American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58

by Gary K. Wolfe

  “For nothing, if you people have any control over what you yourselves do,” Michelis said. “Why don’t you cut him off the air? If he’s poisoning it, then you don’t have any other choice.”

  “One man’s poison is another man’s knish mix,” the UN man said smoothly. “The Bifalcos don’t see this the way we do. They have their own analysts, and they know as well as we do that they’re going to get more than seven and a half million dirty postcards in the next week. But they like the idea. In fact, they’re positively wriggling with delight. They think it will sell products. They will probably give the Snake a whole half hour, solely sponsored by them, if the response comes through as predicted—and it will.”

  “Why can’t you cut Egtverchi off anyhow?” Liu said.

  “The charter prevents us from interfering with the right of free speech. As long as the Bifalcos put up the money, we are obligated to keep the program on the air. It’s a good principle at bottom; we’ve had experiences with it before that threatened to turn out nastily, but in every case we sweated them out and the public got bored with them eventually. But that was a different public—the broad public, which used to be mostly sane. The Snake obviously has a selected audience, and that’s not sane at all. This time—for the first time—we are thinking of interfering. That’s why we came to you.”

  “I can’t help you,” Michelis said.

  “You can, and you will, Dr. Michelis. I’m talking from under both my hats now. QBC wants him off the air, and the UN is beginning to smell something which might prove to be much worse than the 1993 Corridor Riots. You sponsored this Snake, and your wife raised him from an egg, or damn near an egg. You know him better than anyone else on Earth. You will have to give us the weapon that we need against him. That’s what I came to tell you. Think about it. You are responsible under the naturalization law. It’s not often that we have to invoke that clause, but we’re invoking it now. You’ll have to think fast, because we have to have him closed out before his next broadcast.”

  “And suppose we have nothing to offer?” Michelis said stonily.

  “Then we will probably declare the Snake a minor, and you his guardians,” the UN man said. “Which will hardly be a solution from our point of view, but you would probably find it painful—you’d be well advised to come up with something better. I’m sorry to bring such bad news, but the news is bad tonight; that sometimes happens. Good-night, and thank you.”

  He went out. He did not have to resume any of his three hats; he had never taken any of them off, visible or metaphorical.

  Michelis and Liu stared at each other, appalled.

  “We—we couldn’t possibly have him as a ward now,” Liu whispered.

  “Well,” Michelis said harshly, “we were talking about wanting a son—”

  “Mike, don’t!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said inadequately. “That officious son of a bitch. He was the man that passed on the application—and now he’s throwing it right back in our laps. They must be really desperate. What are we going to do? I haven’t an idea in my head.”

  Liu said, after a moment’s hesitation: “Mike—we don’t know enough to come up with anything useful in a week. At least I don’t, and I don’t think you do either. We’ve got to get through to the Father somehow.”

  “If we can,” Michelis said slowly. “But even so, what good will that do? The UN won’t listen to him—they’ve bypassed him.”

  “How? What do you mean?”

  “They’ve made a de facto decision in favor of Cleaver,” Michelis said. “It won’t be announced until after Ramon’s church has finished disavowing him, but it’s already in effect. I knew about it before he left for Rome, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him. Lithia has been closed; the UN is going to use it as a laboratory for the study of fusion power storage—not exactly what Cleaver had in mind originally, but close enough.”

  Liu was silent for a long time. She arose and went to the window, against which the huge bees were still butting like live battering-rams.

  “Does Cleaver know?” she said, her back still turned.

  “Oh yes, he knows,” Michelis said. “He’s in charge. He was scheduled to land back at Xoredeshch Sfath yesterday. I tried to tip Ramon off indirectly as soon as I heard about it—that’s why I promoted that collaboration for the J. I. R.—but Ramon just didn’t seem to hear any of my hints. And I just couldn’t tell him outright that his cause was already lost, before he’d even had a hearing.”

  “It’s ugly,” Liu said slowly. “Why won’t they announce it until after Ramon is officially excommunicated? Why does that make any difference?”

