by John Brunner
There was a shuffling. The grey robes rose, and the masked priest came forth before the altar.
VIII
By the time the service was over, he had worked out what he must now do. He filed out of the chapel with the rest of the Society and returned to his robing-cell. The purpose of isolating the members from each other for a few minutes before and after the service, of course, was not merely to afford them a chance for a moment of private meditation; it was also to facilitate the transfer from this time-location of whoever had been selected to partake of a New Years Mass in a future age, and his subsequent return. There was never any way of detecting the process.
But, of course, it was only convenient to operate the transfer from a robing-cell. It wasn't necessary.
And tonight, if he had reached the correct conclusion, an exception would have been made. He was virtually certain he knew whom it had affected.
A kind of grim excitement began to displace his former apprehension as he stripped off his robes. He barely spared time to hang it tidily on its peg before leaving the cell -- ahead of most of his colleagues, who were doubtless spending a while in prayer before returning to the reception at the palace.
Following a cold, stone-flagged passage, he passed the chapel and made for the vestry at the other end. Hurrying more and more, against his will, his heels clicking on the floor, he came at last to the door which was his destination. There he halted. Shivers traced down his spine.
Suppose -- just suppose -- some unforeseeable error had nullified the plan; suppose, when he knocked, it was another voice than Father Ramón's that invited him to enter!
Well, there was only one way to find out. He raised his fist to hammer on the wood, and his heart pounded in answer as he recognised that it was indeed Father Ramón who was within.
He twisted the handle and stepped over the threshold.
The Jesuit was alone in the starkly furnished little room, standing close to a table with one thin hand laid on its polished top, his eyes bright and sharp in his bird-like face. On recognising his visitor he smiled.
"A fortunate new year to you, my son," he said. "It's kind of you to come calling when the year is still so young. I'd have thought you'd be eager to return to the merrymaking in the palace -- " He broke off, searching Don Miguel's face, and resumed in a more serious tone.
"Forgive me for jesting!" he exclaimed. "For I see by your expression you're here on no light errand."
"Truth, Father -- I'm afraid. And so strange an errand, too, that I'm at a loss to know how to convince you I'm neither drunk nor dreaming." Don Miguel passed his tongue over dry lips." I think, though, you may take me seriously if I say that I know which of our present-day company was absent from the Mass tonight."
The smile vanished from Father Ramón's face. He said, "That's hardly a matter for casual chat, my son. You had indeed better satisfy me of your grounds for mentioning it."
"I'll try." Don Miguel swallowed hard. "You'll grant there's no normal means I could find out by? You'll take my word that I haven't pried into any secret records -- that I don't even know for certain such records exist?"
"You puzzle me . . . But I'll accept your word. Continue."
"How then can I be positive that the present-day Licentiate you did not serve at tonight's Mass was -- Don Arturo Cortés?"
There was a long pause. Father Ramón terminated it by reaching for a black-bound Bible from a shelf at his side. On its front cover it bore a cross embossed in gold. He set it on the table between them and nodded for Don Miguel to sit down. Doing so, the latter laid one hand on the book and with the other wiped perspiration from his forehead.
"There's something else I'm giving you my word about, Father," he resumed. "I've never -- in this world as it is -- entered the restricted room of the library. But I know, and you know, that at the court of King Mahendra the White Elephant they have female gladiators who fight like Hashishin."
"You learned of them from Don Anuro?" snapped Father Ramón.
"No, I've never spoken to him about it. You must know there's little love lost between him and me."
"Then who -- ?"
"You yourself, Father. You told me about them."
Once more there was a terrible silence. In the light of the lamps the Jesuit's face gleamed like oiled parchment. But his voice was quite level as he said, "You speak in riddles, yet you have not the air of a madman. I must hear you out. Go on."
"You told me so that I could tell you now, in my turn, and so convince you I'm not out of my mind. You made me party to a secret which would gain your own attention."
"In that you've succeeded," admitted the Jesuit. "For good and sufficient reasons the existence of this potential world you've mentioned has never been advertised. Perhaps you can imagine why?"
"Because in that world the true faith is suppressed?" ventured Don Miguel.
"Correct. And there are other reasons, but that's the chief. So explain your version of events."
Already, Don Miguel realised, his fantastic mind must have touched the kernel of the matter. Already he must be aware that he was condemned to the worst of all possible human predicaments: to judge actions of his own that he had no knowledge of . . .
Aloud, he said, "First, Father, you must write a message to the future. To ensure the security of our very world, you must issue instructions -- unquestionable orders, under the Great Seal of the Society -- that when the day comes that Don Arturo is sent to celebrate Mass with the brothers of another time than his own, he must be fetched from an earlier time than usual. He must lose, as nearly as I can judge, three whole hours from his evening. Above all, he must not be allowed to speak with the Ambassador of the Confederacy or anyone else concerning the subject of women as valiant fighters."
Father Ramón looked stricken. He said, "I will do as you ask. But tell me why."
