Project Pope Page 20

  'Betsy is still working on that one, said Ann.

  'And likely to be for some time, said Herb. 'Vatican has a special interest in the senile computer. They would like to know how and why a computer can fumble its way into senility. No one says so, but Vatican probably has His Holiness in mind.

  'The Pope's not old enough, said Marge, 'for anyone to suspect him of senility.

  'Not yet', said James. 'He is still a youngster. But the time could come. Give him a million years or so. I suspect Vatican is quite capable of thinking a million years ahead.

  'Vatican won't exist for a million years, said Ann.

  'Don't bet on that, said Herb. 'Robots are the most stubborn thing there is. They don't cave in. They won't give up. These Vatican robots have too much going for them to even think of it. In a million years they well may have the galaxy in the hollows of their hands.

  Thirty-six

  Jill went to the clinic to visit Mary. The nurse met her at the door. 'You can stay for only a few minutes, said the nurse. 'Don't try to speak with her.

  Jill moved a few feet into the room and stopped, looking down upon the frail, pallid woman on the bed, her body so thin and unsubstantial that its shape barely showed beneath the sheet. Her gray hair was spread out on the pillow. Her two clawlike hands lay outside the sheet, clutched together, the fingers interlaced as if in desperation. Her thin lips were loosely pulled together. The jawbone and the cheekbones stood out in all their starkness, thinly covered by a parchment skin.

  There was about her, Jill thought with some alarm, a certain look of skin-and-bones holiness, reminiscent of a drawing she once had seen of a fanatic medieval hermit who had managed to starve himself into acceptable holiness. This, she thought, this poor wreck of a woman, this skeleton — this is the one who is being touted as a saint!

  Mary's eyes came open, slowly open, not naturally, but as if she'd forced them. Her head was so positioned on the pillow that the opened eyes looked squarely into Jill's face.

  The loose lips moved and a question came out of them, a thin whisper that cut across the silence of the room.

  'Who are you? she asked.

  Jill whispered back at her. 'I'm Jill. I dropped by to see you.

  'No, said Mary, 'you are not Jill. I have heard of Jill but I've never seen her. And I've seen you. Somewhere I have seen you.

  Jill shook her head slowly, thinking to calm the woman on the bed.

  'I recognize you, insisted Mary. 'Once, long ago, we talked together, but I can't remember where.

  The nurse stalked toward Jill, then halted when Mary spoke again.

  'Come close, she said. 'Close so I can see you better. My eyes are bad today. Bend down so I can see you.

  Jill moved close to the bed, bent down.

  On the sheet the two clasped hands came apart and Mary lifted a paper-tissue hand and patted Jill upon the cheek.

  'Yes, yes, she said. 'I know you.

  Then the hand fell back and the lids slid down across the eyes.

  The nurse was beside Jill, tugging at her. 'You'll have to leave now.

  'Get your hands off me, said Jill in sudden anger. 'I'm going.

  Outside the clinic, she drew in a deep breath, suddenly feeling free. There was death inside that room, she told herself. Death and something else.

  The sun was moving down the west, hanging just above the purple mountain wall, and this final hour of sunlight lay like a soft benediction on the land. Now, for the first time since she had come to End of Nothing (how long had it been — a few days, a few weeks, a few months?) — now, for the first time, she saw the land on which she stood not as an alien world, not as a grotesque setting for the great incomprehensibility that was Vatican, but as a place where she lived, as an environment in which she had comfortably settled herself.

