Дэймон Найт - Orbit 6

“That’s what most people think; I suppose that’s why so few give much any more. But we try to bring a little human warmth to the people we help, and I find I meet the class of people I want to meet in connection with it. I mean my co-workers, of course. It’s really rather exclusive.”

He said, “How very great-hearted you are,” with a little twist to the corner of his mouth that made her feel like a child talking to a grown-up. “But you asked the identity of the old gentleman. He is Pope.”

“Who?” Then she had realized what the word meant and added, “I thought there weren’t any more.”

“Oh no.” The French delegate winked. “It is still there. Much, much smaller, but still there. . But we are so crowded here, and I think you are tired of standing. Let me buy you a liqueur and I will tell you all about it.”

He had taken her to a place at the top of some building overlooking the lake, and it had been very pleasant listening to the waiters pointing him out in whispers to the tourists, even though the tourists were mostly Germans and no one anyone knew. They were given a table next to the window of course, and while they sipped and smoked and looked at the lake he told her, with many digressions, about a great-aunt who had been what he called “a believer” and two ex-wives who had not. (History at Radcliffe had somehow left her with the impression that the whole thing had stopped with John XXIII, just as the Holy Roman Empire had managed to vanish out of sheer good manners when it was no longer wanted. On the teaching machines you filled in a table of Holy Roman Emperors and Popes and Sultans and such things by touching multiple-choice buttons. Then when you had it all done the screen glowed with rosy light for a minute— which was called reinforcement — and told you your grade. After which, unless you were lucky, there was another table to be filled — but Popes had disappeared and you put the Kings of Sweden in that column instead.)

She remembered having asked the French delegate, “There are only a hundred thousand left? In the whole world?”

“That is my guess, of real believers. Of course many more who continue to use the name and perhaps have their children wetted if they think of it. It may be that that is too low — say a quarter million. But it has been growing less for a long time. Eventually — who knows? It may turn about and grow more. It would not be the first time that happened.”

She had said, “It seems to me the whole thing should have been squashed a long time ago.”. .

The Pope straightened his shoulders a little and flicked ashes into the fountain. “At any rate, they make me uncomfortable,” he said. “I always have the feeling they don’t like me. I hope you don’t mind.”

She smiled and said something about the convenience factor, and having Sal shipped in a crate from New York.

“I suppose it’s a good thing my predecessor got the government to take responsibility for the Vatican,” the Pope said. “We couldn’t possibly staff it now, so we’d be using those things. Doubtless ours would have stained glass in them.”

Miss Bushnan laughed politely. Actually she felt like coughing. The Pope’s cigar was the acrid, cheap kind smoked in the poorer sort of Italian cafes. Briefly she wondered if he himself had not been born into the lowest class. His hands were gnarled and twisted like an old gardener’s, as though he’d been weeding all his life.

He was about to say something else, but Sal, reentering on silent wheels, interrupted him. “Phone, Miss Bushnan,” Sal said at her elbow.

She swiveled in her chair again and touched the “On” and “Record” buttons on the communications console, motioning as she did for the Pope to keep his seat. The screen lit up, and she said, “Good evening,” to the office robot who had placed the call.

The robot answered with an announcement: “Her Excellency the Delegate Plenipotentiary of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Comrade Natasha Nikolayeva.” The image flickered and a striking blonde, about forty and somewhat overblown and overdressed, but with a remarkably good complexion and enormous eyes, replaced the robot. The Russian delegate had been an actress at one time and was currently the wife of a general; gossip said that she owed her position at the conference to favors granted the Party Secretary.

“Good evening,” Miss Bushnan said again, and added, “Comrade Nikolayeva.”

The Russian delegate gave her a dazzling smile. “I called, darling, to ask if you like my little speech today. I was not too long? You did not find it difficult, wearing the headphones for translation?”

“I thought it was very moving,” Miss Bushnan said carefully. Actually, she had been appalled by the Russian delegate’s references to Hitler’s gas chambers and her cant phrases about restoring economic value to human life. It came to saying that if people had no value alive they should be made into soap, but she had no intention of telling the Russian delegate that.

“I convinced you?”

Brad made into soap. It should have been funny, but it wasn’t. One of Brad’s fingers slowly exposed as she scrubbed herself with the bar. The Russian delegate was still looking at her, waiting for her to reply.

“It isn’t necessary that you convince me, is it?” She smiled, trying to turn the question aside. “I’m merely an observer, after all.”

“It is necessary to me,” the Russian delegate said, “in my soul.” She pressed a hand flashing with diamonds against one upholstered breast. “I myself feel it so deeply.”

“I’m sure you do. It was a wonderful speech. Very dramatic.”

“You understand, then.” The Russian delegate’s mood changed in an instant. “That is wonderful, darling. Listen, you know I am staying at our embassy here — would you have dinner with us? It will be Tuesday, and nearly everyone will be there.”

Miss Bushnan hesitated for a moment, looking briefly at the Pope, seated out of range of the Russian’s vision, for guidance. He was expressionless.

“Darling, I will tell you a secret. I have sworn not to, but what is an oath when it is for you? The French delegate asked me to invite you. I would have in any case, of course, but he came to me. He is so shy; but if you come I have promised him I will seat you beside him. Do not say I told you.”

“I’d be delighted to come.”

“That too is wonderful then.” The Russian delegate’s smile said: We are women together and I love you, little one.

“Tuesday? The day after the final vote?”

“Yes, Tuesday. I will be looking forward so much.”

When the screen went dark Miss Bushnan said to the Pope, “Something’s up.”

The Pope only looked at her, as though trying to weigh what might be behind her attractive but not arresting face and brown eyes.

After a moment Miss Bushnan continued, “The French delegate might buy me a dinner, but he wouldn’t ask for me as a dinner partner at an official function, and that Russian woman has been ignoring you and me ever since the conference opened. What’s going on?”

“Yes,” the Pope said slowly, “something has happened, as you say. I see you hadn’t heard.”

“No.”

“I was more fortunate. The Portuguese delegate confides in me sometimes.”

“Will you tell me?”

“That is why I came. The delegates caucused this afternoon after the public session. They decided to ask for our votes at the final meeting.”

“Us?” Miss Bushnan was nonplused. “The observers?”

“Yes. The votes will have no legal validity, of course. They cannot be counted. But they want total unanimity — they want to get us down on the record.”

“I see,” said Miss Bushnan.