“We’ve a crisis in cameras at the moment,” the Monsignor reminded. “Could you refrain from discussing the Crisis of Faith until the cameras are 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.
Monsignor reddened. “And why should they 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, what has the Imp of the Perverse to do with Murphy’s Law?” Monsignor cried.
Father Vidicon shrugged. “Entropy is 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 someday.”
“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, you know the Church has never officially declared St. Clare to be the patron of television!”
“Still, she did see St. Francis die, though she was twenty miles away at the time—the first Catholic instance of ‘television,’ ‘seeing-at-a-distance.’ ” Father Vidicon wagged a forefinger. “And St. Genesius is officially the patron of showmen.”
“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 these 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, Father,” Pope Clement said grimly.
Father Vidicon scrambled to his feet. “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. If Christ could take a joke, so can we.”
Father Vidicon frowned. “Christ took a joke?”
“He accepted human existence, didn’t He? 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 the ecstatics, to a video demagogue like Reverend Sun, with his hodge-podge to T’ai-Ping Christianity 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 Chardin’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 lands 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 farther—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 shuddered. “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’s 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 two 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 any failure of transmission at our end, the networks are not liable to give us postponed time.”
“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 ground 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 be 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 like 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 I.C. 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 ground station?”
“ ‘Converter?’ ” Brother Anson’s head and shoulders emerged, covered with dust. “You mean that huge resistor in the gray box?”
Father Vidicon nodded. “The very one.”
“A bit primitive, isn’t it?”
Father Vidicon shrugged. “There isn’t time to get a proper one, now—and it’s all they’ve given me money for, ever since I was ‘promoted’ to Chief Engineer. Besides, all we really need to do is to drop our 50,000-watt transmitter signal down to something the ground station can handle.”
Brother Anson shrugged. “If you say so, Father. I should think that would kick up a little interference, though.”
“Well, we can’t be perfect—not on the kind of budget we’re given, anyhow. Just keep reminding yourself, Brother, that most of our flock still live in poverty; they need a bowl of millet more than a clear picture.”
“I can’t argue with that. Anyway, I did check the resistor. Just how many ohms does it provide, anyway?”
“About as many as you do, Brother. How’d it test out?”
“Fine, Father. It’s sound.”
“Or will be, till we go on the air.” Father Vidicon nodded. “Well, I’ve got two spares handy. Let the worst that can happen, happen! I’m more perverse than Murphy!”
The door slammed open, and the Monsignor was leaning against the jamb. “Father… Vidicon!” he panted. “It’s … catastrophe!”
“Murphy,” Brother Anson muttered; but Father Vidicon was on his feet. “What is it, Monsignor? What’s happened?”
“Reverend Sun! He discovered the Pope’s plans, and has talked the U.N. into scheduling his speech for Friday morning!”
Father Vidicon stood, galvanized for a second. Then he snapped, “The networks! Can they air His Holiness early?”
“Cardinal Beluga’s on three phones now, trying to patch it together! If he brings it off, can you be ready?”
“Oh, we can be ready!” Father Vidicon glanced at the clock. “Thursday, 4 pm. We need an hour. Any time after that, Monsignor.”
“Bless you!” the Monsignor turned away. “I’ll tell His Holiness.”
“Come on, Brother Anson.” Father Vidicon advanced on the backup transmitter, catching up his toolkit. “Let’s get this beast back on line!”
“Five minutes till air!” the Monsignor’s voice rasped over the intercom. “Make it good, reverend gentlemen! Morning shows all over the world are giving us fifteen minutes—but not a second longer! And Reverend Sun’s coming right behind us, live from the U.N.!”
Father Vidicon and Brother Anson were on their knees, hands clasped. Father Vidicon intoned, “Saint Clare, patron of television…”
“…pray for us,” finished Brother Anson.
“Saint Genesius, patron of showmen…”
“One minute!” snapped the Monsignor. “Roll and record!”
“…pray for us,” murmured Brother Anson.
“Rolling and recording,” responded the recording engineer.
