Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

by Christopher Stasheff

  “ ‘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 fifty-thousand-watt transmitter signal down to something the earth 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. How many ohms does it provide?”

  “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 Finagle!”

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

  “Finagle,” 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, 4:00 P.M. We need an hour. Anytime 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 tool kit “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 showfolk . . .”

  “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,” murmured Brother Anson.

  “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 backup “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 backup 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 and the lead to the earth 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 is there 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 the 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!”r />
  “Your Holiness!” cried a cardinal. “It’s Prague! The faithful are flocking to the cathedral!”

  “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 hang. 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 Super Bowl, 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 Finagle!” a controller cried out, and the blip reappeared.

  Miracles? Hard to prove—it 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 wall of every computer room and control booth in the world:

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

  Chapter 1

  The door was all glass with the company’s name and logo etched in:

  RODRIGO AND ASSOCIATES

  Market Analysis

  Inside all was chrome, glass, and plush. Everyone was dressed to the nines, so Tony was glad he had elected to wear a suit that day, even if it was somewhat rumpled. Computer troubleshooters didn’t have to dress up, but Tony tried to fit in with the employees at whatever company he was visiting. From the Wall Street address, he’d guessed these people believed in formality.

  He pushed on through the door. The receptionist looked up with a smile. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

  Tony stepped up to the desk and handed the young man his card. “Business Systems Solutions.”

  “Ah.” The receptionist nodded and gestured toward a chair. “Would you like to sit down? Ms. Clavier will be with you in a moment.

  “Thanks.” Tony stepped over and sank down into plush so thick it seemed to embrace him—not an entirely pleasant experience. He took advantage of the opportunity to give the reception area a more thorough examination. Everything screamed “Now!” and “Rich!” The receptionist’s desktop was thick glass, its legs chrome; the floor was thick burgundy carpet with such a deep pile that it had to be synthetic. The only organic note was the walnut panelling, and it seemed out of place. Rich, but out of place. The room was obviously designed to impress visitors with the firm’s wealth and stability, both rather necessary on Wall Street.

  A young woman came in, and Tony forgot to breathe for a minute or two. She was beautiful, that was all there was to it, from the auburn hair cut in a sleek bob to the tailored jacket and skirt that let eighteen inches of shapely calf show above the slender shoes. But it was her face that really caught Tony’s attention, the look of a pixie grown up—and she was coming toward him!

  “Mr. Ricci?” She held out a hand. “I’m Sandra Clavier, the company’s network administrator.”

  Tony stood and took her hand as his stomach sank; network administrators didn’t like calling for help. If you had to bring in an outside specialist, it meant you didn’t know everything about your job. Normally it didn’t bother him, but the other people he dealt with weren’t quietly gorgeous. Nonetheless, he managed to screw up his courage, and say, “Puh-pleased to meet you, Ms. Clavier.”

  “Call me Sandy,” she invited, “and if you can make our computers work smoothly again, I’ll be very pleased to have met you.” She turned toward the door. “I’ll show you to a cubicle where you can work, if you’ll follow me.”

  Tony would have followed her anywhere for the sheer joy of it. The graceful sway was hypnotizing and made him feel like a lumbering elephant as he followed.

  Well, no, a lumbering log was more like it—Tony was lean, at least; all his working out did that much for him. Other than that, following a fascinating creature like this, he felt awkward and weird, like a gargoyle in a jacket and tie. His hair was the color of straw and not much more manageable; he knew his nose was too long, his eyes too narrow, and his chin too much of a lump. He might not be all that bad to look at most of the time, but compared to Sandra Clavier, he must be downright ugly.

  She led him through a door and into a huge room filled with standard-issue cubicles. She navigated the maze with ease and stopped by a gray-walled enclosure like all the rest, except that it held only a chair, desk, and filing cabinet; the desktop was bare, and so were the walls. “We cleared one for you to work with,” Ms. Clavier said. “If there’s anything else you need, just give me a call; I’m extension two-eight-four-one.”

