Forbidden Sanctuary

by Richard Bowker

  Perhaps this was how Tenon felt, Collingwood thought, standing alone in an alien world. All he had was his religion—and that, ultimately, was all Collingwood had too. Like Tenon, he was willing to go to great lengths to keep his religion from being destroyed.

  He strode back to the Vatican, sticking close to the Tiber and main streets. Despite the cold, his palms were wet. Once he was in his room he took a pencil and made out a list of names. Then, without a pause, he called the first name on the list.

  "Hello?"

  "Hello, is this Father Jeffries?"

  "Yes."

  "Ed, this is Monsignor Collingwood calling, from the Vatican. Am I interrupting anything?"

  "Nothing that can't wait while I talk to the Vatican."

  "Yes, that one little word accomplishes a lot in certain circles. Listen, in the Chancery there in New York you're pretty close to what goes on in the Archdiocese, aren't you?"

  "I like to think so, certainly."

  "Well, I have a rather delicate matter to bring up that might call on your knowledge and your contacts. I hope I can rely on your discretion."

  "Certainly you can, Monsignor."

  "Fine. You, uh, you are certainly aware of the Pope's position on this alien business."

  "Of course."

  "Well, things are a little more complicated than they might appear on the newscasts. You see, his Holiness feels that the position he is taking is the only one that would be publicly acceptable for an institution like ours to take. We can't say anything else without lowering our moral stature. On the other hand, he is fully aware of the disastrous consequences if the present state of affairs is allowed to continue."

  "It's quite a dilemma."

  "It is indeed. Well, the easiest way out of it would simply be for the alien to be found, without the Pope having to turn him in. Unfortunately, the authorities seem to be having no luck in tracking him down. So we have decided, in the strictest secrecy, to try to help them. We don't enjoy doing this, but circumstances are forcing us."

  "I understand perfectly."

  "Wonderful. What we would like you to do is to make discreet inquiries among your acquaintances, to see if anyone has any information about where Bernardi and Tenon might be. Since Bernardi is from New York City, and his car was found there, it seems possible that he is in the city, and he may well have sought aid from one of his clerical friends. You're in as good a position as anyone to find out if this theory is true."

  "I will certainly do my best, Monsignor."

  "Great. You should not, of course, say anything about this call, or about the Vatican's interest in the matter. Vague hints should be sufficient to make the point."

  "I understand. But could I just ask: why isn't Cardinal Rafferty the one to be informed about this? It would seem—"

  "It was felt best to keep this effort confined to lower levels of the hierarchy. Deniability, that sort of thing. What would his Eminence do, after all, except turn the matter over to you?"

  "That's true, I guess."

  "Let me give you my personal phone number. If you learn anything, call me. Any time. A lot depends on it."

  "Of course. I'll do my best."

  After Collingwood had hung up he lay back and stared at the ceiling for a while. He was soaked with perspiration, he suddenly realized. He longed for a shower. It would take more than a shower to cleanse him now, though. He looked at the second name on the list, and picked up the phone again.

  Chapter 22

  Ergentil was filling up sheet after sheet with her gruesome message. It was a boring, futile task, since she was sure Zanla would not attempt to carry out the threat. For one thing, she knew it was impossible to calibrate the retheo that finely; for another, it would only give them another couple of days before the next stage of their bluff would be called. If the aliens didn't turn Tenon over within these three days, nothing was likely to work.

  Still, she didn't really mind doing it. It gave her the sense that something was being accomplished, and that she had a part in it. She worked at it steadily, until she noticed Zanla standing in the doorway, staring at her. How long had he been there? They seemed incapable of not annoying each other.

  "Yes?" she inquired coldly.

  "I have just spoken with Bacquier," he said. "It seems the leader of this religion wants to visit me—I suppose to talk us out of our threat."

  "How does he expect to do that?"

  Zanla gestured his ignorance.

  "Did you agree to meet him?"

  "I could see no reason not to. Conceivably I could talk him into giving up Tenon."

