The Warlock Unlocked

CHAPTER FOUR

Someone’s out to get me,” Father Al muttered, as he flew through an underground tube in a pneumatic car, along with a dozen of his fellow passengers from Terra. They had just filed out of the liner from Luna and up to the datawall. Father Al had found his entry, and seen that the ship to Beta Cassiopeia was leaving at 17:23 GST, from Gate 11 of the North Forty terminal. Then he’d looked up at the digital clock and seen, to his horror, that it was 17:11, and he was in the South 220 terminal. That meant he was 180 degrees away from his next ship in both horizontal and vertical planes—which meant that he was exactly on the opposite side of the two-and-a-half-mile-wide planetoid that was Proxima Station!

So down, and into the tube. The only saving grace was that he didn’t have to pass through Customs, as long as he stayed within the Station. That, and the speed of the pneumatic car—it could cross the two-and-a-half kilometers in three minutes. It could’ve done the trip in less than a minute, if the computer didn’t limit it to 1.5 G acceleration and deceleration at the beginning and end of the trip. Under the circumstances, Father Al would’ve settled for the quicker time, and taken his chances on ending his existence as a thin paste on the front of the car. It had taken him five minutes to find the tube, and a four-minute wait before the car came.

Deceleration pushed him toward the front of the car, then eased off and disappeared. The doors hissed open, and he was on his feet, turning and twisting between other passengers, threading his way toward the platform. “Excuse me… Excuse me… I beg your pardon, madame…Oh, dear! I’m sorry about your foot, sir…”

Then he was through, and standing, hands clasped on his suitcase handle, glaring at the lift’s readout. The minutes crawled agonizingly by while a discreet, impersonal voice from the ceiling informed him that Chairlady Spaceways’ Flight 110 to Beta Casseiopeia was about to depart from Gate 11; last call for Chairlady Spaceways’ Flight 110…

The lift doors hissed open. Father Al held himself back by a straining effort of will as the passengers filed out; then he bolted in. That was a mistake; five people crowded in behind him. The doors hissed shut, and he began elbowing his way back to them. “Excuse me…I’m sorry, but this really is imperative… I’m sorry, sir, but my liner’s leaving, and the next one’s apt to be quite a while coming…”

Then the doors hissed open, and he charged out, with one eye watching to avoid a collision, and the other watching for signs. There it was—Gates 10 through 15, and an arrow pointing to the left! He swerved like a comet reeling around the Sun, leaving a trail of bruised feet, jogged elbows, and shattered tempers behind him.

Gate 11! He skidded to a halt, leaped toward the door—and realized it was chained shut. With a sinking heart, he looked up at the port-wall—and saw a glowing spot already small and diminishing, the St. Elmo’s-Fire phosphorescence that surrounded a ship under planetary drive, growing smaller and dimmer as his ship moved away.

For a moment, he sagged with defeat; then his chin came up, and his shoulders squared. Why was he letting it bother him? After all, it wouldn’t be that long before the next flight to Casseiopeia.

But the datawall said otherwise; the next flight to Beta Cass. wasn’t leaving for a week! He stared at it in disbelief, Yorick’s warning to hurry echoing in his ears. Rod Gallowglass was going to disappear, and Father Al had to make sure he disappeared with him!

Then a nasty suspicion formed at the back of his mind. Admittedly, it was too soon to say—three times is enemy action, and he’d only been delayed twice; but Rod Gallowglass was about to discover some sort of extraordinary power within himself, and probably had some major flaw in his personality, as almost everyone had—well-hidden and well-rationalized, to be sure, but there nonetheless. That flaw could be a handle to grasp his soul by, and twist him toward evil actions—again, well-hidden and well-rationalized, not recognized as evil; but evil nonetheless. He could be a very powerful tool in the hands of Evil—or a great force for Good, if someone were there to point out the moral pitfalls and help him steer clear of them.

Definitely, it helped Evil’s chances if Father Al missed contact with Rod Gallowglass.

