Forbidden Sanctuary (29 page)

"It was not just self-interest—was it, Anthony?" he said after a while. "You really thought it was right, didn't you?"

"Yes, Holiness."

Clement nodded. "Only God can see into a man's soul. And, I suppose, only He knows what is truly right. There is a diocese open in your native state. Rochester? Albany?"

"Rochester, Holiness."

"I knew you would know. Would you like to be bishop of Rochester, Anthony?"

"I would very much like that."

"Good. Then at least something will have been settled this morning."

* * *

Clement stood outside the motel. Technicians rushed by, stringing cables and carrying complicated-looking machines. "What is all this for?" he asked Ashanti.

"For when they depart," Ashanti replied. "Professor Aronson wants to measure everything that can be measured. He believes he can find clues to the way the ship operates."

"Do you think he will discover anything?"

"Ah, science is beyond me, your Holiness. Professor Aronson is a very brilliant man. If there is anything to be found, he will find it. What do you think?"

Clement shrugged. "I am as ignorant as you. I wish him luck."

* * *

Angela Summers came up to him and kissed his ring. Then she looked at him with concern. "Holiness, I—"

"Don't worry, child. Everything is fine." He reached into his pocket. "Here is your handkerchief back. It was washed and pressed this morning. We shall not need it today."

Angela looked at it, and then silently smiled her thanks.

"Are they ready for us?" Clement asked Bacquier.

"Any time, your Holiness."

As they walked to the ship Clement noticed the soldiers, weapons by their sides, faces expressionless, waiting. Above them, a lone bird circled in the cold blue sky.

* * *

The room smelled of sweat, hut not the sweat that he was familiar with: its odor was somehow sweeter, riper, more exotic. The walls of the room were covered with posters of men he did not recognize, with hand-lettered slogans in a language he did not understand. The black men sat on wooden stools and stared at him, expressionless. Their weapons lay across their laps; they moved their hands over them constantly, unconsciously, like women stroking kittens.

"What do I want with your life, man?" Kuntasha asked. "That is too easy. It gets me nowhere. Perhaps you think you are brave, but don't you think that, if I could get what I wanted for my people by giving up my own life, I would do so? Any man in this room would. But the world is not interested."

"Sometimes it is."

Kuntasha slammed the table with an open palm; the other men's hands stopped moving on their weapons. "You are a fool, man. The world is interested in power. I shoot myself, the world goes about its business. I shoot you, or the Prime Minister, the world takes notice, but nothing happens. I blow up London, the world maybe changes."

"For the better?"

"Maybe. For us, anyway."

"Is it worth living in a world that has been changed in that way?"

Kuntasha looked bored and exasperated by the question, and the archbishop worried that he would grow tired of all the talk. But finally he responded. "Maybe. If the world doesn't change, it sure is not worth living in, I tell you that."

"If you could kill me, and by doing so achieve your goal—realizing I have done you no harm and wish you only peace—would you kill me?"

Kuntasha stared at him for a long while and then stood up. He walked over to the filthy window and gazed down at the barricaded street; his long black fingers traced a meaningless pattern in the accumulated grease and soot. "Yes," he said wearily. "I would cut your heart out, if I had to."

The archbishop closed his eyes. What, after all, had he expected? And yet, there was the weariness in the man's voice. It was not the weariness of a man who had answered too many pointless questions, but a deeper, more lasting weariness, a weariness of the spirit. The archbishop thought he understood it. If he did, there was something to talk about, a common ground. And there had to be a common ground. If there wasn't, his faith was meaningless, and he refused to believe that.

"Well," he said, "let us put that option aside for the time being and explore some alternatives."

Kuntasha turned back to him, puzzled, and then erupted with laughter.

Was it merely a reflection of his own tension, or could he see the strain in the face of the crew member who brought him down the tiled corridor to Zanla's office, could he feel it in that room, even before Zanla arrived, bringing with him a tall green-robed woman?

"I greet you in the name of the Numoi. This is the Priestess Ergentil, whom I have asked to join us for this final meeting. She is my trusted adviser."

Priestess
. She, then, was the enemy, the one whose religion persecuted Tenon and the other followers of Chitlan. They stared at each other curiously across the table—
she is thinking the same thing about me, of course
—and then her gaze broke away and went to Zanla.

"I have never seen her before," Angela whispered to Clement.

Curious. Was she the real leader, only now, at the end, making her presence known? Impossible to say. But the way she and Zanla looked at each other made it clear that he would have to convince them both.

"We are willing to listen once again to what you have to say about our mutual problem," Zanla said. "But once again it is not clear to me how useful our discussion can be, if you do not agree to return our crew member. We will not let the secret of the Ship be revealed."

Clement continued to stare at the priestess. Did she hate him, for the threat he posed to her beliefs, her civilization? Perhaps, but he could detect no trace of hatred in her eyes. Was that because he did not know what hatred looked like on an alien face? Perhaps, but even then...

No, he realized, she was not the enemy, even if she had murdered a hundred Chitlanians, even if she would personally blow up the Earth—or cut his heart out. She was no more an enemy than Kuntasha had been. Enmity was a false conclusion, derived from the terrifying complexity of life. It was the easy interpretation, and its result was so much suffering that Clement could not bear to think of it. The true conclusion would not end the suffering (which was a necessary part of existence) but at least it did not cause any more—unless one counted a Crucifixion.

Things change, the power comes.

