Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Unlocked

Father Al turned on his heel and strode away toward the center of the terminal.

Father Al arrived in the main concourse and strolled down the row of shops, searching. The Church did all it could to make the Sacraments available to its members, no matter how far from Terra they might be—and especially in places where they might need its comfort and reinforcement most. There was one Order that paid particular attention to this problem; surely they wouldn’t have ignored a major way-station on the space lanes…

There it was—a curtained window with the legend, “Chapel of St. Francis Assisi” emblazoned on it. Father Al stepped through the double door, gazed around at the rows of hard plastic pews, the burgundy carpet, and the plain, simple altar-table on the low dais, with the crucifix above it on a panelled wall, and felt a huge unseen weight lift from his shoulders. He was home.

The Franciscans were very hospitable, as they always were. But there was a bit of a problem when he explained what he wanted.

“Say Mass? Now ? With respect, Father, it’s six o’clock in the evening.”

“But surely you have evening Masses.”

“Only on Saturday evenings, and the vigils of holy days.”

“I’m afraid it really is necessary, Father.” Father Al handed the Franciscan his letter from the Pope. “Perhaps this will make the situation more clear.”

He hated to pull rank—but it was satisfying to watch the Franciscan’s eyes widen when he looked at the signature. He folded the letter and handed it back to Father Al, clearing his throat. “Yes. Well… certainly, Father. Whatever you’d like.”

“All I need is the altar, for half an hour.” Father Al smiled. “I don’t think there’ll be any need for a sermon.”

But he was wrong. As he began to say Mass, passersby glanced in, stopped, looking startled, then came quietly in, found a pew, and knelt down. When Father Al looked up to begin the Creed, he stared in amazement at a couple dozen people in front of him, most of them well-dressed travellers, but with a good sprinkling of spaceport mechanics and dirtside crew—and a few gentlemen with three-day beards, whose coveralls were patched, greasy, and baggy at the knees. It was curious how any major spaceport always seemed to develop its own skid row, even if it was millions of AU’s from any habitable planet. It was even more surprising how many Catholics cropped up out of the plastic-work at the drop of an altar bell.

Under the circumstances, he felt obliged to say something—and there was one sermon he always had ready. “My brothers and sisters, though we are in a Chapel of St. Francis, allow me to call to your minds the priest in whose honor my own Order was founded—St. Vidicon of Cathode, martyr for the faith. In the seminary, he had a problem—he kept thinking in terms of what did work, instead of what should work. He was a Jesuit, of course.

“He also had a rather strange sense of humor. When he was teaching, his students began to wonder whether he believed more firmly in Finagle than in Christ. Too many young men were taking his jokes seriously, and going into Holy Orders as a result. His bishop was delighted with all the vocations, but was a bit leery of the reasons—so the Vatican got wind of it. The Curia had its doubts about his sense of humor, too, so they transferred him to Rome, where they could keep an eye on him. As an excuse for this surveillance, they made him Chief Engineer of Television Vatican.

“The term is confusing today, of course; ‘television’ was like 3DT, but with a flat picture; 3DT was originally an abbreviation for ‘three-dimensional television.’ Yes, this was quite a few centuries ago—the Year of Our Lord 2020.

“Well. Father Vidicon was sad to leave-off teaching, but he was overjoyed at actually being able to work with television equipment again… and he didn’t let his nearness to the Pope dampen his enthusiasm; he still insisted on referring to the Creator as ‘the Cosmic Cathode…’ ”

“Praise God, from Whom electrons flow! Praise Him, the Source of all we know! Whose order’s in the stellar host! For in machines, He is the Ghost!”

“Father Vidicon,” Monsignor reproved, “that air has a blasphemous ring.”

“Merely irreverent, Monsignor.” Father Vidicon peered at the oscilloscope and adjusted the pedestal on Camera Two. “But then, you’re a Dominican.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Simply that what you hear may not be what I said.” Father Vidicon leaned over to the switcher and punched up color bars.

“He has a point.” Brother Anson looked up from the TBC circuit board he was diagnosing. “ I thought it quite reverent.”

“You would; it was sung.” Monsignor knew that Brother Anson was a Franciscan. “How much longer must I delay my rehearsal, Father Vidicon? I’ve an Archbishop and two Cardinals waiting!”

“You can begin when the camera tube decides to work, Monsignor.” Father Vidicon punched up Camera Two again, satisfied that the oscilloscope was reading correctly. “If you insist on bringing in Cardinals, you must be prepared for a breakdown.”

“I really don’t see why a red cassock would cause so much trouble,” Monsignor grumbled.

“You wouldn’t; you’re a director. But these old plumbicon tubes just don’t like red.” Father Vidicon adjusted the chrominance. “Of course, if you could talk His Holiness into affording a few digital-plate cameras…”

“Father Vidicon, you know what they cost! And we’ve been the Church of the Poor for a century!”

“Four centuries, more likely, Monsignor—ever since Calvin lured the bourgeoisie away from us.”

“We’ve as many Catholics as we had in 1390,” Brother Anson maintained stoutly.

“Yes, that was right after the Black Death, wasn’t it? And the population of the world’s grown a bit since then. I hate to be a naysayer, Brother Anson, but we’ve only a tenth as many of the faithful as we had in 1960. And from the attraction Reverend Sun is showing, we’ll be lucky if we have a tenth of that by the end of the year.”

“We’ve a crisis in cameras at the moment,” the Monsignor reminded. “Could you refrain from discussing the Crisis of Faith until the cameras are fixed?”

“Oh, they’re working—now.” Father Vidicon threw the capping switch and shoved himself away from the camera control unit. “They’ll work excellently for you now, Monsignor, until you start recording.

Monsignor reddened. “And why should they break down then?”

“Because that’s when you’ll need them most.” Father Vidicon grinned. “Television equipment is subject to Murphy’s Law, Monsignor.”

“I wish you were a bit less concerned with Murphy’s Law, and a bit more with Christ’s!”

Father Vidicon shrugged. “If it suits the Lord’s purpose to give authority over entropy into the hands of the Imp of the Perverse, who am I to question Him?”

“For the sake of Heaven, Father, what has the Imp of the Perverse to do with Murphy’s Law?” Monsignor cried.

Father Vidicon shrugged. “Entropy is loss of energy within a system, which is self-defeating; that’s perversity. And Murphy’s Law is perverse. Therefore, both of them, and the Imp, are corollary to Finagle’s General Statement: ‘The perversity of the universe tends toward maximum.’ ”

“Father Vidicon,” Monsignor said severely, “you’ll burn as a heretic someday.”

“Oh, not in this day and age. If the Church condemns me, I can simply join Reverend Sun’s church, like so many of our erstwhile flock.” Seeing the Monsignor turn purple, he turned to the door, adding quickly, “Nonetheless, Monsignor, if I were you, I’d not forget the Litany of the Cameras before I called ‘roll and record.’ ”