Forbidden Sanctuary Page 4

  "So what? Knowledge is power, Al. You've got to know what's going on."

  "What're you going to do? Blackmail Keenan?"

  "No, but I'll know enough not to ask him for a letter of recommendation. You've got to be on the inside to get ahead."

  "So who wants to get ahead?"

  The answer was obvious. Collingwood was not one to miss an opportunity. He got in good with the president, received recommendations from him instead of Father Keenan, ended up in Rome at Gregorian with all the rest of the future bishops and cardinals, then on to some postgrad study at Oxford, where he somehow managed to attach himself to Cardinal Herbert, whose coattails he held onto all the way to the top. Meteoric. And Bernardi had done things his own way, ending up out in the woods teaching obnoxious rich kids the rudiments of civilization.

  And both of us are happy, I suppose, Bernardi thought. Odd how it turned out... „

  "I'm sorry I'm late, Al, Somebody called me up at the last minute and I couldn't get rid of him."

  "No problem, Tony." He should have known Collingwood would be subtler now, smoother. No need to say flat out how important he was. Let Bernardi guess who that "somebody" was.

  Another difference: his accent had drifted into an odd Anglo-Italian mixture that would take some getting used to. The long, thin face was still the same, though, and the gold-rimmed glasses, and the small, suspicious eyes behind them. "You're looking good, Tony. What'll you have?"

  "Oh, just a ginger ale. I have a long day tomorrow."

  Bernardi ordered the ginger ale, and another scotch and soda for himself, and began to consider how to approach his subject.

  "Still teaching up in Massachusetts?" Collingwood asked him.

  Bernardi nodded. "Still trying to tame the little savages."

  "You don't sound as if you're enjoying it."

  "Oh no, it's fine, really. They actually seem to like me. I think I have some kind of knack for motivating them or whatever. It can have its rewards."

  "I suppose so," Collingwood said with a shrug. "But I've always thought that you had too much talent for that sort of thing. It seemed to me that you were always too willing to take the easy way out."

  Yes, he could have expected this too. The roles were reversed. Now Collingwood was being the detached observer, judging the quality of his life. "I wouldn't say that joining the Jesuits was taking the easy way out."

  "Yes, of course. But you know what I mean. If you join the Jesuits, then teaching high school is the easy way out. Where are the books you should have been writing? The promotions you should have been getting? Don't you think you have too much ability to be where you are?"

  The drinks arrived, giving Bernardi a chance to avoid an answer. The meeting had gotten off on the wrong foot. He should not be on the defensive, but Collingwood was obviously a much more confident and sophisticated person than the fellow he remembered. Should he just state his business then, and stop worrying about the dynamics of their ancient relationship?

  Collingwood saved him the trouble of having to decide. "You must be fairly close to those aliens up there," he observed. "Have you seen them at all?"

  "I've been past the outskirts of the compound, but no, they keep people—"

  "Damn situation's quite a nuisance," Collingwood went on. "Clement just doesn't want to make any theological statements about it. That's partly why I'm here. This synod's supposed to issue a position on the aliens in the next day or two, and he wants to be kept informed. Collegiality's fine if you've got all eternity to make a decision, but this delay and vacillation really reflect badly on the Church, don't you think?"

  Bernardi nodded vaguely, and jumped in. "These aliens, Tony—I have some information about them that I think the Pope should see." He took an envelope out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Collingwood. "Before you read this, let me tell you how I got hold of it."

  He rather enjoyed the tale. Night-time summons, cold rectory, frightened woman: just the sort of thing to intrigue Collingwood, with his taste for secret plots. When Bernardi finished Collingwood was already opening the envelope and unfolding Angela Summers' notes.

  Bernardi felt some trepidation as he watched him read. It would be easy enough for Collingwood to smile dismissively and end it all right there. That would not only prevent the truth about the Numoi from ever being known, it would also effectively humiliate Bernardi. He was supposed to have learned humility in the priesthood, but still he did not want Collingwood to do that to him.

