Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

by Christopher Stasheff

  Quickly, the saint split the faders and went to black.

  “. . . two . . . one . . . You’re on!” the voice cried.

  Father Vidicon faded in Camera One, seeing a vision of St. Mark’s Plaza appear on the program monitor as a mellow voice began to narrate a travelogue. Father Vidicon glanced at Camera Two’s monitor, saw a close-up of the gilded lion, and readied a finger over the button TWO on the air bank. As the voice began to speak of the lion, he punched the button and the close-up of the lion appeared on the line monitor. Grinning then, he began to fall into the old rhythm of a program, taking from one detail to another, then seeing a photograph of a gondola on a canal and dissolving to it.

  Just as the image became clear, though, the picture fluxed, shrinking, then expanding, then shrinking to die. Instantly did Father Vidicon dissolve back to Camera One—and it too bloomed and died.

  “Telecine!” he roared, that his voice might be heard through the director’s headset (since he wore none). “Trouble slide!”

  And Lo! The telecine screen lit with a picture of an engineer enwrapped in layers of videotape as he spooled frantically through an antique videotape recorder, attempting to clear a jam. It was a still picture only, so Father Vidicon leaned back with a sigh, then rose on rather wobbly legs. “I should have known,” he muttered, “should have remembered.” Then he walked, though rather unsteadily, back into the sound lock, then on into the studio. Around the cameras he went and drew aside the heavy velvet drape that hid the back wall—and sure enough, it had hidden also the double door to the scenery storage room. He hauled open the portal, stepped in among the ranked flats, threaded his way through piled sofas and stacked chairs, and found the entry door beyond. He opened it, stepped through, and found himself back in the dim light of the maroon tunnel.

  The priest set off again, mouth in a grim line, for, said he unto himself, “Now, then, we know which minion of Finagle’s we shall face,” for surely there could be no doubt who sided with the hidden flaw, who made machinery fail in crucial moments, who was attracted to devices more strongly as they became more complicated, and it was not Nature.

  And Lo! The monster did approach—or, more precisely, the saint did approach the monster, who smiled as he saw the Blessed One come nigh, glanced down to make a check mark on his clipboard, then looked up again to grin—or his lips did; Father Vidicon could not see his eyes, since they were shadowed by a visor of green, and his face that of a gnome, not a man. He wore a shirt that was striped and held by sleeve-garters, its collar tightened by a necktie, though over it he was clothed in coveralls (but they were pin-striped), and his left hand bore socket wrenches in place of fingers. Clean-shaven he was, and round-faced, smiling with delight full cynical, the whiles his right hand did play upon a keyboard.

  Then Father Vidicon did halt some paces distant, filled with wariness, and declared, “I know thee, Spirit—for thou art the Gremlin!”

  “I do not make policy,” the creature replied, “I only execute it.”

  “Seek not to deceive!” Father Vidicon rebuked. “Thou art the one who doth seek to find the hidden flaw and doom all human projects.”

  “ ’Tis in the nature of humans to bring it out,” the Gremlin retorted. “I only execute what they themselves have overlooked.”

  “Wouldst thou have me believe ’tis Nature who doth side with the hidden flaw, though well we know that Nature makes not machines?”

  “Nature sides with me,” the Gremlin returned. “Canst thou blame me for the nurture of the natural?”

  “ ’Tis not Nature thou dost serve, but Entropy!”

  “What else?” the spirit gibed. “Humans seek to build, when ’tis the way of Nature to fall apart.”

  “Only in its season,” Father Vidicon admonished, “when the time of growth is behind.”

  “Not so,” the Gremlin answered, “if the flaw’s inherent in the new-born creature. Thus only when it doth come to maturity doth its undoing become manifest.”

  “And what of those whose flaws emerge before they’re grown?”

  The Gremlin shrugged. “Then they never come to the age at which they can build, and only looking backward can they see a life worth living.”

  “Thou dost lie, thou rogue,” Father Vidicon said sternly, “for that cannot be behind which is before!”