"Zanla, the reason I have come to you today is to tell you that it is too late. The secret has already been revealed."

The aliens were silent as Angela finished her translation. They looked at each other once, quickly, and then Zanla said, "What is the secret then?"

Clement breathed deeply and stared into his eyes. "Bondmates and the
retheo,"
he said quietly. "When things change, and the power comes." He paused, then added hurriedly, "We have bonding too. We call it love."

"Tenon," Zanla muttered angrily. "Tenon has—"

"Love?" Ergentil interrupted, speaking for the first time. "Perhaps we are not sufficiently familiar with that word."

Clement paused again, gazing at her now. "It is what you two feel for each other," he said finally. "And it is what I, despite our problems, feel for both of you, for all your race. It is the most powerful feeling of which we are capable, and the best."

"If you think that this is our secret, then why can't you travel the way we do?" Ergentil asked.

"Because we do not yet know how to harness it," Clement replied. "But that knowledge will come. You have heard of and seen the powers of our science. All we need to know is the right question to ask, and we will find the answer. When you leave, the most advanced devices of our science will be recording what happens. The scientists will know what to look for now."

"Your science is capable of much," Zanla said, "but I think perhaps it is not capable of this."

"In that case the mystery will be left to people like me, who know nothing about science, but something of love. In any case, we will learn what there is to learn."

"And once it has been learned, will you use your love to destroy us?" Ergentil asked.

"I cannot speak for all humans, but I know that if I came to your planet through love, I would come in order to love. I would want to bond with you as I bond with my fellow human beings. Others may choose differently, but you no longer have control over the choice."

"How do we know—" Zanla started to say, and stopped. Another silence, an exchange of glances. "We will speak about this privately," he said finally. "Please excuse us."

* * *

A dim, naked light bulb illuminated Kuntasha's tired features. The odor of the archbishop's own sweat now mingled with that of the others. "This will not work, you know," Kuntasha said. "The government will not accept it. Or if they do, things may get better for a time, but then the evil will return. The evil always returns."

"Perhaps you are right. But it will not come through us, and that is all we can ask."

Kuntasha shrugged, with the air of a man who would never know victory, only lesser forms of defeat. "I will put the terms to a vote, then." But the decision was already made.

* * *

"Is it true?" Angela whispered. "I know what Sabbata said but—did you learn any of it from Tenon?"

"I never said I learned it from Tenon, child. Is it true? I don't know. I would like it to be true, and perhaps my wishes added certainty to my words. Perhaps it is an approximation of the truth, which is all we mortals can hope for, without divine revelation."

"I hope it's true too."

Clement covered her hand with his.

* * *

"Is it true, Zanla?"

"I don't know. How can I know? They are only words. They sound reasonable, but—"

"He knows about bonding and the
retheo.
Is there any way he could have known, except from Tenon?"

"They were forbidden topics. He did not hear of them from us."

"Then the Pope is right," Ergentil said. "This is all a waste. There is nothing to do now but return, and prepare."

"Or rely on their love."

"Do you think we can?"

"I don't know."

Ergentil covered his hand with hers.

* * *

"We do not think it proper of you not to return Tenon to us," Zanla said, "but you will not be persuaded. Please believe me, we have never had any wish to harm you or your fellow humans; we trust that you feel the same way toward us. We will not, therefore, carry out our threat toward you. We depart instead—with the hope that, if we meet again, we shall meet in peace."

"That is my fervent prayer as well," Clement replied. The two aliens looked defeated, he thought. He felt a rush of pity for them. He did not want to be a cause of their sorrow—but one matter remained. "I know that your people may continue to deal harshly with the followers of Chitlan, and that what has happened here will not change that policy. On Earth it is my experience that such policies usually fail, that people grow stronger in their faith under such adversity. My religion was persecuted once, and now its persecutors are forgotten, their beliefs discarded. Perhaps you are certain of the truth of what you believe, and see no reason to tolerate other beliefs. I beg you to consider how many things there are yet to be learned about the Universe, and the possible existence of truths other than your own. If you destroy the Chitlanians, you end the possibility of discovering their truths. We all have much to learn from each other; please give this learning a chance to take place."

The aliens were silent for a moment, until Ergentil responded. "We do seek truth. That is the purpose of our Voyages."

Did she mean it? If so, could he try their patience a little more? He reached into his pocket and took out the book that he carried with him everywhere. He handed it to Ergentil. "This is a—a testament of what I believe. It is my truth. Perhaps when we meet again—and I feel that we shall—we will be able to talk about such things."

Ergentil took the book and stared at it. Then she reached into her robes and produced one of her own. "Here is my truth," she said softly, giving it to Clement.

He accepted it and solemnly bowed his thanks. They gazed awkwardly at each other for a moment, and then Clement realized there was nothing left to be said. He bowed again to the silent aliens, then walked out of the room.

Angela followed him down the corridor. "You won," she exclaimed.

Clement nodded absently.

"Tenon stays, they go. The threat is over."

"Yes. Over."

* * *

They blinked back the sunlight as they stood at the top of the stairs. Then Clement's eyes focused on the scene in front of him: the diplomats, the scientists, the soldiers, the technicians—all eyes on him. While he had been in the ship a helicopter had landed. Had they caught Tenon? No, impossible, God would not be that cruel. He saw his limousine by the motel, waiting, ready to take him outside the compound, to the journalists, the Curia, the bankers, the politicians. The poor, the starving, the homeless, the oppressed, the unloved.