  After a few minutes Collingwood put the papers down and pushed his glasses back up his thin nose. "Not a lot to go on," he remarked dubiously, but Bernardi could detect the excitement in his voice.

  "True," Bernardi agreed, "but what's there is pretty tantalizing."

  Collingwood half-nodded and sipped his ginger ale. "There are alternative explanations, of course. We don't know anything about their politics, for example, their intrigues on that alien ship," he observed. "What if this fellow Tenon heard about Christianity from some other human and made up this tale for his own purposes, to cause problems for the captain or the like?"

  Bernardi nodded. "I came up with a few what-ifs myself after I heard about this. Let's face it, you could what-if the thing to death if you wanted to. I don't think we should."

  Collingwood said nothing for a while, conceding the point. "She wants us to speak out about this," he remarked, having reached another. "But it's certainly arguable whether that's in the Church's best interests. We talked about this taxation thing today. Now President Gibson has gone down the line with us on this issue. He's also risked his administration by giving the UN charge of dealing with the aliens. If we cause trouble for them over this, just when things have been running so smoothly, Gibson might just decide to switch his position. He could pull enough people with him to pass the bill."

  "I understand," Bernardi said. "Of course I'm just a backwoods high school teacher—"

  "Oh, cut the crap," Collingwood interrupted with a sudden smile.

  "Well, at any rate, I don't know beans about international diplomacy or Curial policy. But it seems to me we're talking about entirely different orders of magnitude here. If there is the least possibility that the Christian pattern of salvation is being replicated on another planet, then by comparison it makes our American tax problems about as important as deciding how many angels fit on the head of a pin."

  Collingwood inclined his head in agreement. "Just thinking it through," he murmured.

  "Of course. I did the same thing myself."

  "And you decided it was worth pushing?"

  Bernardi grinned. "Worth pushing to a higher level. The higher you are, though, the tougher it gets. I don't have to worry about President Gibson."

  "Yes, precisely." Collingwood shifted in his chair and tapped the rim of his glass. "There's too little to go on," he said finally. "Even you backwoods priests know Clement. He'd want to call another Council to deal with something like this."

  "But if you think—"

  "What I think doesn't matter. My effectiveness depends on my ability to push the right issues at the right time. If I start annoying Clement then he'll stop paying attention to me."

  "Good God, Tony!" Bernardi exploded. "Who gives a shit about your 'right issues'? It sounds like you've got a terminal case of tunnel vision. We're talking about the Universe here, about eternity, not Vatican chess games. You've always been obsessed with power, Tony. But power is useless unless you've got some perspective to go along with it. If this isn't worth risking something for, then I don't know what is."

  Collingwood seemed shaken by his outburst. Probably because he still has enough sense to realize I'm right, Bernardi thought. His dilemma was clear, to an old acquaintance. This was a golden opportunity to score big, to solidify his position, to improve Clement's reputation and his own with it. But it was also a risk. If he failed—if Angela Summers was lying or mistaken, if it was handled improperly, if there were unforeseen repercussions—then he failed
big, and he would suffer the consequences.

  Of course he might also be considering the good of the Church, Bernardi thought wryly. A man like Collingwood did not get where he was by being one-dimensional. But did he know how to separate his own good from his Church's?

  Collingwood stared glumly into his glass and ran his hand over the envelope. "I need more," he murmured finally. "I can't do it for this. It's just a piece of paper. It could be a practical joke, a forgery, anything. Is there any way I can talk to this Angela Summers?"

  Bernardi was taken aback by the question. "I don't see how, really. They won't let her out of the compound, because she deals so much with the aliens. Except for—" he smiled suddenly, seeing the answer, and with it the certainty of Collingwood's support. "Do you have access to a car?"

  "I suppose so. What are you planning?"

  "How would you like to attend Mass in Massachusetts tomorrow morning?"

