New Writings in SF 21 - [Anthology]

by Ed By John Carnell

  Somewhat relieved, Henri threw up his hands and rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘On this matter, you know that I would like nothing better than to be of help,’ he said, still not looking directly at Scroop. ‘It is, as I have pointed out, the fault of the Continental Transportation Code. Beer, cider, distilled spirits and fortified wines may be transported to the distributor authorised in a Closed Environment. Moi! But it says nowhere anything about sacramental wines. Moreover, it is clear, there, that no public or private carrier may transport the intoxicating beverages for an individual in a Closed Environment. Toi! My hands, they are tied/ he cried, throwing the said members wide in a rather contradictory gesture.

  Scroop clucked to himself in disappointment. ‘Henri,’ he reproved, ‘have you no pride in your own company? A company looking to its three hundred-and-fiftieth birthday?’ Henri looked bewildered at the cleric’s seeming shift of subject. Scroop used the tone one normally reserves for scolding children. ‘The Hudson Bay Company has always enjoyed certain exemptions from enacted legislation. Always!’ he emphasised the last. ‘The final volume of regulations from the Department of Transport in Old Canada retained most of those exemptions for townsite branches and among them were many that maintained good relations between The Church and the Company. Now the AmeriCanadian Continental Transportation Code says: “Except where specifically altered in the following document, existing legislation of both countries shall remain in effect.” I can give you the exact passages which allow you to transport sacramental wine for all good Christian purposes.’ He dropped a sheet of foolscap on Henri’s desk, with a single short, scribed line of letters and numbers.

  The rotund mayor-manager was clearly stunned. Scroop rose stiffly and began to button his parka, then turned and faced him. ‘About the child, Henri. It will comfort your soul to know that she was not certifiably dead when I reached the dispensary.’ Then he intoned sternly: ‘ “It is a stiff-necked people and I will bend them.” You know the verse ? I will give you your penance in the proper place.’ As he stalked from the office Henri stammered, ‘Good day, Father,’ and Scroop wondered as he walked down the stairs whether it had been a conscious capitulation.

  * * * *

  It was not quite 18.00 and he still had two appointments and he was bone tired. He sat in the autoteria toying with his food, not really hungry and afraid to eat too much lest he get dull. Autoteria food was all the same anyway, he decided, which was only half the truism since all food was literally the same whether you dialled it here or at home. He hadn’t really enjoyed eating since Martha’s death and no one became a gourmand on a Spiritual Advisor’s credits once his Family AP was gone. Bitter humour, he thought looking at his newer All Purpose Card. At his age and in this place he was suddenly receiving more credits than he had ever dreamed of—for ‘hardship allowance’. Yet this was luxury compared to the conditions in that old ELS, with seven kids and a wife crammed into triple-tiered bunks and his work to clear away before they could eat in shifts.

  The gnawing pain was with him again; loss of something more than family. Back then he had known a deep contentment that had nothing to do with material things or close relationships and for a fraction of a second he had glimpsed it again, as he was leaving Henri LeBlanc’s office. To serve a spiritual need once more, instead of manipulating the maze. He tossed off the rest of his coffee, slipped his AP Card into a pocket and left his half-finished meal.

  All family accommodation in Tundra City was essentially the same, differing only in the number of bedrooms, yet Cyril Jameson and his wife had managed to make their flat look somehow more finished. Not exactly elegant; more like the picture of what an elegant home ought to be. The Town Engineer-School Principal ushered Scroop in with an offhand casualness, graciously offered a drink which was graciously declined and settled his lean, athletic body into a graceful chair. After the required preliminaries, his wife excused herself.

  ‘Now, Sir, how can I help you?’ Jameson asked expectantly. Scroop, who had already probed without success for a chink in this armour of gentility, decided that there was no longer any virtue in playing by Jameson’s rules.

  ‘We could start,’ he said brusquely, ‘with my WC.’

  Jameson’s face went a startled blank, and the seconds lengthened until he responded lamely: ‘I see. Or rather, I’m not sure I do see.’

