And his picture faded from the screen.
“We’re off!” shouted Monsignor. “That was masterful!”
In the transmitter room, Brother Anson chanted the Dies Irae, tears in his eyes.
The Pope moved out of the television studio, carefully composed over the exhaustion that always resulted from a television appearance. The Monsignor dashed out of the control room to drop to his knees and wring the Pope’s hand. “Congratulations, Your Holiness! It was magnificent!”
“Thank you, Monsignor,” the Pope murmured, “but let’s judge it by the results, shall we?”
“Your Holiness!” Another Monsignor came running up. “Madrid just called! The people are piling into the confessionals—even the men!”
“Your Holiness!” cried a cardinal. “It’s Prague! The faithful are flocking to the cathedral! The commissars are livid!”
“Your Holiness—New York City! The people are streaming into the churches!”
“Your Holiness—Reverend Sun just cancelled his U.N. speech!”
“Your Holiness! People are kneeling in front of churches all over Italy, calling for the priests!”
“It’s the Italian government, Your Holiness! They send their highest regards, and assurances of continued friendship!”
“Your Holiness,” Brother Anson choked out, “Father Vidicon is dead.”
They canonized him eventually, of course—there was no question that he’d died for the Faith. But the miracles started right away.
In Paris, a computer programmer with a very tricky program knew it was almost guaranteed to glitch. But he prayed to Father Vidicon to put in a good word for him with the Lord, and the program ran without a hitch.
Art Rolineux, directing coverage of the SuperBowl, had eleven of his twelve cameras die on him, and the twelfth started blooming. He sent up a quick prayer to Father Vidicon, and five cameras came back on line.
Ground Control was tracking a newly-launched satellite when it suddenly disappeared from their screens. “Father Vidicon, protect us from Murphy!” a controller cried out, and the blip reappeared on the screens.
Miracles? Hard to prove—it always could’ve been coincidence. It always can, with electronic equipment. But as the years flowed by, engineers and computer programmers and technicians all over the world began counting the prayers, and the numbers of projects and programs saved—and word got around, as it always does. So, the day after the Pope declared him to be a saint, the signs went up on the back walls of every computer room and control booth in the world:
“St. Vidicon of Cathode, pray for us!”
“Thus Saint Vidicon died, in an act of self-sacrifice that turned perversity back upon itself.” Father Al turned his head slowly, looking directly into the eyes of each person in his little congregation, one by one. “So, my brothers and sisters, when you are tempted to commit an act of perversity, pray to St. Vidicon to intercede with Almighty God, and grant you the grace to turn that perversity back upon itself, as St. Vidicon did. If you are a masochist, and are tempted to find someone to whip you, be even more perverse—deny yourself the pleasure you long for! If you are tempted to steal, find a way of defrauding the bank’s computer into giving you money from your own account! If you’re tempted to try to ruin an enemy, pay him a compliment instead—he’ll go crazy wondering what you’re plotting against him!”
One of the businessmen shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Father Al took a deep breath. “Thus may we take the energy of the urge toward perversity, and turn it to the strengthening of our souls, by using its energy to perform good works.”
The congregation looked a bit confused, and he didn’t blame them—it wasn’t exactly the most coherent sermon he had ever delivered. But what could you expect, on an ad-lib basis? He did notice a look of surprise on a few of the derelicts’ faces, though, followed by thoughtful brooding. At least not all the seed had fallen on rocky ground.
He hurried on to the Creed, then pronounced the intention of the Mass. “Dear Lord, if it pleases You, allow the soul of Your servant, the sainted Vidicon of Cathode, to lend his strength in defense of this member of the Order founded in his name, by battling the forces of perversity that ring Your Holy Church, turning them against themselves, to the confounding of those who seek its downfall, and who war against holiness and freedom of the soul. Amen.”
From there on, it was pretty straightforward, and he could relax and let himself forget the troubles of the moment while he became more and more deeply involved in the Sacrament. As always, the spell of the Mass wove its reassuring warmth around him; soon all that existed were the Host and the wine, and the silent, intent faces of the congregation. A surprising number of them turned out to be in shape for Communion; but, fortunately; one of the Franciscans was standing by in the sacristy, and came out to unlock the tabernacle and bring out a ciborium, so no one went away empty.