  “Because the decision is tainted, that’s all,” Michelis said fiercely. “Whether you agree with Ramon’s theological arguments or not, to decide for Cleaver is a dirty act—impossible to defend except in terms of raw power. They know that well enough, damn them, and sooner or later they’re going to have to let the public see what the arguments were on the other side. When that day comes, they want Ramon’s arguments discredited in advance by his own church.”

  “What precisely is Cleaver doing?”

  “I can’t say, precisely. But they’re building a big Nernst generator plant inland on the south continent, near Gleshchtehk Sfath, to turn out the power, so that much of his dream is already realized. Later they’ll try to trap the power raw, as it comes off, instead of stepping it down and throwing away ninety-five per cent of it as heat. I don’t know how Cleaver proposes to do that, but I should guess he’d begin with a modification of the Nernst effect itself—the ‘magnetic bottle’ dodge. He’d better be damned careful.” He paused. “I suppose I’d have told Ramon if he’d asked me. But he didn’t, so I didn’t say anything. Now I feel like a coward.”

  Liu turned swiftly at that, and came back to sit on the arm of his chair. “That was right to do, Mike,” she said. “It’s not cowardice to refuse to rob a man of hope, I think.”

  “Maybe not,” Michelis said, taking her hand gratefully. “But what it all comes out to is that Ramon can’t help us now. Thanks to me, he doesn’t even know yet that Cleaver is back on Lithia.”

  XVI

  Shortly past dawn, Ruiz-Sanchez walked stiffly into the vast circle of the Piazza San Pietro toward the towering dome of St. Peter’s itself. The piazza was swarming with pilgrims even this early, and the dome, more than twice as high as the Statue of Liberty, seemed frowning and ominous in the early light, rising from the forest of pillars like the forehead of God.

  He passed under the right arch of the colonnade, past the Swiss Guards in their gorgeous, outré uniforms, and through the bronze door. Here he paused to murmur, with unexpected intensity, the prayers for the Pope’s intentions obligatory for this year. The Apostolic Palace soared in front of him; he was astonished that any edifice so crowded with stone could at the same time contrive to be so spacious, but he had no time for further devotions now.

  Near the first door on the right a man sat at a table. RuizSanchez told him: “I am commanded to a special audience with the Holy Father.”

  “God has blessed you. The major-domo’s office is on the first floor, to the left. No, one moment—a special audience? May I see your letter, please?”

  Ruiz-Sanchez showed it.

  “Very good. But you will need to see the major-domo anyhow. The special audiences are in the throne room; he will show you where to go.”

  The throne room! Ruiz-Sanchez was more unsettled than ever. That was where the Holy Father received heads of state, and members of the college of cardinals. Certainly it was no place to receive a heretical Jesuit of very low rank—

  “The throne room,” the major-domo said. “That’s the first room in the reception suite. I trust your business goes well, Father. Pray for me.”

  Hadrian VIII was a big man, a Norwegian by birth, whose curling beard had been only slightly peppered with gray at his election. It was white now, of course, but otherwise age seemed to have marked him little; indeed, he lo
oked somewhat younger than his photographs and 3-V ’casts suggested, for they had a tendency to accentuate the crags and furrows of his huge, heavy face.

  Ruiz-Sanchez found his person so overwhelming that he barely noticed the magnificence of his robes of state. Needless to say, there was nothing in the least Latin in the Holy Father’s mien or temperament. In his rise to the gestatorial chair he had made a reputation as a Catholic with an almost Lutheran passion for the grimmer reaches of moral theology; there was something of Kierkegaard in him, and something of the Grand Inquisitor as well. After his election, he had surprised everyone by developing an interest—one might almost call it a businessman’s interest—in temporal politics, though the characteristic coldness of Northern theological speculation continued to color everything he said and did. His choice of the name of a Roman emperor was perfectly appropriate, Ruiz-Sanchez realized: here was a face that might well have been stamped on imperial coin, for all the beneficence which tempered its harshness.