  Scroop was relentlessly tactless. ‘Perhaps I should have said,’ he continued, ‘my lack of a WC. You must surely have answered my memo personally, since your name is scribed at the bottom.’

  Jameson coloured slightly. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I did see your memo, but I, uh, turned it over to my clerk. Part-time, you know.’ Then he seemed to draw up a little more assurance. ‘Nevertheless, I do recall the answer made very clear our reasons for not providing a—bathroom—in your quarters. For the time being.’ He managed to look a bit offended. ‘I would have thought that this was hardly the place...’

  Scroop cut him off with a guffaw. ‘Course not,’ he replied, and sprawled slightly on the divan, obviously not to be budged for some time.

  Jameson rose and asked, ‘Sure you won’t have a drink? I think I’ll have one myself, after all.’ He slotted the Family AP and dialled jerkily, then returned to sit and sip with clear apprehension over what gauche act Scroop would commit next. That worthy straightened and looked him in the eyes. ‘Jameson,’ he said in businesslike tones, ‘there have been no confirmations in this parish since it was first opened. Yet there are at least two dozen people of a proper age. Why haven’t they been instructed?’ - Jameson looked into his glass and answered in a faintly amused tone. ‘You know yourself that I’m only a Lay Reader, not a Deacon.’

  Scroop tapped a finger on his knee in annoyance. ‘Come now,’ he retorted, ‘there’s been a ruling on that for centuries. In remote parishes a Lay Reader, or even a Warden, may be so empowered. That power has been implicit with your licence from Howard Keewatin.’ Scroop waved a stiff hand as Jameson angrily leaned forward. ‘I know, I know. Now it’s my job. Classes will be announced next Sunday. Next, I want you to find something appropriate for a baptismal font.’

  Jameson shot to his feet. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘That’s too much. No agent of CUSS is going to baptise children in my parish.’ He flushed and a vein swelled at his temple.

  Scroop said quietly, but ominously, ‘Sit down, Jameson. Your parish? Not yours, or mine. But you are my Lay Reader, so long as I make the annual request.’ He waited until the angry man had regained control and understood the threat. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let me tell you something that none of you has taken the trouble to look up. Henry Danbury presided at my ordination, many years ago. Nevertheless, I took some precautions when I came, including a call when I stopped over at Churchill. The Bishop of Keewatin made it to the heliport in time to place his hands on my head and bless me.’

  Jameson was clearly shaken by the revelation, but he appeared not to be finished. ‘All right,’ he conceded, ‘we’ll grant your apostolic succession. We’ll grant the UN ruling on our petition, that one CUSS Advisor may serve the townsite.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘It’s too bad you didn’t have more time with the Bishop. He could have told you why he hasn’t sent a priest to us. Why he won’t come himself, even if we have a hundred children ready for confirmation.’

  Suddenly hyper-alert, Scroop couldn’t have cared less for the moment who was winning the battle of wills here. This was vital information which he had not been able to unearth. Jameson, in his agitation, hardly noticed Scroop’s. interest. ‘Sure each denomination wanted its own priest, and that seems inefficient. But don’t fool yourself that the General Manager could have kept them out for long on that ground. Hobbs may be a virulent atheist but he’s not an idiot. Our worker priests could have qualified as legitimate personnel even under his interpretations.’

  Jameson thrust clenched fists into the pockets of his lounging suit, stamped across the room, and swung around scowling. ‘It’s the nature of the beast behind the ridge,’
he said. ‘Or its potential nature. Somehow the rumour got around that we were separating radio-isotopes. Particularly the stuff used in fission weapons. The worst part of it is that it’s possible, theoretically. We have magnetic centrifugal separators at the refinery. The ore is rich in half a dozen heavy metals, including Uranium. Put the method and the material in the same place and then try to explain to the average man what the difference is between our “floaters” and a plasma separator.’