  "I'd say neither of you has much chance of success."

  "Perhaps."

  Ergentil noted the tone. "What do you have in mind?" she demanded.

  "Bacquier told me before that this Pope has no military power. Presumably he will come by himself. Presumably we could—"

  "No," she interrupted firmly. "The Laws of Hospitality forbid it. If we accept this man as a guest, we must treat him as a guest."

  "That's the schoolbook answer, of course," Zanla countered. "But we aren't in school. If we capture this Pope, then surely his followers will have to give up Tenon in exchange for him. Our problem would be solved."

  "It is deception."

  "What about the threat I made to Bacquier? Wasn't that deception? You approved of that."

  "It was different. We weren't dealing with a guest. The Laws of Hospitality—"

  "Oh, please don't lecture me. Isn't the law of survival more important?"

  "There is no such law," Ergentil responded. She was about to elaborate on his lack of regard for his religion when she felt a sudden, unexpected surge of pity for him. "You wouldn't have come to see me about this if you were at ease in your own mind," she noted.

  Zanla glared at her for a moment, and then dropped his gaze to the floor. "You have written enough," he said. "I have been talking to Rothra and the other officers. The crew is not in good shape. We could try for one city if necessary. No more."

  "And the Pope?"

  "We will see what he has to say." Zanla bowed quickly and left the room.

  Ergentil gazed after him, a little surprised—at herself, for the sympathy she felt for him; and at Zanla, for agreeing with her so readily. He was not such a bad person, perhaps. He had a flaw, that was all, a flaw that blinded his perceptions and warped his actions. Did he know she knew? It hardly mattered at this point. What mattered was that she try to correct the mistakes that flaw might cause.

  She looked down at the mass of useless papers, and wondered what the next step would be.

  * * *

  Bernardi glanced at the headlines as he made himself breakfast. So the Pope was going to call on the Numoi. He approved, he decided as he fried his egg. The status quo wasn't doing anyone any good: himself, among others.

  For one thing, he had little to do but eat and sleep, so he was getting fat. For another, he was bored to death. He had tried reading, with some vague idea of getting through Proust, but he was unable to concentrate, so he ended up mostly watching television and doing crossword puzzles. An outlaw's life is not always an exciting one.

  And, of course, the status quo was evidently not good for the world as a whole, or for the Church. At least so it seemed from reading the newspaper. But he tried not to think much about that as the endless hours passed. That was Clement's business, ultimately, and not his own. The Pope was by no means infallible in matters like this, and everyone agreed he wasn't the Church's greatest intellect—but then again, neither was Bernardi. At a certain point you just have to decide to obey, and to pray.

  Bernardi poured himself a cup of coffee, buttered his toast, and sat down to read the paper more thoroughly. This was really the high point of his day—he couldn't deny the pleasure he took in seeing his name in print: "The clever Jesuit continues to elude the authorities"; "The FBI spokesperson expresses optimism, but insiders say the Bureau has no real leads as to the whereabouts of Tenon and Bernardi." />
  And so on. He wondered if they'd cracked his mother yet. He'd have to spend some time with her after all of this was over. She would need some reassuring. In the meantime...

  He heard a stirring in the next room. In the meantime, life was pretty dull. He poured another cup of coffee and brought it to his roommate.

  * * *

  Sabbata was left out of the bonding sessions now. There was no one for her to bond with; she was a useless appendage. The rest of the crew had been solicitous at first, but as they received inklings of the seriousness of the situation she could feel them start to avoid her. Wasn't she partly to blame? Would Tenon have left if she had been a better bondmate? She could feel the questions in their stares. They were questions she had asked herself.

  She wandered through the empty corridors, lonely and unhappy and, occasionally, angry. I deserve better, she thought. She had done her job, practiced her religion. Why should life turn out this way for her? But she could not sustain her anger. Someone, she was sure, was bound to be able to explain to her just why things were as they were.