Then they were trooping out, singing the recessional, and Father Al was left alone, with the usual sweet sadness that came from knowing the Mass was indeed ended, and that he must wait a whole twenty-four hours before he could say it again.
Well, not quite alone. The Franciscan came over to him, with a whispering of his rough robe. “A moving Mass, Father—but a strange sermon, and a strange intention.”
Father Al smiled wanly. “And stranger circumstances that brought them forth, Father, I assure you.”
He had almost reached the departure port again when the public address system came to life, with the howling of a siren behind the voice. “All passengers please clear the area. Conditions of extreme danger obtain; a ship is returning to port with damage in its control system. All passengers please clear the area immediately.”
It went on to repeat the message, but Father Al was already on his way back toward the main terminal. He only went as far as the rope, though—the red emergency cord that attendants were calmly stringing across the corridor, as though it were a daily event. But one look at their eyes assured Father Al that this was rare, and dreaded. “My Lord!” he prayed silently. “I only sought aid for myself, not danger to others!” And he found the nearest viewscreen.
Emergency craft were moving into position, amber running-lights flashing. Snub-nosed cannon poked out of their noses, ready to spray sealant on any ruptures in the hull of ship or station. A hospital cruiser drifted nearby.
And, in the distance, a dot of light swelled into a disc—the returning ship.
The disc swelled into a huge globe, filling a quarter of the velvet darkness, pocked with the parabolic discs of detectors and communicators. Then the swelling stopped; the huge ship drifted closer, slowing as it came. The emergency craft maintained a respectful distance, wary and alert, as the liner loomed over them, till it filled the whole sky. Then the front of the hull passed beyond the range of the viewscreen. Father Al listened very carefully, but heard nothing; he only felt the tiniest movement of the station about him as the behemoth docked in the concave gate awaiting it. He breathed a sigh of relief; no matter what trouble they’d detected, the control system had functioned perfectly for docking.
He turned away, to see the attendants removing the velvet rope, with only the slightest tremor in their hands. “Excuse me,” he said to the nearest. “What ship was that, docking there?”
The steward looked up. “Why, it was the liner for Beta Casseiopeia, Father. Just a minor problem in the control system—they could’ve gone on with it, really. But our line doesn’t believe in taking chances, no matter how small.”
“A wise policy,” Father Al agreed. “ ‘The Universe’ll get you, if you don’t watch out.’ ”
The attendant smiled thinly. “I’m glad you understand.”
“Oh, perfectly. In fact, it’s something of a fortunate coincidence for me; I was supposed to be on that liner, but my ship from Terra arrived a bit late.”
The attendant nodded. “ ‘Fortunate’ is right. The next ship for Beta Cass. doesn’t leave for another week.”
“Yes, I know. You will let them know they’ve another passenger waiting, won’t you?”
Six hours later, the engineers had found and replaced a defective circuit-grain, and Father Al slid into his couch, stretching the webbing across his body with a sigh of relief, and prayers of thanks to St. Vidicon and God.
No reason to, really; it was probably all just a coincidence. No doubt St. Vidicon had sat by smiling in amusement all the time, and the ship would’ve returned to port even without Father Al’s Mass. But a little extra praying never hurts, and it had kept him occupied.
Besides, in the realm of the supernatural, one never knew. Rod Gallowglass might really be important enough to merit the personal attention of the Imp of the Perverse. Father Al just hoped he’d reach Gramarye in time.
CHAPTER FIVE
The jets cut out, and the great black horse landed at full gallop. He slowed to a canter, stubby wings folding back into his sides, and then to a trot.
“Elben Pond, Toby said,” Rod muttered, glaring at the dark sheet of water barely visible through the trees. “Here’s Elben Pond. Where are they?”
“I hear them, Rod,” Fess answered.
