Project Pope

Twenty-five

Jill had gone to the library; Hubert had left an hour or so before, off on some errand of his own. Tennyson sat in front of the fireplace, fascinated by the flame. In just a little while he was due at the clinic, although more than likely there'd not be much to do there. Vatican and End of Nothing humans seemed to be an unnaturally healthy lot. Except for Mary, he had tended no serious illnesses since he had been there. Minor complaints — a few common colds, an ulcerated tooth, a couple of backaches, occasional upset stomachs, one sprained ankle, and that had been all.

And now Mary was off to Heaven for the second time. He wondered idly what possibly could have happened to make her decide to try it once again. The last word he had had was that she had been unalterably opposed to returning there. And what, he wondered, would she find there — a renewed conviction that she really had found Heaven, or would she return with doubt? It could not be Heaven, he told himself; the whole idea was ridiculous, akin to the psychotically induced visions and revelations that filled the history of Earth's medieval age.

He slumped lower on the couch, staring at the fire. In just a short time, he reminded himself sharply, he'd have to get out of here and walk down to the clinic. There might be people waiting.

He felt an uneasiness, thinking it. And why, he wondered, should he be uneasy thinking of the people who might be waiting at the clinic? He hauled himself to a normal sitting position and craned his neck to look around the room. There was no one there and that was not strange, for he had known that there was no one there. He was alone and yet, quite suddenly, he was positive that he was not alone.

He rose to his feet and whirled around, his back to the fire so that he could examine the other side of the room, seeking out the shape that was lurking there. There was no one, nothing, lurking. He was sure of that. Still the uneasiness refused to go away. There was no reassurance in the emptiness of the room. There was, he was certain, something there, someone or something in the room with him.

He forced himself to speak, croaking rather than actually speaking. 'Who is there?

As if in answer to the question, he saw it in one corner, next to the spindly gilded chair that stood beside the table with the marble top — the faint glint of drifting diamond dust.

'So it's you, he said, and as he spoke the glitter disappeared and there was nothing beside the gilded chair. Yet he still felt its presence. The glitter was gone, but the thing that glittered had not gone away.

Questions surged inside him, howling to get out. Who are you?

What are you? Why are you here? But he did not voice them. He stood quite frozen, not moving from where he stood, still staring at the corner where he had seen the glitter.

Something spoke inside of him.

— I am here, it said. I am here inside of you. I am in your mind. Do you wish that I should leave?

It was a gentle voice (if it was a voice). Gentle and gentlemanly. He could not move a muscle. Terror — and yet it wasn't terror — held him in its grip. He struggled to speak, struggled to think, and yet there was no word or thought. His mind was frozen with his body.

— Do you wish that I should leave?

Words came to Tennyson.

— No, he said not speaking aloud, but only in his mind. No, don't leave, but please explain yourself. You belong to Decker. Do you bring me word from Decker?

— I do not belong to Decker. I belong to no one. I am a free agent and I am Decker's friend. That is all I am. I can talk with him, but I cannot be a part of him.

— You can be a part of me. Why can you be a part of me and not a part of Decker?

— I am Whisperer. That is what Decker calls me. It serves as well as any name.

— You did not answer my question, Whisperer. Why can you be a part of me and not a part of Decker?

— I am Decker's friend. He is the only friend I have. I tested him long and hard to be sure he was a friend. I have tried with others and they might have been friends as well, but they did not hear me, did not recognize me. They did not know I was there.

— And now?

— I tried with Decker, but there was no getting inside of him. Talk with him, yes, but no getting in his mind. On that first day, I felt you might be the one.

— And now you'll desert Decker? Whisperer, you can't do that to him. I will not do that to him. I will not steal his friend.

— I will not desert him. But can I be with you?

— You mean you'll not insist?

— No, not insist. You say go, I go. You say stay away, I'll stay away. But, please!

This, thought Tennyson, this is all insane. It is not happening. I must be imagining it. There is no such thing.

The door burst open and Ecuyer stood within it.

'Jason, he shouted,'you must come with me. You must come immediately.

'Why, of course, said Tennyson. 'What is the trouble?

'Mary is back from Heaven, said Ecuyer, 'and she's a basket case.