  She went to her room—their room—and lay down, not caring if this violated regulations. What could they do to her now? And, lying down, she knew what she wanted to do. She went through the brief ritual, then thrust her mind out—out past the walls of the Ship, out into the alien world, seeking her mate wherever he was, needing to know if at least he was alive and happy. She ultimately didn't begrudge him his decision and the problems it had caused everyone. She only wanted to know that some good had come of it.

  She searched, moving through an emptiness greater than any she had experienced, until finally she found him.

  Did he feel it? No, his mind was elsewhere. The rejection was total now. But there was something—

  She maintained the fragile bond as long as she could, then let it slip away. Forever. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. She would never understand, but she was satisfied.

  Chapter 23

  The white plane touched down at Logan. It was early evening, and the air was cold. Clement's back ached; he held both railings as he descended to the tarmac. Blue lights were flashing; the noise of jet engines was deafening; scores of people were waiting, all undoubtedly with crucial reasons for being here—just as he could not travel with less than a planeful of aides and guards and medical people and assorted hangers-on whose functions he had never ascertained.

  He sighed with relief when he saw a large swatch of red approaching. It clarified into Cardinal O'Dea, holding his arms out in greeting. Kiss of ring, and then an embrace: somewhat more than perfunctory. O'Dea had always been a loyal supporter.

  "It's good to see you, Holiness," O'Dea said. "You're looking well."

  "We look awful, your Eminence. And we feel worse."

  "It's been quite a strain, hasn't it?"

  "At our age, we should be tending a garden in a rest home, instead of talking in the first person plural and dealing with problems like this."

  "Someone must bear the burden."

  "Like to try it for a while?"

  "No thanks. I've got my own. Cars are waiting, I understand, if we just follow the security people. We will head straight for Greenough."

  "Excellent." Clement headed into the terminal with O'Dea and proceeded through a labyrinth of corridors. They chatted amiably about their infirmities, but Clement detected a sense of strain in the cardinal's small talk. Was his own tension as noticeable?

  Outside, he caught a glimpse of TV cameras and crowds jammed against police barriers. Then he was inside a limousine flanked by motorcycles, and in a few moments they were speeding away from the airport. The route was over highway for a while, then through a long tunnel. When they came out of the tunnel, suddenly they were in the midst of thousands of people pushed up against the barricades in the narrow city streets. Clement was not surprised. He was used to crowds.

  But he was not used to the mood of this one. He saw shaking fists and weeping women and faces twisted in anger; he read the hand-lettered signs telling him to get out of Boston and heard the shouts and curses above the wail of the sirens.

  Abruptly it was all behind him and the motorcade was racing along highway again. He remained shaken, however. He turned to O'Dea, who was staring uncomfortably over his chins at his folded hands. "I do not understand," he said softly. "In the past—"

  "The past is gone, Holiness," O'Dea replied. "Boston is the nearest large city to the aliens. Many people feel that therefore we will be the first to be threatened and attacked. You are the one who can prevent this, but—"

  "But I won't."

  O'Dea continued to stare at his hands.

  "What do you think, Martin? You talk of your burden. I must be it. Do you agree with those people?"

  O'Dea glanced over at him, and Clement knew he was deciding whether to be diplomatic and smooth it over or tell him the truth. Honesty won. "I admire you, Holiness, but it's a mistake."

  Clement nodded. "You think so too."

  O'Dea turned to face Clement. "Seventeen percent fewer communicants last year, twenty-four percent fewer baptisms. Three more parishes closed, most of the rest sharing a priest. You know the story. It's the same here as everywhere. Now the people see the Holy Father abandoning them. Even if the city is spared, the people will remember. They'll say you cared more for this one alien than you cared for them."

  "Is that how you feel?"

  O'Dea's dark eyes burned into him for a moment, then cooled, softened. "They don't know you. I do. There's the difference."

  "But you still feel it's a mistake," Clement persisted.

  O'Dea nodded solemnly. "I think you are risking the destruction of the Church. I don't think it's worth it."

