The scholar puffed a breath of amusement. He prodded at the vitreous spheroid and rolled it across the table with his thumb. Suddenly he laughed. “I rather like that. I think I know who does need it more than the Poet. Perhaps I’ll keep it after all.” He picked it up, tossed it, caught it, and glanced doubtfully at the abbot.
Paulo merely shrugged again.
Thon Taddeo dropped the eye back in his pouch. “He can have it if he ever comes to claim it. But by the way, I meant to tell you: my work is nearly finished here. We’ll be leaving in a very few days.”
“Aren’t you worried about the fighting on the Plains?”
Thon Taddeo frowned at the wall. “We’re to camp at a butte, about a week’s ride to the east from here. A group of, uh — Our escort will meet us there.”
“I do hope,” said the abbot, relishing the polite bit of savagery, “that your escort-group hasn’t reversed its political allegiance since you made the arrangements. It’s getting harder to tell foes from allies these days.”
The thon reddened. “Especially if they come from Texarkana, you mean?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Let’s be frank with each other, Father. I can’t fight the prince who makes my work possible — no matter what I think of his policies or his politics. I appear to support him, superficially, or at least to overlook him — for the sake of the collegium. If he extends his lands, the collegium may incidentally profit. If the collegium prospers, mankind will profit from our work.”
“The ones who survive, perhaps.”
“True-but that’s always true in any event.”
“No, no — Twelve centuries ago, not even the survivors profited. Must we start down that road again?”
Thon Taddeo shrugged. “What can I do about it?” he asked crossly. “Hannegan is prince, not I.”
“But you promise to begin restoring Man’s control over Nature. But who will govern the use of the power to control natural forces? Who will use it? To what end? How will you hold him in check? Such decisions can still be made. But if you and your group don’t make them now, others will soon make them for you. Mankind will profit, you say. By whose sufferance? The sufferance of a prince who signs his letters X? Or do you really believe that your collegium can stay aloof from his ambitions when he begins to find out that you’re valuable to him?”
Dom Paulo had not expected to convince him. But it was with a heavy heart that the abbot noticed the plodding patience with which the thon heard him through; it was the patience of a man listening to an argument which he had long ago refuted to his own satisfaction.
“What you really suggest,” said the scholar, “is that we wait a little while. That we dissolve the collegium, or move it to the desert, and somehow — with no gold and silver of our own — revive an experimental and theoretical science in some slow hard way, and tell nobody. That we save it all up for the day when Man is good and pure and holy and wise.”
“That is not what I meant—”
“That is not what you meant to say, but it is what your saying means. Keep science cloistered, don’t try to apply it, don’t try to do anything about it until men are holy. Well, it won’t work. You’ve been doing it here in this abbey for generations.”
“We haven’t withheld anything.”
“You haven’t withheld it; but you sat on it so quietly, nobody knew it was here, and you did nothing with it.”
Brief anger flared in the old priest’s eyes. “It’s time you met our founder, I think,” he growled, pointing to the wood-carving in the corner. “He was a scientist like yourself before the world went mad and he ran for sanctuary. He founded this Order to save what could be saved of the records of the last civilization. “Saved” from what, and for what? Look where he’s standing — see the kindling? the books? That’s how little the world wanted your science then, and for centuries afterward. So he died for our sake. When they drenched him with fuel oil, legend says he asked them for a cup of it. They thought he mistook it for water, so they laughed and gave him a cup. He blessed it and — some say the oil changed to wine when he blessed it — and then: “Hic est enim calix SanguinisMei ,” and he drank it before they hung him and set him on fire. Shall I read you a list of our martyrs? Shall I name all the battles we have fought to keep these records intact? All the monks blinded in the copyroom? for your sake? Yet you say we did nothing with it, withheld it by silence.”
“Not intentionally,” the scholar said, “but in effect you did-and for the very motives you imply should be mine. If you try to save wisdom until the world is wise, Father, the world will never have it.”