And it was so easy to do—just make sure he missed his ship, and arrived on Gramarye too late! All Hell had to do was to help human perversity run a little more than its natural course. Perhaps the captain of the liner had been in a bad mood, and hadn’t been about to wait a second longer than was necessary, even though one of the booked passengers hadn’t arrived yet… Perhaps the spaceport controller had had an argument earlier that day, and had taken it out on the rest of the world by assigning the ship from Terra to the South 220 terminal, instead of the North 40; so Finagle had triumphed, and the perversity of the universe had tended toward maximum.

Father Al turned on his heel and strode away toward the center of the terminal.

Father Al arrived in the main concourse and strolled down the row of shops, searching. The Church did all it could to make the Sacraments available to its members, no matter how far from Terra they might be—and especially in places where they might need its comfort and reinforcement most. There was one Order that paid particular attention to this problem; surely they wouldn’t have ignored a major way-station on the space lanes…

There it was—a curtained window with the legend, “Chapel of St. Francis Assisi” emblazoned on it. Father Al stepped through the double door, gazed around at the rows of hard plastic pews, the burgundy carpet, and the plain, simple altar-table on the low dais, with the crucifix above it on a panelled wall, and felt a huge unseen weight lift from his shoulders. He was home.

The Franciscans were very hospitable, as they always were. But there was a bit of a problem when he explained what he wanted.

“Say Mass? Now? With respect, Father, it’s six o’clock in the evening.”

“But surely you have evening Masses.”

“Only on Saturday evenings, and the vigils of holy days.”

“I’m afraid it really is necessary, Father.” Father Al handed the Franciscan his letter from the Pope. “Perhaps this will make the situation more clear.”

He hated to pull rank—but it was satisfying to watch the Franciscan’s eyes widen when he looked at the signature. He folded the letter and handed it back to Father Al, clearing his throat. “Yes. Well… certainly, Father. Whatever you’d like.”

“All I need is the altar, for half an hour.” Father Al smiled. “I don’t think there’ll be any need for a sermon.”

But he was wrong. As he began to say Mass, passersby glanced in, stopped, looking startled, then came quietly in, found a pew, and knelt down. When Father Al looked up to begin the Creed, he stared in amazement at a couple dozen people in front of him, most of them well-dressed travellers, but with a good sprinkling of spaceport mechanics and dirtside crew—and a few gentlemen with three-day beards, whose coveralls were patched, greasy, and baggy at the knees. It was curious how any major spaceport always seemed to develop its own skid row, even if it was millions of AU’s from any habitable planet. It was even more surprising how many Catholics cropped up out of the plastic-work at the drop of an altar bell.

Under the circumstances, he felt obliged to say something—and there was one sermon he always had ready. “My brothers and sisters, though we are in a Chapel of St. Francis, allow me to call to your minds the priest in whose honor my own Order was founded—St. Vidicon of Cathode, martyr for the faith. In the seminary, he had a problem—he kept thinking in terms of what did work, instead of what should work. He was a Jesuit, of course.

“He also had a rather strange sense of humor. When he was teaching, his students began to wonder whether he believed more firmly in Finagle than in Christ. Too many young men were taking his jokes seriously, and going into Holy Orders as a result. His bishop was delighted with all the vocations, but was a bit leery of the reasons—so the Vatican got wind of it. The Curia had its doubts about his sense of humor, too, so they transferred him to Rome, where they could keep an eye on him. As an excuse for this surveillance, they made him Chief Engineer of Television Vatican.

“The term is confusing today, of course; ‘television’ was like 3DT, but with a flat picture; 3DT was originally an abbreviation for ‘three-dimensional television.’ Yes, this was quite a few centuries ago—the Year of Our Lord 2020.

“Well. Father Vidicon was sad to leave-off teaching, but he was overjoyed at actually being able to work with television equipment again… and he didn’t let his nearness to the Pope dampen his enthusiasm; he still insisted on referring to the Creator as ‘the Cosmic Cathode…’ ”

“Praise God, from Whom electrons flow! Praise Him, the Source of all we know! Whose order’s in the stellar host! For in machines, He is the Ghost!”

“Father Vidicon,” Monsignor reproved, “that air has a blasphemous ring.”

“Merely irreverent, Monsignor.” Father Vidicon peered at the oscilloscope and adjusted the pedestal on Camera Two. “But then, you’re a Dominican.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Simply that what you hear may not be what I said.” Father Vidicon leaned over to the switcher and punched up color bars.

