And that was the Numoi's problem: the one thing they possessed that Earth could want, beyond the hazy benefits of cultural exchange, they could not afford to let slip away.
Angela wondered: if I had the run of the ship, would I be able to solve the mystery? Aronson and the other members of the team were forever pumping them for facts, details, impressions. "It's a puzzle," Aronson had said. "Anything you notice is worth reporting, because it might be a piece of the puzzle." What if there were strange devices in the base of the pyramid—could she describe them accurately? What if there were nothing at all? What if—
A movement at the edge of her field of vision broke her rambling train of thoughts. She turned her head. It was the guard, who had evidently moved gradually away from the door. So that he could see our faces, Angela thought. She smiled tentatively at him.
He bowed in return. "Do you speak the language?" he asked in a rushed whisper.
The language was Numian, and the answer was simple. But should she give it? The crew was forbidden to speak with them, she knew. The guard was clearly afraid—of her? or of the consequences if he was caught?
"I speak the language," she replied finally, "but are we allowed to talk?"
"Don't worry. The Master told me he would be at least twenty vobi."
The vobi was a short unit of time that Angela had forgotten how to convert. The response was not exactly what she had wanted. Her hesitancy must have been obvious, because the guard tried again almost immediately. "My name is Tenon," he said. "I would like to be your friend."
Well, she could not resist an offer of friendship. "My name is Angela," she replied politely. "I want very much to be your friend, too."
"Yes, yes," Tenon cried enthusiastically, causing Contini to look up from his notes.
"Are you supposed to be talking to that guard?" the professor asked Angela.
"It's all right," she said, although not very sure of herself.
He stared at her dubiously for a moment, and then went back to his work.
"You are the first"—outlander? barbarian?—"I have spoken to," Tenon said in a lower tone. "I was afraid the Voyage would end before I had a chance."
"Your Master is—"
"Yes, yes. Tell me, Angela: is it permissible to ask questions of a friend?"
"Of course."
Tenon glanced nervously at the closed door. Angela didn't like this. "The Master has not told us of your hasali. Do you have the Numoi's hasali?"
The word was not easily translatable—belief system was what Angela and the other interpreters had settled on. Part of the problem was that Zanla forbade discussion of many aspects of the Numoi's hasali, so that the exact limits of the definition were vague. "I do not know the Numoi's hasali," she replied. "Humans have many different hasali. They do not all believe the same things."
Tenon seemed to reflect on this. "Tell me yours then, Angela," he said finally. "What is your hasali?"
Angela smiled. In less than twenty vobi? What did he want to hear about? Politics? Economics? Ethics? Just what was her hasali? She thought of morning Mass, the words of the Creed that had drifted across her consciousness. Not easy to explain that. But it was what he had asked for, and it was the truth. "I believe," she began, "in a Supreme Being Who created and rules the Universe. He chose to become one of us for a while, under the name of Jesus, to teach us how to live good lives, so that we could exist with Him after we die. But humans would not accept His teaching. They did not understand Him, and they feared Him, and so—"
Angela fell silent. Why was Tenon acting this way? His face was animated, his hands were twitching, his whole body seemed to quiver. Was it excitement, or illness, or some totally alien response? "Is there something—?"
"And so they put Him to death," Tenon finally managed to whisper. "They put Jesus to death. But He came back to life again, to show the truth of His message. Didn't He?" he asked, reaching out toward her. "Didn't He?"
"How—I mean, I don't understand—"
"Tell me," he said. "Tell me. Finish it."
"They put Him to death," she continued, barely able to think it through. "They nailed Jesus to a cross of wood along with common criminals. But yes, to show He was indeed the Supreme Being, He came back from the dead, and showed Himself to some of His followers. Not to everyone, though, because we must have faith in Him if we are to be united with Him after death. But how did you know? Surely Zanla doesn't—"
Tenon waved the explanation away. "Vomurd," he said.
Angela was unfamiliar with the word. "What is that?"
"It is... it is when something unexpected happens that nevertheless is part of a pattern in things-as-they-are. I cannot—it is difficult to explain." He fell silent for a moment, swaying slightly in what Angela recognized as deep concentration. "What was His name again?" he asked.
"Jesus."
That seemed to mean nothing to him. He thought some more. "If I tell you of this," he said finally, "I put my life in your hands. You will not tell the Master I have spoken with you?"
"I will tell Zanla nothing."
"And the other?"—motioning to Contini.
"He does not speak the language."
"Very well." He stopped swaying, but his hands still twitched with excitement. He began talking in a low tone, quickly, so that Angela had to strain to follow him.
"We Numoi rule over much of our planet, but there are other nations, other races. You perhaps know this. The Council could conquer them, I suppose, but it does not choose to. In a hilly region of the north there is a race who call themselves the Stani. There are not many of them but they are strong and proud, and they have never accepted the Numoi hasali. They have their own instead, which is difficult to put into the language. They say that there is... is personality in things-as-they-are, and that they—the Stani—will one day become the living focus of this personality. Is this clear at all?"
No, but there wasn't time to make it clearer. "Please go on."