  Vatican lay against the land, now a part of it, growing out of the land as if it had sprouted roots deep into its soil — not a glaring obtrusion, but something that had grown as naturally as trees, blending into the biota of the planet. To the east and south lay the fields, the gardens and the orchards, an idyllic oasis that moved in close to the mass of squat, spreading buildings that made up Vatican, an ordered interface that linked Vatican to the primal soil. To the west were the mountains, the cloudlike mass of blue that was forever shifting shades, the continual shadow-show that Jason Tennyson had fallen in love with that first moment he had set eyes upon it. When he had drawn her attention to the mountains, she had not been impressed; to her, at that time, a mountain was a mountain and that was all it was. She had been wrong, she told herself. A mountain was a friend, or at least it could be one if you allowed it to be. The feeling for the great blue surge against the sky had stolen on her gradually from days of seeing it, becoming acquainted with it, and now realizing for the first time what it had come to mean to her — a landmark in her life, an eye-watching, surprisingly protective presence, a familiar figure that she could always turn to. It was only, she told herself, that until this moment she had never taken the time to stand and look. She had been wrong and Jason had been right.

  Standing there, thinking of Jason and the mountains, it seemed suddenly imperative that she see him. He had not been at the clinic, which might mean he was home, although she could not be sure he was. He had fallen into the habit lately of going on long walks, or he might have gone once again to call on Decker.

  She rapped on his door and there was no answer. He might be napping, she told herself, and turned the knob. The door came open when she pushed on it. On End of Nothing, few doors were

  ever locked. There was little need of locks.

  The apartment was empty; it had an empty hollowness. There was no clatter in the kitchen, so Hubert wasn't there. A small blaze burned on the fireplace grate.

  'Jason, she called, speaking more softly than she had intended to, the hush of the room imposing an instinctive urge to silence. She saw herself reflected in the large mirror mounted on the wall above the fireplace, a lost figure standing in the emptiness of the vacant room, a pale smudge of face emblazoned by the redness of the disfigured cheek.

  'Jason, she called again in a slightly louder voice.

  When there was no answer, she walked through the open bedroom door. The bed was made up, the colorful coverlet drawn over it. The bathroom door was open.

  She turned back to the living room and there stood Jason, in front of the fireplace, with his back to it, facing out into the room, staring out into the room, but there was a blankness on his face that seemed to say he was seeing nothing. Where had he come from? she wondered. How could she have missed him? She had not heard the door open or close and, as a matter of fact, there had been too little time since she had left the room for him to come through the door and walk across the room to the fireplace.

  'Jason, she said sharply, 'what's the matter with you?

  He swung his head towards her at the sound of her voice, but he registered no recognition at the sight of her.

  She moved quickly to him, stood facing him, reached out with both her hands and grasped him by the shoulders. She shook him. 'Jason, what's going on?

  His eyes, which had seemed glazed over, brightened slightly.

  'Jill, he said in a halting, doubtful voice, as if he was not able to accept the fact that she was there. 'Jill, he said again, reaching out to grasp her by the arms. 'Jill, I've been away.

  'I know you have, she said. 'Where have you been?

  'Another place, he said.

  'Jason, snap out of it. What other place?

  'I went to that equation world.

  'That place you dream about? That you have nightmares over?

  'Yes, but this time it was not a dream. I was there. I walked its surface. I and Whisperer…

  'Whisperer? That little puff of diamond dust you told me about?

  'We went as one, he said. 'We went together.

  'Come on, sit down, she said. 'Is there something that you want? I'll get you a drink.

  'No, no
thing. Just stay with me.

  He lifted a hand off her arm and ran it across her cheek in a caress — the cheek that carried the ugly, angry scar. He had grown into the habit of doing that — as if he might unconsciously be trying to express his love of her despite her disfigurement. At first she had flinched away from the gesture. Other than that caress, he had never, since shortly after they had met, made any move or said a Word to indicate that he was aware of it. That, she knew, was one of the many reasons that she loved him. No other man, no other person, had ever been able to be, or seem to be, so unaware of that terrible scar. Now she no longer flinched away from the caress. She had come, instead, to value it, as it might be some form of benediction.

  His hand passed across her cheek. She was facing the mirror above the fireplace and she could see how the hand came out to stroke the cheek and, in that very motion, she saw the sign of love.

  His hand dropped away and she gasped in disbelief. It was her imagination, she told herself, it was a moment of latent wish-fulfillment. She wasn't really seeing what she thought she saw. In another second or two the imaginative process would pass away and she'd return to normal.

