Forbidden Sanctuary (8 page)

But still that did not solve his problem. Collingwood and Fontanelli always seemed so secure in their positions. Even if they later reversed them (which sometimes happened), they simply adopted their new stands with the same certainty and forcefulness, never wavering in the belief that they had right on their side. How long had it been since he had felt that way?

He had read an article once that claimed he hadn't been the same man since the Race War in England. He had used up whatever reserves of courage and decisiveness he possessed in walking down that street past the machine guns trained on him and the barricades manned by hate-filled, frustrated blacks, death and fear almost tangible presences beside him. Some men can only do that once, the author had said; you can give them the Nobel Peace Prize afterward, and even elect them Pope, but you can't make them regain what they have lost.

Clement didn't know. Was it then? Or later that day, as he struggled to get through to Kuntasha, knowing that if he didn't all his courage would be wasted? Or, perhaps, was it as the ballots were counted in the Conclave, mounting inexorably toward two-thirds plus one, and he realized that a greater burden was about to fall on his shoulders than anyone should have to bear?

He didn't know. Something had happened, something had changed somewhere. He was not who he was, and tonight the thought of battling the United Nations and President Gibson and the Numoi filled him with terror. He had listened to all the arguments on both sides, and they had all made sense. There were always good arguments for caution, of course. So it came down to something other than reason, and the nonreasoning part of himself said he could not act.

They would write more articles about him, and gossip about him in the corridors of the Curia. Fine people like that earnest young interpreter would be puzzled and disappointed. But they were not Pope, and only a Pope can really understand. And life would go on, because not even the aliens could change a person's inner self.

A shadow fell across him. Marcello was standing in the doorway. "It is past midnight, Holiness."

Clement got up from his chair, genuflected, and blessed himself. "Another day," he murmured to Marcello as he followed him out of the chapel.

"And we are still alive, thank God."

"You are a pious man, Marcello."

Marcello shrugged. "It is not being pious to simply speak the truth."

They entered Clement's small bedchamber, and in the silent palace the Pope prepared to sleep.

Chapter 7

Tenon had just been on guard duty by the officers' quarters on the first level—a useless assignment, everyone knew, but they had to be given something to do as the long days passed. Still, he hadn't minded it today. It gave him a chance to think, and he desperately needed to do some thinking.

He hadn't made much progress, however, by the time Samish had dismissed him and the worst part of the day began.

He walked slowly down the central stairway, down to the lowest level of the Ship, where most of the rest of the crew were already seated around the golden machine. He walked over to his own seat opposite Sabbata, who lowered her head in greeting. They did not speak.

Rothra was in charge today, as usual looking tired and out of sorts. "All right," he said, "let's hurry it up. I'm sick of giving bad reports about this, so let's do a little better tonight, shall we?" He walked over to the machine, which, like the Ship, was a pyramid in shape, and pressed a button at its base. It hummed slightly and turned a dull copper color. "All right, let's go," he snapped, striding back to the edge of the room.

Tenon looked at Sabbata. Her eyes were on him for a moment, then they closed. His closed too.

There was nothing for a moment, and then the struggle: the probing, the adjustment, the stabs of anger and frustration, wills stretched taut over the void. Tenon knew what was happening outside: the crew couples hunched over, straining together, the
retheo
changing from copper to red and almost to white (he knew why it was
almost
white), Rothra glaring impatiently at it and them. And he knew what was happening inside himself as well: nothing. Sabbata's efforts were becoming sporadic, perfunctory. There was a haze of sadness and hurt perplexity over everything. It cannot be helped, he thought, drifting, drifting away. It cannot be helped.

All right, all right, that's enough
—thoughts or words? Words. "All right, let it go," Rothra repeated as their eyes opened. "Just as bad as ever. You people'd better straighten out or we'll never get home." The
retheo
was back to the copper color. He walked up to it again and turned it off. "That's it. Up to the service. You better pray you do this right before very long."

The crew members got up and headed for the stairs.

Sabbata and Tenon walked together, in silence, up to the second level, and into the oval-shaped Room of the Ancients. They took their accustomed seats and waited along with the other restless crew members.

Tenon tried to think of something to say. "Whose rite is it today?" he asked Sabbata.

She gave him an a-lot-it-matters-to-you stare, then softened and said, "Ascanth, I think. It's hard to keep track, for some reason, with this new day-length."

"Why couldn't we stay on our own time, and let the aliens adjust to us?" Tenon wondered.

"Zanla," she replied, as if that were all the explanation that was needed.

Zanla
, he repeated to himself, and he could feel his body become tense with fear. "He's late," he remarked, struggling to seem normal (as if that were possible with Sabbata).

"He and Ergentil are probably having another fight."

"But the Departure is set. What else is there to fight about?"

"They'll find something. They wouldn't be happy otherwise." Sabbata looked at him meaningfully. He turned away.

When Ergentil finally appeared she looked weary and cross—like Rothra; like all of them. She was wearing her white vestments. She surveyed the room quickly, motioned behind her, and entered, followed by Zanla.

They took their positions at the two foci of the ellipse.