“He has a point.” Brother Anson looked up from the TBC circuit board he was diagnosing. “I thought it quite reverent.”

“You would; it was sung.” Monsignor knew that Brother Anson was a Franciscan. “How much longer must I delay my rehearsal, Father Vidicon? I’ve an Archbishop and two Cardinals waiting!”

“You can begin when the camera tube decides to work, Monsignor.” Father Vidicon punched up Camera Two again, satisfied that the oscilloscope was reading correctly. “If you insist on bringing in Cardinals, you must be prepared for a breakdown.”

“I really don’t see why a red cassock would cause so much trouble,” Monsignor grumbled.

“You wouldn’t; you’re a director. But these old plumbicon tubes just don’t like red.” Father Vidicon adjusted the chrominance. “Of course, if you could talk His Holiness into affording a few digital-plate cameras…”

“Father Vidicon, you know what they cost! And we’ve been the Church of the Poor for a century!”

“Four centuries, more likely, Monsignor—ever since Calvin lured the bourgeoisie away from us.”

“We’ve as many Catholics as we had in 1390,” Brother Anson maintained stoutly.

“Yes, that was right after the Black Death, wasn’t it? And the population of the world’s grown a bit since then. I hate to be a naysayer, Brother Anson, but we’ve only a tenth as many of the faithful as we had in 1960. And from the attraction Reverend Sun is showing, we’ll be lucky if we have a tenth of that by the end of the year.”

“We’ve a crisis in cameras at the moment,” the Monsignor reminded. “Could you refrain from discussing the Crisis of Faith until the cameras are fixed?”

“Oh, they’re working—now.” Father Vidicon threw the capping switch and shoved himself away from the camera control unit. “They’ll work excellently for you now, Monsignor, until you start recording.

Monsignor reddened. “And why should they break down then?”

“Because that’s when you’ll need them most.” Father Vidicon grinned. “Television equipment is subject to Murphy’s Law, Monsignor.”

“I wish you were a bit less concerned with Murphy’s Law, and a bit more with Christ’s!”

Father Vidicon shrugged. “If it suits the Lord’s purpose to give authority over entropy into the hands of the Imp of the Perverse, who am I to question Him?”

“For the sake of Heaven, Father, what has the Imp of the Perverse to do with Murphy’s Law?” Monsignor cried.

Father Vidicon shrugged. “Entropy is loss of energy within a system, which is self-defeating; that’s perversity. And Murphy’s Law is perverse. Therefore, both of them, and the Imp, are corollary to Finagle’s General Statement: ‘The perversity of the universe tends toward maximum.’ ”

“Father Vidicon,” Monsignor said severely, “you’ll burn as a heretic someday.”

“Oh, not in this day and age. If the Church condemns me, I can simply join Reverend Sun’s church, like so many of our erstwhile flock.” Seeing the Monsignor turn purple, he turned to the door, adding quickly, “Nonetheless, Monsignor, if I were you, I’d not forget the Litany of the Cameras before I called ‘roll and record.’ ”

“That piece of blasphemy?” the Monsignor exploded. “Father Vidicon, you know the Church has never officially declared St. Clare to be the patron of television!”

“Still, she did see St. Francis die, though she was twenty miles away at the time—the first Catholic instance of ‘television,’ ‘seeing-at-a-distance.’ ” Father Vidicon wagged a forefinger. “And St. Genesius is officially the patron of showmen.”

“Of actors, I’ll remind you—and we’ve none of those here!”

“Yes, I know—I’ve seen your programs. But do remember St. Jude, Monsignor.”

“The patron of the desperate? Why?”

“No, the patron of lost causes—and with these antique cameras, you’ll need him.”

The door opened, and a monk stepped in. “Father Vidicon, you’re summoned to His Holiness.”

Father Vidicon blanched.

“You’d best remember St. Jude yourself, Father,” the Monsignor gloated. Then his face softened into a gentle frown. “And, Lord help us—so had we all.”

Father Vidicon knelt and kissed the Pope’s ring, with a surge of relief—if the ring was offered, things couldn’t be all that bad.

