Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

by Christopher Stasheff

  Tony thought of St. Vidicon and felt even more guilty. “Okay, she offered me fifty percent.”

  Harvey leaned back and whistled. “Ninety thousand!”

  “I said no,” Tony reminded him.

  “And I appreciate it,” Harvey said slowly, “but I did say we’d beat it. Okay, Tony, you just got a raise to an even hundred thousand a year. Think that’ll hold you?”

  “You don’t have to . . .”

  “Oh, yes I do,” Harve said. He stood up and managed a grin. “Can’t have you working at a loss, can we? And we sure don’t want to lose you.” He held out a hand. “Congratulations, Tony.”

  Tony shook it, in a bit of a daze—but not so deep that he didn’t remember to say, “Thanks, Harve.” Then, as he watched Harvey walk back to his office, he muttered, “Thank you, St. Vidicon!”

  “I had nothing to do with it, Tony!” the saint assured him.

  Tony was physically in his bed, but his dream-self was in the maroon hallway with St. Vidicon.

  “Well, you did, sort of,” Tony said. “You arranged for the companies to call Bald and Chane for a troubleshooter.”

  “Fortunately, their computer people were listening.”

  “I can’t really take credit for those repairs,” Tony said, “when it was you who gave me the power to go inside the circuits.”

  Father Vidicon shrugged. “That would be like giving your high school physics teacher credit for your trouble-shooting, because he’s the first one who taught you anything about computers. I may have sent you there, Tony, but it was you who outsmarted the gremlkins.”

  Tony felt warm at the thought. “Well, I wanted to thank you, anyway. Guess I’ll say good night, now.”

  “No you won’t!” Father Vidicon looked up, shocked. “I’ve had another call for help!”

  “And you’ve got your hands full here.” Tony nodded. “After what you’ve done for me, it’s the least I can do. Who and where?”

  “His name is Tom and he’s in the control room of a nuclear power plant. None of his controls are responding and he’s afraid of a meltdown.”

  Tony swallowed thickly, but before he was done, he found himself floating ten feet off the floor in the nuclear control room.

  Tom was alone on duty, but he was on the phone. “I don’t know what’s gone wrong, but the water’s pouring out, and the controls won’t respond . . . Oh, there’s definitely power, my board’s lit up well enough. It’s just that none of the controls will do anything, that’s all!”

  Tony didn’t have much doubt that he would be able to fix the controls, just as he had in the television studio. In fact, he suspected he’d find little gremlkins in its circuitry just as he had inside the television switcher—but first things first. He drifted through an inner wall and found himself looking down into the reactor chamber. The water was indeed flowing out and the fuel rods were beginning to glow.

  Childhood conditioning took over—if it was radioactive, it had to be dangerous—and Tony winced, then reminded himself that radiation couldn’t hurt a soul.

  On the other hand, how could an immaterial soul close a valve?

  The same way an electrical current could, of course. Tony jumped into the valve to trace its controls.

  “What do you here, mortal?” the glowing creature asked. “This is no place for your kind.”

  Tony squinted against the glare and made out a shape that was more or less human, bald and with huge eyes, shaped more like a baby than an adult. “What are you?”

  “I am the Spirit of Entropy, and only your fellow mortal Maxwell had the sense to think of me—though he did term me a ‘demon,’ which I most certainly am not,” the creature answered.

  Tony could understand why, and he felt a chill. Maxwell’s Demon was a force for chaos, whether it knew it or not. “Why are you letting the water flow out?”

  “Because it and the fuel rods were both merely warm,” the Demon answered. “Water should be cold and plutonium hot. I seek to restore the natural balance.”

  “If that plutonium gets too hot, it’s going to blow up and take the whole island with it!”

  “It would not have done so,” the Demon countered, “if you mortal folk had left it in the ground where it should have been. Indeed, it would not have existed if you had not tinkered with the uranium from which it came.”