  The Pope remained standing throughout the interview, staring down at Ruiz-Sanchez with what seemed at first to be nine-tenths frank curiosity.

  “Of all the thousands of pilgrims here, you may stand in the greatest need of our indulgence,” he observed in English. Near by, a tape recorder raced silently; Hadrian was an ardent archivist, and a stickler for the letter of the text. “Yet we have small hope of your winning it. It is incredible to us that a Jesuit, of all our shepherds, could have fallen into Manichaeanism. The errors of that heresy are taught most particularly in that college.”

  “Holiness, the evidence—”

  Hadrian raised his hand. “Let us not waste time. We have already informed ourself of your views and your reasoning. You are subtle, Father, but you have committed a grievous oversight all the same—but we wish to defer that subject for the moment. Tell us first of this creature Egtverchi—not as a sending of the Devil, but as you would see him were he a man.”

  Ruiz-Sanchez frowned. There was something about the word “sending” that touched some weakness inside him, like an obligation forgotten until too late to fulfill it. The feeling was like that which had informed a ridiculous recurrent nightmare of his student days, in which he was not to graduate because he had forgotten to attend all his Latin classes. Yet he could not put his finger on what it was.

  “There are many ways to describe him, Holiness,” he said. “He is the kind of personality that the twentieth-century critic Colin Wilson called an Outsider, and that is the kind of Earth man he appeals to—he is a preacher without a creed, an intellect without a culture, a seeker without a goal. I think he has a conscience as we would define the term; he’s very different from the rest of his race in that and many other respects. He seems to take a deep interest in moral problems, but he’s utterly contemptuous of all traditional moral frames of reference —including the kind of rationalized moral automation that prevails on Lithia.”

  “And this strikes some chord in his audience?”

  “There can be no doubt of that, surely, Holiness. It remains to be seen how wide his appeal is. He ran off a very shrewdly designed experiment last night, obviously intended to test that very question; we should soon know just how great the response will be. But it already seems clear that he appeals to all those people who feel cut off, emotionally and intellectually, from our society and its dominant cultural traditions.”

  “Well put,” Hadrian said, surprisingly. “We stand at the brink of unguessable events, that is certain; we have had forebodings that this might be the year. We have commanded the Inquisition to put away its bell, book and candle for the time being; we think such a move would be most unwise.”

  Ruiz-Sanchez was stunned. No trial—and no excommunication? The drumming of events around his head had begun to remind him of the numbing, incessant rains of Xoredeshch Sfath.

  “Why, Holiness?” he said faintly.

  “We believe you may be the man appointed by our Lord to bear St. Michael’s arms,” the Pope said, weighing every word.

  “I, Holiness? A heretic?”

  “Noah was not perfect, you will recall,” Hadrian said, with what might have been a half-smile. “He was merely a man who was given another chance. Goethe, himself more than a little heretical, reshaped the legend of Faustus to the same lesson: redemption is always the crux of the great drama, and there must be a peripataea first. Besides, Father, consider for a moment the unique nature of this case of heresy. Is not the appearance of a solitary Manichaean in the twenty-first century either a wildly meaningless anachronism—or a grave sign?”

  He paused and fingered his beads.

  “Of course,” he added, “it will be necessary for you to purge yourself, if you can. That is why we have called you. We believe as you do that the Adversary is the moving spirit behind this whole Lithian crisis; but we do not believe that any repudiation of dogma is required. It all hinges upon this question of creativity. Tell us, Father: when you first became convinced that the whole of Lithia was a sending, what did you do about it?”

  “Do about it?” Ruiz-Sanchez said numbly. “Why, Holiness, I did only what was recorded. I could think of nothing else to do.”

  “Then did it never occur to you that sendings can be banished—and that God has given that power into your hands?”

  Ruiz-Sanchez had no emotions left.

  “Banished. . . . Holiness, perhaps I have been stupid. I feel stupid. But as far as I know, exorcism was abandoned by the Church more than two centuries ago. My college taught me that meteorology replaced the ‘spirits and powers of the air,’ and neurophysiology replaced ‘possession.’ It would never have occurred to me.”