"They have had these beliefs for many generations. But over time their hasali has become coarsened—just like the Numoi's. Many of them began to believe that somehow it meant that one day they would defeat the Numoi and rule the planet themselves. So when Chitlan—"
"Who is Chitlan?"
"Oh, I'm going too fast. It's so hard. Chitlan was a Stani teacher. He was born poor and humble, but he became very great, and many people listened to him. He claimed—he said that he himself was not only the living focus, but the personality itself. He said the Stani had been chosen not to destroy the Numoi but to bring peace and love to the world, so that everyone could join in the unending happiness of sharing in the universal personality."
"My God," Angela whispered in English.
"This was his message to the Stani," Tenon continued. "He traveled throughout their land, performing wonders to show the truth of what he preached. Many believed him, but many chose not to, because his message was a difficult one. It was much easier just to hate the Numoi. So the rulers of the Stani plotted against him and they arrested him and—"
"They put him to death," Angela said.
"You see?" Tenon cried. "You see? And he too came back to life. Oh, they tried to claim it was a trick, a rumor spread by his followers, but that is nonsense. Too many people saw, too many people believe."
"And do you believe?"
Tenon moved his hand in a circle, gesturing assent. "Chitlan's followers have brought his message to Numos. They are persecuted savagely. But some of us believe. Some of us think the Numoi hasali is corrupt and dying, and that Chitlan is the future, Chitlan is the truth. Our belief has to be kept secret, though, or we too would be killed. Someday, perhaps..." He fell silent.
"What do you make of it?" Angela asked after a moment.
"They are the same," Tenon whispered slowly. "How could they not be? The words we use are different, but the meaning, the truth... they must be the same."
"We too were persecuted," Angela remarked.
"Did your Jesus
live long ago?"
"Many, many generations ago."
"But His hasali survived?"
"Countless millions believe."
"Millions," Tenon repeated in wonder. "Perhaps there is hope for our future then." His hands started to twitch again in excitement. "One cannot ignore vomurd. The pattern is there. One must submit to the pattern. That much of the Numoi hasali is true."
"I don't understand."
"You humans have much that the Numoi lack, Angela. Zanla does not tell us crew members everything, but we know about your communications instruments, your calculating machines, your fast land vehicles. The Council will do much to get these things, because they will give meaning to the Voyages and power to the Numoi. If your leaders could only say: we will share our knowledge with you, but only if you let the followers of Chitlan be free to live by their hasali. The Numoi might agree. They might, do you see?"
He looked at Angela hopefully, yearningly. She shared his excitement, she wanted to help, but... he understood so little and asked so much. "I will do what I can," she said. "But I have no power. I don't know exactly what—"
The door opened. She stopped. They stared at one another, and she could see the plea in his alien eyes, and she realized she would probably never speak to him again.
"You are dismissed," Zanla said curtly to Tenon, who bowed and left immediately. Zanla sat down and inclined his head to Angela and Contini. "Please excuse the interruption. Now, we were discussing chord structures?"
Contini began in a torrent of Italian. Angela sighed, and struggled to do her job.
* * *
She sat by her window and stared at her notes. Writing them had been the easy part. The hard part was deciding what to do with them.
Tenon had not asked her to do anything, but her task was clear—and it was hopeless. To bring the matter before the proper authorities would be to have it quietly ignored. The UN would have no wish to jeopardize relations between the two planets for the sake of a tiny cult. Pressure would have to come from outside. But, as a member of the Alien Study Team, she was forbidden to say anything about the Numoi without first clearing it with Bacquier or Aronson. To do so without permission was illegal; it would certainly cost her this job, no matter how valuable she was, and probably threaten her entire career.
Learning and teaching languages were the only things she could do well. The only things she enjoyed. Still, if she knew she could be successful, the loss of her career wouldn't matter. But how in the world could she do what Tenon wanted her to?
She looked out the window at the empty highway, and after a while she realized this was the wrong question. The question was: could she live with herself, could she face her God, if she did nothing?
She put on her coat and went outside. It took her a few minutes to find Paddy Maloney, talking with a couple of Canadians by the garage. "Could I see you for a moment, Paddy?" she asked as nonchalantly as she could manage.
Paddy smirked at the other soldiers. "Aw, she's forever following me around. It's disgusting." But he moved agreeably away from them with Angela. "What's up?" he asked. "Need to go to confession?"
"Not exactly, Paddy." She took a deep breath. "I have a friend in town. A very good friend. I'd like to be able to get off the compound for a couple of hours to see him tonight."
Paddy hooted. "A man, is it? Does the good father at Most Precious Blood know you'll be committing licentious acts of carnal depravity?"
Angela smiled in spite of herself. "I'll have to commit them alone if you don't get me into town."
"Oh, we wouldn't want that. Not at all." He pondered for a moment. "There's some fellows off duty going out tonight. We'll get something wrong with the jeep and take the van instead. Sneak you under the back seat. Show up at the garage around eight-thirty. What I won't do for a beautiful woman."
"How can I ever repay you, Paddy?"
He laughed. "Tell me the whole disgusting story tomorrow. That'll keep me warm on guard duty."
"You're a dear." She kissed him on the cheek and headed excitedly back to the motel.