So, by pieces and scraps, Don Miguel did so.
When he had finished, Father Ramón sat for a long while in silence. At last he stirred, his face perfectly white.
He said, "Yes. Yes, it could have happened. A venal and corrupt mind panders to the whim of a monarch -- and the result is the slaughter of thousands. You have performed a signal service to the Society, my son. But no doubt you understand that your only reward must be a dreadful nightmare of knowledge."
Don Miguel nodded. His voice thick, he said, "Worse yet than the knowledge is my present ignorance! I feel like a leaf tossed on the wind. Do I know what I have done -- now in this world -- during the evening that's passed?"
"With caution and grace you'll establish that before any harm results," Father Ramón promised. "But . . . Well, do you wish to be free of what you know? I can release you if you prefer -- what you remember is now clearly non-existent, and it would be lawful to banish it from your brain."
Don Miguel hesitated. The idea was tempting, and he knew the process nowadays would be quick and easy -- there were humane drugs developed by the Holy Office for the relief of sincerely repentant criminals whose guilt-feelings prevented them from becoming useful members of society.
But suddenly he said, amazed at himself, "No, Father. For you know what I know now. And I feel it would somehow be unjust to leave you in sole possession of this knowledge, sharing it with no one else."
"It is shared with God," the Jesuit reminded him gently. "But I thank you, nonetheless. It seems to me a brave thing to say." He drew back the book stamped with the cross and held it before him in both hands.
"I counsel you now, for your peace of mind, to return to the palace reception. The longer you allow this memory of what did not happen to dominate your mind, the longer you'll be ill at ease. Go back and see for yourself that the palace stands unburned, that the King lives, that your friend Don Felipe has not been shot full of arrows. In the end it will become like a dream."
"Was it in truth nothing more?" Don Miguel insisted. Father Ramón gave a skeletal smile.
"Tomorrow -- later today, rather, if you wish, come to me and I
will recommend you some texts in the library which treat of the powers and limitations of the Adversary. It is possible for him to create convincing delusions, but not to create reality. And it is always possible for determined and upright men to penetrate those delusions."
He rose to his feet. Don Miguel did the same, then dropped to his knees and bowed his head. When the priest had blessed him, he looked up.
"And you, Father? What are you going to do?"
"Write the message to the future, as you directed. Review certain undesirable elements of vanity in the character of a prominent Licentiate. Perhaps draft a scare-mongering article for publication in one of the Society's journals, which no one will dare to dismiss as absurd thanks to my not inconsiderable reputation. And also, of course, I shall pray."
He walked past Don Miguel and opened the door.
"Go with God, my son," he said.
IX
His mind churning, Don Miguel walked slowly along the cold passage which connected the chapel to the adjacent palace. He could hear the sound of the band performing again, and voices singing with it, and much laughter.
This was real.
Yet -- how much of what had happened to him had happened to no one else? Had he spent this evening in Londres with Kristina, mingling with the crowds? Clearly they had not encountered the feathered girl at Empire Circle, but what had they done instead?
Was he in fact already at the reception?
That final shocking possibility stopped him in his tracks. With a shake of his head he dismissed it. If not before now, then later, under the direction of Father Ramón, the Society would take / have taken steps to rectify any such paradox. He could clearly recall the precautions which the technicians at the Headquarters Office had (not) carried out to ensure he arrived within a minute or two of midnight in this rectified reality. But he had overlapped with himself in one sense, of course, because in the potential world at the corresponding moment to this he had been with Father Ramón and Kristina at the Headquarters Office, and here he was rejoining the party instead . . .
Wrestling with the insoluble problem threatened to give him a headache. He snatched his attention back to his surroundings and realised that he was now in a warm, well-lit, gaily-decorated corridor; he had regained the interior of the palace. Any moment now he might emerge into a room full of guests and find Kristina impatiently awaiting him on his return from the Mass.
Or -- his heart sank at the prospect -- he might learn that she and he had not slipped away together to the city, but had spent a miserably dull evening making polite small-talk until she lost patience with him and found an excuse to choose herself a livelier partner.
Father Ramón had counselled him to proceed with grace and caution. The former he could not control, but he could certainly abide by the latter. Instead of making directly for the main hall where the body of the party was, he turned aside down another corridor where slaves were coming and going with the traditional New Year breakfast on trays and trolleys, and bowls of steaming mulled wine giving off a spicy aroma. This led him to a sheltered alcove from which he could spy out the land before showing himself.
By now the great hall was half as full as before. There was no sign of the King, but at least one might presume he'd departed peacefully. Likewise there was no Sign of the Ambassador of the Confederacy. But he spotted the Prince Imperial, having a whale of a time with a pretty Mohawk girl just in front of the bandstand, and there too was Red Bear slumped down in a chair and holding court. He'd probably had to be sobered up forcibly to take part in the Mass; imagine a Licentiate trying to get away with that, but of course a General Officer --
"Miguel!"
