Project Pope (24 page)

—We would have done well, I'm sure, said the One atop the mountain above Vatican. Instinctively, we would have known how to act.

—We did fail in one regard, said the Decker Old One. We let the Dusters get away.

—There was nothing we could have done about it, said the Old One on the plain. We could not have stopped their leaving. I am not sure it would have been right for us to do so. They were intelligent creatures and should have been accorded free will.

—Which we accorded them, said the One beside the ocean.

—But they originated here and developed here, said an Old One who lived in a distant desert. They were part of the planet and we allowed them to depart. Their leaving subtracted something from the planet. I have often wondered what function they might have carried out if they had stayed.

—Old Ones, said the One within the forest, this is footless speculation. They left long ago. Whether they would, in time, have exercised some influence on the planet, we cannot know. The planet may not have suffered from their leaving. Their influence, if there had been any, might have been adverse. I find myself wondering why this matter was brought into our conversation.

—Because one of them remains, said the Decker Old One. It lives with one of the organic beings that created the metal ones. When the others left, it remained behind. I have puzzled over why it should have remained behind. More than likely it was simply left here when the others went away. They may, as a matter of fact, have left it intentionally. You see, it is a runt.…

Chapter Thirty-two

The glitter of diamond dust floated in the air just above the spindly, gilded chair that stood beside the table with the marble top.

—So you're back, said Tennyson.

—Please, said Whisperer. Please!

—I am not about, said Tennyson, to cave in to your pleas. But I think it's time for us to talk.

—I'll talk, said Whisperer I'll talk most willingly. I'll tell you who and what I am, and no other knows who or what I am. I'll answer all your questions.

—All right, then, tell me what you are.

—The Old Ones call me Duster and Decker calls me Whisperer and—

—It's immaterial what you may be called, said Tennyson. Tell me what you are.

—I am an unsubstantial conglomerate of molecules, all the molecules disassociated and yet making up myself. Every molecule of me, perhaps every atom of me, is intelligent. I am a native of this planet, although I can remember no beginning and I anticipate no end. I may, in fact, be immortal, although I've never thought upon it. Although, come to think of it, I am sure I am. There is no killing me. Even were I scattered, so thoroughly scattered that no atom of my being ever found another atom of my being through all eternity, yet I know each atom would be a life within itself, still sentient, still intelligent.

—It would seem to me, said Tennyson, that you are an efficient fellow. You're immortal and intelligent and no one can so much as lay a hand on you. You've got it made.

—But I have not got it made. True, I have intelligence and, as an intelligent being, I have the drive to learn and know, but I lack the tools to learn and know.

—So you seek a tool.

—You put it very crudely.

—You want to use me as a tool. A tool to help you learn and know. What is it that you want to know?

—I need to know of Vatican and of the work that's done here. I need to enter into the worlds the Listeners are finding. For long and long I've tried, and I have learned a little, but so very little. One does not enter into the thought processes of machines. They've not that kind of mind. My probing of them, or my attempts to probe them through the years, has made Vatican suspicious. They know there is someone probing, but they don't know who it is. They try to seek me out but they do not find me. They probably are unaware that I exist.

—You think that I can help you? That I'd be willing to?

—You can help me. Of that there is no question. You can view the cubes. If you only let me in your mind so I can share what you see within the cubes, then the two of us together …

—But, Whisperer, why me? There is Ecuyer.

—I have tried with Ecuyer. He is insensitive to me. No more sensitive than the robots; he does not know I am there, does not even see the glitter of me. Decker sees the glitter and I can talk with him, but he cannot view the cubes and his mind is closed to me. That leaves only you, and perhaps one other.

—One other?

—The one that you call Jill.

—You have talked with her?

—No, I have not talked with her. But I think I could; also her mind is not closed to me.

—Let's leave her out of it, said Tennyson. For the moment, leave her out of this. Is that understood?

—It is understood. We'll leave her out of it.