  “Oh, so? Hast thou, then, heard never of the Mule?” The Gremlin’s hand did beat upon the keyboard, and letters of a glowing green did glimmer in the gloaming ’fore his face: “BOOT MULE.” Father Vidicon did step back with a presentiment of foreboding; then the words did vanish, and beside the Gremlin stood a stocky quadruped, with longish ears laid back, teeth parting in a bray.

  “I should have thought,” the priest did breathe. “This is the beast most susceptible to thee, for ’tis also the most contrary; when we most wish it to work, it will not.”

  “All who will not work are with me,” the Gremlin answered, “as are those who, in the name of standing firm, give way to stubbornness.” He reached out to stroke the beast, and chanted,

  “ ‘The mule, we find,

  Hath two legs behind,

  And two we find before.

  We stand behind before we find

  What the two behind be for.’ ”

  And the saint did find the mule’s tail confronting him, and the hooves kicked up and lashed out at his head.

  But St. Vidicon did bow, and the feet flashed by above. “Affront me not,” quoth he, “for I do know this beast hath fallibility.”

  “Then make use of it,” the Gremlin counselled, “for he doth set himself again.”

  ’Twas true, the mule did once again draw up his hooves to kick. Father Vidicon did therefore run around the beast up toward its head.

  But, “What’s before, and what’s behind?” the Gremlin cried. “Behold, I give the beast his head, and he doth lose it! For if we know what that behind be for, then assuredly, what’s behind’s before!”

  Father Vidicon did straighten up before the mule’s face—and found it was a tail, with hooves beneath that did lash out.

  “Surely in his stubbornness,” the Gremlin said, “the mule has lost his head!”

  The good priest did shout as he did leap aside, quickly, but not quite quickly enough, and a hoof did crack upon his shoulder, and pain shot through his whole side. He cried out, but his cry was lost in the Gremlin’s laughter, which did echo all about.

  “Thou canst not escape,” the spirit cried with gloating glee, “for if thou dost run around the beast, thou wilt but find what thou hast lost!”

  Hooves slashed out again, and the priest did throw himself upon the ground. The mule’s feet whistled through the air above him, then drew back to stand, and began to hobble toward him.

  “Come, come!” the Gremlin cried. “Thine heart was ever in thy work! Wouldst thou now lie about and trouble others? Wouldst thou be underfoot?”

  But the priest had scrambled to his feet, a-running, and heard the thunderous echo of galloping hooves behind. At a thought, however, he turned back. “Two backward sets both running must go against each other; they thereby must stand in place!”

  Assuredly, the poor beast did; for each pair of legs, in leaping forward, did naught but counter the other’s thrust.

  “Let it not trouble thee,” the Gremlin counselled, “for I’ve held him close thus far—yet now I’ll give the beast his head!”

  Father Vidicon knew then that he had but a moment to draw upon the strength of Him to Whom he was in all ways dedicated; and holding up his hands to Heaven, he did pray, “Good Father, now forgive! That in my pride I did think myself equipped to defeat the Finder of Flaws. Lend me, I pray Thee, some tool that will find and hinder all contrariness that this creature doth embody!”

  Of a sudden, his hands weighed heavy. Looking there, he found a halter.

  A bray recalled him to his conflict, and he saw the mule’s tail grow dim, then harden again to show forequarters topped by a head that did reach out, tee
th sharp to bite, as the Mule leaped forward.

  Chapter 4

  Father Vidicon shouted and spun aside, flailing at the Mule with the halter—and sure enough, it caught. The Mule swerved and reared, braying protest, but Father Vidicon did hold fast to reins and turn the Mule toward its master, then leaped upon its back. Still under the Gremlin’s mandate to attack, it galloped ahead, teeth reaching for its master.

  “How now!” the creature screeched, drumming at its keyboard. “How canst thou turn my own artifact against me?”

  The mule disappeared, leaving the saint to plummet toward the floor, the halter still in his hand—but he landed lightly.

  “Thou didst expect that fall!” the Gremlin accused. “How couldst thou have known?”

