The Tower (26 page)

He took it out, amazed, and admired it against the fire which was blazing now. His father was no less surprised.

‘My God, that’s beautiful. What is it?’

‘A Pegasus on top of a tower.’

Desmond examined the magnificent jewel: crafted in the late Hellenistic age, he thought, or perhaps even Roman. The winged horse was rearing up on its hind legs and its eyes glowed with sapphires, while the little tower below was realistic-looking, with fluted columns and stone blocks.

‘What does this represent?’ he asked his son.

Philip set the jewel on a stone in front of the fire and sat watching it in silence, as if fascinated by the play of reflections on the sparkling surface, by the perfect anatomy of the miniature steed.

‘What is it?’ his father asked again.

‘It’s the seventh tomb, father. The last.’

T
HE LITTLE LIGHT BULB
pulsed rhythmically at the top of the glass pyramid in Father Boni’s secret study. The old priest had Father Antonelli’s breviary open in front of him, while on the wall behind him was a huge celestial map of the northern hemisphere. Every centimetre of his large working table was covered by sheets of paper containing scribbled mathematical equations. The strain of the enormous job he’d taken on was plain in his face; it was ashen and furrowed by deep wrinkles. He lifted his head from the page he was reading when he heard a light knock at the door.

‘Is that you, Hogan? Come in and sit down.’

‘You’re not well, Father Boni,’ said Father Hogan. ‘You must rest. Stay away from that damned text for a couple of weeks or you’ll end up like Antonelli.’

‘You are strange, Hogan,’ said the scientist with a tired smile. ‘We are about to bear witness to an unrepeatable event, unique in the history of the universe, and you tell me I should take a couple of weeks’ holiday.’

‘I’m not strange. I’m a priest and a believer. I am therefore convinced that my soul will survive my biological death and that I will see the face of God and contemplate His mind, with all the secrets and mysteries it contains. I am convinced that the time that separates me from this event, be it dozens of years or a single day, is nothing compared to eternity, and very little compared to the history of our planet or the history of humanity.’

‘Absolutely. So why the hurry, right? Next you’ll be saying that Bellarmino had a point in gagging Galileo.’

‘I said I’m a believer, not that I’m stupid,’ retorted Father Hogan. ‘And you know me well. I’m as anxious as you are to find out how this adventure will end, but I feel that it was a very serious mistake to keep the whole thing secret. We need help. Other experts could be involved. The Church has an enormous wealth of experience and knowledge at its disposal. Our own wretched forces are simply not enough. If you want to know the truth, I still can’t get the thought of Father Antonelli out of my mind: his bewildered expression, the anguish in his eyes, the tremor in his hands.’

‘It’s not true that we didn’t ask for help. Do you call Guglielmo Marconi no one?’

‘A single man is not enough. Think about it. What we’ve chanced upon is the story of a civilization that violated every law of nature in their supreme arrogance, in their belief that they were capable of achieving ultimate knowledge, ignoring the path that God himself had carved out for mankind.’

‘Yes. The folly of taking on God himself. It is this titanic challenge that fascinates me. You know “The Canto of Ulysses” in Dante’s
Divine Comedy
, don’t you?’

‘Of course. One of the most sublime expressions of universal literature. Ulysses dares to go beyond the Pillars of Hercules to look upon the holy mountain of purgatory, which is forbidden to mortals, relying stubbornly on his own strength and defying the decreed limits of what mankind can do. This is precisely what I fear: that you have fallen under the spell of this temptation, of this civilization that imagined it could subjugate nature and challenge God. Ulysses, remember, ended up entombed in the abyss.’

Father Boni’s forehead and temples were damp with heavy perspiration, his eyelids were constantly twitching.

Hogan insisted, ‘Tell me, what is it that you expect to come out of this revelation? Tell me. I need to know.’

Father Boni wiped his brow with a swift gesture, as if he didn’t want to let any weakness show. ‘Hogan,’ he said, ‘this is the point. Think about it. Man is continuously challenging God: when he kills, when he rapes, when he curses. But God does not respond to these provocations. He merely marks everything down in the eternal book of His everlasting memory until the day when each man is judged for the good and the evil he has done. God gave man his freedom; that explains it all. In other terms, man is free to offend God, and thus damn himself for all eternity.’