“On your feet, Father,” Pope Clement said grimly.

Father Vidicon scrambled to his feet. “Come now, Your Holiness! You know it’s all just in fun! A bit irreverent, perhaps, but nonetheless only levity! I don’t really believe in Maxwell’s Demon—not quite. And I know Finagle’s General Statement is really fallacious—the perversity’s in us, not in the universe. And St. Clare…”

“Peace, Father Vidicon,” His Holiness said wearily. “I’m sure your jokes aren’t a threat to the Church—and I’m not particularly worried by irreverence. If Christ could take a joke, so can we.”

Father Vidicon frowned. “Christ took a joke?”

“He accepted human existence, didn’t He? But I’ve called you here for something a bit more serious than your contention that Christ acted as a civil engineer when He said that Peter was a rock, and upon that rock He’d build His Church.”

“Oh.” Father Vidicon tried to look appropriately grave. “If it’s that feedback squeal in the public address system in St. Peter’s, I’ll do what I can, but…”

“No, I’m afraid it’s a bit more critical.” The hint of a smile tugged at the Pope’s lips. “You’re aware that the faithful have been leaving us in increasing droves these past twenty years, of course.”

Father Vidicon shrugged. “What can you expect, Your Holiness? With television turning everyone toward a Gestalt mode of thought, they’ve become more and more inclined toward mysticism, needing doctrines embracing the Cosmos and making them feel vitally integrated with it; but the Church still offers only petrified dogma, and logical reasoning. Of course they’ll turn to the ecstatics, to a video demagogue like Reverend Sun, with his hodge-podge to T’ai-Ping Christianity and Zen Buddhism…”

“Yes, yes, I know the theories.” His Holiness waved Father Vidicon’s words away, covering his eyes with the other palm. “Spare me your McLuhanist cant, Father. But you’ll be glad to know the Council has just finished deciding which parts of Chardin’s theories are compatible with Catholic doctrine.”

“Which means Your Holiness has finally talked them into it!” Father Vidicon gusted out a huge sigh of relief. “At last!”

“Yes, I can’t help thinking how nice it must have been to be Pope in, say, 1890,” His Holiness agreed, “when the Holy See had a bit more authority and a bit less need of persuasion.” He heaved a sigh of his own, and clasped his hands on the desktop. “And it’s come just in time. Reverend Sun is speaking to the General Assembly Monday morning—and you’ll never guess what his topic will be.”

“How the Church is a millstone around the neck of every nation in the world.” Father Vidicon nodded grimly. “Priests who don’t pass on their genes, Catholics not attempting birth control and thereby contributing to overpopulation, Church lands withheld from taxation—it’s become a rather familiar bit of rhetoric.”

“Indeed it has; most of his followers can recite it chapter and verse. But this time, my sources assure me he intends to go quite a bit farther—to ask the Assembly for a recommendation for all U.N. member nations to adopt legislation making all these ‘abuses’ illegal.”

Father Vidicon’s breath hissed in. “And—with so large a percentage of the electorate in every country being Sunnite…”

“It amounts to virtual outlawing of the Roman Catholic Church. Yes.” His Holiness nodded. “And I need hardly remind you, Father, that the current majority in the Italian government are Sunnite Communists.”

Father Vidicon shuddered. “They’ll begin by annexing the Vatican!” He had a sudden nightmarish vision of a Sunnite prayer meeting in the Sistine Chapel.

“We’ll all be looking for new lodgings,” the Pope said drily. “So you’ll understand, Father, that it’s rather important that I tell the faithful of the whole world before then, about the Council’s recent action.”

“Your Holiness will speak on television!” Father Vidicon cried. “But that’s wonderful! You’ll be…”

“My blushes, Father Vidicon. I’m well aware that you consider me to have an inborn affinity for the video medium.”

“The charisma of John Paul II, with the appeal of John the XXIII!” Father Vidicon asserted. “But what a waste, that you’ll not appear in the studio!”

