Forbidden Sanctuary

by Richard Bowker

Zanla saw the man's face see theirs, take in their short robes and silver chains, and then notice the shining blue Ship overpowering the mist behind them. He saw the man back away slowly, then turn and run, hands in the air, shouting over and over a word that Zanla had since come to learn: "No! No! No!" The sound echoed in their minds as they waited uncertainly for the next shift in the patterns.

  As ever, the insight came unbidden. This time it was as pure and enigmatic as Elial could have wished.

  We are the creatures of their nightmares.

  Zanla shifted his weight, and his mind moved as well, circling the thought, probing it, judging its truth....

  He could not tell. All he knew was that it gave him a plan, and before he had had no plan. It would not be perfect, but he doubted there was a better one.

  He took off the blue cape, folded it carefully over his arm, and walked out of the room. His first officer was waiting across the corridor. "Samish, how well can you speak the alien language?"

  "A few words only, Master. Enough to communicate."

  "You can't write it, I suppose."

  "No, only the Priestess—"

  "Yes, I know. Send her—no. I had better go to her myself."

  An unavoidable consequence. She would either do it or not. He could only ask.

  "Tell the human guards I want to see Bacquier at the morning session tomorrow. I will be with Ergentil now. We are not to be disturbed on any account."

  * * *

  She was, ultimately, persuaded, and early the next morning she brought him her work. He stared at it appraisingly, but it meant nothing to him. He had to trust her.

  "Is it good enough?" he asked.

  "I think so," she replied. "Good enough."

  Zanla slipped the piece of paper into a small box behind his desk. "Thank you," he said. "Now we shall see."

  * * *

  Bacquier and the interpreter Natasha arrived promptly. They exchanged bows and sat down. Zanla began immediately. "Do you have any good news for me?"

  Bacquier shook his head as the interpreter relayed the question. "You must understand we are doing all we can," the answer came back. "Our governments are putting pressure on the Pope, and we are searching as thoroughly as possible. But it is a big planet, and the Pope refuses to help."

  "Who is this Pope?"

  "The leader of their religion."

  "Can you not capture him and force him to give up Tenon?"

  This seemed to make Bacquier uncomfortable. Good. The diplomat paused a couple of times in his reply. "It is not possible to do that, you see, Zanla. The Pope has many followers. He has no military power, but... to arrest or imprison him would create great problems. Besides, it is not likely he has specific knowledge of where Tenon is."

  "But he could tell his followers to give him up, and they would obey, wouldn't they?"

  "Yes, yes, I suppose so. But we cannot do more than we are doing. Please believe me."

  Bacquier extended his hands slightly toward Zanla in a gesture that needed no interpretation. He seemed quite upset. Zanla found himself believing him. But that did not remove the need for action. The man was too worried about his internal problems, not enough about the power of the Numoi. It was time to change the balance.

  "This is very serious, Claude," Zanla said. "We must return soon to Numos, but we cannot return without Tenon. I hope you can understand that. I hope you can understand that I do not want to do this. But I have no choice."

  He stopped for Natasha to interpret and watched Bacquier's face. Nothing. He continued. "Tenon must be returned to us within three Earth-days. If he is not, this is what will happen: we will leave this place and reappear over an earth city. We will drop from the Ship papers that say: 'The governments of Earth must return our stolen crew member or this city will be destroyed.' We will do this over your major cities, all around your planet, as many of them as we can reach within two days. Then we will begin the process of destruction."

  Bacquier remained impassive, but the shock and fear were unmistakable on the face of the interpreter. That was good. Bacquier uttered a sentence, his eyes fixed on Zanla. Natasha stumbled through it. "You cannot speak our languages, Zanla. How can you make people understand this message?"

  Zanla reached behind him and removed the sheet of paper from the box. He slid it across the desk to Bacquier. "We are not your equals in learning languages, but we are not helpless, Claude. We have made use of the books you have given us."

