Waiting for the Galactic Bus (28 page)

“Virgil Bassett,” she whispered tenderly, “go fly a kite.”

    30   

Barion explains; it doesn’t help

“Post-life energy. We’re in the thick of it.” Maj removed the tiny earplug that emitted a cacophony of human speech. “All my readings are unreliable. What
is
that madness out there?”

“Go to matter phase,” Sorlij ordered.

The corporeal ship drifted in space like a sea vessel becalmed. In matter phase, the viewscreens showed nothing but the monotony of space. They decided to leave the ship in matter and return to energy phase themselves for compatibility. At least they could read brain waves.

Once away from the ship they needed some time to adjust to a kaleidoscope of visuals and the deluge of raw emotion bombarding them: changing landscapes of pastoral serenity, city buildings, meadows, a pulpit or two, dwelling places of austere simplicity or garishness, all under a continual verbal roar. Sifting through the storm of voices and energy, Sorlij’s worst fears plummeted to new depths. “Oh, Barion...”

“It’s the Rock for them,” Maj knew. “Shall we ask directions?”

“Got to start somewhere.”

They found themselves on desert sand under a blistering sun. Not far away, an oddly garbed human crouched on his knees, face to the earth in an attitude of fervent prayer.

“Excuse me,” Sorlij began. “We’re strangers here. Could you tell us —?”

The worshipper glared around, sprang up and charged at them with a wicked curved sword. “ALLAH IS THE ONE TRUE GOD!”
Swoosh!

The blow merely passed through Sorlij, who dissolved and materialized further away, a little put out. “Now, see here, whoever you are —”

Maj made a stab at it. “We’re looking for someone —”

The mad alien turned on her, swinging the sword. “PIGS!”

Maj discorporated and reappeared next to Sorlij. “Look, you might show a little court —”

“Allah el Allah-h-h. The one, the all-merciful,”
the Moslem yodeled, winding up for another try at them —

But they were long gone before the sword completed its futile arc, passing over landscape that changed with disconcerting frequency along with a colorful cast of characters. They had bewildering adventures. A large, scented female with plastic flowers on her powdered bosom exhorted them to join something called the Brotherhood of the Holiest Elect. Someone named Scotty invited them for the weekend at Pola Negri’s. A group of intense women, ignoring Sorlij, made a breathy, hands-on fuss over Maj and invited her to a sisterhood party “without the sexist.” Twice more they were attacked, once with something saw-toothed and nasty, once with a tube that went rat-tat-tat. They managed to escape through montaging scenery to a quiet, empty street with small dwellings in white plaster and ocher tile. Maj wilted down on the lip of a quaint stone well, confused and discouraged.

“Somewhere in this madness I can read Barion,” Sorlij maintained.

“If someone would just give us clear directions before they turned religious, erotic or homicidal. Sit down, dear, you look done in.”

“I am.” Sorlij drew a deep breath, enjoying the tranquillity of silence. “At least it’s quiet here.”

“You two!”

Maj sighed. “At least it was.”

“Get ready to move. I’m tired of being polite.”

Their interceptor bore down on them, a short, powerfully built man in late Roman dress.

“Greetings,” Sorlij attempted. “We’re a bit new around here —”

“No.” Bishop Augustine inspected Sorlij up and down. “You are not Him.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Sorlij, staying carefully in neutral.

“I have sought Him for sixteen hundred years. I will find Him if it takes that long again.”

“Our wish to the smallest syllable,” said the diplomatic Maj. “We’re looking for him, too.”

Augustine surveyed Maj with unconcealed disapproval. “Cover yourself!” After observing the better local female forms, Maj had refined the concept to a dazzling image with a charmingly minimal regard to costume. “You are a woman.”

“As you build them, more or less.”

“The beauty of woman is a snare.”

“I did hope I was in good taste. The one we’re seeking is unusual to your sort. Very handsome.” Maj had always thought Barion attractive when he wasn’t suffering from poetry or cosmic purpose. “Blondish, tends to be tedious. We call him Barion.”

“Oh,
that
one.” The contempt was audible. “He is always underfoot somewhere. I think he is a little dim.”

Sorlij agreed. “Quite possibly.”

“I purpose to see that one myself — scant joy or profit as it holds. Come along.”

Once more the scenery dissolved with unsettling rapidity. The street became a plain hallway spaced with office doors. They followed the bull figure of Augustine until he halted at one, knocked explosively and entered without invitation.

“Here is where he works. If the verb applies,” Augustine qualified. “Sort of a general fetch-and-carry. Barion, are you here?”

“Augustine? Just a moment, Your Grace.” A drawer slammed shut somewhere behind a row of ancient green filing cabinets. Barion emerged, hands full of papers. “Sorlij and Maj! I knew someone was in the neighborhood.”

“Of course it’s us,” Sorlij acknowledged brusquely. “What’s the meaning of this dissonant lunacy?”

“Tact, dear,” Maj intervened delicately. “I’m sure Barion has an interesting explanation.”

“Well, Maj: after all these eons.” Barion made a valiant try at gallantry. “You’ve matured splendidly.”

“And yourself, although you look a little drawn.”

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you,” Barion confessed with more honesty than was apparent. “Overjoyed is not the word. Sit down.”