  “Why, by preparing ’gainst every eventuality,” the saint replied, “then expecting some other malfunction that I could not name because I had not thought of it.”

  “Thou dost not mean thou didst expect the unexpected!”

  “Surely, for I have always expected thee, since first I learned to program Cobol.” The saint approached, holding out the halter. “Know that with my Master’s power, these straps can harness any who their energy expend.” Still he advanced, the halter outheld.

  “Thou dost speak of those who embody Entropy,” the Gremlin protested, and did back away.

  “ ’Tis even so,” the saint replied, “for to live is to expend energy, but to grow is to gain structure.”

  “You are not fool enough to think to reverse entropy!” the Gremlin cried, still backing.

  “Only for some little while,” the saint replied, “but each little while added to another can constitute a lifetime entire.”

  “Yet in the end your race shall die! In mere billions of years, your sun will explode, and all will end in fire! Thus all is futile, all is done in vain, all’s absurd!”

  “Yet while life endures, it contradicts absurdity—if it has structure.” Father Vidicon relaxed the halter, then swung it at the Gremlin to ensnare.

  The Gremlin wailed and winked out as though he’d never been.

  Father Vidicon stared at the place where he had stood and bethought him somberly, “He is not truly gone, but will recur wheresoever people try to build—for ’gainst such as him we struggle to find meaning.” Then he looked down at the halter, contemplating it a moment before he held it high in offering. “O Father, I thank Thee for giving Thine overweening servant the means to banish this Foe of Humankind, no matter how briefly. I return unto Thee the Halter of one of the beasts who witnessed the birth of Thy Son, and of another who bore Him to His triumph in Jerusalem.”

  For half a minute the halter began to glow, then scintillated as it vanished.

  The Blessed One stood alone, reflecting that once again he was unarmed; but he recalled the words of the psalm and murmured them aloud: “ ‘For Thou, O God, art my wisdom and my strength.’ Nay, I shall never lack for defense within this realm, so long as Thou art with me.”

  So saying, he strode forth once more, further downward in that tunnel, wondering what other foe the Lord might send him to confront.

  The text rolled off the screen, and Tony sighed, wishing for more. He glanced up at the clock, saw it was almost quitting time, called the front desk to make sure there were no calls for him and felt irrationally disappointed when there weren’t—after all, Friday was still two days and one night away.

  He had dinner at his favorite restaurant, but it seemed more lonely than it ever had, and his paperback didn’t hold his attention. All in all, it seemed a good idea to go to bed early and try to sleep.

  Not just “try to”—sleep came surprizingly easily. Of course, the surprize evaporated when Tony found his dream self pacing down the maroon, soft-floored corridor beside Father Vidicon.

  The priest looked up, startled. “Tony! A pleasure to see you.” Then he frowned. “But you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Are you kidding?” Tony said. “This is where the action is.”

  “You should be resting, though, not working.” Father Vidicon held up a hand. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted to have company—but this isn’t your fight.”

  “Are you kidding? The number of times you’ve helped me out when a program wouldn’t run?” Tony grinned. “Besides, how often does a guy get to play sidekick to a saint?”

  Father Vidicon still held up the cautioning hand. “I haven’t been declared a saint yet, Tony. Indeed, my journey through this tunnel may be the ordeal that shows whether or not I’m worthy of a place in Heaven.”

  “You’re kidding, of course,” Tony said. “You’re a martyr.”

  “Well, yes, but I try not to take things for granted.” St. Vidicon turned and started down the squelching hallway again. “I really should see where this pathway leads me, though.”

  Tony fell in beside him. “You don’t really think it’s the road to Hell, then?”

  “I’m beginning to suspect otherwise, yes.”

  It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be talking with a saint—until St. Vidicon said, “I’m glad my message finally reached you.”

  Tony stared. “Your what?”

  “My message,” said the saint. “That’s why I fed that virus into the mainframe of one of your company’s clients—because I needed a troubleshooter. Specifically, you.”