‘True,’ said Father Hogan.

‘This is why God never responds to any of our challenges.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But this is different. Here we have a civilization that has challenged God in a direct, inescapable way. They’ve challenged Him head on. More than that, even. They’ve gone off to search for Him in deepest space. They’ve gone back in time to spy on what He was doing at the exact moment of creation. Don’t you get it, Hogan? Don’t you understand what’s been attempted here?’ The old scientist seemed transfigured. A visionary light sparkled in his eyes. ‘Hogan, do you remember when I read you the translation of “The Book of Amon”? You said it sounded like a myth, didn’t you? Do you remember?’

‘Of course. And I say so again.’

‘And I told you that wasn’t quite right. That it wasn’t a myth, but an epic tale – that is, the transfiguration of events that actually occurred . . .’

‘But the origins of such an ancient epic are completely beyond our reach . . .’

‘No. You’re wrong. I can tell you exactly what was meant. Do you remember the part that says that the inhabitants of Delfud manned a garrison, that they stood watch day and night for generations and generations, waiting for the Guardian Angel to doze off so they could force the gates of the Garden of Immortality and reach the Tree of Knowledge? That story symbolizes the most extraordinary endeavour that has ever been undertaken in the history of mankind. These ancestors of ours actually attempted a journey to the origins of the universe. And their purpose was even more extraordinary: to understand God’s plan at the moment of creation, or even to force His hand, to modify His plan . . . to originate a new creation on earth. And we know where, Hogan. At the point where the message is to be delivered, in the heart of a sun-scorched desert. Where the Tower of Solitude stands.’

Colour had returned to the old man’s cheeks and his eyes shone with hallucinatory excitement. Father Hogan looked at him in dismay, but did not dare to contradict him.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Hogan, none of us is free of doubt. Not even the Pope himself.’

‘So?’

‘I don’t want to wait until I die. I want to know now. You see, I believe that, if God exists, He could not refrain from responding to such a tremendous provocation. And so, Hogan, when the transmitter is in conjunction with the black body at the centre of the constellation of the Scorpion – that is, in exactly twenty-nine days, seventeen hours and thirteen minutes – we will have the answer to all the questions that man has ever asked, ever since the moment at which he became conscious of his existence. Or we’ll have God’s response to the insult of Delfud. In any case, we will hear His voice and His message – even if that means a howl of anger – in a direct way . . . No longer through books that we can’t interpret, or through signs and symbols, no longer hidden behind an elusive pattern of chance happenings. We will hear and we will forever remember the sound of His living voice . . .’

‘Father Boni, what if there is no message? No answer? You must take this possibility into account.’

Father Boni fell silent and the flickering light on top of the pyramid was reflected in his dilated pupils. He turned then towards the little bulb. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘The intervals between one sequence of symbols and the next have become, just over the last few days, much shorter. They’ve been reduced by nearly one per cent. Do you know what that means?’ He pointed at the heaps of papers covered with figures. ‘If you take a look at my calculations you’ll understand what I’ve managed to demonstrate: the transmitter is approaching along a parabola at a speed that we cannot even imagine. Faster than the speed of light! It is advancing through the cosmos, distorting space and time as it proceeds, bouncing from one peak of distortion to the next, like a stone skips along the surface of a lake. A stone tossed by an immeasurable force . . .’

Father Hogan stared at the endless sequences of calculus, then looked back into the eyes of his superior and mechanically repeated the same question: ‘And if there is no message? No answer?’

‘Then that would mean that . . .’

‘That God does not exist?’

The old man lowered his head. ‘Worse,’ he said. ‘Much worse.’

Father Hogan covered his face with his hands to hide the tears rising to his eyes. ‘Oh, my Lord,’ was all he could manage.

Father Boni regained his composure instantly with a total change of expression. He seemed to be in a completely normal frame of mind when he spoke again. ‘Let’s drop this discussion for now. I didn’t call you here to talk about philosophy, but to give you some news. I’ve managed to calculate the exact location where and the exact time when the event will take place. Marconi is still working with us and, as you know, he has come up with an extraordinary invention: an ultra-short-wave radio combined with another instrument which has revolutionary capabilities.

