Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

by Christopher Stasheff

  Tony was surprized at her bitterness. “It never occurred to you that it might be because you’re”—opening the door of the cocktail lounge gave him a chance to catch himself, and to pause long enough to keep from saying “beautiful” again—“attractive?”

  “No, but it’s nice of you to say so.” Sandy gave him a smile that lit up the gloom of the lounge. She paused by a table just long enough for Tony to pull out a chair. She flashed him another smile as she sat.

  Tony sat next to her. “I’m surprized to hear that you think men would resent a female computer guru. The guys I know are delighted when they find a woman who knows code.”

  “Sure, but you’re engineers,” Sandy said.

  The conversation was shelved as the server came up to take their order. As he went, Tony turned back to Sandy. “Sorry, but I need to correct a mistaken impression. Being an engineer doesn’t mean we don’t know how to talk about anything but our work.”

  “I know that from the inside now,” Sandy said, “but I didn’t learn to write code in college. If you’ll pardon me for saying it, women must have been in short supply in your major.”

  “Yeah, but we all found ways to make social contacts,” Tony said. “Me, I volunteered for tech work in the college theater. One of my buddies got a job at a fast-food place, and another joined the student radio station. We didn’t get many dates, but at least we got to talk to girls.”

  Sandy laughed, a sound that struck Tony as distinctly musical. “Still, finding a girl you could talk computers with must have been a treat.”

  “It didn’t happen much in college,” Tony said. “Of course, now that I’m in the working world, I’m running into more and more of you—though I’ll have to admit some of them wear glasses they don’t need, tie their hair in buns, and don’t wear makeup.”

  “Yeah.” The bitterness was back. “A girl shouldn’t have to be plain for guys to believe she knows what she’s talking about.”

  “Or to resent her for knowing it?” Tony risked looking into her eyes and smiled. “I’m glad you practice what you preach.”

  “I’m glad you can appreciate it.” Almost reluctantly, Sandy smiled again.

  “Oh, believe me, I can.”

  “Which?” The smiled hardened. “My not dressing down, or my knowledge?”

  “Yes,” Tony said.

  Sandy stared at him, then laughed. The waiter must have taken it as a signal, because he brought their drinks.

  All in all, it turned into a very pleasant evening, and even though Tony did get to take the taxi to Sandy’s apartment building and got away with walking her up the steps to the door, there wasn’t any sign that he had been promoted from business associate to friend. Sighing as he went back to the cab, he told himself that these things take time.

  He wondered if he would have any more of her time to take.

  Ridiculous! He shook off the mood as he came in the door, took off his coat, sat down at his own computer and banished the screen saver with a flick of the mouse. Time to work on the program he’d been frittering around with. He wondered why the prospect didn’t fill him with the excitement it usually did, then decided he must be more tired than usual. He’d fiddle with it for fifteen minutes or so, though, and see if the pleasure of writing code didn’t banish the weariness.

  He puttered around, trying one approach after another, then on a whim decided to try a four-dimensional structure.

  It made sense.

  Unfortunately, it made sense because the lines of code had turned into lines of words. Tony barely had time to start capturing before the end of the second sentence.

  Long did St. Vidicon stride onward down that darkly ruddy throat, till he began to tire—then heard a roar behind him, rising in pitch and loudness as though it approached. Looking back, he saw . . .

  Saw what? Did it have to break off right there? Blood pounding—though whether at his eagerness to solve the puzzle or his hunger to follow Father Vidicon’s adventures, was hard to say. Tony entered a dozen lines of code into the desktop, then ran the four-dimensional structure—and the code turned into lines of biblical English, scrolling slowly up the screen. Enthralled, Tony read, the maroon hallway becoming clearer and clearer to him—until he realized, with a shock, that it was real, or virtually so. If he looked up or down, he saw not acoustical tile nor gray carpet but moist and pulsating blood-red curves—and if he looked ahead, he saw Father Vidicon striding down that sinister throat.

  On the other hand, Tony couldn’t see his own body.