  Chapter 5

  Angela Summers genuflected, blessed herself, and hurriedly slid into the pew. The Canadian soldier had been late picking her up, and she had lost several precious minutes before Mass began. That was her best time for prayer: in church, alone with God, mind fresh and receptive.

  She composed herself, lowered her head—and prayer came. Some days it was like that, as if God was waiting for you, ready to give your worn-out words new meaning, to lift the burden of everydayness from you. Perhaps it was because she had a special intention now, a reason to demand God's attention; perhaps it was because she had become a special part of His plan. No matter: the main thing was to pray, to feel God's presence.

  It was not surprising, then, that she did not notice the man in the parka sit down next to her. He had to whisper twice to get her attention. "Someone wants to meet you," he murmured, smiling, when she looked up in surprise at him. He motioned to her to follow, and, after a moment's regret, she obeyed.

  He went back to the rear of the church, then turned, past the unused collection baskets and the racks of devotional pamphlets, through a carved oak door, and down a dimly lit staircase. They came out in the church hall, with a small raised platform at one end and stacks of gray folding chairs along the sides. "I only come here for the AA meetings," he said, and led her to the back of the hall, into a small kitchen with a coffee urn and a refrigerator and more folding chairs.

  In the corner was a sallow-faced man holding a small video recorder. "Good morning, Ms. Summers," he said. "I'm sorry to take you away from Mass, but I'm sure you can understand how important this is."

  "My driver is waiting for me outside," she said. "He will come in after me if I don't leave with everyone else."

  "Father Gardner is going to say an extra-long Mass this morning," the sallow-faced man responded. "We will certainly be finished in time."

  He motioned to her to sit down, and the two men quickly set up the video equipment. "I hope you don't mind," the first one said. "It makes a greater impact this way."

  "I understand," she said. "I may be a little nervous, that's all."

  And she was, at first, especially when she understood who was going to see the video. They asked about her background, and she stumbled through her degrees and fellowships. They asked about her job, and she forgot for a second the name of her university, then realized they were talking about the Alien Study Team.

  It was only when they reached the meeting with Tenon that her nervousness fell away. As she described it, she began to recover some of the feeling she had just had in praying—the sensation that God was with her, that He was helping her do His work; and she found eloquence she hadn't thought she possessed in speaking about what had happened and how she interpreted it. She could say so much more in person than she could in her notes—about her sense of wonder as the similarities fell into place, for example, and about Tenon's last pleading look as their conversation ended. She had to make them understand: it was her mission.

  And, quickly, it was over. The recorder was shut off, the sallow-faced man was shaking her hand and saying he would do his best, she was being led back upstairs, where the Mass had just ended and the old ladies were shuffling out.

  "What will happen now?" she asked her companion.

  He shrugged expressively. "God knows."

  She hoped he was right.

  Chapter 6

  It was when they began to watch it for the third time that Collingwood became sure that nothing would be done. Actually, he had suspected it ever since Clement had called in Fontanelli to view the tape with him. Clement's choice of advisers predetermined his policy. He knew what his Secretary of State would say, and that was what he wanted to hear. It was all so drearily predictable.

  What Collingwood did not know was how conscious Clement was of this method of his. It was hard to credit a man in his position with such naïveté, but the longer Collingwood worked for him the more uncertain he was of just how much intelligence this Supreme Pontiff possessed.

  He slumped a little lower in his chair; with the tip of his shoe he traced a pattern on the tastefully simple Oriental rug that covered the parquet floor in Clement's private office. He was travel-weary and in a sour mood. He had no one to blame but himself, of course; he had been carried away by rhetoric, by grand visions of interplanetary churches and turning points in human history. He had lost hold of his one great virtue: his clear-sighted pragmatism. And now he was committed to a position he knew was hopeless.