  Bacquier stared at the paper without picking it up. The interpreter too leaned over to read it. Yes, it was good enough; they understood it, and it frightened them. Ergentil had done her job.

  That point settled, Bacquier moved on, inevitably, to the next one. "All our information indicates that the Numoi are relatively primitive compared to our race in military capabilities, Zanla. I hope you will not be offended if I say that I do not believe you can carry out your threat."

  "Certainly I am not offended. And likewise I hope you will not be offended if I say that what you believe does not matter. It does not even matter whether or not we can do it. What matters is what the rest of your race believes."

  "What do you mean?" Bacquier asked, but it was clear he was beginning to understand.

  "I mean the threat itself will be sufficient, even without weapons. People will stream out of your cities, trampling each other in their terror. Thieves and murderers will roam the streets, there will be riots, governments will be attacked, your economic and political systems will collapse. The people of your planet will demand that Tenon be returned."

  Bacquier pondered. "The people can be warned beforehand," he observed. "Told it's all a bluff. Emergency plans can be prepared."

  Zanla shook his head, human-style. "It will not work," he replied. "We are not talking about fires or floods or even human enemies. We are talking about aliens. Mysterious, powerful aliens. Creatures of your nightmares."

  Bacquier shifted slightly in his chair when the interpreter reached the final phrase. Do diplomats have nightmares? Natasha's eyes were wide and worried. "This is a grave step you are taking, Zanla," Bacquier said finally. "You know that it will end the possibility of a peaceful development of relations between our worlds. And the point is, you still might not get Tenon back. If we cannot find him, we cannot find him."

  "I repeat," Zanla replied, "I do not want to do this. But I will not back down. I must make it clear to all your governments that failure to return Tenon will do more than just anger me. It will produce suffering and chaos for your entire planet. Perhaps with that in mind you will not be so hesitant to capture this Pope and force him to reveal what he knows."

  "Have you considered that this plan of yours is quite dangerous to you as well as to us?" Bacquier inquired slowly. "Few of our governments are likely to sit idly by while you carry out your threat. What good will come of this for any of us if your ship is destroyed?"

  "If our Ship is destroyed, your planet is destroyed," Zanla stated flatly. "Our weapons may not be as powerful as yours, but we have control of a physical process that is far beyond the comprehension of the greatest of your scientists. We have discovered the destructive power of this process before, to our dismay. You may tell this to your governments. They lose far more by destroying us than by letting us carry out our threat."

  Their eyes met in silence for a long moment. You do not believe me, Zanla thought. But can you take the risk? Can any of you? Of course not. Elial would not have approved of a lie. It was hardly fitting for one who wished to be a Councilor. But it was necessary. And it would work.

  "I have no way of knowing if what you tell me is true," Bacquier said, breaking his gaze away from Zanla's. "If it is, then you are taking an even greater risk, and there is all the more reason why you shouldn't carry out your threat. Because I cannot guarantee that every nation—or any nation—will believe what you say. If you threaten to destroy them, they may just decide to drop a bomb on you and hope for the best. Do you want to be responsible for the destructi
on of what might be the only other intelligent race in the Universe?"

  "I prefer to suppose that some member of this intelligent race will return Tenon to his masters," Zanla replied, "and all of us might return to our previous peaceful condition. Please keep me informed of any progress you make in the search."

  Bacquier interpreted this correctly as his dismissal and rose from his chair. "I must beg you to reconsider, Zanla," he said before leaving. "There is too much at stake here to let your anger take hold of you this way."

  "Please understand, Claude, it is not anger that is making me do this," Zanla replied truthfully. "I am only doing what has to be done for the good of the Numoi. I wish no one harm, but we must have Tenon back. Please tell that to your people."

  Bacquier bowed formally and left. Natasha, looking pale and worried, hurried after him.

  * * *

  Zanla watched them depart, suddenly very tired. It was done now. He was risking his crew's lives on an insight. It had worked so far, but there was so much further to go.