—You want to view the cubes with me. To get inside my mind and view the cubes with me. Is that all you want?

—Perhaps not all. But the most important.

—Now tell me why. Why is it so important that you view the cubes?

—To regain my heritage.

—Now, back up a minute there, said Tennyson. What has your heritage got to do with it?

—I was, so long ago that time grows dim in the thinking of it, only one small part of a cloud of me—a cloud of other Dusters, or if you wish, of other Whisperers. I say a cloud of me, for I do not know if the cloud was one, if I was a minor part of a larger entity, or if the cloud was made up of very many single entities like me. The cloud had a heritage, it had a destiny—perhaps you could say that it had a task. That task was to know the universe.

—You don't say, said Tennyson.

—But I do say. Would I deceive you, running the chance that you should learn of my deceit, thus losing any hope of the cooperation that I seek of you?

—That makes sense. I don't suppose you would. But what happened to the cloud?

—It went away and left me, said Whisperer. Why I do not know. Nor do I know where it went except that I know it went to seek out the universe. In bitter hours I've pondered why it went and left me. But leaving me, it did not take away my heritage. By every means I still seek out the universe.

—Of course you do, said Tennyson.

—You mock me. You lack belief in me?

—Let's put it this way, said Tennyson. I am not overwhelmed by belief in you. All you've told me so far is what you want to do and how you need my help. I ask you now—what is there in it for me? What do I get out of it? Something more, I hope, than the pleasure of your company.

—You are a hard man, Tennyson.

—I am not a fool. I don't propose to let you use me. It seems to me that in this, somewhere, there should be a bargain struck.

—A bargain, said Whisperer. Yes, of course, a bargain.

—So all right. A bargain with the devil.

—Which one of us is that devil that you speak of? If my understanding of the term is correct, I am not a devil. Neither, I think, are you.

—Okay, then, no devil.

—Without your leave, said Whisperer, I dipped briefly in your mind. For which I beg forgiveness.

—You are forgiven. If it was only for an instant.

—I tell you true. It was only for a moment. In your mind I snared two worlds. The autumn world and the equation world. Which would you like to visit? Which one would you prefer to go to? Which would you want to see? Not to see, not to stare at, not to wonder over, but to actually go to.

—You mean that you could take me there? That I could walk those worlds?

—With me, you could walk those worlds. Perhaps understand them, although I'm not sure of that. But you could see them clearly, lay your hands on them.

—And the Heaven world?

—You have not seen the Heaven world.

—No, I've not, said Tennyson.

—Well, then?

—You mean go to one of the worlds and then come back?

—Yes, of course come back. You never go to a place from which you can't return.

—You would take me over—

—No, not take you over. The two of us together.

Impossible, Tennyson told himself. It could not be done. Either he was dreaming again or he faced the sleekest con …

—It's possible, said Whisperer. It can be done. It is not a con. You have pondered on the equation world. You have dreamed of it. It will not let you be.

—I could never get a good look at it, said Tennyson. It was always hidden. I knew there was much there that I wasn't seeing.

—Then go with me and see it.

—And understand?

—No, I'm not sure we'll understand. But, together, better than one of us alone.

—You tempt me, Whisperer. Should I take a chance on you?

—No chance, my friend. May I call you friend?

—Not a friend, Whisperer. A partner. Partners also must have trust and faith. And if you fail.…

—If I fail?

—Decker would hear of it. You'd lose your only friend.

—The threat is unworthy of you, partner.

—Perhaps it is.

—But you let it stand?

—I let it stand, said Tennyson.

—So let you and I go together to the equation world.

—We'll have to view the cube.

—No need of it. It is fixed within your mind.

—Yes, said Tennyson, but imperfectly. I do not see it all. Some of it is missing.

—It all is there. It needs the digging out. You and I, together, as one person, we can dig it out.

—This togetherness, said Tennyson, is beginning to wear thin on me.