  No reply could be made to that. He gazed out into the gathering darkness as they sped along the highway. The destruction of the Church. Had the man no faith? For two thousand years people had been predicting its destruction, but God had protected it. Could Geoffrey Herbert of London, England, accomplish what emperors and plagues and heretics had failed to do?

  He thought back to his days in the London slums. Newly ordained and the whole world to save. Existing on three hours' sleep a night and every minute of those three begrudged. What would Father Herbert have done, he wondered, if in 1957 he had been given this problem to solve? He had been a firm believer in moral courage, of course. But he also saw a moral obligation to reduce the world's suffering. He might well have solved it differently.

  One thing would have been the same, though. The child is father to the man. Once he had started on his course, nothing short of God Himself would have made him swerve from it.

  Pig-headed stubbornness, or admirable tenacity? Depends on whether you're right or wrong, of course. Father Herbert wouldn't have doubted that he was right. Pope Clement wasn't quite so sure.

  His eyes fluttered and closed against the darkness. Too much thinking.

  * * *

  Cardinal O'Dea was prodding him gently. "We have arrived, Holiness." The Pope squinted out at lights and confusion and, just beyond, the small steeple of a church.

  "Most Precious Blood," O'Dea murmured. "The pastor's name is Father Gardner."

  "He was involved in this, wasn't he?" Clement wondered. "Are those reporters over there?"

  "I believe so," O'Dea replied.

  "I will have my secretary give them a statement. I seem to be awfully tired."

  "Of course."

  O'Dea signaled to the chauffeur, and instantly the doors were open and they were heading past the TV lights into the shabby old rectory. The next few minutes passed in the usual blur of introductions and blessings. The only face he kept in his mind was the pastor's—florid, frightened, with once-intelligent eyes now dull and wary. He too was in this over his head.

  As soon as the pleasantries had died down the Pope pleaded weariness and was immediately shown to his room. It was on the second floor, large and drafty, undoubtedly the pastor's own. Marcello was already there, laying out his nig
htclothes, putting his heating pad in place, arranging his pills.

  "Well, how do you like it here, Marcello?"

  The valet shrugged noncommittally. "I've been in worse," he replied in Italian.

  "But you have gotten used to better."

  "Who am I to say I deserve better, though, Holiness?"

  Clement smiled and sat down to take off his red slippers. Marcello rushed to help him. How did he deserve Marcello?

  Collingwood came in several minutes later, as Clement was about to get into bed. "I spoke to the press," he said. "They were rather hostile."

  "Of course. What did you tell them?"

  "What could I tell them? Just that you are here to speak with the Numian leader, you hope the discussions will be fruitful, you haven't changed your position...." Collingwood stopped and shifted uncomfortably.

  "Yes, you were right: I have not," Clement said, and they both were silent for a while.

  When Collingwood replied, it was in a low, rushed tone, like a man rehearsing a speech. "Strike a bargain with him, Holiness. Make him promise not to harm Tenon. Then go on television and tell Bernardi to give Tenon over. The Church has had to compromise all through its history in order to survive. It can compromise now."

  Clement shook his head. "There is no guarantee of Tenon's safety," he replied gently. "Without a guarantee—"

  "You make a judgment, in the absence of a guarantee," Collingwood broke in. "You judge that Zanla can be trusted, so you take the chance and save the world from misery and the Church from ruin."

  "You are asking me to be a hypocrite, or a liar."

  "I'm asking you to save the Church."

  Clement smiled wearily. "The Church may advance through compromise, but not through sin. Get some sleep, Anthony. It's been a long day."

  Collingwood stood silently for a moment, until his usual icy self-possession could settle on his features. "As you wish," he murmured, and exited quietly.

  Clement sat on the edge of the bed until the door had closed, then switched off the light and got beneath the covers. Outside the room there was a low murmur of voices. The wind rattled the poorly made window. Clement was cold and lonely. He prayed for a while, then drifted off into a restless, unsatisfying sleep.