  Scroop didn’t have to be a genius to understand. Jameson could see he was following. ‘So there isn’t a priest in Old Canada,’ he finished, ‘who will come to Tundra City, or any sect that will send one. Meanwhile, Hobbs plays it cosy and denies just hard enough to keep the rest of the world relatively convinced that we’re not warmongers, including the UN and CUSS.’

  There was a long silence before Scroop finally spoke. ‘You said, I believe, theoretically possible?’

  Jameson puffed his cheeks in exasperation. ‘Not you too ? Of course it’s theoretically possible. Even a Civil Engineer like me can tell you that. But not with the same equipment. So how do you hide an operation like that?’

  Scroop nodded apologetically. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He got up with genuine reluctance and said with less genuine optimism, ‘I do have two more pleasant things to tell you. First, we should have official sacramental wine for communion when Henri’s next shipment comes from the Manitoba Liquor Commission. Second, there’s a cassette alongside my scanner which says, “I will be in Tundra City some time next fall. Howard Keewatin.” He sounds like a man who tends his flock.’

  It struck Scroop, as he made his way back to City Center, that Jameson would worry over his reaction to the nuclear weapons rumour. Could it be that a CUSS Advisor was better than no priest at all? It wouldn’t last, though, and the Anglicans, with that infuriating diffidence which seemed inherent, would be the last to accept him. After all, he thought wryly, there was that ancient joke—how did it go—about God coming home to Old Canada to live with his Anglican heirs. He doubted that the joke would go over well with Alvin Hobbs.

  The muted hum of a vehicle brought him back to the present with a slight start, and he moved quickly to the corner of the main intersection to wave down the approaching service truck.

  ‘Goin’ through, Padre?’ the driver asked and Scroop sighed wearily as he folded his long body into the passenger seat. The young man dialled up and they accelerated smoothly towards the tunnel mouth. Shifting a wad of something to his other cheek with a trace of embarrassment, he glanced sideways at Scroop and cleared his throat. ‘I been meanin’ to get to mass regular,’ he began, ‘now you’re here. Went for a while, but Henri and most of the rest speak French, an’...’

  He trailed off and Scroop said gently, ‘I understand, my son. A habit broken is hard to restore.’ They were into the tunnel now (another way around the Protected Environment regulations), but he ignored the mine entrance and ore cars on the right, the river access branch and storage chambers to the left. With studied casualness he asked, ‘When was the last time your confession was heard?’

  The driver drummed nervous fingers on the steering wheel, then answered. ‘Before you came.’ There was awkward silence and he blurted out, ‘Before I came two years ago.’

  They came out into grey light and the driver turned hard right with visible relief, dialling off to a quick stop in front of the Admin. Building. Scroop levered himself out on to the foam and leaned back into the cab. ’Confession for third-shift RC’s is 06.30 Thursday mornings. There’s no queue,’ he added, and stood with bare hand in a half-gesture of benediction while the truck pulled away. He noted with satisfaction that he had three minutes to spare before his appointment with Hobbs, at 21.20.

  * * * *

  The office was the man; an extension of Alvin Hobbs’ personality. One saw first the massive, tidy desk, then the severe, solid chairs and file decks, after that the unrelieved walls of simulated oak, the deep brown carpet, and finally the panoramic sweep of industrial complex framed by recessed tan curtains. The General Manager, veteran of many union and government battles, stood at his window in clear command of the scene; mine, smelters, separators, power plant; the complete site. Scroop knew that he was supposed to be intimidated, aware of how insignificant he and his problem were.

  ‘Then it’s No again?’ he asked slowly.

  ‘I’ll disregard the “again”, Scroop,’ the manager replied evenly. ‘Aside from the fact that you have a wide scope for recreation at City Center, I have many reasons for not allowing this silly proposal.’

  Scroop tried a placatory tone. ‘Sometimes when you settle into a comfortable routine, you don’t realise that you’re using the facilities in a monotonous fashion; getting stale.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Hobbs snapped. ‘I hardly get over to use them any...” He flushed and switched his ground. ‘Having a number of kids in the complex for a prolonged period is out of the question. Why do you think they put the townsite on the other side of the ridge to begin with ? That’s a nuclear power plant.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the window.