  “Exorcism was not abandoned, merely discouraged,” Hadrian said. “It had become limited, as you have just pointed out, and the Church wished to prevent its abuse by ignorant country priests—they were bringing the Church into disrepute trying to drive demons out of sick cows and perfectly healthy goats and cats. But I am not talking about animal health, the weather or mental illness now, Father.”

  “Then . . . is Your Holiness truly proposing that . . . that I should have attempted to . . . to exorcise a whole planet? ”

  “Why not?” Hadrian said. “Of course, the fact that you were standing on the planet at the time might have helped to prevent you, unconsciously, from thinking of it. We are convinced that God would have provided for you—in Heaven certainly, and possibly you might have received temporal help as well. But it was the only solution to your dilemma. Had the exorcism failed, then there might have been some excuse for falling into heresy. But surely it should be easier to believe in a planetwide hallucination—which in principle we know the Adversary has the power to do—than in the heresy of satanic creativity!”

  The Jesuit bowed his head. He felt overwhelmed by his own ignorance. He had spent almost all his leisure hours on Lithia minutely studying a book which to all intents and purposes might have been dictated by the Adversary himself, and he had seen nothing that mattered, not in all those 628 pages of compulsive demoniac chatter.

  “It is not too late to try,” Hadrian said, almost gently. “That is the only road left for you to travel.” Suddenly his face became stern, flinty. “As we have pointed out to the Inquisition, your excommunication is automatic. It began the instant that you admitted this abomination into your soul. It does not need to be formalized to be a fact—and there are political reasons, as well as spiritual ones, for not formalizing it now. In the meantime, you must leave Rome. We withhold our blessing and our indulgence from you, Dr. Ruiz-Sanchez. This Holy Year is for you a year of battle, with the world as prize. When you have won that battle you may return to us—not before. Farewell.”

  Dr. Ramon Ruiz-Sanchez, a layman, damned, left Rome for New York that night by air. The deluge of happenstance was rising more rapidly around him; the time for the building of arks was almost at hand. And yet, as the waters rose, and the words, Into your hand are they delivered, passed incessantly across the tired surfaces of his brain,
it was not of the swarming billions of the Shelter state that he was thinking. It was of Chtexa; and the notion that an exorcism might succeed in dissolving utterly that grave being and all his race and civilization, return them to the impotent mind of the Great Nothing as though they had never been, was an agony to him.

  Into your hand. . . . Into your hand. . .

  XVII

  The figures were in. The people who had taken Egtverchi as both symbol and spokesman for their passionate discontents were now tallied, although they could not be known. Their nature was no surprise—the crime and mental disease statistics had long provided a clear picture of that—but their number was stunning. Apparently nearly a third of twenty-first-century society loathed that society from the bottom of its collective heart.

  Ruiz-Sanchez wondered suddenly whether, had a similar tally been possible in every age, the proportion would have turned out to be stable.

  “Do you think it would do any good to talk to Egtverchi?” he asked Michelis. Over his protests, he was staying in the Michelis’ apartment for the time being.

  “Well, it hasn’t done any good for me to talk with him,” Michelis said. “With you it might be a different story—though frankly, Ramon, I’m inclined to doubt even that. He’s doubly hard to reason with because he himself seems to be getting no satisfaction out of the whole affair.”

  “He knows his audience better than we do,” Liu added. “And the more the numbers pile up, the more embittered he seems to become. I think they remind him continually that he can never be fully accepted on Earth, fully at home on it. He thinks he’s of interest only to people who themselves don’t feel at home on their own planet. That’s not true, of course, but that’s how he feels.”

  “There’s enough truth in it so that he’d be unlikely to be dissuaded of it,” Ruiz-Sanchez agreed gloomily.

  He shifted his chair so as not to be able to see Liu’s bees, which were hard at work in the shafts of sunlight on the porch. At another time he could not have torn himself away from them, but he could not afford to be distracted now.