  He was an objective viewer, then. As a disembodied presence, he drifted after Father Vidicon.

  Looking back, Father Vidicon saw an airplane approaching, the propeller at its nose a blur. He stared, amazed that so large an object could navigate so small a space, then realized that it was a model. Further, he realized that it swooped directly at him, as shrewdly as though it had been aimed. “Duck and cover!” he cried, and threw himself to the floor, arms clasped over his head. The aircraft snored on past him, whereupon he did look up to remark upon it, but heard the pitch of its propeller drop and slow as the craft did lower, then touch its wheels to the palpitating deck and taxi to a halt, its propeller slowing until it stopped.

  Father Vidicon stared in wonder, then frowned; it seemed too much a coincidence, too opportune, that a conveyance should present itself when he was wearied. Still, a machine was a challenge he could not ignore; the thrill of operating a strange device persisted even after life; so he did quicken his steps until he stood beside a fuselage not much longer than himself, with an open cockpit into which he might squeeze himself—and so he did.

  Instantly the propeller kicked into motion, in seconds blurring to a scintillating disk, and the aircraft lurched ahead, bouncing and jogging till it roared aloft and shot onward down that darkling throat. St. Vidicon, no stranger to ill chance, searched for a seat belt, but there was none, and shivered with the omission. The plane’s arrival might be mere chance, the lack of a seat belt might be only coincidence, but he braced himself for a third, and surely planned, unpleasant occurrence.

  Sure enough, the engine coughed, then sputtered, then died; he stared in horror at a propeller that slowed to a halt. Galvanized by ill fortune, he seized the wheel, set his feet to the rudder pedals, and glanced at his gauges. There was fuel, so he dealt with malfunction.

  Enough! The plane did tilt downward, rushing toward that obscene and gelid floor. Father Vidicon did haul back upon the wheel and the nose did tilt upward again. Relying on what little he’d read, he held his wing flaps down, keeping the airplane’s nose upward as the craft settled. It struck that fleshly floor with as much impact as though it had hit upon grass; it bounced, then struck again, bounced again, and so, by a series of bounces, slowed until at last it came to rest.

  Father Vidicon clambered down from that falsely-welcoming cockpit, telling himself sternly that never again would he operate a machine that he had not inspected—for once may have been accident and twice coincidence, but this third time was definitely enemy action.

  But which enemy?

  There was as yet insufficient data for a meaningful conclusion. Staggering for his first few steps, then stabilizing to stride, he made his way onward down that darkling throat, lit only by the luminescence of certain globular growths upon the walls.

  An object loomed before him, at first dim and indistinct in the limited light, then becoming clear—and Father Vidicon stared upon a scaled-down Sherman tank, a treaded fortress scarcely higher than his shoulder, that sat in the middle of the tunnel as though waiting for him, though in friendly fashion, for its cannon pointed ahead.

  The Blessed One reminded himself that he had but minutes before promised himself never to drive a mechanism unverified, so he examined the treads most carefully, then opened the engine compartment and scrutinized the diesel. Satisfied that nothing was defective—ready but wary—he set foot upon a tread, climbed up, and descended through the hatch.

  The slit above the
controls showed him that dim-lit tunnel. He sat before it, grasped the levers to either side, and pushed them forward quite carefully. The tank cranked, then coughed, then clanked into motion. Warily, though, Father Vidicon held its speed to crawling, not much faster than he could walk. His gain was that he could travel sitting down, but in truth ’twas the thrill of adventure in operating a device hitherto unknown.

  So he went grinding down that tunnel, allowing a little more speed, then a little more, until he was traveling at a pace quite decent—till a sudden crash did sound upon his right, and the tank did slew about.

  The telephone rang.

  Tony gave the clock a quick glance, saw it was only twenty after nine, and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Tony?” said a somewhat shaken voice on the other end. “Sorry, I know we’ve just met, but I had to talk to somebody.”

  It was Sandy! “Well, I’m honored! What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing I can say,” Sandy answered. “I just get to feeling like this at night sometimes.”

