The monk asked her to be seated, then went out and returned with a tray bearing wine, cheese, and wafers of hard bread. Gwen thanked him, took a little of the wine, then sat and waited. Looking around, she noticed a picture on the wall, a portrait—then stared, riveted, recognizing Father Marco Ricci again. It was a different portrait, done in a more realistic style at a younger age and in a different pose, but it was undeniably the same face.
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There was a commotion at the door, quickly stilled; then the young Abbot of the Order stepped in. His face lit with pleasure as he hurried over to clasp her hand and bow. "Lady Gallowglass! What a pleasure to see you again!"
"And you, milord Abbot." She smiled and proffered her hand.
He pressed it briefly, then released it and asked, "Has Brother Dobro offered you refreshment? Ah, I see he has! I trust your wait was not fatiguing."
"Scarcely a wait at all, and one with interest, for I find that portrait on the wall to be intriguing."
"Portrait?" The Abbot turned and looked. "Ah, Father Marco Ricci! 'Twas he who did found this abbey, Lady Gallowglass."
"Indeed," she said. "He was of the original colonists, was he not?"
The Abbot took his time about turning back to her, keeping his smile carefully in place. "I should have known that you, too, would know the full history of Gramarye. Aye, he was."
"And lived in this monastery until his death?"
"Ah, no. He had frequently to ride abroad on missions of mercy, or to remonstrate with dukes or earls or, aye, even with the King. Twas he who established the foundation of our strength, for he made the King and the nobles accept the immunity of the clergy; they were too much needed by all the folk to become pawns in the barons' games."
Gwen nodded. "Yet he always did return and was Abbot till his death?"
"Nay, though 'tis odd you should mention it. He was prudent and yielded his seat to a younger monk, one native-born—I suspect he did wish to assure himself that the monastery would continue under stable rule when he died. Yet he did not linger to watch, fearing that his presence would hobble his successor; no, he left the cloister to become a mendicant, wandering about over the face of Gramarye."
"And was never seen again." Gwen's pulse quickened; the stories coincided.
But, "Not so," said the Abbot. "To tell truth, some ten years later a mania for burning witches swept the isle and
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Father Marco appeared again from obscurity, to preach against the silly superstition of thinking true witches could live—for why should Satan give power to a person who had already set himself on the road to Hell by seeking to sell his soul? Nor doth God permit real magic that would break His laws; only He may so suspend the principles of the Universe, and such events we term 'miracles.' "
"Ah," Gwen breathed. "Father Marco knew even then of our psi powers."
The Abbot nodded. "His journal shows that he had begun to suspect such."
"And he did defend us by putting down the witch-hunts."
"Aye, but in the doing of it, he was slain. Yet even his death served his fellow folk, for those who had slain him abandoned the witch-hunt in guilt and remorse and saw to it that all others did likewise."
"Bless him," Gwen breathed.
' 'We trust he is blessed indeed. We hope, now that we are once again in communication with the Vatican, that we shall be able to present Father Marco's case to His Holiness the Pope and have his name added to the Canon as one of the saints of God—but it will be a long and tedious process."
"I wish your enterprise success." Indeed Gwen did, for she had begun to see a way for the convent to be officially recognized as separate and independent and for the monks to gain an account of a miracle to bolster their case; she suspected they did not have very many.
That, however, was for the future. It would wait, having waited five centuries already. There were more urgent matters at hand.
" 'Tis polite of you to inquire and allow me to speak of our founder," said the Abbot with a smile, "when you must needs truly wish to speak of the matter which brought you hither. Enough of Father Marco—now for the Lady Gallow-glass. I trust you are well, you and all your family?"
"Not entirely, milord Abbot." Gwen smiled. "And I thank you for coming so quickly to the matter that concerns me."
The young man still smiled but with obvious curiosity.
"Your Order, Lord Abbot, is known to study the mind."
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"Only by such as your husband, yourself, and Their Majesties," the monk said. "Yet we work only with those mental gifts that seem more than natural; we do not seek to understand the mind itself."
"The one must necessarily lead you to the other, must it not?"
The young man nodded, his eyes glowing. "I had known you to be quick of wit. Aye, milady, we do know something of the order of the normal mind, order and disorder—but we cannot claim to be expert in it."
"Yet I think there is that among you which does."
The Abbot lost his smile. "Of what do you speak?"
Gwen looked away and her gaze fell on the picture of Father Marco. " 'Twould be a thing of metal, Lord Abbot— metal and plastic, that substance which—"
"I know of it."
