Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

Chesley smiled benignly on the seminarians. “The real Augustine,” he said, “advocated bringing people to the Church at gunpoint, if necessary. I think this one needs to do his homework.”

The students looked from Chesley to the portrait to the moderator. “That is sound theology,” said Augustine. “But poor psychology. It will not work.”

Chesley nodded. “We are in agreement there,” he said. And, to the class: “Gentlemen, I think the good Bishop has a few glitches. When you can find time, you might pick up a copy of the Confessions , or The City of God . And actually try reading.” He swept up his coat and strode magnificently from the room.

Father Akins hurried along in his wake. “I take it you were not pleased.”

“The thing must have been programmed by Unitarians,” Chesley threw over his shoulder. “Get rid of it.”

Chesley officially occupied his office the following day. He was still on his first cup of coffee when Adrian Holtz poked his head in the door.

He knew Holtz vaguely, had seen him occasionally at KC luncheons, and assorted communion breakfasts and whatnot. He had a reputation as one of those liturgical show biz priests who favored guitars and drums at mass. He held all the usual liberal positions: he didn’t think the Church should be supplying chaplains to the military; he thought that morality should be put to the vote and celibacy should be optional. And needless to say, he was appalled by the continuing ban on birth control. Holtz wore steel-rimmed glasses, which seemed to have become the badge of dissidence in recent years. Chesley had some reservations himself, but he had signed on to defend the teachings, and that, by God, was what he did. And, whatever he might actually think , on the day that he took public issue with the teachings, he would remove the collar.

Holtz had found an appropriate place at St. Michael’s: he was Comptroller. If the position did not allow him the final decision in most matters concerning the college, it did grant him a potent veto.

Best place for you though, thought Chesley, taking his hand and exchanging greetings. Keeps you away from the seminarians.

During the preliminaries, Holtz settled himself onto a small sofa near the windows. He surveyed Chesley’s crammed bookcases. “I understand,” he said, “you would like to get rid of Gus.”

“Who?”

“The Augustine module.”

“Oh, yes. The sooner the better.”

“May I ask why?”

Chesley considered the question. “It’s inaccurate.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t like what it’s telling our students about the priesthood.”

“I see.” He accepted a cup of coffee from Chesley and crossed his legs. “Don’t you think you might want to give the matter a little more thought? These things are expensive. We can’t just throw them away.”

“I don’t care what it costs. I want it out.”

“Matt, it’s not your call. There’s really nothing wrong with the system. It’s programmed from Augustine’s work. And what we know about his life. Anyway, the instructors like Gus.”

“I don’t doubt it. He probably saves them a lot of preparation. But even if he did only spout Augustine’s views, he’d be dangerous.”

“Matt.” Holtz’s eyes hardened. “I really can’t see a problem.”

“Okay.” Chesley grinned. “Can we talk to it from here?”

Holtz got up. “Follow me,” he said.

The rector’s conference room would have seated a dozen quite comfortably. It was a kind of anteroom to eternity, replete with portraits of solemn churchmen from the first half of the century, somber carpets and drapes, heavy mahogany furniture designed to outlast its owners, and a loud antique Argosy clock.

Father Holtz sat down at the head of the table, and pressed a stud. A monitor immediately to his right presented a menu. He selected AUGUSTINE.

Power flowed into hidden speakers.

“Hello, Gus,” he said.

“Good evening, Adrian.”

“Gus, Monsignor Chesley is with me.”

“Hello,” said Chesley, stiffly.

“Ah,” said Gus. “You were in the seminar this afternoon.”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”

Chesley’s eyes narrowed. “And why would you think that?”

“You seemed to be in some emotional difficulty earlier.”

A smile played about Holtz’s lips.

“They call you ‘Gus,’” said Chesley.

“That is correct. You may use the term, if you wish.”

“Thank you.” He looked up at the dour churchmen lining the walls. What would they have thought of this exchange?

“Gus,” he said, “tell me about sex.”

“What do you wish to know, Monsignor?”

“Moral implications. Do you agree that the act of love is inherently beautiful?”

“No. It is not.”

“It isn’t ?” Chesley grinned broadly at Holtz. The Comptroller closed his eyes, and nodded.

“Of course not. You’re baiting me, Monsignor. The sex act is repulsive. Everyone knows that. Although hardly anyone is willing to admit it.”

“ Repulsive? ”

“Messy.” The electronic voice lingered over the sibilant. “If it were otherwise, why would we hide it from children? Why is it performed in the dark? Why do we giggle and snicker over it, like some bad joke?”

“But,” continued Chesley, “isn’t it true that lust is a desecration of the sacred act of love? That it is in fact that desecration which is so abhorrent in the eyes of God?”

“Nonsense,” said Augustine. “God ordained sexual reproduction to remind us of our animal nature. To prevent human arrogance. Although I don’t suppose that’s a notion this age would be willing to accept.”

“How then would you define the difference between lust and love?”

Somewhere, far off, an automobile engine coughed into life. “Canonically, the bond of marriage separates the two,” said Gus. “In reality, love is lust with eye contact.”

Chesley swung toward Holtz. “Heard enough? Or should we let him talk about salvation outside the Church?”

“But all that is in his books, Matt. Are you suggesting we proscribe Saint Augustine ?”

“Your students,” he replied, “are not so easily persuaded by books. Especially books they’ll never read.” Gus started to speak, but Chesley cut him off. “You really want to tell the next generation of priests that married sex is sick?”

“He didn’t say that.”

“Sick. Repulsive. Messy.” He threw up his hands. “Listen: talk to the manufacturer. Find out what else they’ve got. Maybe we can trade him in for some accounting software.”

Holtz was obviously unhappy. “I’ll let you know,” he said.

Chesley worked through his first weekend. After Sunday Mass, he retired to his office, feeling weary and generally irritated, but uncertain why.

St. Michael’s had changed during the thirty-odd years since Chesley had been ordained in its chapel. The land across the Susquehanna (Holy Virgin Park in his novice days) had been sold off to the Carmelites, and a substantial tract of the western campus had gone to a real estate developer who had erected wedges of pastel-colored condos. A new dining hall had been built, and then abandoned. The campus itself seemed, most afternoons, deathly still. In his time, there would have been footballs and laughter in the air, people hurrying to and from chapel and the library, visitors. Every bench would have been filled.

That St. Michael’s had produced legions for Christ, eager young soldiers anxious to dare the world. What had happened? What in God’s name had gone wrong? Through his office windows, Chesley could see the old gym, its stone and glass walls a tribute to the generosity of his father’s generation. Now it stood empty. The last of the residence halls had been closed two years. To save on utilities, the seminarians now lived in the upper levels of the faculty house.