  Tony frowned. “You can’t think you’re trying to restore the natural order!”

  “The natural state, aye,” the Demon answered, “which you foolish mortals have sought to reshape into forms more convenient for you.”

  “There’s a paradox here.” Tony frowned. “By restoring what you think of as order, you’re making chaos.”

  “Order emerges out of chaos, as some few of your scholars are beginning to note. I govern that process—but you have interfered with it.”

  Tony watched the water running through the valve and felt sick at the thought of the dropping level in the pool and the heat the fuel rods must be generating. “If you let the plutonium explode, you’re not exactly going to be creating order!”

  “On the contrary, I shall,” the Demon said, “after a few centuries.”

  “But you’ll kill hundreds of people with it! Thousands, as the radiation cloud settles!”

  “The earth will absorb it all.” The Demon seemed quite happy about it. “The land will regenerate, the waters flow clear again.”

  “Yes, in a thousand years or so!” Tony’s mind raced; he knew there was no use in fighting this creature by physical force. It could turn any form of energy into any other.

  Come to think of it, though, he wasn’t physical at the moment—and a soul wasn’t energy, though it could certainly generate a lot of it. He dived at the Demon, crying, “I can’t let you kill all those people!”

  He cupped his hands to close them around the Demon—but just as he swung them together, the creature disappeared. “You cannot think to imprison me,” its voice said from above and behind him.

  “No, but I can do some work while you’re out of the way.” Tony seized the metal and began pulling.

  A blow rocked him, and he shot back against the side of the valve. “Foolish mortal,” the Demon scolded. “Did you think to staunch the flow so easily?”

  “Seemed logical, yes.” Tony picked himself up and braced himself for another try at making moving parts move.

  “You cannot,” the Demon said, “for I’ve welded metal to metal, and you would have to exert enough force to break the weld.”

  Tony felt sick. How could a virtual ghost wield that kind of power?

  By strength of spirit, of course. Tony felt himself warming at the thought. He might not be a strong man himself, but he had St. Vidicon behind him, and the saint drew on the greatest source of strength in existence. Tony stood up, straightening his necktie. “What do you expect to get out of this?”

  “Get?” The Demon’s tone was confused. “Why should I ‘get’ at all?”

  “Everyone does. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t do anything.”

  “I am not human, foolish mortal.”

  “You don’t have to be,” Tony said. “Everything living works to gain something—otherwise there’s no point in doing anything. A wolf chases a deer to get food. The deer runs to stay alive. Two bucks fight to try to scare each other away from a doe. To live is to strive—strive to gain.”

  “But I am a spirit, not a living creature,” the Demon reminded him. “I do what I do because I wish to.”

  “But why do you wish to?”

  “For satisfaction,” the Demon answered, “satisfaction at seeing the world as it should be.”

  “Forest fires? Floods? Creatures burned or drowned?”

  “Even so,” the Demon confirmed. “All things die. It is better that they die as they naturally would. Water and fire balance one another. All the world seeks balance.”

  “And you, being part of the world, find satisfaction in that balance,” Tony said slowly, “even if it comes after horr
endous destruction and suffering.”

  “The trees and grass will triumph.”

  Then Tony had it—genetic mutations. “Yes, but what kinds of trees and grass will those be? For maybe my kind shouldn’t have made plutonium, but we did, and if you let it explode, its radiation will cause so many mutations that the plants will never return to their natural forms!”

  But the Demon had the answer to that one. “Eons are nothing to me, and over thousands of years, the mutations that weaken the species will disappear as their owners die young, and those that strengthen the species will prosper.”

  “And create a whole new species?”

  “Thus has it ever been,” the Demon assured him. “Thus will it ever be. What if a few roentgens of radiation hasten the process by a few thousand years?”

  “And the deaths, the suffering and destruction of those weaker ones, doesn’t bother you?”

  “Destruction is progress toward balance,” the Demon said. “Suffering is part of existence.”