  Tony waited and heard only shaky breathing, so he asked, “Like how?”

  “Oh . . . like I’m not good enough for anything, and everything’s just going down the drain.” Then, more quickly, “I know I do my job well, and that there’s no shame in having to call in a specialist, and it doesn’t mean a woman’s a failure today if she isn’t married by the time she’s thirty—but it’s hard to remember that when you’re all alone and it’s dark outside.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Tony said, with feeling. “Best cure is not to be alone when it’s dark. Is there a coffee shop near you that’s still open? Or a neighborhood tavern?”

  The line was silent for a few seconds; Tony could almost feel Sandy’s surprize and hoped it wasn’t his imagination. Had he blown it, scared her away?

  Then her voice came, definitely pleased. “There’s Espresso Service just down the block. Think I ought to go there?”

  “Yeah, but I think I should escort you,” Tony said. “What’s your address?”

  “I’m on West Adams,” she said, “fourteen twenty-two. Are you sure? I mean, it’s so late . . .”

  “Yeah, we should have met about seven-thirty,” Tony agreed, “but nine-thirty’s better than not meeting at all.”

  Sandy laughed, not as silvery as earlier in the day, but ready to be polished. “I’ll get dressed and wait in the foyer, then.”

  “See you in . . .” Tony considered the distance and the chance of getting a cab. “Twenty minutes, maybe. Certainly half an hour.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Sandy said, her tone half-wondering. “ ’Bye.”

  She hung up, and so did Tony, exulting. “Thank you, St. Vidicon,” he said, and half expected to hear a reply, but the room stayed as quiet as a city apartment can, and besides, if the saint said anything, Tony was in too much of a rush to hear.

  He was in such a hurry to get out the door that he didn’t even notice the lines of text that had begun to scroll upward on his screen again.

  He only lived eight blocks away and a cab came along just as he burst out the door, so neatly that Tony suspected saintly intervention. He flagged it down and stepped in, saying, “Fourteen twenty-two West Adams, please.” At least he had remembered her address. He’d written it down, of course, but that’s not the same thing.

  The cab pulled up at 1422, and sure enough, there was Sandy, waiting behind her glass door, looking as fresh as she had when he’d met her that morning. Tony wondered how she did it.

  “Eight thirty-two, Mac,” the cab driver said.

  “We’re going on another block or so,” Tony said. “Wait just a minute, will you?”

  “Don’t think about stiffing me,” the driver warned.

  “I won’t,” Tony said, and got out to run up the steps. Sandy saw him coming and came out. Tony said, “Sorry to be late.”

  “But you’re right on time,” Sandy looked confused. “You said half an hour.”

  “But you’ve been waiting ten minutes.” Tony offered his arm.

  “Ten minutes! Oh! How will I ever last?” Sandy asked in her most melodramatic tones and pressed the back of a limp-wristed hand to her fevered brow.

  Tony laughed as they came down the steps. He opened the door. “Bet you were the best actress in your high school.”

  “In high school,” Sandy agreed. “Not in college.” She slipped into the taxi.

  Tony closed the door, went around, and climbed in. “Espresso Service in the next block, okay?”

  “You got it, folks.” The driver put the car in gear.

  Tony turned to Sandy. “So you started finding computers more interesting than audiences?”

  “Not more interesting,” Sandy said, “but I heard hopeful actors can make a living taking temp work, so I figured I’d better learn some office applications—and I started wondering how they could make all those exotic functions happen just by manipulating ones and zeros.”

  “How about manipulating ten twenty-three?” the driver asked.

  Tony looked up and realized they had stopped. “Yeah, thanks.” He handed the driver twelve dollars, then got out and came around to open Sandy’s door. She managed to make it look graceful as she slipped out and took his arm again. They went in, found a table, and Tony draped his overcoat over a seat. “What would you like?”

  “Raspberry mocha.” Sandy sat.

  As he brought the drinks, Tony couldn’t help thinking that she looked much more cheerful than she had sounded on the phone and dared hope he might be doing something right. He sat down, and asked, “Did you take classes or just read books?”