A few seconds later, Rod could, too: two small voices crying, “Geo-ff!” Geo-ffrey!“ And a full one calling, ”Geoffrey, my jo! Geoffrey! Whither art thou?”
“Geof-frey, Geof-frey!” Cordelia’s voice came again, with sobs between the cries. Then Fess was trotting into a small clearing, with the little lake gleaming at its edge, and Cordelia’s head poked out of the shrubbery as Rod swung down. “Papa!” And she came running.
“Oh, Papa, it’s turrible! It’s all Magnus’s fault; he disappeared Geoffrey!”
“Did not!” Magnus howled, agonized, as he came running up, and his mother seconded him as she landed on her knees next to her daughter.
“Cordelia, Cordelia! Magnus did not do it, he only said it!”
“You sure his just saying it couldn’t make it happen?” Rod looked up at her over Cordelia’s head. “Magnus may be the only warlock who’s ever been able to teleport someone else, except for old Galen—but Magnus did do it, when he got into that argument with Sergeant Hapweed.”
“Aye, and it took old Galen himself to fetch him back! Oh, we’ve sent for him—but truly, I misdoubt me ‘tis that! Magnus would not lie on a matter of such gravity.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” Rod transferred Cordelia to her mother’s arms and caught Magnus against him. The boy resisted, his body stiff, but Rod stroked his head and crooned, “There, now, son, we know you didn’t do it! Maybe something you said makes you think so—but I know you can’t do a thing like that without meaning to!”
The eight-year-old trembled; then his body heaved with a huge sob, and he wept like a thundercloud, bellowing anguish. Rod just hung on and kept stroking the boy’s head and murmuring reassurances until his sobs slackened; then he held Magnus gently away, and said quietly, “Now, then. Tell me what happened, from beginning to end.”
Magnus gulped and nodded, wiping at his eyes. “He was trying to play my games, Papa, the way he always does—and you’ve told me not to let him climb trees!”
“Yes; he might be too scared to levitate, if he fell from twenty feet up,” Rod said grimly. “So he was tagging along in his usual pesty way—and what happened?”
“Magnus told him…” Cordelia burst out; but Gwen said, “Hush,” firmly, and clapped a hand over her daughter’s mouth.
“Let thy father hear it for himself.”
“And?” Rod prompted.
“Well—I told him to go jump in the lake. I didn’t know he’d do it!” Magnus burst out.
Rod felt a cold chill run down his spine. “He always does everything you tell him; you should know that by now. So he jumped in.”
“Nay! He never did get to’t! Ten feet short o’ the water, he faded!”
“Faded?” Rod gawked.
“Aye! Into thin air! His form grew thinner and thinner, the whiles I watched, till I could see the sticks and leaves through him—like to a ghost!”
Cordelia wailed.
Rod fought down the prickling that was covering his head and shoulders. “And he just—faded away.”
Magnus nodded.
Rod gazed out at the pond, frowning.
“Dost thou think…” Gwen’s voice broke; she tried again. “Dost thou think we should drag the waters?”
Rod shook his head.
“Then… what?” She was fighting against hope.
“Fess?” Rod murmured.
“Yes, Rod.”
“You watched me being sent through that time-machine in McAran’s lab once, right?”
“Yes, Rod. I remember the seizure vividly. And I see your point—Magnus’s description does match what I witnessed.”
Gwen clutched his arm. “Dost thou think he has wandered in time?”
“Not wandered,” Rod corrected. “I think he’s been sent.”
“But I ran right after him, Papa! Why would it not have sent me, too?” Magnus protested.
“Yeah, I was wondering about that.” Rod rose. “The most logical answer is that whoever turned the machine on, turned it off right after poor little Geoff blundered into it… But maybe not. Son, when you told Geoff to go jump in the lake, where were you standing, and where was he?”
“Why… I stood by yon cherry tree.” Magnus pointed. “And Geoff stood by the ash.” His arm swung toward a taller tree about ten feet from the first. “And he called, ‘Magnus, me climb, too!’ and started toward me.” Magnus gulped back tears, remembering. “But I spake to him, ‘No! Thou knowest Mama and Papa forbade it!’ And he stopped.”