“I’m not fond of viewing myself as the chief drawing-card for a sideshow,” His Holiness said sardonically. “Still, I’m afraid it’s become necessary. The Curia has spoken with Eurovision, Afrovision, PanAsiavision, PanAmerivision, and even Intervision. They’re all, even the Communists, willing to carry us for fifteen minutes…”

“Cardinal Beluga is a genius of diplomacy,” Father Vidicon murmured.

“Yes, and all the nations are worried about the growth of Sun’s church within their borders, with all that it implies of large portions of their citizenry taking orders from Singapore. Under the circumstances, we’ve definitely become the lesser of two evils, in their eyes.”

“I suppose that’s a compliment,” Father Vidicon said doubtfully.

“Let’s think of it that way, shall we? The bottleneck, of course, was the American commercial networks; they’re only willing to carry me early Sunday morning.”

“Yes; they only worry about religion when it begins to affect sales,” Father Vidicon said thoughtfully. “So I take it Your Holiness will appear about two p.m.?”

“Which is early morning in Chicago, yes. Other countries have agreed to record the speech, and replay it at a more suitable hour. It’ll go by satellite, of course…”

“As long as we pay for it.”

“Naturally. And if there’s any failure of transmission at our end, the networks are not liable to give us postponed time.”

“Your Holiness!” Father Vidicon threw his arms wide. “You wound me! Of course I’ll see to it there’s no transmission error!”

“No offense intended, Father Vidicon—but I’m rather aware that the transmitter I’ve given you isn’t exactly the most recent model.”

“What can you expect, from donations? Besides, Your Holiness, British Marconi made excellent transmitters in 1990! No, Italy and Southern France will receive us perfectly. But it would help if you could invest in a few spare parts for the converter that feeds the satellite ground station…”

“Whatever that may be. Buy whatever you need, Father Vidicon. Just be certain our signal is transmitted. You may go now.”

“Don’t worry, Your Holiness! Your voice shall be heard, and your face be seen, even though the Powers of Darkness rise up against me!”

“Including Maxwell’s Demon?” His Holiness said dourly. “And the Imp of the Perverse?”

“Don’t worry, Your Holiness.” Father Vidicon made a circle of his thumb and middle finger. “I’ve dealt with them before.”

“ ‘The good souls flocked like homing doves,’ ” Father Vidicon sang, “or they will after they’ve heard our Pope’s little talk.” He closed the access panel of the transmitter. “There! Every part certified in the green! I’ve even dusted every circuit board… How’s that backup transmitter, Brother Anson?”

“I’ve replaced two I.C. chips so far,” Brother Anson answered from the bowels of the ancient device. “Not that they were bad, you understand—but I had my doubts.”

“I’ll never question a Franciscan’s hunches.” Father Vidicon laced his fingers across his midriff and sat back. “Did you check the converter to the ground station?”

“ ‘Converter?’ ” Brother Anson’s head and shoulders emerged, covered with dust. “You mean that huge resistor in the gray box?”

Father Vidicon nodded. “The very one.”

“A bit primitive, isn’t it?”

Father Vidicon shrugged. “There isn’t time to get a proper one, now—and it’s all they’ve given me money for, ever since I was ‘promoted’ to Chief Engineer. Besides, all we really need to do is to drop our 50,000-watt transmitter signal down to something the ground station can handle.”

Brother Anson shrugged. “If you say so, Father. I should think that would kick up a little interference, though.”

“Well, we can’t be perfect—not on the kind of budget we’re given, anyhow. Just keep reminding yourself, Brother, that most of our flock still live in poverty; they need a bowl of millet more than a clear picture.”

“I can’t argue with that. Anyway, I did check the resistor. Just how many ohms does it provide, anyway?”

“About as many as you do, Brother. How’d it test out?”

“Fine, Father. It’s sound.”

“Or will be, till we go on the air.” Father Vidicon nodded. “Well, I’ve got two spares handy. Let the worst that can happen, happen! I’m more perverse than Murphy!”

The door slammed open, and the Monsignor was leaning against the jamb. “Father… Vidicon!” he panted. “It’s … catastrophe!”

“Murphy,” Brother Anson muttered; but Father Vidicon was on his feet. “What is it, Monsignor? What’s happened?”

“Reverend Sun! He discovered the Pope’s plans, and has talked the U.N. into scheduling his speech for Friday morning!”