  The video flickered along. Clement sat bolt upright, hands folded on his lap, white skullcap slightly askew. He had seemed very interested at first, but now his face was expressionless, except for the tired air that had lately become a permanent feature. Next to him Fontanelli was tilted to one side, a cigarette stuck in the hand that supported his head; a legal pad lay unused on his lap. Behind his hooded eyes he could have been asleep. After a while he muttered something to Clement that Collingwood didn't catch. Clement nodded, and Fontanelli rose stiffly to turn the machine off.

  Clement didn't speak until Fontanelli had sat back down. "Quite fascinating, Anthony," he said in his soft British accent. "I'm very glad you brought the tape to us. Now, what do you suggest we do?"

  "Issue a statement," Collingwood replied promptly. "Carefully worded, not saying you necessarily believe that Chitlan is Christ, but that naturally we have an interest in studying the similarities between the two religions. Suggest to the UN the importance to the human race of seeing that the followers of Chitlan are not wiped out, and urge that they make that a strong consideration in their dealings with the Numoi."

  "Couldn't these points be made privately?"

  Collingwood shook his head. "Only by using the threat of a public statement The UN has no reason to go along with us on this, and we have no power over it, except in the power we have to influence the citizens of its constituent governments. Ashanti would just put us off until the Numoi leave. Besides, the great value of the situation would lie in the public reaction to it. We have a chance to stir them up on our side, get them interested in religion again."

  Clement glanced at Fontanelli, who was lighting another cigarette with his none-too-steady hand. "How do you feel about this, Carlo?"

  The cardinal waved a cloud of smoke away from his face. "Let us assume the best case," he replied in his thickly accented English. "Let us say the girl is telling the truth—which I believe. Let us say this alien is telling the truth—which I do not know. Let us say things are as they allege—the religion exists, it is similar to Christianity, it is being persecuted. Still, I do not see how a statement like this can help matters. At best the UN is convinced to do as we ask; but I cannot see them convincing the aliens. If the Numoi are at all similar to the ancient Romans, as this girl suggests, then they both despise and fear this new religion. To allow it to exist would be unthinkable; it threatens their civilization. If the aliens offered America the secret of faster-than-light travel on condition that it become Communist, would America agree? In fact, I see exactly the opposite effect: the aliens become more
determined than ever to stamp out the religion, now that they know it has support on our planet. I say nothing, of course, about the obvious political dangers we run by challenging the UN."

  "You would do nothing, then?" Clement asked.

  Fontanelli shrugged. "Talk to Ashanti. I agree he won't do anything, but at least he will be aware of the situation and understand our concern. Perhaps we can work toward something in future contacts, when the connection between the two planets is too strong to be broken."

  Clement shifted his gaze to Collingwood. His turn. "What do you think of that, Anthony?"

  He thought it was precisely what he had expected from Fontanelli: caution and shortsightedness, cleverly presented. He knew Clement would grab at the advice. It was the easy way out. Well, Collingwood thought, I won't give up without scoring a couple of points.

  "This sounds like a conversation out of World War II," he remarked. "Our support will only harm the Jews, so it is best to say nothing." Fontanelli glared at him blackly, but Collingwood pressed on. "In any event, you ignore my main point. Private dealings leave the public unaffected. The world should know about this. It bears on the truth of what a third of its inhabitants profess to believe. Frankly, I am not particularly interested in launching an interplanetary crusade to save the followers of Chitlan. God will provide for them. We must tend our own flock. But to hide this from the flock would be a breach of our trust."

  "I wonder," Fontanelli replied, "if this will have the marvelous effect you seem to think it will have. Even, once again, in the best case, those who want to believe will believe. Those who do not will find an explanation that fits their unbelief. The world will go on, as always." He stubbed out his cigarette and began to doodle on his legal pad.

  Clement looked from one to another, slowly, his face a mask. You cannot bring this before the synods, Collingwood thought. This is your decision. This is why you were elected.

  Clement stood up abruptly. "We will think about this matter," he murmured. "We will let you know in the morning what we want done."