Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
NEW RECRUIT
“I’m glad my message finally reached you,” St. Vidicon said.
Tony stared. “Your what?”
“My message,” said the saint. “That’s why I fed that virus into the mainframe of one of your company’s clients—because I needed a troubleshooter. Specifically, you.”
“Why me?” Tony asked.
“Because you have the right turn of mind.”
“What kind of troubles would you want me to shoot?”
“Anything people call me for, when I’m already trying to fix another problem,” Father Vidicon said. “When I finish this trip through Hellmouth, maybe God will grant me the power to be in many different locations at once; but even then, I think I’ll need some help.” He stiffened suddenly. “A call’s coming in. Here, see it with me and analyze the problem.”
He caught Tony’s hand, and whether the technician wanted to or not, he saw what the saint was seeing and heard what he was hearing—a despairing, many-voiced cry for help, and the background of the predicament . . .
“Stasheff more and more resembles Piers Anthony, both in style and prolificness.”—Kirkus Reviews
“Stasheff creates wonderful portraits of educated people, unappreciated at home, but invaluable elsewhere.”
—Library Journal
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SAINT VIDICON TO THE RESCUE
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass market edition / April 2005
Copyright © 2005 by Christopher Stasheff.
All rights reserved.
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Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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This book is dedicated to
Eleanore Stasheff
in recognition of her truly major contribution
The author would like to thank
Chris Clayton
and all the other good people,
such as Katharine Moore,
who have told me
of their own encounters with Finagle
TO THE READER
The point has been raised that a fictitious saint shouldn’t be able to hear people cry out to him. However, those people are fictitious, too—well, most of them, anyway.
Prologue
THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. VIDICON OF 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.” The 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,” the Monsignor grumbled.
“You wouldn’t; you’re a director. But these old camera tubes just don’t like red.” Father Vidicon adjusted the chrominance. “Of course, if you could talk His Holiness into affording a few digital 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 1355,” 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 they’re 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.”
The Monsignor reddened. “And why should th
ey 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 Vidicon, what has the Imp of the Perverse to do with Murphy’s Law?” the Monsignor cried.
Father Vidicon shrugged again. “Entropy is the 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 some day.”
“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.’ ”
“That piece of blasphemy!” the Monsignor exploded. “Father Vidicon, could St. Clare care enough about television to be its patron?”
“She did see St. Francis die, though she was twenty miles away at the time—the first Catholic instance of ‘tele-vision,’ ‘seeing-at-a-distance.’ ” Father Vidicon wagged a forefinger. “And St. Genesius is officially the patron of showfolk.”
“Of actors, I’ll remind you—and we’ve none of those here!”
“Yes, I know—I’ve seen your programs. But do remember St. Jude, Monsignor.”
“The patron of the desperate? Why?”
“No, the patron of lost causes—and with those antique cameras, you’ll need him.”
The door opened, and a monk stepped in. “Father Vidicon, you’re summoned to His Holiness.”
Father Vidicon blanched.
“You’d best remember St. Jude yourself, Father,” the Monsignor gloated. Then his face softened into a gentle frown. “And, Lord help us—so had we all.”
Father Vidicon knelt and kissed the Pope’s ring, with a surge of relief—if the ring was offered, things couldn’t be all that bad.
“On your feet,” Pope Clement said grimly.
Father Vidicon scrambled up. “Come now, Your Holiness! You know it’s all just in fun! A bit irreverent, perhaps, but nonetheless only levity! I don’t really believe in Maxwell’s Demon—not quite. And I know Finagle’s General Statement is really fallacious—the perversity’s in us, not in the universe. And St. Clare . . .”
“Peace, Father Vidicon,” His Holiness said wearily. “I’m sure your jokes aren’t a threat to the Church—and I’m not particularly worried by irreverence. I don’t really think the Lord minds a joke now and then. But I’ve called you here for something a bit more serious than your contention that Christ acted as a civil engineer when He said that Peter was a rock, and upon that rock He’d build His Church.”
“Oh.” Father Vidicon tried to look appropriately grave. “If it’s that feedback squeal in the public address system in St. Peter’s, I’ll do what I can, but . . .”
“No, I’m afraid it’s a bit more critical.” The hint of a smile tugged at the Pope’s lips. “You’re aware that the faithful have been leaving us in increasing droves these past twenty years, of course.”
Father Vidicon shrugged “What can you expect, Your Holiness? With television turning everyone toward a Gestalt mode of thought, they’ve become more and more inclined toward mysticism, needing doctrines embracing the Cosmos and making them feel vitally integrated with it, but the Church still offers only petrified dogma and logical reasoning. Of course they’ll turn to ecstatics, to a video demagogue like Reverend Sun, with his hodgepodge of T’ai-Ping Christianity, Taoism, and Zen Buddhism . . .”
“Yes, yes, I know the theories.” His Holiness waved Father Vidicon’s words away, covering his eyes with the other palm. “Spare me your McLuhanist cant, Father. But you’ll be glad to know the Council has just finished deciding which parts of Teilhard’s theories are compatible with Catholic doctrine.”