Father Vidicon stood, galvanized for a second. Then he snapped, “The networks! Can they air His Holiness early?”

“Cardinal Beluga’s on three phones now, trying to patch it together! If he brings it off, can you be ready?”

“Oh, we can be ready!” Father Vidicon glanced at the clock. “Thursday, 4 pm. We need an hour. Any time after that, Monsignor.”

“Bless you!” the Monsignor turned away. “I’ll tell His Holiness.”

“Come on, Brother Anson.” Father Vidicon advanced on the backup transmitter, catching up his toolkit. “Let’s get this beast back on line!”

“Five minutes till air!” the Monsignor’s voice rasped over the intercom. “Make it good, reverend gentlemen! Morning shows all over the world are giving us fifteen minutes—but not a second longer! And Reverend Sun’s coming right behind us, live from the U.N.!”

Father Vidicon and Brother Anson were on their knees, hands clasped. Father Vidicon intoned, “Saint Clare, patron of television…”

“…pray for us,” finished Brother Anson.

“Saint Genesius, patron of showmen…”

“One minute!” snapped the Monsignor. “Roll and record!”

“…pray for us,” murmured Brother Anson.

“Rolling and recording,” responded the recording engineer.

“Saint Jude, patron of lost causes…”

“…pray for us,” Brother Anson finished fervently.

“Slate it!” Then, “Bars and tone!”

They could hear the thousand-cycle test tone in the background, whining. Then it began beeping at one-second intervals.

“Ready mike and cue, ready up on one!”

“Five!” called the assistant director. “Four! Three!”

“Black! Clip tone!” the Monsignor cried. “Mike him! Cue him! Up on One!”

Television screens all over the world lit up with the grave but faintly-smiling image of the Pope. “Dearly beloved in Christ…”

The picture flickered.

Father Vidicon darted a glance at the converter. Its tally light was dead. Beside it, the light glowed atop the back-up converter.

“Quick! The big one died!” Father Vidicon yanked open the top of the long gray box and wrenched out the burned-out resistor.

“There are a few points of theology on which we can’t agree with Reverend Sun,” His Holiness was saying. “Foremost among these is his concept of the Trinity. We just can’t agree that Reverend Sun is himself the third Person, the ‘younger son’ of God…”

Brother Anson slapped the spare resistor into Father Vidicon’s palm.

“…nor is the sharing of a marijuana cigarette a valid form of worship, in the Church’s eyes,” the Pope went on. “But the Council does agree that…”

The screen went dark.

Father Vidicon shoved the spare into its clips and threw the routing switch.

The screen glowed again. “…have always been implicit in Catholic doctrine,” His Holiness was saying, “but the time has come to state their implications. First among these is the notion of ‘levels of reality.’ Everything that exists is real; but God is the Source of reality, as He is the Source of everything. And the metaphor of ‘the breath of God’ for the human soul means that…”

“Yes, it’s gone.” Father Vidicon yanked the burned-out resistor out of the back-up. “The manufacturers must think they can foist off all their defectives on the Church.” Brother Anson took the lump of char and gave him a new resistor. “That’s our last spare, Father Vidicon.”

Father Vidicon shoved it into its clips. “What’re the odds against three of these blowing in a space of ten minutes?”

“Gunderson’s Corollary,” Brother Anson agreed.

Father Vidicon slapped, down the cover. “We’re up against perversity, Brother Anson.”

The tally blinked out on the main converter as the little red light on the back-up glowed into life.

“We’re out of spares,” Brother Anson groaned.

“Maybe it’s just a connection!” Father Vidicon yanked open the cover. “Only four minutes left!”

“Is it the resistor, Father?”

“You mean this piece of slag?”

“…the oneness, the unity of the cosmos, has always been recognized by Holy Mother Church,” the Pope was saying. “Christ’s parable about the ‘lilies of the field’ serves as an outstanding example. All that exists is within God. In fact, the architecture of the medieval churches…”

A picture of the Cathedral of Notre Dame appeared on the screen. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the decorative carving…

… and the screen went blank.

“It died, Father Vidicon,” Brother Anson moaned.

