“I remember the first time you fed me meat from an animal you killed,” I said. “It took me a bit of getting used to. A useful accomplishment for a biologist on field trips, though.” We both laughed at the memory of my rush to the bathroom the first time I saw—and then realized—what was on my plate. “Sometimes I thought you were toughening me up deliberately.”
“I was.” There was something different in his voice for a moment that snagged my attention. Then he resumed his usual slightly pedagogical manner. Perhaps one's old teacher never quite gets beyond teaching, I thought.
“I've said it is part of the churches' duty not to move with the times, though not all the secular brethren agree with me. Oh yes, and we've got some modern strakkakers in case we encounter dangerous creatures like Beam's beasts or tigripards at the sheep…
“Or, between you and me,” he continued, “in case we are attacked by humans, who could be much more dangerous. We've got a few bits and pieces in the Treasury and round about that might tempt thieves.” The clockwork clock, I thought, must be just about beyond price for some rich collector. But who would know how to maintain such a thing?
“Using strakkakers against thieves sounds pretty draconian!” The strakkaker's blizzard of glass needles would turn a man into an anatomist's instant diagram. Even police only carried them in emergencies.
“We wouldn't, not in the first instance. But if anyone broke in, we might have to defend ourselves. The Papacy has always taken the long view about weapons technology. It was the Bull Romanus Pontifex that gave the charter to the age of European exploration.” He loved to lecture, I knew. When I was a child he had spent a lot of time with me after school and guided me towards my career. “It was a pope who tried to ban the crossbow. And it was a pope who tried to ban the sale of the noisy, inefficient stonethrowers called cannon to Africans in 1481. We knew they wouldn't stay at that state. But the ban didn't stick and the Moorish pirates were using them in galleys to dominate the western Mediterranean not much later…” He took a sip of wine. “We're aware our isolation could make us vulnerable.”
“It's an isolation a lot of people would envy. I know I often do.”
The abbot laughed. “I'm well aware of it. We're short of monastic vocations, but there's a long waiting list of people wanting to come on temporary retreats here. A lot of people seem to get something out of a retreat. But they want the tranquility without the discipline—or without the religion at all… without the religion at all,” he repeated, and the laugh went out of his voice. We were both silent for a slightly awkward moment. “They'd better make the most of it while it lasts,” he added.
“I thought you were planning to be here forever.”
“That's what I'd like, but I have to look at the demography. Christianity is dying on this world, as it is on Earth. Life's too easy for most people to feel the need of a religion… a little mild pseudo-Buddhism among some of the urban young, perhaps. But we've talked church history before.”
I nodded. On Earth, when people mentioned the Holy Office today, it was generally a slang reference to one of the more secretive departments of ARM, Earth's technological police. Was I right in a vague notion that about the time the last slowboat-load of colonists left Earth, senior church figures had been taking up day jobs? Did it matter? Earth was a long way away. We Masons, who were required only to believe in a Supreme Being, and had a life of our own in our lodges, had an easier job surviving on the whole, but we too had had our lean years.
“I love coming here,” I said. “I could never be one for the discipline of the monastic order, but a furlough among all this is pure contentment.”
He filled our glasses from the sparkling crystal decanter. The wine shone ruby in the firelight. Perhaps my too obvious appreciation of this luxury touched a nerve.
“We're not a very disciplined society, are we? Not a very tough one,” he said. “Also,” he went on, “there's this political trouble. How much do you know about that?”
“Not much. But more than I want to. We've got a whole world—a whole system—thinly settled. Huge tracts of land still for the taking, huge tracts still unexplored from the ground, if it comes to that. Habitable asteroids, Centauri B close by, even the Proxima system to settle if we want to live in bubbles under a red sky. What reason is there for us to fight?”
“The reason that we're human. It's not just Herrenmanner and Prolevolk. Teuties and Tommies fought systematically on Earth once, you know.”
“I've heard about it,” I said. “I don't know the details.”
“Not many do now. Earth is censoring its history in a big way, and though we did bring some records of our own there seems no reason for us to advertise the story of Earth's past…”
“It's not likely to come to fighting again, anyway. Not in this century. We aren't savages.”
“Not in the old sense, I grant you,” he said. “Not wars and armies and so forth.” We both laughed at the absurd image. “But there are other forms of violence. Just lately… people have disappeared, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. Von Frowein, a senior councilor. He went on a camping holiday a couple of weeks ago and never came back.”
“Didn't they search for him?”
“Yes, and they didn't find anything. He had the usual telltale beacon on him, standard equipment for lone campers, and there wasn't a peep out of it—as if it had been deliberately smashed. It gave me a nasty feeling when I learned about that. And there have been others. The police think we are seeing some organized murders—political murders.”
“How do you know these things?”
“I'm not just an abbot, you know. I'm also a bishop—a priest in the secular sense. I hear confessions and… other things. My monks can retire from the world. I can't.” He got up, pushing the kitten gently onto the padded arm of his chair, and began to pace the room.