  Scroop caught him up. ‘But I understand that groups are brought over by Mr. Jameson occasionally, for a half-day lecture.’

  Hobbs reeled off with relish: ‘AmeriCanadian Multi-Related Industries Operations Regulations: Section 432; paragraphs 18 to 20. For educational purposes, under supervision, when accompanied by a school official. And your snow sculpture contest doesn’t qualify.’

  Scroop wasn’t done yet, however. ‘Surely the heliport,’ he persisted, ‘in a fairly shielded area behind an outcropping, doesn’t come under the same regulations?’

  Hobbs smiled thinly. ‘Probably does, at my discretion,’ he purred, ‘but in addition, you cannot allow the SAC to be interrupted over a heliport, except during landings and takeoffs. International Closed Environment Standard Legislation : Volume Two: Section SAC; Sub-Section Air Transport; Regulation One. So your budding artists may not collect a foot or so of snow on my heliport and roll it into glorified snowmen.’ He gestured impatiently as Scroop began yet again. ‘And there’s no way they will set foot outside the SAC in violation pf the World Court Protected Environment Agreement.’

  Scroop murmured ‘Ah, yes, we don’t need chapter and verse on that. No, what I was going to suggest was that exception’s have been made to the heliport rules. I’ve seen a very old notice about a kite-flying contest. It couldn’t have been held on the Center playing field.’ He went on more quickly. ‘The regular flight got away this morning. We’ve three free days then, there’s a nice storm brewing and we could have the port clean and dry, with the sculpturing on one of the spare pads, in forty-eight hours.’

  Even in mid-sentence, Scroop sensed that Hobbs had been waiting for this. The manager glanced at his chrono and moved towards the door. ‘I’m busy, Scroop,’ he said with a patronising air. ‘Too busy for people who don’t grasp what life up here is all about. Stick to preaching. I suppose you know the rules and regs of that.’ He opened the door and motioned Scroop through. ‘Meanwhile,’ he ended, ‘I have another appointment. With some officials who just arrived by copter.’ The barb was flicked with seasoned skill and Scroop knew the timing of their meeting had been nicely calculated.

  Equally calculated was the cold dismissal as they moved into the anteroom, where Hobbs nodded curtly and then boomed an effusive, ‘Welcome to Tundra City, gentlemen,’ at the two men before his secretary’s desk. Unfortunately, there was too little room for Scroop to leave unnoticed and he found himself facing a small, turbanned individual whose black eyes shone like buttons, pulling ancient fabric into a maze of fine wrinkles. Those eyes, without haste, took in Scroop from head to toe, pausing fractionally at the venerable symbol on his breast. Somehow, while returning a soft ‘Thank you, Mr. Hobbs,’ he halted Scroop with a slightly raised finger. ‘An equal pleasure,’ he added, ‘to be met by Doctor Scroop.’

  Hobbs was obviously disconcerted, yet he covered his re
action extremely well. Even so, it seemed to amuse the second man, burly, dark-haired, untidy looking. With only a breath of disbelief in his voice, Hobbs asked, ‘You’ve met then?’

  The small man smiled serenely and answered, ‘Not in the flesh, Sir. If I may...?’ He bowed slightly towards his companion and said formally, ‘Doctor Scroop—Doctor Horwitz. And I am Rahjan Sikh.’ He turned back to Hobbs and said pleasantly, ‘We are here primarily, of course, to discount certain misunderstandings, as technological observors. But you have here a religious anachronism which is peculiarly apt for me and for Jacob, who heads the Semitic League delegation.’

  Horwitz, who had watched with seeming detachment, stepped forward and extended his hand. ‘You are the same Scroop then. Neo-Rational Theology and the Cambridge Platonists. I read it at New Union Seminary when I took rabbinical orders. Before the metallurgical degrees at home. A long ... a while back.’ Scroop winced inwardly despite Horwitz’ attempt to gloss the slip.