“Well, you fight fire with fire.” Father Vidicon yanked out the dead resistor. “And this is perversity…” He seized the lead from the transmitter in his left hand, and the lead to the ground station in his right.

Around the world, screens glowed back into life.

“…and as there is unity in all of Creation,” the Pope went on, “so there is unity in all the major religions. The same cosmic truths can be found in all; and the points on which we agree are more important than the ones on which we disagree—saving, of course, the Godhood of Christ, and of the Holy Spirit. But as long as a Catholic remembers that he is a Catholic, there can certainly be no fault in his learning from other faiths, if he uses this as a path toward greater understanding of his own.” He clasped his hands and smiled gently. “May God bless you all.”

And his picture faded from the screen.

“We’re off!” shouted Monsignor. “That was masterful!”

In the transmitter room, Brother Anson chanted the Dies Irae, tears in his eyes.

The Pope moved out of the television studio, carefully composed over the exhaustion that always resulted from a television appearance. The Monsignor dashed out of the control room to drop to his knees and wring the Pope’s hand. “Congratulations, Your Holiness! It was magnificent!”

“Thank you, Monsignor,” the Pope murmured, “but let’s judge it by the results, shall we?”

“Your Holiness!” Another Monsignor came running up. “Madrid just called! The people are piling into the confessionals—even the men!”

“Your Holiness!” cried a cardinal. “It’s Prague! The faithful are flocking to the cathedral! The commissars are livid!”

“Your Holiness—New York City! The people are streaming into the churches!”

“Your Holiness—Reverend Sun just cancelled his U.N. speech!”

“Your Holiness! People are kneeling in front of churches all over Italy, calling for the priests!”

“It’s the Italian government, Your Holiness! They send their highest regards, and assurances of continued friendship!”

“Your Holiness,” Brother Anson choked out, “Father Vidicon is dead.”

They canonized him eventually, of course—there was no question that he’d died for the Faith. But the miracles started right away.

In Paris, a computer programmer with a very tricky program knew it was almost guaranteed to glitch. But he prayed to Father Vidicon to put in a good word for him with the Lord, and the program ran without a hitch.

Art Rolineux, directing coverage of the SuperBowl, had eleven of his twelve cameras die on him, and the twelfth started blooming. He sent up a quick prayer to Father Vidicon, and five cameras came back on line.

Ground Control was tracking a newly-launched satellite when it suddenly disappeared from their screens. “Father Vidicon, protect us from Murphy!” a controller cried out, and the blip reappeared on the screens.

Miracles? Hard to prove—it always could’ve been coincidence. It always can, with electronic equipment. But as the years flowed by, engineers and computer programmers and technicians all over the world began counting the prayers, and the numbers of projects and programs saved—and word got around, as it always does. So, the day after the Pope declared him to be a saint, the signs went up on the back walls of every computer room and control booth in the world:

“St. Vidicon of Cathode, pray for us!”

“Thus Saint Vidicon died, in an act of self-sacrifice that turned perversity back upon itself.” Father Al turned his head slowly, looking directly into the eyes of each person in his little congregation, one by one. “So, my brothers and sisters, when you are tempted to commit an act of perversity, pray to St. Vidicon to intercede with Almighty God, and grant you the grace to turn that perversity back upon itself, as St. Vidicon did. If you are a masochist, and are tempted to find someone to whip you, be even more perverse—deny yourself the pleasure you long for! If you are tempted to steal, find a way of defrauding the bank’s computer into giving you money from your own account! If you’re tempted to try to ruin an enemy, pay him a compliment instead—he’ll go crazy wondering what you’re plotting against him!”

One of the businessmen shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Father Al took a deep breath. “Thus may we take the energy of the urge toward perversity, and turn it to the strengthening of our souls, by using its energy to perform good works.”

The congregation looked a bit confused, and he didn’t blame them—it wasn’t exactly the most coherent sermon he had ever delivered. But what could you expect, on an ad-lib basis? He did notice a look of surprise on a few of the derelicts’ faces, though, followed by thoughtful brooding. At least not all the seed had fallen on rocky ground.