“Did you ever read Saki?” he asked, looking at me with a sudden curious expression, “An old Earth writer. A heathen, as far as I can gather, but he had a hand for verses:
“Some lead a life of mild content:
Content may fall, as well as pride.
The Frog who hugged his lowly ditch
Was much disgruntled when it dried.
“He didn't write them as poetry, but as literary artifacts in a short story. Still, they can set one on a certain train of thought.” I knew enough of his manner of rhetoric to know that when he spoke again it would be to quote something he had picked for a reason.
“You are not on the road to Hell,
You tell me with fanatic glee:
Vain boaster, what shall that avail,
If Hell is on the road to thee?”
Did he let that last line linger in the air between us for a moment? His glance turned to the blank faces of his computers, and in the soft lighting I seemed to catch something strange there. But it passed. “We—the church, that is—have survived by being ultra-orthodox, archaically conservative,” he said musingly. “Heresy comes too easily if you give it a chance, especially when it takes the fastest message four and a half years to travel between us and Rome. And heresy means disintegration.
“We know our own history. The church very nearly died of tolerance once. Space travel and the scientism that went with it looked like killing us, but it may have been the saving of us instead. We religious weren't backward in getting into Space, you know. The first religious figure to set foot on a new world was an Episcopal lay preacher named Buzz Aldrin.
“As for us, there's a stained-glass window in our chapel with a likeness of Father George Coyne, the director of the Vatican Observatory, who applied for astronaut training in the 1960s. His Provincial is said to have muttered, 'If I let you become an astronaut, George, every priest will want to.' He had a point there. A priest, Georges Lemaitre, first postulated the Big Bang. No, we've never been hostile to space and space travel, far from it. But perhaps that renewal was a miracle, an unlooked-for one, like almost all r
eal miracles.”
“You believe in miracles?”
“Officially.”
“But not actually?”
“We've been here a long time. And I'm not young. The faith flickers sometimes. But you can't cross space without feeling the vastness of the Creation and the insignificance of mankind compared to whatever made it.
“Also,” he said after a moment, “conservatism justifies my own comfort.”
“It's a good life cut off from the world, you mean?”
“Yes. Not so much better here as it might be on Earth, I suppose. Wunderland still has plenty of room. That's partly how I justify it and don't think I'm just a fat selfish old man. We are keeping something alive.”
He fell silent again. I nodded.
“The Church didn't only come to Wunderland to minister to the people here,” he said suddenly, “though of course that would have been more than reason enough. Some hoped we would renew ourselves. I know some say we're in the pockets of the Nineteen Families, but we came here independently—at very considerable cost. I'm told it almost bankrupted the Vatican. It had to be done, particularly as we knew our… competitors… were aboard the original slowboats.”
“What? You mean the Protestants?”
“No,” he said, with a sudden harsh bleakness in his voice that I had not heard before. “Not the proddys, who we've got on with fairly well for centuries now. And not you Masons either, by the way.”
“You know about that?”
“Of course. And the church's anathema still holds, you damned syncretist! I also know most of you are well-intentioned, though if you'll forgive me saying so, some of you may in sober truth be playing with a hotter fire than you know. But I'm getting off the point: when we left Earth, some of us thought it would be for our own good as well as that of our new flock…
“We did renew ourselves, I think, for a while, but… Of course, I have to run this place in the world. I've some idea of the political stresses gathering now. But they are hardly enough to drive people back to the church.”
Although machines and farming robots grew or manufactured most of our food, land which had appeared unlimited when the first colonists had arrived had made for a largely rural culture: a gentle, easy one unlike the hard work and bloody realities of farmers of ancient times, but one that kept us in touch with seasons and open spaces. Despite our heritage of space travel and our modern technology, it made us conservative in many ways—worse than conservative, according to some, though others applauded it. Cities had grown slowly and were still tiny compared to the megalopolises of Earth. But with the establishment of those cities, land values had changed. People had changed too.
The rural life was fine in theory for many but city life was more convenient and exciting in practice. When, after its long gestation as a mere landing field and administrative headquarters, München had begun to look like a real city (it had taken many years for the permanent population to reach a thousand), it had begun attracting natural urbanites and had grown faster and faster. However good communications and virtual reality might be, people wanted to be close to things, and some people wanted to be close to other people. An ancient expression about “rural idiocy” had been resurrected.
The university had been one of the first people-magnets. Some students had wanted cafés and classrooms with other students rather than computer screens in solitary farmhouses. For an eighteen-year-old, the best VR communication with girlfriend or boyfriend lacks a certain something. The university population alone was more than twenty thousand now. Of course it was mainly science subjects that were studied, both pure and applied—the new mathematical transform alone had caused a whole new department to be set up—but there was a growing culture of the humanities as well. A colleague in the literature department had told me that a new poetic movement was writing of rural life with nostalgia. With an urban population growing rapidly, a growing business and professional class and stronger unions, the Nineteen Families were feeling their hegemony challenged as never before. Threat was making them tighten their grip. We still, if one looked at Earth history, had few police even for our population, but I wondered that night how long that situation was going to last.