Sorlij and Maj settled into wooden office chairs that creaked in protest at every move. Augustine remained standing, a rock of long-thwarted purpose. “Attend me, Barion. I have been trying for sixteen centuries to extract from you a plain answer as to —”

“EEEE!” Maj shrieked and turned dark blue with horror. A nightmare loomed suddenly in the open doorway, most of its body burned to char, the rest caked with blood.

“Which way to the martyrs, please?” the apparition inquired.

“Martyrs.” Barion riffled through a Rolodex. “Martyrs... yes: William James, just down the hall.”

“Thanks awfully.” The horror bobbed out of sight.

“Have to be a little patient with martyrs,” Barion explained genially. “They tend to feel
arrivée
. Mr. James helps them put it all in perspective. Well.” Barion sat down at his desk. “I suppose you’re here to collect us — a-and I imagine you have a great many questions.”

Masking his mind from them, Barion fired an urgent message at Coyul across the void —

SORLIJ
AND
MAJ
:
READY
OR
NOT
,
HERE
THEY
ARE
.
GO
WITH
WHAT
YOU
’
VE
GOT
.

The reply came instantaneously, hurried and harried:

YOU
THINK
YOU
’
VE
GOT
PROBLEMS
?
FORGET
IT
.

No help there.

Sorlij and Maj demanded to see Coyul as well. They assumed he was in the other messy pool of post-life energy.

“Coyul calls it Below Stairs. Very much like this place,” Barion explained. “Just less organized.”

Sorlij tried to imagine a place less organized than this. The concept was a challenge. “Well, we’ll be taking you both back. And if you or Coyul have perpetrated what every indication leads us to believe, it’s the Rock.”

“Premature seeding with no authority.” Maj shook her head in dire accusation. “You’ve always been spoiled, self-satisfied, self-indulgent and undisciplined, and now it’s all caught up with you.”

Augustine had lost any sense of direction or meaning in the discussion. “What means all this?”

“What it means, dismally, is a specimen like you,” Sorlij snapped at him. “Please don’t interrupt. What did you start with, Barion? Must have been far below standard CT.”

“About nine hundred cc.”

Maj blanched with utter shock. “Nine —”

“But that was part of the experiment,” Barion amended quickly. “Combining augmented intelligence with the raw animal. You must consider success along with failure. I’ve produced some admirable specimens.”

Augustine’s brows shot up.
“You
have produced?”

“Yes. You may not be the most tolerant of men, but you did change the shape of European history and thought.”

“Nine hundred
what?”
Augustine didn’t understand any of this; there was a sensation in his stomach akin to indigestion that hinted he didn’t really want to, but he must. “What is a CT?”

“There’s another truth I want in your report,” Barion went on, ignoring Augustine, who was suddenly seeing the fetch-and-carry bane of his existence in a new and horrible light. “Coyul wanted no part of this experiment. He was against it from the start.”

“Anything that took him away from his silly music,” Maj noted with honeyed malice. “We’ll be questioning him, too.”

“Well, Below Stairs is a bit chaotic, but my brother does what he can to keep things tidy.”

“Your brother?” Augustine began to make even more unpleasant connections.
“Your
brother?”

“Coyul,” Barion admitted with fraying patience. “Your Grace has given him less flattering titles. Please don’t interrupt.” He turned back to Sorlij and Maj, urgent. “Coyul is helping me now with a vital corrective measure. There’s a girl Below Stairs. She’s very important. You must let us complete it.”

“This is enough to make a man mad,” Augustine despaired. “No one knows where God is. All manner of undesirables wander in from anywhere” — a pointed glare at Sorlij. “One has to put up with heretics like Pelagius and that barbarian Luther —”

“Who is very much like you,” Barion cut him off with even more fragile patience. “Utterly sure he’s right and the rest of the world will realize it one day. Your Grace will recognize the tendency.”

“Barion.” Augustine drew himself up in last-ditch desperation. “What do you mean
you
produced — you and your brother — are you saying that
you
created the world?”

“Of course not. You were already here... sort of. I just improved you.”

“THEN WHERE IS GOD?”

“A fine rhetorical. Where indeed?” Sorlij acknowledged. “But don’t confuse the creature, Barion. He can’t understand any of this.”

— as the new message tinged with panic whispered into Barion’s mind:

CHARITY
READY
BUT
EMERGENCY
REPEAT
EMERGENCY
AT
CLUB
BANAL
.

What could happen at the Club Banal? Barion wondered. The place was a definition of fail-safe mediocrity. Nothing ever happened there.

All this in a nanosecond plus a fraction more to remember the tyrannies of Murphy’s Law and that this was definitely not his day.

For a strong man Augustine seemed suddenly juiceless and brittle, though he was never a frail spirit. The implication was nakedly evident. “Barion — are you...?”

“This primitive is not important.” Sorlij rode over him with brusque purpose. “There’s a great deal we have to know.”

“If you are,” Augustine struggled, a tragic figure, “then where is the City of God? Where the majesty of the spirit, where the mystery, the fall or the redemption?”

“Augustine, not today,” Barion warned at the end of his tether. “Not today.”

“Yes! Today! If
you
are —”

“All right!
I am
.”

“Then — what remains but madness?” Augustine drew on his last resources of intellect, courage and dignity, all formidable.

“Madness or low comedy. Shall we not then run wanton in the street? Why not? What remains?”

“A great deal remains, you relentless man,” Barion said. “That I
did
build into that splendid mind I gave you. Though it’s very like building a magnificent car for someone who obstinately refuses to learn to drive.”