  “Why me?” Tony asked.

  “Because you have the right turn of mind,” St. Vidicon told him. “You inherited it from your ancestor Mateo.”

  “My ancestor? None of my great-grandfathers was named Mateo!”

  “No, but your forefather in the sixteenth century had a cousin named Mateo—a Jesuit who founded the China Mission and wrote the first treatise in comparative religion, comparing Confucianism to Christianity to try to discover if people could develop a sound moral code without Divine intervention.” Father Vidicon smiled. “He decided they could. It was troubleshooting in advance, laying the groundwork for religious tolerance. The trait has bred true all the way down to you.”

  Tony’s father had worked for a satellite communications company, troubleshooting earth stations; his great-grandfather had done the same thing with the phone company’s landlines. He saw St. Vidicon’s point. “But what kind of troubles would you want me to shoot?”

  “Anything people call me for, when I’m already trying to fix another problem,” Father Vidicon said. “When I finish this trip through Hellmouth, maybe God will grant me the power to be in many different locations at once; but even then, I think I’ll need some help.”

  “That’s interesting but not informative.”

  St. Vidicon stiffened suddenly. “A call’s coming in. Here, see it with me and analyze the problem.”

  He caught Tony’s hand, and whether the technician wanted to or not, he saw what the saint was seeing and heard what he was hearing—a despairing, many-voiced cry for help, and the background of the predicament.

  Up on the wall, right where you see it when you come in the door of the lab, is a sign that says,

  “We have everything we need to build an electric car. We have the motor, the transmission, the steering, and the headlights. All we need now is a battery that will last long enough.”

  —T. A. EDISON

  That’s our job—developing an electric car for one of the Really Big Auto Makers—and our “lab” looks like a cross between a machine shop and a clinic. The Eagle, our prototype electric car, sits on a hoist that hasn’t lifted in months, sits there with its hood up to show an engine so clean you could cook on it—and a great big gaping hole where the battery ought to be.

  The battery, at the moment, was sitting on an insulated bench with two technicians hovering over it in protective gear and masks that would have done credit to an astronaut. Behind them, Sally Barley was beaming with motherly pride. She was fiftyish, neat, tidy, bespectacled, and Director of Development. She was also an attractive woman who wasn’t aware of the fact. She wore a lab coat, bifocals, and coiled braids. Ju
st looking at her made me feel like a slob.

  Not that I was, of course. The waistline isn’t showing too much bulge for a man in his early forties, and the creases in the slacks are still sharp. Sure, I wore gym shoes, but they were very trendy and cost more than I’d want to admit, if everyone else I knew didn’t know the figure to the penny (including tax). And I wore polo shirts because my generation was more casual than hers, not to show off my biceps and pecs (not that they weren’t worth showing). The hairline hadn’t receded too much and there weren’t too many wrinkles. Too bad I’d never had time for that nose job.

  “This is Eagle Fifteen,” I reminded her, “and the fourteenth one only ran for thirty hours at in-town speed. You really think you’ve managed to double that, for highway speeds, in just one generation?”

  “Oh, yes.” Sally nodded. “Of course, I wouldn’t let the stockholders know about that yet. We still have a month of trials and fine-tuning.”

  Which raised the question of why she had called me in—but there are advantages to keeping the public relations director on your side. Besides, I had a triple-A clearance from company security, so I’d been following the project ever since Eagle 1 came off the drawing board.

  “How come you’re so sure it’s going to last so much longer?”

  “Because the new motor and power train use much less current—and that next-generation electrolyte is a wonder. Too bad NASA didn’t think of it sooner.”

  It made sense, after all. A battery that could keep a robot explorer going for two months on an ice moon around Saturn shouldn’t have had much trouble lasting sixty hours on an American highway—and like everything else NASA developed, it was free. We didn’t have to pay royalties or a licensing fee or anything. Sometimes I wondered just how much more money NASA put back into the economy than it cost us in taxes.

  The two technicians finished sealing the battery and, very carefully, lifted it and started toward the car.