  Sandy looked at him blankly, then laughed and reached out to press his hand. “I thought you meant acting. No, I actually took some courses. I was amazed how fascinating it was.”

  “Bet you took calculus in high school.”

  Sandy looked surprized, then smiled. “Yeah, math skills deteriorate fast, don’t they? But when I was a sophomore, I had a date with a sexist senior who told me women couldn’t learn math.”

  Tony grinned. “Proved him wrong, huh?”

  Sandy grinned back. “Luckiest insult I ever had. Sophomore year of college, I found out that the brain is still growing during high school.”

  “Didn’t know the logical centers kept growing too. Doesn’t seem as though they’ve stopped.”

  “Use it or lose it.” Sandy raised her cup in a toast, then blushed for some reason and covered it with a quick sip.

  Tony swallowed a teaspoonful of cappuccino. “So you graduated with a B.S. and three certificates?”

  “Four.” Sandy held up fingers. “One in networking and three in operating systems.”

  Tony nodded. “I still haven’t found one in hacking.”

  “Bet you could teach it, though.”

  “Who, me?” Tony was all astounded innocence. “I, who am dedicating my life to the betterment of humanity through computing?”

  “And computer security,” Sandy said, “which I’m sure you’re constantly testing—unofficially, of course.”

  “Only when the site advertises a hacking contest.”

  “You win, of course,” Sandy said.

  “I’m flattered,” Tony said, “but there are lots of hackers out there who are better than I am.”

  “Spending too much time doing legal stuff these days, huh?”

  Her spirits certainly seemed to have improved. Tony let himself feel a little elation. “Started thinking about people’s rights, too. Kind of dulled my edge.”

  “People are important.” Sandy’s eyes were soft and deep.

  “Yes,” Tony said with a sigh, “but computers are so much easier to understand.”

  Sandy laughed and squeezed his hand, and the rest of the evening passed quickly and pleasantly. They were both surprized to realize midnight was approaching—so Tony whisked her back to her apartment in a yellow cab, no golden coach being available, and told her good night on her doorstep. She seemed a little surprized but
thanked him for a wonderful evening, then went in, and Tony turned back to the cab with his heart singing. Only after he had given the driver his address did he wonder if she had been expecting him to try for a kiss.

  Feeling normal again—which is to say, gauche and clumsy—he paid the driver and went back to his apartment. He went into the bathroom and studied his image critically, then shook his head. Good thing he hadn’t tried for that kiss. Even with his hair neatened with gel, he was no match for a lovely creature like Sandy. Sport coat was probably way out of fashion, too.

  He sighed; he might do as Sandy’s friend, but he would be hopeless as anything more. He changed into pyjamas, then went to the kitchen to heat up a drink—hopeless or not, he was going to have to calm down a bit before he’d be able to sleep.

  As he came back into the room, he noticed the lines of text on the screen. Frowning, he went over to the computer, sat down, saved, scrolled back to the top, and began to read.

  Father Vidicon did throttle down, and the tank slowed dutifully—but slewed as it slowed, and the good priest realized that he was swinging about and about in a circle.

  He pulled back on the levers, killed the engine, then clambered out of the hatch, setting foot down onto the right tread—and found nothing there beneath his step. He froze, then levered himself up and turned about to climb down the left-hand tread instead, then walked around the machine and saw that the right-hand tread was gone indeed. Looking back down the tunnel, he saw it lying like a length of limber lumber on the ground. Frowning then, he came close and sat upon his heels to study the end, and saw where the connection had broken, crystallized metal fractured, as indeed it might have if this Sherman tank had really sat in wait through six decades. “ ‘Nature always sides with the hidden flaw,’ ” he mused, then stiffened, remembering that he quoted a corollary of Murphy’s Law, which was itself a corollary of Finagle’s General Statement. Yet he had defeated the Imp of the Perverse—so which other of Finagle’s henchmen had engineered this mishap?

  Or was it a henchman? It might well have been a monstrosity quite equal, for many were the minions of Finagle.