself, achieve a perspective from a distance, look away for a while to wipe it from your mind in the hope that when looking back at it again something—either something in the diagram or the equations—will jump out at you.

For he must know, he told himself; it was vital that he know if this was Ecuyer.

The place was hazy and there was a quaver in the air. If only something, just one thing, would be still, he thought—if he could get one good look at something. The trouble was that while it never actually changed, it always seemed on the verge of change. That was it—uncertainty.

Having looked away, he now looked back, swiveling his head quickly in the hope he might catch the diagrams and equations by surprise.

Ecuyer was gone. The gray and rose were gone. In its place was a purple and gold; another diagram and a new set of equations.

Seeing them, he froze. His terror rose to choke him and he screamed.

“Mary! Mary! Mary!”

He struggled to climb out of wherever he was, although there was nothing he could climb and someone had seized him to prevent his climbing.

“No! No! No!” he shouted, and someone was whispering to him.

“There, there, there,” the someone said, and soft hands were upon him and when he opened his eyes he found himself in darkness—which was strange, for he had not known his eyes were closed.

The voice said, “No, Hubert, it's all right. He was having a nightmare.”

“Jill?” Tennyson asked weakly.

“Yes. It's all right now. I'm with you. You're back again.”

He was in bed, he saw, with Jill bending over him and Hubert hovering in the lighted doorway.

“I worked late,” said Jill, “and I thought you might be asleep, but I knocked anyway and Hubert let me in. I wanted to see you. I had so much to tell you.”

“I was in the equation world,” he told her. “I was dreaming it again. Ecuyer was there and he was gray and rose and when I looked away for a moment …”

“You were screaming at Mary. Was Mary there? The Heaven Mary?”

He nodded, struggling to sit up, still befuddled with the dream. “She was purple and gold,” he said. “And it was horrible.”

Chapter Nineteen

It was the first time he'd returned since he'd finally walked away from the boat ten—no, it must have been twelve—years ago, and it still was there, where he'd remembered it, lying in a small, grassy valley between two ranges of steep hills. Brambles had grown up around it, but not so thickly or so high as to obscure it. Apparently nothing else had found it, for it lay exactly as he remembered it, and he wondered how he could have found it so easily, walking straight through the tangled foothills to the place he knew it was.

—Whisperer, are you here? he asked.

Knowing that he was, but he had to ask.

—Yes, Decker. Of course I'm here. So is the Old One of the Woods. He's been following us for days.

—What does he want?

—He's curious, is all. You puzzle him. All humans puzzle him. And you puzzle me. Why back to your beginning?

—It's not my beginning, said Decker. I began very far from here.

—Your beginning on this planet, then.

—Yes, my beginning on this planet. You know, of course, what lies down there.

—You told me. A lifeboat. A vehicle that carried you safely through space until it found a place where you could survive. But you never told me more. Decker, you are a close-mouthed man. Not even your best friend.…

—Is that what you are?

—If I am not, name one who is.

—I would suppose you're right, said Decker. When the boat aroused me from suspended animation, I had no idea where I was. At first, it seemed an absolutely primitive planet, untouched by any sort of intellectual culture. I explored. I kept no track of time, but I must have roamed for weeks, maybe for months, and there was nothing but the wilderness, although in many ways a pleasant wilderness. Then, after days of wandering away from the boat, going farther than I had ever gone before. I stood on a mountain spur and saw Vatican, shining in the distance. I knew then I was not alone, that there were intelligent beings here, although at the time I had no idea what they were.

—But you did not go rushing in to announce yourself.

—Whisperer, how could you know that?

—Because I know you, Decker. I know you for the kind of man you are, reserved, stand-offish, pathologically disinclined to show any kind of weakness. Always on your own. A loner.

—You know me far too well, said Decker. You are a sneaky bastard.

—So are you, said Whisperer. But with dignity. Always with dignity. Why is dignity so important to you, Decker?

—Damned if I know, said Decker. I suppose it always has been.

The Old One of the Woods was still on the slope above them, hunkered in a patch of woods at the edge of a boulder field, staring down upon them. Decker sensed him now, sensed him very strongly. There were long stretches of time when he had no sense of the lurker, but now and then he did. He had become aware of this one well before Whisperer had announced they were being followed.

—The Old One's still up there, he said.

—Pay no attention, Whisperer told him. It only wants to watch us. It thinks we do not know it is here. It is getting satisfaction out of watching us and us not knowing that it is.

Standing on the slope, Decker went back in time to that day when he first had sighted End of Nothing and Vatican, realizing when he saw them that he was not marooned on a desert planet. He had come back to the boat and had put together a load of necessities—tools and cooking utensils and other simple things—then had headed out for End of Nothing, pausing only for a quick look back at the boat where it lay in the grassy valley.

Arriving at End of Nothing, he had selected a site at the edge of the settlement and, without leave or hindrance, had built the cabin. He had cut down trees of a proper size, sawed them to a proper length, notched them and rolled them into place. He had quarried stone to construct the hearth and fireplace, had gone down into the small business section of the town to buy windows. He had chinked the logs with moss and clay. He had cut a supply of firewood and stacked it. He had spaded and worked up a garden patch, then gone once again into town to buy seeds to put into the soil. He had lived mostly off the land, hunting for the pot, seeking out wild plants as greens and vegetables, fishing a nearby stream until his garden had started to produce food.

There had been visitors, at first a lot of visitors, all of them with questions trembling on their lips. Among them had been a little brown-robed monk from Vatican, as pleasant a robot as he had ever met, although to Decker it had seemed that he might have been more than a simple monk. His visitors had provided him with a deal of useful information about End of Nothing and an even greater supply of advice. The information he had gratefully stored away, the advice he had generally ignored. And then, having given him the information and advice, his visitors (all of them) had begun their gentle prying into his history and affairs. He did not forthrightly refuse them what they sought; he simply evaded the questioning as gently as he could and they had gone away perplexed. A few of them had come back to visit him again but, getting no more on the second trip—or the third or fourth—than they had gotten on the first, they had not come again, and finally everyone left him very much alone.