He glanced round, startled. Coming towards him, smiling broadly, was Don Felipe.
"Miguel, where've you been all evening?" He gave his friend a poke in the ribs and a knowing wink. "Don't tell me, let me guess -- only I'd better not say what I guess! I'm sure you've been enjoying yourself anyway."
"Yes!" Don Miguel seized on the slim clue. "Have you been looking for me, then?"
"Not especially," Don Felipe chortled. "I've had -- ah -- other things to occupy me. But I did notice you were conspicuous by your absence."
"Then perhaps you'd better put me in the picture about what's been going on," Don Miguel suggested, trying to adopt a blasé tone. "I -- ah might have to cover my absence, mightn't I?"
Don Felipe's eyes grew round as O's. "Miguel, you don't mean . . .? Why, you lucky so-and-so! Ingeborg's tremendous fun, but she's a little on the young side for -- "
"Felipe!" Don Miguel interrupted sharply.
"All right, all right!" Don Felipe parodied repentance. "Never take a lady's name in vain, and all that pow-wow . . . Well, make it snappy; I'm in a hurry to get rid of the drink I've had and get back to Ingeborg. Where did you lose touch?"
"Uh . . ." Don Miguel frowned. "Wasn't there some kind of a disagreement between the royals and the Ambassador of the Confederacy?"
"Oh, that! Yes, it was pretty stormy for a while -- Red Bear was still in fair possession of his faculties and rounded up a bunch of us to try and provide a distraction. But it didn't help much, largely because your old chum the Marquesa di Jorque kept starting all kinds of irrelevant hares. In fact at one point it nearly came to a free fight about women's rights. The real fly in the ointment, though, was Don Arturo, as you might expect. Luckily for everyone he got mislaid at some stage. Drank too much, I shouldn't wonder. Good Lord! Glutton for punishment, isn't he? He's over there -- see? -- and isn't he just knocking it back!"
Don Miguel glanced in the direction Don Felipe indicated, and there indeed was Don Arturo, pale as a ghost and trying apparently to restore his colour by gulping glass after glass of red wine.
"So what happened after that?" Don Miguel said slowly.
"Oh, the subject got changed to something less controversial and when the royals left about half past eleven and the Ambassador too, there was laughing all round and handshaking and all kinds of friendliness. Perfectly calm and in order. Miguel, forgive me but I must disappear!"
He vanished down the corridor, leaving Don Miguel to sigh with relief. It really was all right, then. The only point which did still briefly puzzle him was this: if the doyen of the diplomatic corps, the Ambassador from the Confederacy, had left before midnight, it would presumably have been to celebrate Mass at the embassy, and the rest of the foreign dignitaries would have done the same. So why had Ingeborg remained -- would she have stayed later than her father?
Then he remembered that, being of a heterodox faith, the Scandinavians probably had different observances. In which case he stood an excellent chance of locating Kristina and finding that they had indeed spent those delightful few hours playing truant from the party. He was about to set off happily in search of her when he glanced again in the direction of Don Arturo.
No, there was one thing he must attend to before going to look for Kristina. It was little enough to do for a man -- likeable or detestable -- who had suffered one of the cruelest fates imaginable for anyone. He must realise that he had lost part of his evening; he must know it was due to no such commonplace cause as drinking himself into a stupor; logically, then, he must be the first ( and may he be the only! -- added Don Miguel's mind silently) member of the Society to realise that he was not celebrating the New Year Mass in his own time.
What justice was there in allowing him to suffer now that the consequences of his heedless boasting had been swept into limbo?
Well, that was a matter to be left to the casuists, if they ever learned about it. He was not, at least, as badly off as Father Ramón, who must judge his own actions without having committed them. But he must be in an agony of apprehension.
Don Miguel strode across the floor, his heart abrim with sudden pity, and halted before Don Arturo. "Your hand, brother!" he exclaimed. "Let me wish you a happy new year!"
For an instant Don Arturo's haunted eyes locked with his and he seemed not to understand the words. Then, conv
ulsively, he let fall his wineglass with a crash and seized Don Miguel's hand in both of his. He said nothing, but his smile was bright.
A prompt slave came to snatch up the fragments of glass and wipe away the wasted wine. Drawing back from Don Arturo's grip, Don Miguel heard his name called in a familiar voice.
"Ah, there you are, Miguel! What's kept you so long?"
Only a few paces distant around the floor, there was Kristina standing between her father and her sister, vigorously waving to him. His heart turned over, and he hastened to comply with her beckoning. After a rapid bow to the Duke, he addressed her.
"I'm so sorry, Lady Kristina. I've been -- ah -- having a few words with Father Ramón in his vestry."
She looked slightly puzzled at his use of her title, and then seemed to hit on an explanation. "Oh, Papa doesn't mind people calling me Kristina, Miguel, if that's what you're thinking. He's just had to get used to it -- haven't you?" she added, nudging her father playfully.