—Think of it as oneness, then. Not two of us, but one. Now think deeply of the equation world. Remember it as best you can. We'll essay to enter it.

Chapter Thirty-three

Enoch Cardinal Theodosius walked into the library and clambered on his stool, looking more like a well-dressed scarecrow than he did a cardinal.

“I hope,” he said to Jill, “that you don't mind these visits from a clanking old robot who does not have enough to do to occupy his time.”

“Eminence, I love your visits,” said Jill. “I look forward to them.”

“It is strange,” said the cardinal, pulling up his feet to place them on the lower rungs of the stool, shucking up his robe about his middle and crouching forward, hands clasped around himself as if he might have a bellyache. “It is strange that such as we should find so much to talk about. I think that our conversations have good substance to them. Do you not agree?”

“Yes, Your Eminence, I do.”

“I have gained great respect for you,” he said. “You work hard and enthusiastically. You have a mousetrap mind. There's not much escapes you. Your assistants make good reports of you.”

“You mean that my assistants are spies who make reports to you?”

He flapped a hand in distress. “You know that's not my meaning. I have occasion at times to talk with them and your name is mentioned. You have impressed them very much. You think like a robot, so they tell me.”

“Oh, I hope that's not the truth.”

“What's so bad, milady, about robotic thinking?”

“Nothing, I suppose. But robotic thinking is wrong for me. I should be thinking human.”

“Humans are strange folk,” said the cardinal. “That is a conclusion I have reached through long years of watching them. You may not be aware of it, but robots are obsessed by humans. They are one of our favorite conversational subjects; we spend long hours in talking of them. I suppose it is possible for a human and a robot to establish strong relationships. There are myths that describe such closenesses. I have never had such a relationship and I feel, somehow, that for the lack of it, I've suffered. I must be frank and say that in my visits here I have detected the beginning of such a relationship to you. I hope you do not mind.”

“Why, of course not. I am honored.”

“Up until this time,” said the cardinal, “I've had but small contact with humans. Ecuyer is the only man with whom I've had contact for any length of time.”

“Paul Ecuyer is a good man,” said Jill.

“Good. Yes, I suppose he's good. A bit stiff-necked, however. He lives for his Listeners.”

“That's his job,” said Jill. “He does it well.”

“That is true, but there are times when he tends to forget for whom he's doing it. He gets too wrapped up in it. He assumes more than a normal amount of responsibility. His project is a Vatican project. There are times when he acts as if it's his and his alone.”

“Your Eminence, what is this all about? Is your nose all out of joint over the Heaven incident?”

The cardinal lifted his head and stared at her. He grumbled at her. “Miss, sometimes you are too smart for your own good.”

“Never that,” she said. “Stupid sometimes when I am trying to be smart.”

“I am concerned,” he said, “over this saint business. I'm not sure we need a saint. A saint might cause us more trouble than it would be worth. What are your thoughts on it?”

“I haven't really thought of it. I have heard some talk. That's all.”

“Ecuyer is slow in turning over the cube of the Listener Mary's second trip to Heaven. I have a feeling he'd just as soon not turn it over to us. I don't know what happened. I'm not sure anyone knows. There have been some ugly rumors.”

“Probably none of them true.”

“Yes, that's more than likely. Often rumors have little truth in them. But why hasn't Ecuyer given us the cube?”

“Probably he's been busy. He is a busy man. Does he always turn the cubes over to Vatican immediately?”

“No, I guess he doesn't. He gives them to us when he gets around to it.”

“There, that's it,” said Jill. “He simply hasn't gotten around to it.”

“I don't know,” said the cardinal. “Ecuyer is a close friend of Tennyson and Tennyson knows Decker.”

“Your Eminence, you sound as if the three of them were closing in on you. What have Tennyson and Decker got to do with it? You have nothing to fear from either of them. Ecuyer and Tennyson are Vatican men. Decker never interferes in anything at all.”