“I can see the misunderstanding is basic!” the abbot said gruffly. “To serve God first, or to serve Hannegan first — that’s your choice.”
“I have little choice, then,” answered the thon. “Would you have me work for the Church?” The scorn in his voice was unmistakable.
22
It was Thursday within the Octave of All Saints. In preparation for departure, the thon and his party sorted their notes and records in the basement. He had attracted a small monastic audience, and a spirit of friendliness prevailed as the time to leave drew near. Overhead, the arc lamp still sputtered and glared, filling the ancient library with blue-white harshness while the team of novices pumped wearily at the hand-powered dynamo. The inexperience of the novice who sat atop the ladder to keep the arc gap adjusted caused the light to flicker erratically; he had replaced the previous skilled operator who was at present confined to the infirmary with wet dressings over his eyes.
Thon Taddeo had been answering questions about his work with less reticence than usual, no longer worried, apparently, about such controversial subjects as the refrangible property of light, or the ambitious of Thon Esser Shon.
“Now unless this hypothesis is meaningless,” he was saying, “it must be possible to confirm it in some way by observation. I set up the hypothesis with the help of some new — or rather, some very old-mathematical forms suggested by our study of your Memorabilia. The hypothesis seems to offer a simpler explanation of optical phenomena, but frankly, I could think of no way to test it at first. That’s where your Brother Kornhoer proved a help.” He nodded toward the inventor with a smile and displayed a sketch of a proposed testing device.
‘“What is it?” someone asked after a brief interval of mystification.
“Well — this is a pile of glass plates. A beam of sunlight striking the pile at this angle will be partially reflected, and partially transmitted The reflected part will be polarized. Now we adjust the pile to reflect the beam through this thing, which is Brother Kornhoer’s idea, and let the light fall on this second pile of glass plates. The second pile is set at just the right angle to reflect almost all of the polarized beam, and transmit nearly none of it. Looking through the glass, we’d scarcely see the light. All this has been tried. But now if my hypothesis is correct, closing this switch on Brother Kornhoer’s field coil here should cause a sudden brightening of the transmitted light. If it doesn’t—” he shrugged “ — then we threw out the hypothesis.”
“You might throw out the coil instead,” Brother Kornhoer suggested modestly. “I’m not sure it’ll produce a strong enough field.”
“I am. You have an instinct for these things. I find it much easier to develop an abstract theory than to construct a practical way to test it. But you have a remarkable gift for seeing everything in terms of screws, wires, and lenses, while I’m still thinking abstract symbols.”
“But the abstractions would never occur to me in the first place, Thon Taddeo.”
“We would make a good team, Brother. I wish you would join us at the collegium, at least for a while. Do you think your abbot would grant you leave?”
“I would not presume to guess,” the inventor murmured, suddenly uncomfortable.
Thon Taddeo turned to the others. “I’ve heard mention of ‘brothers on leave.’ Isn’t it true that some members of your community are employed els
ewhere temporarily?”
“Only a very few, Thon Taddeo,” said a young priest.
“Formerly, the Order supplied clerks, scribes, and secretaries to the secular clergy, and to both royal and ecclesiastical courts. But that was during the times of most severe hardship and poverty here at the abbey. Brothers working on leave have kept the rest of us from starving at times. But that’s no longer necessary, and it’s seldom done. Of course, we have a few brothers studying in New Rome now, but—”
“That’s it!” said the thon with sudden enthusiasm. “A scholarship at the collegium for you, Brother. I was talking to your abbot, and—”
“Yes?” asked the young priest;
“Well, while we disagree on a few things, I can understand his point of view. I was thinking that an exchange of scholarships might improve relations. There would be a stipend, of course, and I’m sure your abbot could put that to good use.”
Brother Kornhoer inclined his head but said nothing.
“Come now!” The scholar laughed. “You don’t seem pleased by the invitation, Brother.”
“I am flattered, of course. But such matters are not for me to decide.”