  “Two-eight-four-one,” Tony repeated, that being all he could think of to say, and sat down so that he would look a little less awkward. He should have booted the desktop, but that would have required looking away from her. “You’ve been having interruptions in service?”

  “Yes, the strangest kind.” Sandy frowned, and Tony stopped breathing again. “I’ve never seen a virus like this one. Every now and then, for no reason I can pinpoint, all the screens go blank. Then text starts to scroll up, bits and tags of some story in a weird archaic style, like something out of the King James Bible—but the Bible doesn’t describe a modern man going down the road to Hell.”

  Not having read the Book, Tony frowned and tried to look wise. “That’s a new one on me, too. Any idea what triggers it?”

  “None.” Sandy was beginning to sound exasperated. “I’ve asked everyone to keep logging their work, and whenever one of the interruptions occurred, I had them print out the few minutes before and went through them—but I can’t find any word or phrase that’s entered every time. No number, either, for that matter.”

  “A real puzzle.” Tony grinned in spite of himself, then tried to squelch it.

  But Sandy smiled. “You like puzzles too, huh? Well, I guess it goes with the territory. Do you want the printouts?”

  “If you don’t mind.” Tony nodded, then took refuge in more talk about the problem—what else could he say to a creature like this? “How long do the interruptions last?”

  “Six minutes,” Sandy said. “Always six minutes to the second; I’ve timed them. Then the screens revert to the current work without any changes at all, almost as though it had been saved.” She sighed. “No damage, really—just a very frustrating inconvenience. Add up all the interruptions, and it’s really hurting productivity. Six minutes is enough to break a worker’s concentration so badly that it takes a while to get it back, so it’s costing the company a great deal of time—especially since the staff has figured out that the interruptions always last just long enough to work in an extra coffee break. Then it takes another five minutes to get them back to their desks and working again.” She shook her head, clearly frazzled.

  “Sounds like you’re being hacked, sure enough,” Tony said. “Well, let me talk to your mainframe and see what I can find.”

  “A cure, I hope.” Sandy flashed him a dazzling smile. “Get that priest out of our system, Mr. Ricci, and I’ll owe you a big one.”

  Priest?

  She turned and glided away. Tony watched the folds of her suit amplify her movements as long as he could, then turned away with a dis
tinct sense of disappointment and reached down to power up the desktop.

  As it booted, he let himself envision Sandy’s face. Contemplating the memory, he wondered why she had cast such a spell over him. He forced himself to be as analytical as possible—it was the only defense against the emotions she raised—and had to admit that she was only moderately pretty; the suit only hinted at a figure, and neither the tilt of her nose nor the curve of her lip was exceptional—until she smiled, of course—and her complexion wasn’t quite flawless. The slight touches of makeup were applied perfectly, but Tony was old enough to know the difference between art and nature, though he had to admire skill. He decided it was her eyes that had cast the spell over him. They were dark, a wonderful shade of green (like old jade, he thought) with long, thick lashes; very, very large—and, Tony decided, horribly distracting.

  He’d never been very good at talking with women, though, so as the terminal screen unfolded from the top of the desk, revealing a glass window through which he saw a keyboard, he banished the vision of jade eyes and turned his attention to the glowing rectangle. He plugged in his laptop and ran the diagnostic program. The screen lit up with the trademark for a few seconds; then the results box came up. Tony glanced and nodded; as he’d expected, the hardware was sound. He hit a few keys, and the diagnostics program began checking the software. It had almost finished, showing no viruses or unauthorized programs, when the screen went blank.

  Tony stared; this wasn’t the usual procedure.

  Then white type started scrolling up the screen and merry calls echoed from cubicle to cubicle. Chairs rolled and footsteps hissed across carpet as the workers, chatting gaily, headed toward the coffeemaker.

  Tony stayed in place, of course, running program after program with staccato bursts of keystrokes, trying to track the streaming letters to their source and ignoring the happy conversation in the coffee alcove. With his gaze mostly on his laptop’s screen, he caught only quick glimpses of the text on the terminal, but those piqued his curiosity savagely. Still, while the program was actually running was golden time, and he didn’t dare pay attention to anything but his own trace programs.