  She stood rigid as the seconds passed away. She closed her eyes and opened them and the wish-fulfillment was still working.

  'Jason! she said, speaking low, trying to control her voice, but unable to keep it from shaking.

  'Jason! she said again, the word cracking with emotion.

  Her cheek remained unblemished. The stigma was no longer there.

  Thirty-seven

  Decker halted well before sunset, having found a spot where he could camp for the night. A spring gushed from a hillside, giving origin to a small stream that went trickling down a valley. A grove of low, dense mountain shrubs grew to the north of the spring, promising protection against night winds swooping from the peaks that loomed ahead. There was a dead tree fallen just downstream of the site, propped up against a nest of boulders, providing an easy supply of dry wood.

  Decker set to work methodically. He hauled in wood from the dead tree and got a cooking fire started, then chopped and stored wood against the night. He set up a small tent that would serve to shelter him if rain came and unrolled his sleeping bag. He brought a pail of water from the spring and hung a kettle to boil for coffee, then unwrapped two fish he'd caught earlier in the day and prepared for the pan on the spot, wrapping them in leaves against the time when he would need them. These he put into a pan and settled down to cooking supper. First, however, he made sure the rifle was propped against a boulder within easy reach. In all the time he'd spent on his trips into the mountains, he had seldom needed it, but natural caution told him he could not rule out the possibility of sometime needing it.

  Whisperer as yet had not caught up with him and, thinking this, he knew the thought was illogical. Whisperer had not known that he was planning on the trip — in fact, he had not really planned it; he'd simply up and left. It had not been an impulsive action; there had been no sense of urgency to get going, no sudden need to leave and go into the mountains. The trip had come quite naturally, as a matter of course. The garden was all hoed and the woodpile was well up and there had been nothing else to do. Without much surprise, he had found himself preparing for the trip. He had not thought of it as something special; it had been just another trip, in the course of which he would pick up some gemstones if he should be lucky. He had thought momentarily of driving down to Vatican to see if Tennyson might want to go with him, but had told himself it might be a bad time for Tennyson. As Vatican physician, Jason probably would have to stick around to keep an eye on Mary. Some other time, he had told himself.

  It was not that he wanted to be alone; he liked the man. Tennyson was the first man he had met in years that he really liked. He was, Decker thought, a man very like himself. Tennyson never talked too much and never about the wrong things. He asked few questions and those he asked were sensible. He had the knack of approaching an awkward situation with diplomatic ease. What he'd had to say about Whisperer could have been a sticky matter, but he'd come to it directly and with a frankness that was refreshing in itself and it had not been awkward in the least for either one of them.

  As he squatted by the fire, tending the frying fish, he found himself wishing that Whisperer were with him. If Whisperer had known that he was going into the mountains, he'd probably have come along. Whisperer liked the trips they took. There always was a lot for them to talk about, and Whisperer derived as much fun as he did out of searching the streambed gravels for the gems they often came upon. Whisperer, he recalled, invariably was a good sport in this regard. He never bragged unduly about the gems he found that Decker had passed by, unseeing.

  He had realized when Tennyson first told him what had occurred with Whisperer that he might see less of him. Sometimes that might have been a plus, for no question about it, there were occasions when Whisperer could be something of a pest. But he had been certain that the old friendship would not be broken — he and Whisperer had been together too long for that to happen. Thinking of it now, he was certain that it had not happened, that Whisperer's present absence was not due to any lessening of their association. With Tennyson, Whisperer probably would pick up some new interests, and he might now be off somewhere running one of them to earth. But in a short while he'd be back. Decker was sure of that. Before this trip was over, chances were that Whisperer would come sniffing down his trail to join him.

  The coffee kettle threatened to boil over, and he reached out a hand to grasp the forked stick that held it, intending to move it away from the heat of the fire. The kettle exploded in his face. It went flying through the air, crumpled by an unseen force. Boiling coffee sprayed his face and chest.