“Saint Jude, patron of lost causes…”
“…pray for us,” Brother Anson finished fervently.
“Slate it!” Then, “Bars and tone!”
They could hear the thousand-cycle test tone in the background, whining. Then it began beeping at one-second intervals.
“Ready mike and cue, ready up on one!”
“Five!” called the assistant director. “Four! Three!”
“Black! Clip tone!” the Monsignor cried. “Mike him! Cue him! Up on One!”
Television screens all over the world lit up with the grave but faintly-smiling image of the Pope. “Dearly beloved in Christ…”
The picture flickered.
Father Vidicon darted a glance at the converter. Its tally light was dead. Beside it, the light glowed atop the back-up converter.
“Quick! The big one died!” Father Vidicon yanked open the top of the long gray box and wrenched out the burned-out resistor.
“There are a few points of theology on which we can’t agree with Reverend Sun,” His Holiness was saying. “Foremost among these is his concept of the Trinity. We just can’t agree that Reverend Sun is himself the third Person, the ‘younger son’ of God…”
Brother Anson slapped the spare resistor into Father Vidicon’s palm.
“…nor is the sharing of a marijuana cigarette a valid form of worship, in the Church’s eyes,” the Pope went on. “But the Council does agree that…”
The screen went dark.
Father Vidicon shoved the spare into its clips and threw the routing switch.
The screen glowed again. “…have always been implicit in Catholic doctrine,” His Holiness was saying, “but the time has come to state their implications. First among these is the notion of ‘levels of reality.’ Everything that exists is real; but God is the Source of reality, as He is the Source of everything. And the metaphor of ‘the breath of God’ for the human soul means that…”
“Yes, it’s gone.” Father Vidicon yanked the burned-out resistor out of the back-up. “The manufacturers must think they can foist off all their defectives on the Church.” Brother Anson took the lump of char and gave him a new resistor. “That’s our last spare, Father Vidicon.”
Father Vidicon shoved it into its clips. “What’re the odds against three of these blowing in a space of ten minutes?”
“Gunderson’s Corollary,” Brother Anson agreed.
Father Vidicon slapped, down the cover. “We’re up against perversity, Brother Anson.”
The tally blinked out on the main converter as the little red light on the back-up glowed into life.
“We’re out of spares,” Brother Anson groaned.
“Maybe it’s just a connection!” Father Vidicon yanked open
the cover. “Only four minutes left!”
“Is it the resistor, Father?”
“You mean this piece of slag?”
“…the oneness, the unity of the cosmos, has always been recognized by Holy Mother Church,” the Pope was saying. “Christ’s parable about the ‘lilies of the field’ serves as an outstanding example. All that exists is within God. In fact, the architecture of the medieval churches…”
A picture of the Cathedral of Notre Dame appeared on the screen. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the decorative carving…
… and the screen went blank.
“It died, Father Vidicon,” Brother Anson moaned.
“Well, you fight fire with fire.” Father Vidicon yanked out the dead resistor. “And this is perversity…” He seized the lead from the transmitter in his left hand, and the lead to the ground station in his right.
Around the world, screens glowed back into life.
“…and as there is unity in all of Creation,” the Pope went on, “so there is unity in all the major religions. The same cosmic truths can be found in all; and the points on which we agree are more important than the ones on which we disagree—saving, of course, the Godhood of Christ, and of the Holy Spirit. But as long as a Catholic remembers that he is a Catholic, there can certainly be no fault in his learning from other faiths, if he uses this as a path toward greater understanding of his own.” He clasped his hands and smiled gently. “May God bless you all.”
And his picture faded from the screen.
“We’re off!” shouted Monsignor. “That was masterful!”
In the transmitter room, Brother Anson chanted the Dies Irae, tears in his eyes.
The Pope moved out of the television studio, carefully composed over the exhaustion that always resulted from a television appearance. The Monsignor dashed out of the control room to drop to his knees and wring the Pope’s hand. “Congratulations, Your Holiness! It was magnificent!”
“Thank you, Monsignor,” the Pope murmured, “but let’s judge it by the results, shall we?”
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