Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Gently, boys, gently,” Sally cautioned. “That’s the crown jewels, there—or at least the diamond.”

  I was glad she’d qualified that. The battery couldn’t have been worth any more than the Koh-i-Noor. It was the whole car whose development cost probably dwarfed St. Edward’s Crown.

  The two techs were good at their jobs. In fact, they were top experts. Sally knew that. Even so, she breathed a huge sigh of relief as the battery settled into place and they started screwing the clamp down.

  “You knew they weren’t going to drop it,” I reproved her.

  “Yes, I knew,” she admitted, “but accidents happen.”

  “It’s a disaster!”

  We both spun to stare at Joe Sanders, fresh off his college track team and breaking his own record for the sixty-yard dash. He skidded to a halt beside Sally, and the way he was gasping couldn’t have been due to the distance between the door and the Eagle.

  “Calm down, Joe,” Sally said in her most soothing tone. “Nothing’s that bad—unless the whole car blows up, of course. Now take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

  Joe gulped, made a visible (but unsuccessful) effort to relax, then blurted, “It’s the boss! He wants to drive the Eagle.”

  Since our boss was Sally, Joe could only have meant the Big Boss—the CEO of the whole blamed company. Sally turned visibly pale but said with monumental restraint, “When?”

  “Two-thirty.” Panic edged Joe’s voice.

  It was contagious. I went into panic mode too, and Sally froze. It was one-forty-five.

  Then she turned to the boys and started rapping out orders. “Bill, check all the connections! Jodie, take it once around the track! Then turn it over to Anna and Tom for a quick wash!” She would have had them checking the onboard computer too, but microprocessors had only been invented ten years before.

  They were just polishing the last drop off the Eagle when the Boss walked in.

  He went straight up to Sally with a politician’s smile and an outstretched hand. “Dr. Barley, your lab has to be the cleanest room in the building! And your whole staff does you credit.”

  She took his hand and gave him back smile for smile. “Thanks, Mr. Bridge. I’m proud of them all. I understand you’d like a progress report on the Eagle.”

  “No, I want to drive it.”

  Well, it had been a nice try, anyway. I pulled out my camera and got a quick shot of them before Sally’s smile faded.

  I didn’t need speed; she kept the mouth curved. They tell me some corpses do that. “It’s an honor, Mr. Bridge. I do have to advise you, though, that we haven’t really tested the new battery on the track yet—only once around to make sure the connections were sound.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” Mr. Bridge waved it away. “I don’t mind being your test driver.” He opened the door and slid in behind the wheel before any of us could argue. “Now, where’s the ignition? . . . I see. And here’s the gearshift . . . accelerator and brake in the usual places, hm? Well, wish me luck!”

  We did. We wished us luck too, as the Eagle rolled out the door and onto the track.

  “Just once around.” Sally’s voice had the tone of a prayer. “Once around is all he needs. He’s just making sure it runs and seeing how it steers and stops.”

  Beside her, Bill nodded. “Once is plenty.”

  The Boss turned the far curve and came back toward us, gaining speed.

  “Pull up,” Julie pleaded. “Pull up like a nice little executive and let us finish fine-tuning it!”

  For a minute there, we thought he’d heard her. The Eagle came up opposite us, slowing—then went right on into the turn. A massed groan came from the dozen engineers.

  “He was only slowing for the curve,” Shirley lamented.

  “He wasn’t really meaning to tease us,” Jodie said beside her.

  “Okay, twice around,” Tom wheedled. “Twice around is plenty. Just bring it back to us like a good little manager.”

  Again, the Boss seemed to hear, because instead of speeding up on the straightaway, he slowed.

  There was a massed gasp behind me as the engineers held their breaths.

  The Eagle turned ninety degrees, out through the gate toward the city streets.

  The engineers let out another massed groan.

  The journalist in me took over. I sprinted down to the gate, whipped out my camera as I turned, and managed to get a clear shot of the security guard waving the Eagle through the main gate. So much for secrecy.

  The Eagle vanished into the city traffic.