Rod nodded. “Good little boy. And then?”
“Well, he began to bleat, in that way he hath, ‘Magnus! You climb, me climb! Me big!’ And I fear I lost patience; I cried, ‘Oh, go leap in the lake!’ And, straightaway, he fled toward the water.”
“From the ash.” Rod turned, frowning, toward the tree, drawing an imaginary line from it straight toward the lake, and cutting it off ten feet short of the water. “Then?”
“Why, then, he began to fade. I own I was slow; I did not think aught was out o’ place for a second or two. Then it struck me, and I ran hotfoot after.”
Rod drew an imaginary line from the cherry toward the pond. The two lines did not intersect, until their end-points. “Fess?”
“I follow your thought, Rod. The machine’s focus was no doubt ten feet or so further back from the water’s edge. Geoff’s momentum carried him further while he was beginning to shift.”
Rod nodded and started for the ash tree.
“What dost thou do?” Gwen cried, running after him.
“We’ve got the theory; now I’m testing it.” Rod turned right at the ash and started toward the water.
“Thou seekest to follow him, then!” Gwen kept pace with him determinedly. “And if thou dost?”
“Then he’ll have company. You stay with the other three, while we find our way back—but don’t hold dinner.”
“Nay! If thou dost… Rod! Thou…” Then whatever she was saying faded away. Rod turned back toward her, frowning…
… and found himself staring at the trunk of a tree.
A white trunk, white as a birch, but corrugated like an oak—and the leaves were silver.
Rod stared.
Then, slowly, he looked up, and all about him; all the trees were just like the first. They towered above him, spreading a tinsel canopy between himself and the sun; it tinkled in the breeze.
Slowly, he turned back to the meter-wide trunk behind him. So that was why Geoff had faded, instead of just disappearing—the machine’s computer had sensed solid matter at the far end, and hadn’t released him from its field until he was clear of the trunk. Rod nodded slowly, drew his dagger, and carefully cut a huge “X” in the trunk; he had a notion he might want to be able to find it again.
Apropos of which, he turned his back to the trunk, and looked about him carefully
, identifying other trees as landmarks—the one with the split trunk over to the left, and the twisted sapling to his right…
And the gleam of water straight ahead!
And just about the same distance away as Elben Pond had been. The machine had set him down in the spot that exactly corresponded to the pick-up point.
But when? When had there been silver-leafed, white-trunked oaks on Gramarye?
When would there be?
Rod shook off the tingling that was trying to spread over his back from his spine. He had more important things to think about, at the moment. He stepped away toward the shoreline, calling, “Geoff! Geoffrey! Geoff, it’s Papa!”
He stopped dead-still, listening. Off to his left, faintly, he heard tiny wails, suddenly stopping. Then a little head popped up above underbrush, and a small voice yelled, “Papa!”
Rod ran.
Geoff blundered and stumbled toward him. Silver leaves rang and chimed as they ran, with a discordant jangle as Rod scooped the little body up high in his arms, stumpy legs still kicking in a run. “Geoff, m’boy! Geoff!”
“Papa! Papa!”
After a short interval of unabashedly syrupy sentimentality, Rod finally put his second son down, but couldn’t quite bring himself to take his hand off Geoff’s shoulder. “Thank Heaven you’re safe!”
“Scared, Papa!”
“Me too, son! But it’s all right, now we’re together—right?”
“Right!” Geoff threw his arms around his father’s leg and hugged hard.
“Well! Time to go… what’s that?”
Something blundered into the underbrush and stopped with a clashing of leaves. Then it set up a frightened wail.
A voice faded in after it. “…thou dare—Cordelia! Thou’st done… Oh, child! Now two of thee are lost!”
“Uh—three!” Rod called, peering over the underbrush to see Magnus come barrelling out of the tree-trunk. “Come on, Geoff! Family-reunion time!”
“Not lost, Mama!” Cordelia crowed triumphantly. “We’re all here!”
“And all lost,” Rod agreed as he came up. “Here he is, Gwen.”
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