  “Well spoken, for a creature who doesn’t suffer.”

  “I suffer most shrewdly, when the world is askew.”

  “But here there is harmony,” Tony argued. “The heat of the plutonium balances the coolness of the water. They share that heat and turn a turbine, which makes electricity to do work for people. If it didn’t balance, there would be fires and explosions.”

  The Demon was silent, energy snapping in a corona around it.

  Inspiration struck. “Here, I’ll show you.” Tony strode over to the shaft. He put his arms around it and pulled. Of course, it didn’t yield. “Give me a hand here, will you? I can’t turn it alone.”

  “To what purpose would you move it?” the Demon asked slowly.

  “To restore the balance within the tank,” Tony said. “Radiation is a small thing, but it can throw others out of balance amazingly.”

  “That is why I shall remove this generator.”

  “No you won’t,” Tony said. “You’ll unleash an unholy amount of radiation, vastly more than Nature supplies. But fill the tank again, and the power plant will keep that radiation in balance.”

  “But when it is spent? When the fuel is exhausted? What then shall you do with the residue? How shall you prevent its radiation from contaminating the world?”

  “By burying it deep in the earth where it came from,” Tony said. “That’s where you think it should have stayed, don’t you?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have any problem with its being returned there. First, though, we have to soak up the worst of its radiation and make it safe to return.” Tony threw his weight against the valve. “Want to give me a little help?”

  The Demon hovered, silent except for the snapping of its corona as it watched him.

  Chapter 10

  Finally the Demon moved. “Perhaps there are more ways of letting things work than those of the centuries,” it said. “Stand aside, mortal. Nay, begone completely, for the heat I shall expend in melting that weld would be quite unpleasant for you.”

  Tony stepped aside, as far aside as he could—in fact, out of the valve, out of the radioactive water (and he had to remind himself again and again that he wasn’t vulnerable to it in spirit form) and up to the control chamber. He didn’t stop there, though—the sensation of upward movement went on even as sight went away and brightness surrounded him, as though he rose through a sunlit cloud. It darkened, though, to a deep ruby, then dissipated, and he found himself walking the maroon hallway next to St. Vidicon, who clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “Well done, Tony! You led the creature in a circle back to its own original assumptions!”

  “Did it work?” Tony asked anxiously.

  “Look and see.” St. Vidicon pointed to a mirror on the wall; it clouded over, then cleared, showing a close-up of a meter with its colors receding down from red through yellow toward green—but as Tony watched, it grew smaller and he saw more and more of the control panel which housed it, then saw Tom watching it and trembling with relief. “You can take off the suits now, guys! Somehow we have control back.”

  The mirror clouded over again, and St. Vidicon said, “They will have to troubleshoot the circuit, of course. It might be polite of you to create some minor misconnection for them to find.”

  Tony sighed, beginning to relax—and suddenly realized he was exhausted. “Tomorrow night, okay? I’m kinda shot right now.”

  “Don’t worry, your body will wake up fully rested,” St. Vidicon assured him, “with more than enough energy to take Sandy dancing.”

  Dinner was lasagna at Marinara, then drinks at Bandillero. Tony had kept up the dancing lessons, which proved to be a good thing, because the band played a samba, and Sandy was delighted to find he could dance well enough for her to enjoy it. On the way home in the cab, she sat very close, so Tony held her hand and enjoyed the pressure of her shoulder and thigh against his as he asked where she had learned Latin dancing. This time he didn’t ask the cab driver to come back. After all, he had a cell phone.

  He also had cognac, and Sandy sat very close again. The stereo was playing the music from Carmen, and his heart pounded in time to the beat of the “Habenera” as he kissed her, then kissed her again.

  Her lips were soft and moist and warm, and the tip of her tongue traced sparks across his lips. He drew a shuddering breath; then, since his mouth was open, he tried touching her lips with his tongue and was amazed at her answering gasp, even more amazed, when he explored further, that she went rigid.