  In an automatic reflex action, Decker dived for the rifle propped against the boulder and as his fingers grasped it, the sickening, snarling crack of another rifle sounded from the hillside above him.

  Rifle in hand, Decker rolled behind the boulder, raised himself cautiously to peer above it. The shot had come from the direction of a rocky outcrop halfway up the hill, but there seemed to be nothing there.

  'The bastard shot too soon, Decker said aloud. 'He could have crawled a little closer and had a better chance. He was too anxious.

  The crumpled kettle lay a good ten feet or more beyond the campfire. The fish in the pan, he saw, were smoking, crisping. If he was tied up here too long, they'd be ruined. Dammit! he thought — he had been looking forward to those fish. He could almost taste them.

  Now who would be shooting at him? Who would want to kill him? He was certain he had been the target of the rifleman. Not the coffee pot. The shot had been to kill, not to frighten.

  He watched, flicking his gaze along the hillside, intent on catching any movement, any sign of movement. This could not have happened, he told himself, if Whisperer had been with him. Hours ago, Whisperer would have spotted the one who had been stalking them. It would have to be someone, he told himself, who would have known that Whisperer was not with him — but that was wrong, he thought, it had to be wrong, for no one in End of Nothing knew of Whisperer. He had never told anyone and so far as he knew no one could see Whisperer; therefore no one could be aware of him. Tennyson was the only one who knew — and probably Jill, for there were no secrets between the two of them. Could Tennyson have told Ecuyer? he wondered. It seemed unlikely. Tennyson and Ecuyer were friends but Tennyson, he felt certain, would not tell Ecuyer of Whisperer.

  All this, he reminded himself, was footless speculation. Undeterred by Whisperer, for no one knew of Whisperer, anyone could have come hunting him. It was just his tough luck that, without Whisperer, he had been caught flat-footed. It couldn't be Tennyson up there on the hillside. Tennyson had no reason. Even if he had, this was not his style.

  There were some rifles — a few rifles — in End of Nothing. Some hunters occasionally went into the woods in search of meat. Mostly small caliber, however. From the sound of it, the one up there on the hill was a
heavy caliber.

  He ran down the names of people who might want to kill him. He could scarcely think of any, having to stretch his imagination to make up a list. Having come up with one, he rejected each of the names. The few that he could think of could not possibly have that strong a motive. A few, at times, might have been offended by something he had said or done, but certainly not so touched to the quick as to come hunting him. The whole idea of someone out gunning for him was ridiculous. And yet there was someone out there, hiding on the hillside with killing in his heart, waiting for him to move and betray his position so the watcher could send a bullet through him.

  Something hard and going fast hit the boulder's edge, four feet or so from Decker. Chips of granite flew and a few of them struck his cheek and neck with stinging force. The report of the shot reverberated in the hills. The bullet, up-ended in its flight, went howling off in a ricochet, tumbling end for end.

  Up there, Decker told himself, up there by the stone outcropping — a tiny spot that had momentarily glittered in the rays of the setting sun. Decker tried to make out what it was but was unable to. He slid the barrel of his rifle along the boulder until it was pointed approximately at the spot.

  Nothing happened. Nothing stirred. There was no sound. The killer waited. Then Decker saw the beginning of a shape and traced it out — a shoulder, a hint of torso, the suggestion of a head.

  He crouched close against the rifle, cuddling it hard against him, lining up the sights. The shoulder, and there was the head, half in shadow, not sharply outlined, but it had to be a head. He took it in his sights, froze them on it, drew in a breath and held it, began the trigger squeeze…

  Thirty-eight

  Tennyson woke just before dawn. Jill lay beside him, asleep, breathing softly, regularly. He propped his pillow against the headboard and slid his body up to lean against it. The dark was quiet. Faint predawn light filtered through the windows of the living room, the blinds were drawn and no light could seep into the bedroom. In the kitchen the refrigerator was humming to itself.