  My heart down in my boots, I headed back toward the lab, wondering why I cared. It wasn’t my job that was on the line, after all.

  Then I looked up and saw the track was bare. I frowned. I’d expected the engineers to be lined up along it, ready to cheer the Boss as he came back—after they were done cursing him under their breaths. I went through the huge open door into the lab.

  There they were, clustered together in the middle of the huge space with heads bowed, Sally in front of them, intoning, “St. Vidicon, patron of all who toil with screwdriver and soldering gun . . .”

  “Pray for us,” the engineers chorused.

  “St. Vidicon, upholder of order and foe of chaos . . .”

  “Pray for us.”

  “St. Vidicon, straightener of electron paths and adjuster of energy states . . .”

  “Pray for us!”

  I edged up to the back row and muttered to Tom, “I thought you guys were all agnostics.”

  “Pretty much,” he said, “but at a time like this, you gotta pray to somebody!”

  Beside him, Julie nodded. “St. Vidicon’s only a character in a story, so he’s okay.”

  I tried to figure out the sense in that while Sally went on with her impromptu litany.

  “What a fascinating toy!” the Gremlin said to itself as it swam through the Eagle’s circuits. “A triumph of ingenuity! Now, how best to make it stop working? Just loosen the battery cable—but no, that would be too obvious; no chance it would scuttle the project. Weaken the electrolyte? Again, too easy to discover. A thinning of the windings in the motor and a burn-out that would follow? Yes! It will be days before they think to look at brand-new coils!” It stretched out a long and knobby finger.

  “Wait!” said a voice.

  Frowning, the Gremlin turned and saw Gunderson, swimming beside him in the current.

  “Not now, when the car is on a lightly-travelled street,” said Gunderson. “Remember, the least desirable possibility must always exert itself when the results will be most frustrating. Wait until he is in the heaviest traffic and the breakdown will cause a mass collision.”

  The Gremlin pulled its finger back with a grin. “I like your style, Scandinavian.”

  “St. Vidicon, foe of Gunderson and the Gremlin,” Sally called.

  “Protect us from breakdowns!” the engineers answered.

  Tony groaned. He too knew better than to trust management with an engineering problem. “The CEO of a corporation driving a prototype car into city streets!”

  Head cocked to listen, St. Vidicon asked, “Hear that, Tony?”

  Tony listened but heard a slow beat so low-pitched it was scarcely audible. Frowning, he shook his head.

  “Touch my sleeve,” Father Vidicon said.

  Tony took hold of his arm and heard a voice. Dimly, he heard a woman call, “St. Vidicon, engineer of philosophies”—and a dozen people finished her thought—“make the world logical!”

  St. Vidicon smiled. “Not even a saint can do that, Tony.”

  Tony stared, wounded. “You mean it isn’t?”

  “Not the human world, at least,” the priest answered. “Still, I can straighten a few crooked ways.”

  Tony became absolutely still, listening to the minds and hearts of the engineers a generation before his own, until he understood the scope of the problem, and his eyes widened in horror. “Where is he?”

  “I’ll search.” Fat
her Vidicon looked down, and Tony wondered how he could see anything but the undulating floor. Still, he had no doubt the priest was scanning the city streets outside the research plant. “Not that car,” Father Vidicon muttered, “nor that one, nor that—they all stink of exhaust . . . That one! The one that runs with no fire inside!” He probed, thoughts delving into the circuitry—and somehow Tony was there with him in the copper-colored fog, staring at . . .

  “Begone, impertinent priest!” the Gremlin hissed.

  “We meet again, fell spirit,” St. Vidicon answered.

  “This car is mine!”

  “Yes, wait for the next one,” Gunderson agreed.

  “If you two have your way, there will never be a next one,” St. Vidicon retorted, then closed his eyes in prayer. “Dear Lord, I pray thee, send some tool to correct whatever foul-ups these two may make in the situation normal.”

  His palm tingled. Looking down, he saw a roll of copper in it. Grinning, he closed his eyes, picturing the inside of the motor until it began to seem real, then became real, and knew that some part of him was inside it.