He hurried on to the Creed, then pronounced the intention of the Mass. “Dear Lord, if it pleases You, allow the soul of Your servant, the sainted Vidicon of Cathode, to lend his strength in defense of this member of the Order founded in his name, by battling the forces of perversity that ring Your Holy Church, turning them against themselves, to the confounding of those who seek its downfall, and who war against holiness and freedom of the soul. Amen.”

From there on, it was pretty straightforward, and he could relax and let himself forget the troubles of the moment while he became more and more deeply involved in the Sacrament. As always, the spell of the Mass wove its reassuring warmth around him; soon all that existed were the Host and the wine, and the silent, intent faces of the congregation. A surprising number of them turned out to be in shape for Communion; but, fortunately; one of the Franciscans was standing by in the sacristy, and came out to unlock the tabernacle and bring out a ciborium, so no one went away empty.

Then they were trooping out, singing the recessional, and Father Al was left alone, with the usual sweet sadness that came from knowing the Mass was indeed ended, and that he must wait a whole twenty-four hours before he could say it again.

Well, not quite alone. The Franciscan came over to him, with a whispering of his rough robe. “A moving Mass, Father—but a strange sermon, and a strange intention.”

Father Al smiled wanly. “And stranger circumstances that brought them forth, Father, I assure you.”

He had almost reached the departure port again when the public address system came to life, with the howling of a siren behind the voice. “All passengers please clear the area. Conditions of extreme danger obtain; a ship is returning to port with damage in its control system. All passengers please clear the area immediately.”

It went on to repeat the message, but Father Al was already on his way back toward the main terminal. He only went as far as the rope, though—the red emergency cord that attendants were calmly stringing across the corridor, as though it were a daily event. But one look at their eyes assured Father Al that this was rare, and dreaded. “My Lord!” he prayed silently. “I only sought aid for myself, not danger to others!” And he found the nearest viewscreen.

Emergency craft were moving into position, amber running-lights flashing. Snub-nosed cannon poked out of their noses, ready to spray sealant on any ruptures in the hull of ship or station. A hospital cruiser drifted nearby.

And, in the distance, a dot of light swelled into a disc—the returning ship.

The disc swelled into a huge globe, filling a quarter of the velvet darkness, pocked with the parabolic discs of detectors and communicators. Then the swelling stopped; the huge ship drifted closer, slowing as it came. The emergency craft maintained a respectful distance, wary and alert, as the liner loomed over them, till it filled the whole sky. Then the front of the hull passed beyond the range of the viewscreen. Father Al listened very carefully, but heard nothing; he only felt the tiniest movement of the station about him as the behemoth docked in the concave gate awaiting it. He breathed a sigh of relief; no matter what trouble they’d detected, the control system had functioned perfectly for docking.

He turned away, to see the attendants removing the velvet rope, with only the slightest tremor in their hands. “Excuse me,” he said to the nearest. “What ship was that, docking there?”

The steward looked up. “Why, it was the liner for Beta Casseiopeia, Father. Just a minor problem in the control system—they could’ve gone on with it, really. But our line doesn’t believe in taking chances, no matter how small.”

“A wise policy,” Father Al agreed. “ ‘The Universe’ll get you, if you don’t watch out.’ ”

The attendant smiled thinly. “I’m glad you understand.”

“Oh, perfectly. In fact, it’s something of a fortunate coincidence for me; I was supposed to be on that liner, but my ship from Terra arrived a bit late.”

The attendant nodded. “ ‘Fortunate’ is right. The next ship for Beta Cass. doesn’t leave for another week.”

“Yes, I know. You will let them know they’ve another passenger waiting, won’t you?”

Six hours later, the engineers had found and replaced a defective circuit-grain, and Father Al slid into his couch, stretching the webbing across his body with a sigh of relief, and prayers of thanks to St. Vidicon and God.

No reason to, really; it was probably all just a coincidence. No doubt St. Vidicon had sat by smiling in amusement all the time, and the ship would’ve returned to port even without Father Al’s Mass. But a little extra praying never hurts, and it had kept him occupied.

Besides, in the realm of the supernatural, one never knew. Rod Gallowglass might really be important enough to merit the personal attention of the Imp of the Perverse. Father Al just hoped he’d reach Gramarye in time.