“Well, I understand that, of course. But I wouldn’t dream of asking your abbot if the idea displeased you.”
Brother Kornhoer hesitated. “My vocation is to Religion,” be said at last, “that is — to a life of prayer. We think of our work as a kind of prayer too. But that—” he gestured toward his dynamo “-for me seems more like play. However, if Dom Paulo were to send me—”
“You’d reluctantly go,” the scholar finished sourly. “I’m sure I could get the collegium to send your abbot at least a hundred gold hannegans a year while you were with us, too. I—” He paused to look around at their expressions. “Pardon me, did I say something wrong?”
Halfway down the stairs, the abbot paused to survey the group in the basement. Several blank faces were turned toward him. After a few seconds Thon Taddeo noticed the abbot’s presence and nodded pleasantly.
“We were just speaking of you, Father,” he said. “If you heard, perhaps I should explain—”
Dom Paulo shook his head. “That’s not necessary.”
“But I would like to discuss—”
“Can it wait? I’m in a hurry this minute.”
“Certainly,” said the scholar.
“I’ll be back shortly.” He climbed the stairs again. Father Gault was waiting for him in the courtyard.
“Have they heard about it yet, Domne?” the prior asked grimly.
“I didn’t ask, but I’m sure they haven’t,” Dom Paulo answered. “They’re just making silly conversation down there. Something about taking Brother K back to Texarkana with them.”
“Then they haven’t heard, that’s certain.”
“Yes. Now where is he?”
“In the guesthouse, Domne. The medic’s with him He’s delirious.”
“How many of the brothers know he’s here?”
“About four. We were singing None when he came in the gate.”
“Tell those four not to mention it to anyone. Then join our guests in the basement. Just be pleasant, and don’t let them know.”
“But shouldn’t they he told before they leave, Domne?”
“Of course. But let them get ready first. You know it won’t stop them from going back. So to minimize embarrassment, let’s wait until the last minute to tell them. Now, do you have it with you?”
“No, I left it with his papers in the guesthouse.”
“I’ll go see him. Now, warn the brothers, and join our guests.”
“Yes, Dome.”
The abbot hiked toward the guesthouse. As be entered, Brother Pharmacist was just leaving the fugitive’s room.
“Will he live, Brother?”
“I cannot know, Domne. Mistreatment, starvation, exposure, fever — if God wills it—” He shrugged..
“May I speak to him?’
“I’m sure it won’t matter. But he doesn’t make sense.”
The abbot entered the room and softly closed the door behind him.
“Brother Claret?”
“Not again,” gasped the man on the bed. “For the love of God, not again — I’ve told you all I know. I betrayed him. Now just let me — be.”
Dom Paulo looked down with pity on the secretary to late Marcus Apollo. He glanced at the scribe’s hands. There were only festering sores where the fingernails had been.
The abbot shuddered and turned to the small table near the bed. Out of a small collection of papers and personal effects, he quickly found the crudely printed document which the fugitive had brought with him from the east:
HANNEGAN THE MAYOR, by Grace of God: Sovereign of Texarkana, Emperor of Laredo, Defender of the Faith, Doctor of Laws, Clans Chief of the Nomads, and Vaquero Supreme of the Plains, to ALL BISHOPS, PRIESTS, AND PRELATES of the Church throughout Our Rightful Realm, Greetings & TAKE HEED, for it is the LAW, viz & to wit:
(1) Whereas a certain foreign prince, one Benedict XXII, Bishop of New Rome, presuming to assert an authority which is not rightly his over the clergy of this nation, has dared to attempt, first, to place the Texarkanan Church under a sentence of interdict, and, later, to suspend this sentence, thereby creating great confusion and spiritual neglect among all the faithful, We, the only legitimate ruler over the Church in this realm, acting in concord with a council of bishops and clergy, hereby declare to Our loyal people that the aforesaid prince and bishop, Benedict XXII, is a heretic, simoniac, murderer, sodomite, and atheist, unworthy of any recognition by Holy Church in lands of Our kingdom, empire, or protectorate. Who serves him serves not Us.