Darkness was falling, and the alien ship glowed dully in the fading light. She gazed thoughtfully at it as she walked past. It—and everything—seemed different now.
Chapter 2
Father Gardner came out of the church and checked to make sure the big oak doors were locked behind him. A couple walked by, heads bowed against the cold wind. Too bad they didn't see him, he thought. Good example, priest coming out of church at night. Even if it was only to check the furnace.
He strode quickly toward the rectory, crunching through the crisp snow. As usual, the sound seemed impossibly loud, and he thought: they are following me, matching their footsteps to mine. He wanted to look behind him. If he looked, they would not be there. If he didn't look, they would be there. That was how it was.
But if he looked (as he always did), and they weren't there (and they never were), then he would be a childish coward for giving in to such idiotic reasoning.
He looked. No one.
He sighed and went inside the rectory, double-locking the door behind him. He thrust the dirty parka onto the coatrack and made his way down the hall to the kitchen.
No good living alone, he thought as he made himself a cup of tea. That was the real problem: the big old house with just him in it. Not that he needed a wife, of course. What he needed was another priest. Someone to watch TV, have a beer with. Ed Finnegan, Charlie Connolly, Al Bernardi, any of them. All of them. The rectory had been built for four priests, but there hadn't been that many in it for half a century, probably, since the '50s, when they still had the school, the nuns, First Communion classes, May processions, the works. And now there was just him, saying a last-another-winter prayer over the furnace and going slightly crazy in the long, lonely evenings.
He snapped on the radio to exorcise his morbid thoughts. Not much luck. On the talk show they were discussing the aliens—there was no escaping them. The UN said they were leaving soon. Would they be coming back? Would any humans be going with them? Was the UN trying to hide something? No one had any answers, of course, but that didn't stop the questions.
And that was so very familiar: the old ladies clutching at him after Mass, calling him late at night, bursting into tears during confession. Are they going to destroy us, Father? Will they make us slaves, Father? Is this part of God's plan? What does this mean to our faith? They looked to him for guidance, and he had none to offer. Beneath the reassuring façade was bewilderment and, yes, fear. And while his parishioners had mostly gotten used to the fact of aliens in their midst, his own fear continued, and grew. There was so much people expected of you, and only so much you could do. If only—
The sound of the doorbell shattered his meditation. "Idiot, it's not the aliens," he muttered to himself, but his hand was shaking as he lowered his teacup to the table. He shut off the radio and hurried back down the hall to the front door.
Was he presentable? Fly zipped, collar straight? You forget these things sometimes when you live alone. The doorbell rang again. He opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on.
It was a woman, knitted cap pulled down over her forehead, looking cold and worried. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Father, but do you have a few minutes you could spare?"
He slid the chain and opened the door, then stepped back to let the woman in. It was only when she removed the cap that he recognized her. It was the Woman from the Alien Study Team, the Woman with the Guard. What did she want with him?
"Are we alone, Father?"
"Yes, yes. No one around here at night much. Won't you come in, uh, Ms.—"
"Summers. Angela Summers."
"Ms. Summers." Her features were thin, dark, vaguely Mediterranean. Her black hair was pulled back severely from her face. She could have been anywhere from thirty to forty-five; she had that antiseptic, ageless look of a professional scholar, or a nun. And she must be a scholar, of course, one of "them so-called experts" his housekeeper referred
to. Beyond that—and the fact that she was obviously a devout Catholic—he knew nothing about her. "We can go into my office if you would like to, ah, talk."
"That would be fine."
His office was a mess, but the rest of the place was messier. It was a small room, cluttered with overdue bills and unread diocesan reports. On the mantel was a half-full bottle of sherry. Oh dear. Just a glass before dinner, but no one would believe him. "I'm sorry it's so chilly in here. Old heating system, you know."
"It's fine. Especially after walking up from the center of town."
"Oh, yes, certainly." What was she doing downtown? And where was her guard? "Please sit." He scooped yesterday's newspaper off a dusty wing-chair. She took off her coat and sat down, laying the coat on her lap.
She seemed quite nervous. That made two of them. She fiddled incessantly with her cap and avoided his gaze, obviously unable to begin. He sat down opposite her, and tried to help. "Well, Ms. Summers, what can I do for you?"
She looked up from her cap at him, and he knew she was judging him, trying to decide if this overweight, not very bright priest was the one to tell her problem to. As he squirmed under her gaze he suddenly found the right pigeonhole for her. Not a nun, but one of those fanatical lay-people who knew more about religion than he could ever hope to, the kind who come up to you after a decent homily and ask how you reconciled your position with Thessalonians 1:5 or something. And this, oddly enough, put him somewhat at ease, because, no matter how great their intellectual superiority, those people always had an implicit faith in priests. Direct channel to God and all that.
Finally she thrust her cap aside, leaned forward, and began. "The reason I'm so hesitant in starting, Father, is, well, I'm not supposed to be here. I'm on the Alien Study Team—you perhaps knew that—and we had to sign things when we joined, and I think I may be breaking a law by leaving the compound and telling you what I'm going to tell you. It's not easy for someone like me to break the law."
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