  The Eagle turned onto a boulevard that should have been lightly travelled at that time of afternoon, but Gunderson began to mutter under his breath, suggestions that sent sudden insights into every nearby motorist who was frustrated by traffic, and they all turned onto the boulevard to find easier going. In minutes, the little Eagle was surrounded by trucks and taxis and vans.

  “Now!” Gunderson said.

  The Gremlin touched a wire; it shrivelled. He reached out for another—but phantom hands with nimble fingers appeared, stretching ghostly wire that sank into the coil and strengthened it. The Gremlin cried out in frustration and touched the new wire, but it refused to shrivel. Cursing, the creature touched winding after winding—but the ghostly fingers kept pace with him, replacing wire after wire.

  “A pox upon you, priest!” the Gremlin cried.

  “Too late,” Father Vidicon’s voice said. “I’ve left my body behind.” Then he reached out to the Boss with a suggestion.

  It had been fun, the Boss decided, but it had turned into just another drive. The Eagle hummed along as smoothly as his town car and considerably more quietly. Besides, the traffic was getting thick and beginning to get on his nerves. Who made all these cars, anyway? He turned at the next light and started back to the track.

  Inside his motor, the Gremlin went on touching wire after wire frantically, even stooping to loosen the battery cables, but as quickly as he wrecked, Father Vidicon fixed.

  I decided somebody had to stand sentry, so I left the engineers trying to buck up their spirits and headed back to the gate, camera at the ready. I paced and waited, waited and paced, then heard the chime as the outer gate rose. “The Eagle is landing!” I shouted and whirled, whipping the camera up to my eye, and caught the Eagle as it glided through the inner gate and back onto the track, the Boss smiling behind the wheel. It would make a great photo for the article about the Eagle on the future day he decided to unmask it—officially, that is. I got another shot of the engineers swarming back onto the track to line up and cheer as the Eagle rolled between them and back into the lab. Then I sprinted for the door.

  I got there in time to see the Boss climb out of the car and shake Sally’s hand. “Congratulations, Dr. Barley! First-rate work, the kind that has made this company great!”

  The engineers all glowed with pleasure, and Sally beamed. “Thanks, Boss—but it’s still a prototype, and we have quite a few improvements to try out.”

  “I’m sure they’ll make the car thoroughly marketable by the time we need to put it in production!” The Boss turned toward her office. “But we need to talk about the conversion problem. People won’t buy an electric car, after all, if they can’t recharge it while they’re on the road . . .”

  Sally fell in step beside him, and they headed for her office, talking about setting up a network of service stations with half a dozen high-speed charging stations apiece. “With restaurants, of course,” Sally was saying, “so the family can have lunch while they’re having the battery topped up . . .”

  “Well, Tom, you made it,” I said.

  “Yes, thank Heaven!” Tom joined his hands and looked up at the roof piously. “And thank you, St. Vidicon!”

  “Amen!” the engineers chorused.

  Then they shut up and whirled, looking shamefaced at the CEO who stood in the lab doorway, waving and calling, “Congratulations on a job well done! Good to know we have hard-working, loyal employees. I’ll look forward to a production model this time next year!” And waving a cheery farewell, he turned and went out.

  The team stood stunned, Sally most of all. Then, with one massive groan, they all staggered away in different directions.

  Tom sidled up to Shirley. “Do you suppose it’s too early to start praying yet?”

  “A lucky accident, priest!” the Gremlin snarled. “I’ll lock horns with you again, be certain!”

  “Oh, I’ll never doubt it,” Father Vidicon returned, and withdrew his ghostly touch within his own spirit again.

  Tony staggered at the suddenly-infirm footing. Looking around, he saw they were back in the maroon tunnel.

  “I shall have to fight him till time’s end”—Father Vidicon sighed—“again and again, I’m sure.”

  Tony frowned. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Oh, fair enough,” Father Vidicon said, “for once having defeated him here on his home ground, I’m bound to win whenever I confront him on earth.” He turned to Tony with a grin. “But that’s enough fantastic adventure for you for the time being. Back to your own reality, now, and the young woman who is a far more worthy goal than helping a foolish monk combat invisible villains.”