  Only for a moment—then she melted, and their mouths fused together. When she lifted her head to breathe, her eyes were wide with surprize. Tony’s probably were, too, but he wasn’t aware of himself at all, only of her, as he lowered his head and began nibbling her lips. She stiffened again, then caught his hand and lifted it to cup her breast.

  Tony froze for a moment, startled, then began to caress. She squirmed, murmuring into the kiss. Then he felt her fingers light upon his chest, felt her undoing buttons, then her fingertips against his skin.

  He was aware only of her mouth, her breast, and the tingling on his own chest. Then he lifted his head to gasp, and say, “I’d better go.”

  “Go?” Sandy stared at him, shocked, then darkened with anger. “This is a hell of a time to say good night, mister!”

  “It would be worse a little later,” Tony said. “You don’t want me to do anything you’ll regret.”

  “Oh yes I do!” Sandy pressed against him, churning, and her fingers danced. “But I won’t regret it.”

  “I don’t want . . .”

  “Yes you do.” Her fingers searched for proof, and it was Tony’s turn to gasp. “And don’t try to tell me you’re gay—I have evidence to the contrary.”

  “Oh, I want sex, sure enough,” Tony said, “but not until we’re married.”

  Sandy turned into a staring statue. Then she said, in a very stiff voice, “You can have sex. You don’t have to con me.”

  “I don’t want to,” Tony said. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

  “I could say no,” Sandy said through wooden lips.

  “If you did, you’d be really glad we hadn’t gone further than this.” Tony held up a palm. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not proposing yet—only giving you fair warning. After all, we really have to know each other a lot better before you decide to let me ask.”

  Desire seemed to slacken as Sandy frowned and looked down, brooding. “Asking is nice,” she said. “I don’t know about asking if you can ask, though.” She looked up again, and desire came roaring back. “And I don’t know if I want to wait that long.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” Tony said.

  Sandy stared into his eyes for a minute, then said softly, “Maybe that’s one of the things we need to find out.”

  “You mean if I really can stop if you say to?” Tony smiled. “I think I can. It’ll be difficult, though.”

  “It is already.” Sandy’s voice shook as
she said, “But if you’re going to say good night, you’d better go.”

  “Okay then. Good night.” Tony brushed his lips over hers in what he meant to be a chaste kiss, but it made her shiver anyway. She went to the door with him, and the kiss there was anything but chaste. When he came up for air, he found he was on the other side of a closing door.

  Tony went down the stairs, his head feeling curiously light while a sudden bright energy went coursing through him. It almost made up for the frustration.

  That week, Tony could scarcely keep his mind on business long enough to get started. Fortunately, in his line of work, people were used to programmers who sat staring at computer screens for long periods of time. Sooner or later he’d remember why he was at that particular office and get back to analyzing the problem he’d been sent to solve, and once he could manage to make a start, he could block out the rest of the world as he had always done and become fascinated with the malfunction.

  “Computers are so much easier to understand than women,” he complained.

  “That may be true,” said Father Vidicon, “but they’re nowhere nearly as fulfilling.”

  “I could debate that,” Tony grumbled, “but I suppose you’re right. No matter how much you love a microprocessor, it can’t love you back.”

  “But a woman might.”

  “Might,” Tony echoed. “There’s no guarantee she will, is there? Or that the love will last.”

  “Nothing in life is certain,” Father Vidicon reminded him.

  Tony started to answer, but Father Vidicon frowned suddenly, head cocked as though listening.

  Curiosity roared in Tony, but he held his peace, afraid to interrupt whatever the saint was hearing, until Father Vidicon sighed and turned to him. “Another stressed soul who could use a bit of help.”

  The floor shook, and from somewhere deep below them came a muffled laugh, so deep that they felt it as much as heard it.

  “I don’t think I’d better leave this place just now, though,” Father Vidicon said slowly, “even simply by concentrating on the plight of someone on Earth.”