The crew members stood. The lights dimmed, except for flickering illumination on Zanla and Ergentil. A low moaning music arose from beneath them. It swirled through the room for a while, sighed, and faded. The crew clattered back into their seats.

Ergentil's arms were raised in front of her, palms up. "On this day we honor the memory of Ascanth Most Sage. We seek the blessing of his wisdom on our endeavors. We seek to know what is good for our people, as he knew. We seek to understand what he was the first to perceive. Let us seek his wisdom." Her palms turned down, and she spread her arms out to encompass the room. The crew bowed their heads.

Tenon sneaked a look at Sabbata. Her eyes were shut tight in a fair pretense of meditation. Was she really trying to reach Ascanth's wisdom? He doubted it. It was a sham; they all knew it, but they were locked into it. And it would take Chitlan to set them free, to let them worship the true essence of life instead of some dried-up ghost that no longer had the power to move them.

Zanla was preparing for the reading, leafing through the Chronicles of the Ancients to find his place. Ergentil stared at him sourly. "I read from the Chronicle of Ascanth," he recited finally. "Pay heed to the greatness of our past.

"Now the people did not understand why man and woman both had to be a part of the sacred machines. So the Elders brought the question to Ascanth, who strove to answer them in these words: 'Man by himself is nothing. Woman by herself is nothing. But together they are life itself. Life by itself is little. Machines by themselves are less. But together they are in command of all-that-is. With man and
retheo
we go one step, with woman and
retheo
we go another step, with man, woman, and
retheo
we cross the Universe.'

"And someone asked if it made a difference which man and which woman, and Ascanth replied: 'Could we cross the Universe in a sailboat? Just as the machine makes a difference, the people make a difference. An unclean person and a broken machine will produce much the same result. The only difference is that it is easier to fix a
retheo
than it is to fix a person.'"

And on it went, the same old dreary, meaningless platitudes. Where had they all led? He could remember the Disciple Argal asking the question. Had the endless series of Ships increased the happiness or the goodness of the people? Had all the rules and rituals done anything but perpetuate a system that oppressed the planet, that chose to ignore the truth sprouting all around it like buds in springtime?

Tenon had difficulty containing his impatience as they plodded through the Litany of Praise. It had been tolerable when it was just a mindless formality—something your family had done generation after generation, like bowing in thanks to the ground before eating your supper. But now there was something in its place, and each day it seemed harder to mimic the appropriate responses, to act like a devout Numian when he knew that they would put him to death if they found out what he truly believed.

After the Litany more music, and then the Act of Homage—always the worst part. In silence, starting with the youngest, they trudged up—first to Zanla, then to Ergentil—sank to the floor in front of each, and murmured
"Alm a Numos."
Tenon lived in fear that his unbelief would become so obvious that the Master and the Priestess could not help but recognize it as they gazed down at him.

Tonight he need not have worried. Neither was paying any attention to him, or to any of the rest of the crew. They were acting out their parts as much as he was. How could he give homage to people like this?

Tenon picked himself up, returned to his seat, and waited until the rest were through for the Dismissal.

"May the words and deeds of the Ancients illumine our lives," Ergentil said, and turned to Zanla.

"Well," Zanla said to them, "you've had a tough day I know, and we've all been under a lot of pressure, so I won't keep you long. Just remember that it was the wisdom of people like Ascanth that brought us to where we are today. If we can all strive to have a tenth of his wisdom, we will make the most of our opportunity and prepare for an even more glorious future. All right, you are dismissed."

The lights came up, and Zanla and Ergentil left quickly. "If I hear him say 'an even more glorious future' one more time I think I'll be sick," someone behind Tenon muttered.

They all followed the Master and Priestess out of the oval room and headed down to the refectory.

At dinner the favorite topic of conversation was, as always, Departure. What is the first thing you'll do when you get back? The first meal, the first bath, the first
cumoli
concert, the first orgy... they would all be heroes when they returned, and for once in their lives all pleasures (within the bounds of Numian propriety) would be accessible to them.

"I'll sit in the front row at the Turquoise Hill and watch the
touvon
dancers spin their patterns by moonlight. And they'll spin one around me, faster and faster, till the world is just a blur of color and dance...."

"Yes, but first a bath. They say you're allowed to bathe in the marble tubs at the Council Palace, and the bath maidens are the most beautiful in all of Numos...."

"But imagine going home. Just riding into town alone, say, as if nothing had happened, and wandering into the wineshop and laying down a goldpiece..."

"They say the ceremony in the
golossi
is something, especially if you've been out near the maximum. Imagine what it will be like after this Voyage? Remember when we were leaving, the crowd sitting there in silence—more people than I ever..."

Tenon felt as if he were being suffocated. He nibbled at his food for a while, then excused himself. He could feel Sabbata's gaze on him as he left the room.

She came in to him later, as he lay in darkness in their small cubicle. She turned on a light and sat opposite him, just staring at him for a while. "This is serious," she said finally.

He didn't reply.

"The problem with the
retheo
—it's us," she went on. "You've locked me out. It's all wrong, all off-center. We have to see Ergentil—"

"I will not see Ergentil."

"This can't go on much longer."