Clifford Simak - Project Pope

'That's what she says.

'I'll tell you something, said Ecuyer. 'I'll bet you that it happened that way. I'm convinced that the crystal will show-

'Of course it will, said Tennyson. 'If that's what she thinks happened, that is what will be on the record. It's not what happened, but what she thinks happened, that will show up in the crystal. But even if the record is accurate as to what really happened, even if this creature she thinks chased her down the stairs did exactly that, how can you be so sure he or his fellows could trace her back to us?

'I don't think I'm sure, said Ecuyer. 'But I do think the possibility is there. The possibility is that she — how do you say it? — that she has given us away. Our Listeners never can be certain what they'll find out there. The man who chased her may not be the kind of being that she thinks she saw. He may have been something that was incomprehensible, so Mary's human mind translated him into human terms, into the sort of creature, horrible as he may have appeared to her, that she could understand, that would be bearable and that she could accept. Mary is an experienced observer, one of our most valuable. I'm certain she would know what she saw and certain as well that if she ran into some life form too horrible to look upon she'd instinctively protect herself by translation.

'I don't understand your fear, said Tennyson. 'Vatican robots go out in thought-ships, or whatever you call them, to some of the worlds that your people seek out.

'That is true, said Ecuyer, 'but there is a difference. The robots don't go blind. They know what they are getting into. Their shots are picked very carefully.

Mary was resting comfortably, the sedation having taken hold.

'She'll be all right now, said Tennyson. 'The worst is over. She'll remember some of the event when she wakes, but the sharp edges of the experience will be dulled. All she needs is rest for the moment. Later it might be well if she could switch over to something else. Would that be possible? We can't take the chance of letting her go back to Heaven. If we can't be sure that she won't go back, it would be best to take her off the program entirely. In such a case, however, she'd brood over it. It would be preferable if she could go on to something else. New experiences would serve to blur this one. 'It's unlikely she'd run into anything as traumatic as Heaven.

'I don't know, said Ecuyer. 'When she is rational, we'll have to talk with her and try to think it through.

'I have patients waiting for me, said Tennyson. 'I'll drop in later on.

There were only a couple of patients. When he was finished with them, Tennyson did not immediately go back to Mary. She'd still be deep in sedation and the nurse would have sent word if anything was wrong.

It was early afternoon and the day was fine. The mountains stood up a deeper blue against a pale-blue sky. Looking at the mountains, Tennyson knew where he wanted to be, where he needed to be — a place where he could sit alone for a time and think. In the last few days, even in the last few hours, too many things had happened and they needed sorting out. Near at hand was a place made to order for exactly that.

The garden was deserted. Usually a few monks could be found pacing silently along the paths, but none were in evidence. Tennyson headed for the bench that stood near the roses. Only one rose was in bloom — a pale-yellow bloom that was past its prime, the petals already beginning to come loose to be scattered by the wind.

Sitting on the bench, he looked toward the mountains. Strange, he thought, that they should exert so powerful an attraction for him. Someday he'd have to take Decker up on his offer and, with this new friend of his, make an expedition into them. Although more than likely, he told himself, a few days' trip such as Decker had suggested would not carry them far into the mountains, perhaps no farther than the nearer foothills.

Soon, he thought, he'd have to see Decker and talk with him about Whisperer. Whisperer, he thought, what a silly name! And what, for the love of God, was Whisperer? Something that could get inside one's mind? That could become one with him? I am inside of you and can become a part of you. Was that, Tennyson wondered, what Whisperer had said? Or was it no more than imagination?

He tried to brush the entire matter away; it was a disconcerting business to even think about. He'd know more about it when he talked with Decker, and there was no gain by puzzling at it now. Surely by this time Decker had learned considerable about Whisperer.

A foot crunched on the walk and Tennyson looked up. The gardener was standing beside him.

'So it's you again, said Tennyson.

'Who else should it be? asked the gardener. 'Who else has more right to be here? This is where I belong. This place is mine or as close to mine as any place can be.

'I wasn't questioning your right to be here, said Tennyson. 'It seems, however, that each time I come here I run into you.

'The place is small, said the gardener, but did not go on to explain what he meant.

'When will the roses bloom again? asked Tennyson. 'Now only one is left.

'But beautiful. Do you not think that it is beautiful?

'Yes, beautiful, said Tennyson.

'I hear, with much regret, that Mary is ill again.

'Yes, quite ill.

'It has come to my ears she went to Heaven once again.

'I do not know about that, said Tennyson, lying like a trooper. 'I only know she's ill.

It was, he told himself, none of the gardener's damn business.

The robots, when they came from Earth, had brought mice with them. Perhaps not intentionally, but the mice were there.

Working late at night, Jill had met the first of them. There were others that she glimpsed from time to time, but the first one had become a friend. It came to visit her in the quiet and lonely hours, peering at her from behind a pile of tapes or a stack of crystals, its soft, round ears spread wide to catch the slightest sound, its pink nose busily wriggling to catch the slightest scent. Then, sure, that all was well, that no one but she was there, it came out, still moving cautiously, not too sure of its welcome, to share a midnight snack with her, picking up a crumb of bread or cheese in its tiny forepaws, sitting erect upon its haunches, with its fat white paunch thrust forward. Watching her, always watching her with its bright, small marble eyes, it nibbled at the crumb.

She talked to it, speaking softly, for any other tone would have frightened it. Little refugee, she called it, little refugee from Earth. At times, when it was not too busy with its crumb, it would squeak at her, a companionable, conversational squeak that said it liked her, too.

At first she had quailed at the thought of the havoc mice could wreak in a library, then realized that this was not a library in the sense that she thought of one. The precious Old Earth books that were here were housed in glass cupboards, as were any written records. The tapes and crystals were locked in steel cabinets. Even the paper supply was stored in metal bins. There was little in the place that a mouse could get at.

There were not many mice, perhaps no more than a dozen, and with the exception of her friend, who came regularly for his handout, they appeared only now and then. Once her scrounging friend had finished with his lunch, he disappeared as well. This puzzled her. There was no preliminary scampering about prior to his disappearance, no zigzag explorations. He finished his crumbs of bread and cheese, then left, and never once had she been able to see where he had gone. At first this did not bother-her. It was of small concern to her where or how he might have gone. But as time went on, for no logical reason that she could determine, she found herself wondering where he, went when he finished eating and what route he took to get there. At times she became angry at herself for wasting time in thinking of such a matter. After all, what difference did it make? Even should she find out, what would she gain?