‘You will be waiting there at the precise place and time of signal impact, Hogan, and you will capture the message coming from the most remote regions of the universe with this radio of ours. The message will be imprinted using a system that will conserve it for years and allow us to decode it. Although there may well be no need to decipher it. In any case, Hogan, I’ve prepared everything, down to the very last detail. I’ve already been in touch with the . . . powers that be, to obtain authorization and assistance for your journey. You will be travelling to a practically inaccessible desert area at a great distance from the last outposts of civilization. Of course, our . . . collaborators will be demanding something in exchange. But there’s no other solution.’

‘What?’

‘They’ve asked to be told of the results of our experiment.’

‘And how will you . . .’

Father Boni made an eloquent gesture with his hand. ‘Not really a precise request, wouldn’t you say? I don’t see why our response needs to be any more so.’

‘Is that all?’

‘There’s something else they’re very interested in.’

‘That is . . . ?’

‘They’re searching for an individual who seems to be very important to them. It just so happens that we have a great deal of information about this person. I’ll be telling you about that shortly. And then you’ll leave. As soon as possible.’

‘What do you mean by “as soon as possible”?’

‘The day after tomorrow at the very latest.’

‘I can’t. There’s no possible way I could be ready by then.’

‘There’s nothing to prepare. It’s all ready, even your bags. The trip has been booked. Your secretary will bring you your ticket and the money you will need tonight.’

Father Hogan seemed lost in thought for a few moments. ‘All right, I’ll go,’ he said finally. ‘What time am I scheduled to leave?’

‘Ten in the evening. Now, Hogan, listen to me. The person I mentioned a short time ago is an officer who deserted the Foreign Legion. He calls himself Selznick. Some years ago, the Legion assigned him to collaborate with Desmond Garrett in research he was doing in the south-eastern quadrant of the Sahara desert. After an initial phase in which there were apparently no problems, the two of them became sworn enemies. Their animosity culminated in a sword duel in which Selznick was wounded in his right side. They say that he still suffers the consequences of that day; that the wound has never healed and has fuelled a deep, deep hatred.

‘In truth, no one knows Selznick’s true identity. Except us. This sealed envelope I’m giving you contains everything we know about him. You’ll give out this information a little at a time and only when you are certain you’ll be getting the support they’ve promised.

‘This evening, the Pope’s physician will be vaccinating you against the main tropical diseases, but I’m trusting that you won’t be exposed to anything dangerous. The desert is one of the cleanest places on earth. I’ll come to say goodbye before you leave.’

Father Hogan left and returned to his own study. He picked up the telephone and began to dial a reserved number.

‘This is Father Hogan. I’m calling from the Vatican. I would like to speak with the marquis.’

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ replied a man’s voice, ‘but the marquis is occupied at the moment.’

‘Please tell him that I’ve called and that I absolutely must see him tomorrow on a strictly confidential matter. I will wait for his answer.’

A few minutes later the same voice said, ‘The marquis will see you tomorrow at five o’clock in the evening.’

T
HE NEXT EVENING
at dusk, Father Hogan left, in a rented car and civilian dress, for an elegant quarter of the city. He stopped in front of a seventeenth-century gate guarded by a uniformed porter. He went up to the second floor and stood in front of a dark walnut door with no name plate. He rang the doorbell and waited until he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The butler who answered wore a black dress coat and white gloves. He greeted the guest: ‘The marquis is expecting you, Father. This way, please.’

Father Hogan followed him to a large study with parquet flooring and ceiling-high walnut bookcases, filled with both ancient and modern books. On a large solid-walnut desk which stood to one side, near the window, was an Art Nouveau lamp in the form of a semi-nude nymph bearing the green opal-glass lampshade. There was no trace, in the large beeswax-scented room, of any of the complex technical devices which had made the master of the house famous throughout the world. Near the desk was an antique globe, and Fra Mauro’s famous planisphere adorned the wall behind an armchair.