  And how could he feel any confidence, when success depended on interpreting the motivations and reactions of this alien race, and how could he be sure that insights had any value when dealing with such creatures?

  And how far, finally, would he go, if the three days went by and Tenon was not returned? What would he do if his bluff was called?

  He remembered going back to see Elial after his first Voyage, disgraced, despairing, in need of sympathy and advice. And Elial had said to him, "Success is easy for the Numoi. The true test of greatness lies in living nobly with failure."

  Elial, of course, had never made the Council. He was not right for the times, not practical enough in a pragmatic era. Zanla had tried to live by Elial's advice and example. He had done what he had to do, worked his way back. And, when the moment had come, Master at last of his own Ship and his own destination, he had spun the retheo far past the safe settings, out to where no Master had ever dared go. And he had been successful beyond his hopes: not only was his career saved, they would find it virtually impossible to keep him off the Council when he presented the volumes of notes, the books and the artifacts, and said, "Here is the race the Ancients sought for. Here is what you sent me to find."

  But that dream would only come true if Tenon was returned, if his bluff worked.

  It hadn't failed yet, he reminded himself. And if it did fail, there would be other insights, other plans. He had come too far to be stopped now.

  Chapter 17

  Ashanti listened carefully. He always listened carefully. When Bacquier was finished he was silent for a moment as he weighed the matter. Then he spoke abruptly. "Can they do it, Professor Aronson?"

  "Are they capable of carrying out Zanla's threat, do you mean?"

  "Of course."

  It was Aronson's turn to be silent. "There are two questions," he said finally. "First, do they have the weapons? My opinion on that would be no, they don't. They've refused to talk specifically about their military capability, but our impression is that it's quite primitive. The second question is: will the destruction of their ship have the consequences Zanla says it will?"

  "Precisely," Ashanti murmured.

  Aronson's sigh was perfectly audible over the phone. "Well, the fact is, since we have no idea how their ship works, we haven't the slightest basis for saying whether or not Zanla is lying. You'll recall when they first landed this was raised as a consideration against—"

  "If I could inject a nonscientific opinion," Bacquier interrupted, "this part of Zanla's threat seems entirely ad hoc to me, and for precisely that reason. Why didn't he raise this as a consideration at the very beginning, when he still might have doubted our peaceful intentions?"

  "That's true," Aronson responded, "but a major determinant of their behavior all along has apparently been the desire to withhold all information from us about the secret of faster-than-light travel. Zanla may be willing to give us this clue only because the alternative—letting us think we could hold on to his missing crew member—is so much more dangerous. He will clearly go to great lengths to get Tenon back."

  "Yes, that is very clear," Ashanti said softly. "Thank you, gentlemen. Your opinions are, as ever, valued."

  The Secretary-General hung up and made a list of people to be called. None of the calls would be pleasant, he was sure. And the first was not likely to be the easiest. He dialed the number for Pope Clement.

  It took some time to get through; his name did not open all doors. He was patient, however, and eventually he heard Clement's distant, tired voice. "I was thinking perhaps I'd get a call from you."

  "Yes, you are among the unlucky group."

  "Are you going to add your voice to the chorus demanding we give Tenon up?"

  "I would not presume to make any demands of you, Holiness. I only wanted to relay some new information that may be useful to you in considering the situation. May I?"

  "I am not opposed to listening."

  Ashanti told him.

  As anticipated, Clement was silent at first, mulling the news. When he spoke, his voice seemed charged with more energy than before. "Pardon me for being blunt, Mr. Ashanti, but why should I believe you? The UN told the world yesterday that Tenon will not be harmed if he is returned to the Numoi. We both know that is a lie. Why should you be telling the truth today?"

  "I assure you that it is true," Ashanti replied, unruffled. "My usefulness is at an end in this job if people cannot trust me. To show my good faith in this matter, I will admit to you that there is considerable doubt as to whether the Numoi can do what they threaten. However, there is no doubt that news of their threat will cause considerable unrest, not to say panic, in the world."