The increasing political bickering seemed foolish and far away in that pleasant room.
“You won't go out to the people?”
“Do you mean us monks or the church as a whole? That's work for the secular orders. But the Church can't compromise too much on this world. We went that way once on Earth and nearly lost everything. Still, we've lasted twenty-four hundred years and more. Just. I have faith we'll survive… Faith, after all, is my business. Mark you, without being too hypocritical, I do feel the absence of any sort of… test.”
“Test? I don't understand.”
“I'm not sure I do, either,” he said. “Just that I sometimes know things are too comfortable here.”
“I didn't know they could be too comfortable.”
“It's not a material thing. Not necessarily.”
I noticed now an unrepaired crack in the stonework behind the abbot's head. It looked deep and old. Through the window behind him I could see what I knew were the monks' living quarters. Half at least of the rooms were empty now and dark. There was a small pane of glassine missing in the window. I wondered if the old man's faith in their survival was misplaced and hoped it wasn't.
We were proud of our differences from Sol system's rather coldly technological order, from the Sol Belters and their descendants in our own Serpent Swarm, with their slightly inhuman efficiency, and from Earth's crowding and regimentation and its—albeit we were told, largely benevolent and inevitable—control. We esteemed a lot of our own archaisms, including a freedom that Earth would probably have considered anarchical, but were we doing enough to preserve them?
Wunderland, I thought again, would never be a dull world, but it would lose something special if it lost the monks and their quaint, kindly, old-fashioned ways. That thought, I realized, had a patronizing feel about it. This place was more than pleasant: in some odd way it was precious. The whole place was a relic, and in many ways a decadent one—the monks' simplicity was more complex and expensive than ordinary modern life. It would not weather a real storm, but it had charm, and in the world of Wunderland, young, expansive, ripe for the taking in a hundred ways, there were no real storms on the horizon.
I went to bed warmed by that splendid wine, which no chemist could duplicate, and despite the coarse, woven bedclothes, slept well as I always did there, with an herb- and flower-scented garden just beyond my open window. I did not, of course, know it was my world's last night.
Chapter 2
The next morning I woke with the birds and a chapel bell. The monks had already prayed and broken their fast, as they put it, but they were indulgent towards sluggard guests, and there was something put by for me in the refectory. I had trimmed my beard, eaten, and was just finishing a pot of what was surely the best coffee in the Alpha Centauri system when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Good morning, Professor Rykermann.”
It was Brother Peter. He was already carrying a collecting-gun, and thrust into his belt was a dust-gun with which someone with quicker hands and eyes than mine might shoot down collectible insectoids on the wing. I was a little surprised to see he had one of the monastery's strakkakers slung over his shoulder. Behind him stood Brothers Joachim and John. They were armed as well.
“And a-hunting we will go!”
“Aren't all these weapons rather…” I knew there was an antique word, and it came back to me from some history course. “Overkill?”
“No.”
Normally the monks would be in thoroughly good spirits at the prospect of helping me on a collecting expedition. That part of my work was most people's idea of a holiday. But there was something serious in their faces that morning. I knew them as friends, and behind their politeness and what I thought of as their professional serenity I sensed tension. They didn't argue
about the strakkakers but kept them.
There was no point in taking the car. The place where they had made the sighting was only a few hundred meters from the main gate.
Inside the walls were fish ponds and gardens with many Earth as well as Wunderland plants: a lot of these (netted over, as were the ponds, against various large and small flying pirates) were grown for their fruit, but some were purely decorative: casurina trees, cape lilacs, the scarlet of bougainvilleas and nodding palm fronds. Along with the flutterbys, Earth bees were loud. Near the gate the kitten was sunning itself in a patch of marigolds. A couple of bright flags flew on the higher towers.
We walked through the parkland-like meadow of red and green grasses star-spangled with flowers. The monks had a small business making perfumes from nectar, and perhaps that encouraged the flutterbys. They rose about us out of the grasses in glorious multicolored clouds.
But there was an undercurrent of something else. The usually tame animals in the meadows seemed nervous. Apart from the more usual domestic animals, the monks had raised a small herd of zebras for decorative purposes, and their black-and-white variations and heraldic profiles as they grazed usually provided a pleasing contrast with the riot of colours. Today, I saw, the zebras were clumped together, standing in a circle as far away from the swamp and the grove as they might get, the stallions facing outwards.
“This thing we saw,” Brother Joachim told me again, “it's big. Bigger than a tigripard.”
“So the abbot said. But three strakkakers? I hope you're not leaving your house defenseless.”
Brother John, I knew, laughed a good deal. He wasn't laughing now.
“It's not only big. It's dangerous.”
“How do you know?”
“Just because I wear this robe doesn't mean I'm not a hunter.”
“Hunter's instinct, you mean?”
“More than that. Instinct usually whispers. This was screaming: 'Run! Run for your life!' That was even before we saw it… The creature was nightmarish. If we'd told the Father how terrifying it really was, I don't think he would have believed us.”
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