(2) Be it known, therefore, that both the decree of interdict and the decree suspending it are
hereby QUASHED, ANNULLED, DECLARED VOID AND OF NO CONSEQUENCE, for they were of no original validity…
Dom Paulo glanced at the rest of it only briefly. There was no need to read further. The mayoral TAKE HEED ordered the licensing of the Texarkanan clergy, made the administration of the Sacraments by unlicensed persons a crime under the law, and made an oath of supreme allegiance to the Mayorality a condition for licensing and recognition. It was signed not only with the Mayor’s mark, but also by several “bishops” whose names were unfamiliar to the abbot.
He tossed the document back on the table and sat down beside the bed. The fugitive’s eyes were open, but he only stared at the ceiling and panted.
“Brother Claret?” he asked gently. “Brother…”
In the basement, the scholar’s eyes had come alight with the brash exuberance of one specialist invading the field of another specialist for the sake of straightening out the whole region of confusion. “As a matter of fact, yes!” he said in response to a novice’s question. “I did locate one source here that should, I think, be of interest to Thon Maho. Of course, I’m no historian, but—”
“Thon Maho? Is he the one who’s, uh, trying to correct Genesis?’ Father Gault asked wryly.
“Yes, that’s—” the scholar broke off with a startled glance at Gault.
“That’s all right,” the priest said with a chuckle. “Many of us feel that Genesis is more or less allegorical. What have you found?”
“We located one pre-Diluvian fragment that suggests a very revolutionary concept, as I see it. If I interpret the fragment correctly, Man was not created until shortly before the fall of the last civilization.”
“Wh-a-at? Then where did civilization come from?”
“Not from humanity. It was developed by a preceding race which became extinct during the Diluvium Ignis.”
“But Holy Scripture goes back thousands of years before the Diluvium!”
Thon Taddeo remained meaningfully silent.
“You are proposing,” said Gault, suddenly dismayed, “that we are not the descendants of Adam? not related to historical humanity?”
“Wait! I only offer the conjecture that the pre-Deluge race, which called itself Man, su
cceeded in creating life. Shortly before the fall of their civilization, they successfully created the ancestors of present humanity — ’after their own image’ — as a servant species.”
“But even if you totally reject Revelation, that’s a completely unnecessary complication under plain common sense!” Gault complained.
The abbot had come quietly down the stairs. He paused on the lower landing and listened incredulously.
“It might seem so,” Thon Taddeo argued, “until you consider how many things it would account for. You know the legends of the Simplification. They all become more meaningful, it seems to me, if one looks at the Simplification as a rebellion by a created servant species against the original creator species, as the fragmentary reference suggests. It would also explain why present-day humanity seems so inferior to the ancients, why our ancestors lapsed into barbarism when their masters were extinct, why—”
“God have mercy on this house!” cried Dom Paulo, striding toward the alcove. “Spare us, Lord — we know not what we did.”
“I should have known,” the scholar muttered to the world at large.
The old priest advanced like a nemesis on his guest. “So we are but creatures of creatures, then, Sir Philosopher? Made by lesser gods than God, and therefore understandably less than perfect — through no fault of ours, of course.”
“It is only conjecture but it would account for much,” the then said stiffly, unwilling to retreat.
“And absolve of much, would it not? Man’s rebellion against his makers was, no doubt, merely justifiable tyrannicide against the infinitely wicked sons of Adam, then.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Show me, Sir Philosopher, this amazing reference!”
Thon Taddeo hastily shuffled through his notes. The light kept flickering as the novices at the drive-mill strained to listen. The scholar’s small audience had been in a state of shock until the abbot’s stormy entrance shattered the numb dismay of the listeners. Monks whispered among themselves; someone dared to laugh.
A Canticle For Leibowitz l-1 Page 23