  "And you will be telling the world, I suppose?"

  "Well, certainly it is my duty to inform the various heads of state whose nations might be affected by this. They must have a chance to take whatever steps they feel might be necessary."

  "Including whatever persecution of the Catholic Church they feel might induce me to give in, I suppose."

  "It would be duplicitous of me to say otherwise, your Holiness. They will do what they can to protect their people. That is the way of the world."

  "Well, it was thoughtful of you to give us this news so quickly. It is much preferable to folding out from L'Osservatore Romano."

  "And may I ask if you intend to act on the information?"

  "Not at present, Mr. Ashanti. We are not yet quite ready to yield our principles."

  Ashanti smiled. "Very well, your Holiness. I am sure we will speak again."

  Odd, he thought, as he stared at his list. Clement's behavior in this situation just could not have been predicted. Was there a new power behind the throne? Was the Pope perhaps becoming a bit senile? No, this was not a throwback to his childhood, but to—what?—ten, fifteen years ago.

  Not too many men have ended civil wars single-handedly. They're not easy to end in any manner; Ashanti knew from experience. But Archbishop Herbert had done it, and all his actions since then had to be interpreted with that in mind. Of course it hadn't been a big civil war—a few hundred discontented blacks trying to stir the slumbering masses against a government slowly sinking under the weight of its own ineptitude. But the blacks were smart and desperate and well-armed, and their opposition was weary, tentative, afraid. Before a coherent policy had been formed, scores had been killed and the blacks had control of a ten-block area of East London. And, more important, they possessed a nuclear bomb, obtained somehow from the wreckage of the Soviet Union.

  The siege that developed had paralyzed the nation and almost destroyed it. All attempts at negotiation had been fruitless, until one morning Archbishop Herbert walked into the blacks' territory and offered himself in exchange for a peaceful settlement. The offer was spurned, but somehow, through hours of discussions with Kuntasha, the black leader, agreements were reached, concessions were made. By the end of the day a set of proposals had been sent to the Prime Minister; by t
he end of the week the war was over.

  These matters are never very tidy. Afterward, there were questions and recriminations on both sides. The Prime Minister's party was defeated in the next general election, a disaffected West Indian tried to assassinate Kuntasha. But the creaky mechanism of civilized discourse had started up again, and Herbert alone was responsible for that. Ashanti recalled someone asking the Archbishop on television how he had done it. Ill-at-ease, embarrassed, he had simply shrugged and said, "The Holy Spirit was with me."

  Well, perhaps. Certainly there had been little evidence of great diplomatic skill since then. Ashanti himself had bested the Pope on one or two minor matters in the four years of his reign. But it would be dangerous to underestimate a man like Clement. Obviously he was the kind who rose to occasions when one least expected it. And this, evidently, was an occasion to which he was rising.

  A foolish, irritating action. Ashanti's most basic instinct was to compromise, to placate, to pacify. And now Clement was forcing him to increase tensions, to anger people, to provoke bitterness. God save us all from fanatics.

  He picked up the phone and put through a call to the White House. President Gibson would not be very pleased. No one would be very pleased.

  Chapter 18

  Harry Stokes was tired and grouchy. More grouchy than tired: he didn't like being chewed out, especially when he hadn't done anything wrong. McMurtry was getting heat from the big shots back in New York, and was simply passing it along. Okay, no hard feelings, but you couldn't expect a person to be exactly jumping for joy over it.

  Stokes had spent the previous evening tracking down cab drivers, limo drivers, bus drivers, anyone who might have picked up passengers from United Flight 407 out of New York City. No one could remember a big Italian-looking guy and a short something-or-other. Then he had checked the guest registers at a few grungy motels off the Strip. No way he'd get the fancier hotels. Up at the crack of dawn, and McMurtry has the bright idea: if we can't find those two, let's track down the rest of the passengers. See if they have anything to add.