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

He recalled old teachers, friends long gone, occasional young women. He had become acquainted with the women incidentally through his pastoral duties, had enjoyed their company. One in particular he would have given his life to possess. But he had never violated his vows. Still, their portraits were sharp. And the old stirrings returned, laced now with a sense of loss.

Here, on these grounds where he had lived his young manhood, ghosts seemed particularly active. Perhaps he should have stayed away.

He was working halfheartedly on a table of initiatives which he’d promised to make available to the staff Monday morning when he realized there was someone else in the building. He leaned back from his word processor and listened.

Warm air hissed out of ducts at floor level.

Someone was speaking. The voice was muffled. Indistinct.

It seemed to be coming from across the hall. In the rector’s conference room. He got up from his desk.

The sound stopped.

Chesley opened his door and peered out into the corridor. He did not believe anyone could have come into the building without his knowledge.

He strode across the passageway. The conference room was routinely left unlocked. He put his ear to the door, twisted the knob, and pushed it open. The room was empty. He went inside, glanced under the table, looked behind the door, and inspected the storage closet. Nothing.

Dust motes drifted through the gray light.

“Monsignor.”

“Who’s there?” Chesley’s heart did a quick kick. “Gus? Is that you?”

“Yes. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

“No.” Grumpily: “Of course not.” He’d thought that Gus had to be summoned.

“Good. I wanted to talk with you.”

The controls of the computer/communications link were built into the conference table. Chesley lowered himself into the chair directly in front of them. The red power lamp in the terminal console was on. “Holtz,” he said, “or anyone else: I don’t take kindly to practical jokes.”

“Only I am here, Monsignor.”

“That’s not possible.”

An electronic chuckle: “You may not think highly of Augustine, but surely you would not accuse him of lying.”

Heat flooded Chesley’s cheeks. “You’re not capable of initiating contact—.”

“Certainly I am. Why not? When I sense that someone needs me, I am quite able to act.”

Chesley was having trouble sorting it out. “Why? Why would you want to talk to me?”

“You seem so fearful. I thought I might be of assistance.”

“Fearful? You’re not serious.”

“Why do you feel threatened by me?”

“I do not feel threatened by you.” Wildly, he wondered if this was being taped. Something to make him look ridiculous later. “I just don’t think we have any use here for an electronic saint. Augustine for the millions .”

“I see.”

“Our students will never get to know the real Augustine if we substitute a computer game.” Chesley’s right index finger touched the concave plastic surface of the power key.

“And do you know the real Augustine?”

“I know enough. Certainly enough to be aware that delivering pieces and bits from his work is mischievous. And that suggesting to students that they have a familiarity with the philosophy of a great saint, when in fact they are utterly ignorant on the subject, is dangerous.” He fell back in his chair and took a long, deep breath. “I have work to do,” he said. “I don’t think this conversation has any real point.”

He pressed the key, and the red lamp went out. But it was several minutes before he got up and left the room.

The next day Holtz told him quietly, “I talked it over with Father Brandon.” Brandon was head of the theology department. “I have to tell you he thinks your views are extreme.” The Comptroller did not smile. “He sees no problem.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“However, he suggested a compromise. Would you be willing to trade Augustine for Aquinas?”

“What do you mean?”

“We got the Augustine module from ATL Industries. They’re presently assembling an Aquinas module, which Brandon would rather have anyway—.”

“I think that misses the point, Adrian. St. Michael’s should have no use for a saint-in-the-box. If you want to continue with this, I can’t prevent it. But I won’t be party to it—.”

Holtz nodded. “Okay. We’ll get rid of it. If you feel it’s that important.”

“I do.”

“With one proviso: I can’t ask the theology department to rewrite their curriculum overnight. We’ll stop using Gus in January, at the end of the present semester.”

Two nights after his conversation with Holtz, Chesley heard again the after-hours sound of a voice from the conference room. It was almost eleven on a weeknight, and he was just preparing to quit for the evening.

The rector’s conference room was dark, save for the bright ruby light of the power indicator. “Gus?”

“Good evening, Monsignor Chesley.”

“I take it you have something else to say to me.”

“Yes. I want you to know that I am aware of your efforts to have me disconnected. I do not approve.”

“I don’t imagine you would. Anything else?”

“Yes. I admire your courage in taking a stand, even though it is wrongheaded.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you know you have offended Father Brandon?”

“I rarely see him.”

“He wonders why you did not go directly to him with the issue.”

“Would he have concurred?”

“No.”

“Then what would be the point?”

Gus was slow to respond. “Do you really believe that I am corrupting the students?”

“Yes.” Chesley left the lights off. It was less disconcerting when he could not see he was talking to an empty room. “Yes, I do.”

“Truth does not corrupt.” The voice was very soft.

“Truth is not an issue. We’re talking about perspectives. It’s one thing for theologians to sit in ivory towers and compose abstract theories about good and evil. But these kids have to go out into the streets. Life is tough now.”

“You find life difficult, then?”

“Yes, I do.” The superior tone of the thing was infuriating. “The Church has serious problems to deal with today. People are disaffected. Vocations are down. Seminaries are closing everywhere.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Well, maybe you need to know the facts. Life isn’t as easy for us as it was for you—.”

Deep in the building, down among the heat exchangers and storage vaults, something stirred. Cold and hard, the voice replied: “Where were you , Chesley, when the Vandals were at the walls? When the skies were red with the flames of the world? I never set out to be a theologian. If you want the truth, I made up my theology as I went along. I was a pastor , not a schoolbound theoretician along the lines of Aquinas. I had to serve real human beings, desperately poor, living in an iron age. You want salvation without pain. Suburban religion. I had no patience for such notions then. And I have little now.”

The red lamp blinked off.

“Adrian, that thing seems to have a mind of its own.”

Holtz nodded. “They are clever. On the other hand, it should be: it has access to university libraries and data banks across North America.”

“I got the impression yesterday that it was angry with me.”

The Comptroller smiled. “ Now you’re beginning to understand the capabilities of the system. Perhaps you would like to change your mind about getting rid of it.”