  Tony started to object, but St. Vidicon raised his hand in blessing and farewell, and Tony found himself staring at his bedroom ceiling again, pale with the light of false dawn that filtered through his curtains. He just had time to wonder how much rest he’d had when the alarm clock went off.

  Thursday seemed to drag worse than Tuesday or Wednesday, but it did eventually expire. Suddenly Friday had come, and Tony didn’t feel ready. Nonetheless, he phoned the Marinara to make sure he still had a reservation for two, dressed in his best suit, and called the cab.

  He walked into the Marinara and went to the lectern to wait. The maître d’ came back a minute later and raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry.

  “Ricci,” Tony said. “Anthony.”

  The maître d’ checked his list and nodded. “It will be a few minutes. Would you like a seat in the bar, sir?”

  “No, I’m waiting for someone.”

  “I’ll direct your guest to you, sir.”

  Tony started to object, but just then the door opened and Sandy walked in. She was radiant in a white satin dress decorated with an arc of seed pearls, her chestnut hair gleaming in a wave, her makeup minimal and flawless, and Tony found himself breathing, “Thank you.”

  Sandy smiled, pleased, but asked, “For what?”

  “Uh—for being on time!” Tony offered his arm. “The maître d’ offered us a seat in the bar.”

  “Wonderful way to begin.” Sandy took his arm, and they went into the opulent gloom of damask and polished mahogany.

  As he held her chair, Tony was amazed that so far, he seemed to have said the right things—and he thought he knew why. St. Vidicon, don’t desert me now!

  Chapter 5

  Tony didn’t actually hear any answer, but he felt massively reassured.

  Over dinner, he found himself asking sensible questions—about Sandy’s week and her work—then listened, fascinated as much by the sound of her voice and the animation in her face as by what she was saying.

  “. . . so then I routed the fibrillator into the framistan and ran a recursive routine,” she finished.

  Tony stared. “You did what? With what data?” Then the earlier words reregistered and he asked, “What’s a framistan?”

  Sandy la
ughed, lightly, gently, and reached out to squeeze his arm. “Just wondering if you were listening.”

  “Every syllable.” Tony relaxed a little. “Thank heavens! For a moment there, I thought you were tying up your system with a recursive fractal!”

  “I wouldn’t be quite that silly.” Sandy pursed her lips, gazing off into space for a minute. “Framistan . . . fractal . . . I suppose it makes sense.”

  “Maybe,” said Tony, “if I knew what a framistan was.”

  “A nonsense word from my childhood,” Sandy said merrily, then turned as the dessert cart rolled up with the server behind it. “No, thanks. Couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “Maybe a liqueur?” Tony offered.

  Sandy cocked her head to the side, considering. “Cointreau would be nice.”

  “And I’ll have cappuccino,” Tony told the server, who nodded and disappeared, dessert cart and all.

  They came out, Tony still asking questions and Sandy still answering merrily. “Cab?” the doorman asked.

  Sandy sighed, looked directly into Tony’s eyes, and said, “I’m not ready for the evening to be over yet.”

  Tony’s pulse leaped, but he managed to keep his reaction down to a smile. “How about the Aftermath?”

  “Sounds great!”

  The Aftermath might not have been the most luxurious cocktail lounge in the city, but it was certainly the most welcoming for computer people, probably because it was the retirement project of a former systems analyst and three former software engineers. Tony and Sandy sat down at a small table that had clearly started life as a printer stand, feeling right at home. Track lighting displayed portraits of computer pioneers, framed sets of punch cards, sorting needles, and antique keyboards—their natural environment. Sandy ordered an old-fashioned; Tony had Irish coffee. He’d been here often enough that the bartender knew to go light on the Irish. Sandy was talking about the latest experiment in artificial intelligence, and Tony agreed that it was a nice try but that no one would ever mistake the talking head on the screen for a real human being. “It’s too clearly animated.”