“Which means Your Holiness has finally talked them into it!” Father Vidicon gusted out a huge sigh of relief. “At last!”
“Yes, I can’t help thinking how nice it must have been to be Pope in, say, 1890,” His Holiness agreed, “when the Holy See had a bit more authority and a bit less need of persuasion.” He heaved a sigh of his own and clasped his hands on the desktop. “And it’s come just in time. Reverend Sun is speaking to the General Assembly Monday morning—and you’ll never guess what his topic will be.”
“How the Church is a millstone around the neck of every nation in the world.” Father Vidicon nodded grimly. “Priests who don’t pass on their genes, Catholics not attempting birth control and thereby contributing to overpopulation, Church income withheld from taxation—it’s become a rather familiar bit of rhetoric.”
“Indeed it has; most of his followers can recite it chapter and verse. But this time, my sources assure me he intends to go quite a bit further—to ask the Assembly for a recommendation for all U.N. member nations to adopt legislation making all these ‘abuses’ illegal.”
Father Vidicon’s breath hissed in. “And with so large a percentage of the electorate in every country being Sunnite . . .”
“It amounts to virtual outlawing of the Roman Catholic Church. Yes.” His Holiness nodded. “And I need hardly remind you, Father, that the current majority in the Italian government are Sunnite Communists.”
Father Vidicon stared. “They’ll begin by annexing the Vatican!” He had a sudden nightmarish vision of a Sunnite prayer meeting in the Sistine Chapel.
“We’ll all be looking for new lodgings,” the Pope said drily. “So you’ll understand, Father, that it’s rather important that I tell the faithful of the whole world, before then, about the Council’s recent action.”
“Your Holiness will speak on television!” Father Vidicon cried. “But that’s wonderful! You’ll be . . .”
“My blushes, Father Vidicon. I’m well aware that you consider me to have an inborn affinity for the video medium.”
“The charisma of John Paul II with the appeal of John the XXIII!” Father Vidicon asserted. “But what a waste, that you’ll not appear in the studio!”
“I’m not fond of viewing myself as the chief drawing card for a sideshow,” His Holiness said sardonically. “Still, I’m afraid it has become necessary. The Curia has spoken with Eurovision, Afrovision, PanAsiavision, PanAmerivision, and even Intervision. They’re all, even the Communists, willing to carry us for fifteen minutes . . .”
“Cardinal Beluga is a genius of diplomacy!” Father Vidicon murmured.
“Yes, and all the nations are worried about the growth of Sun’s church within their borders, with all that it implies of large portions of their citizenry taking orders from Singapore. Under the circumstances, we’ve definitely become the lesser of two evils, in their eyes.”
“I suppose that’s a compliment,” Father Vidicon said doubtfully.
“Let’s think of it that way, shall we? The bottleneck, of course, was the American commercial networks; they’re only willing to carry me early Sunday morning.”
“Yes, they only worry about religion when it begins to affect sales,” Father Vidicon said thoughtfully. “So I take it Your Holiness will appear about 2:00 P.M.?”
“Which is early morning in Chicago, yes. Other countries have agreed to record the speech and replay it at a more suitable hour. It’ll go by satellite, of course . . .”
“As long as we pay for it.”
“Naturally. And if there’s a failure of transmission at our end, the networks are not liable to give us postponed time.”
&nbs
p; “Your Holiness!” Father Vidicon threw his arms wide. “You wound me! Of course I’ll see to it there’s no transmission error!”
“No offense intended, Father Vidicon—but I’m rather aware that the transmitter I’ve given you isn’t exactly the most recent model.”
“What can you expect, from donations? Besides, Your Holiness, British Marconi made excellent transmitters in 1990! No, Italy and southern France will receive us perfectly. But it would help if you could invest in a few spare parts for the converter that feeds the satellite earth station . . .”
“Whatever that may be. Buy whatever you need, Father Vidicon. Just be certain our signal is transmitted. You may go now.”
“Don’t worry, Your Holiness! Your voice shall be heard and your face seen, even though the Powers of Darkness rise up against me!”
“Including Maxwell’s Demon?” His Holiness said dourly. “And the Imp of the Perverse?”
“Don’t worry, Your Holiness.” Father Vidicon made a circle of his thumb and middle finger. “I’ve dealt with them before.”
“ ‘The good souls flocked liked homing doves,’ ” Father Vidicon sang, “or they will after they’ve heard our Pope’s little talk.” He closed the access panel of the transmitter. “There! Every part certified in the green! I’ve even dusted every circuit board . . . How’s that backup transmitter, Brother Anson?”
“I’ve replaced two chips so far,” Brother Anson answered from the bowels of the ancient device. “Not that they were bad, you understand—but I had my doubts.”
“I’ll never question a Franciscan’s hunches.” Father Vidicon laced his fingers across his midriff and sat back. “Did you check the converter to the earth station?”
Saint Vidicon to the Rescue Page 1