Gwen turned back to him with a smile. "I know that our ancestors came from distant Terra, milord, and that they came in a huge metal ship. Moreover, I know that there were brains in that ship made of metal and glass and plastic, things that could not truly think but that could quite well simulate the operations of our minds."
"How do you name these metal brains?"
"They were called computers."
The Abbot expelled a long hiss of breath. "You have learned much with your husband, have you not, Lady Gwendolyn?"
"We are wedded, after all, Lord Abbot. Do you think he would keep secret from me the natures of mine own children?"
The Abbot grinned broadly. "Nay, though I would conjecture God has kept the fullness of their natures secret from both of you—and all of us."
Gwen gave back a rueful smile. "There's some truth in that."
"You do ask if we have still among us those metal brains, do you not?"
"More." Gwen looked down at her fingers, plucking at her skirt. "I note that your monastery stands in a valley, Lord
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Abbot, but is on a hill in the center of that valley."
"Aye."
Gwen looked directly into his eyes. "I could find it in me to wonder what lies beneath the earth of this hill."
The Abbot's eyes twinkled. "If any in the Isle of Gramarye should have a right to go therein, milady, it would be you. Come." He rose and took a yard-wide square of lace from a peg. "I will ask you to veil your face, for your beauty is still such as to distract our monks from their labors of the mind and from their devotions."
Gwen rose, surprised to find that she still could blush. "I thank you for the gallantry, milord."
4 Twas ever my pleasure to speak truth." He handed her the mantilla. 'Then, milady, if you will accompany me, I shall take you down into our cellars."
They went across the cloistered garden to the main hall— this monastery was as much castle as church—and went down a wide, curving stair. Gwen glanced about her at huge kegs and barrels, but the stair went farther—and farther, and farther. Finally a landing opened out before a simple wooden door. A monk knelt by it on a prie-dieu, reading his Office. He looked up in surprise.
"We must enter, Brother Milton," the Abbot said softly.
The monk cast a startled glance at the veiled figure beside the Abbot, then leaped up to haul open the door, protesting, "Milord. . . . this is highly irregular. ..."
"Even so. Therefore you will accompany us, Brother Milton, to still the tongue of Rumor."
"But milord—it will not speak to me!" Then Brother Milton realized what he had said and in whose presence and clapped a hand over his mouth,
appalled.
"Be more cautious in the future," the Abbot admonished him, "but be not chagrined today. The lady has already guessed what lies beneath our cloister."
Brother Milton stared at Gwen, amazed, but was silent as he lit a lamp, handed it to the Abbot, and followed them through the simple oaken door, closing it behind them.
The flickering flame illuminated a small room perhaps six feet square—with a curving floor that rang softly underfoot.
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Gwen looked down at the gleam of metal. Brother Milton bent to catch a handle and lifted it. A circle of metal swung back, and Gwen looked down into a lightless hole.
"Be of stout heart, milady," the Abbot said softly. "Nothing within will give hurt to any of us—though it will not speak to me, either. It has not spoken to anyone since Father Ricci left our monastery—or at least, it has spoken only to say it will not speak."
Gwen fought off a wave of apprehension and stepped through the circle, bending to catch hold of the edge. Her feet found narrow steps where she had expected the rungs of a ladder; a bright and sourceless light sprang up, and she descended with a bit more confidence.
She stepped down onto softness. Looking about her, Gwen saw that she had descended into the twenty-sixth century. She was in a ship's companionway, its carpet faded, its chrome dulled, but unquestionably modern—at least in terms of the off-planet civilization she knew. She stood looking about her, trying to accustom herself to an environment that was at once both familiar and alien.
Brother Milton stepped past her, beckoning. "Follow, milady, if you will." His eyes were wide and his face glistened; she realized he wasn't all that tranquil about this expedition either. The sight of his nervousness lent her calm; she knew there was nothing to be afraid of. This ship and its computer had been made to protect people, not to harm them. She followed Brother Milton down the companionway, the Abbot close behind her.
Brother Milton entered an elevator, whites showing all around his irises. Gwen and the abbot followed; Brother Milton pressed the top button, and the car rose. He swallowed heavily.
" 'Tis not a spell," Gwen murmured. "I would know if 'twere."
Brother Milton nodded. "I know that with my mind, milady, but not with my heart."
The car stopped, the doors opened—and Gwen found herself on the bridge. The captain's couch and console stood in the center, facing four huge screens. Between them stood the
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consoles and couches for the other ship's officers.
"Sit in the central chair," the Abbot advised. "It will speak to you there."
But Gwen shook her head. "I have not the right of command over such a ship as this, and the computer would know it." She moved over to the observer's couch and sat down, aware of the two monks' startled stares.
Nothing happened.
"It will not speak to any save they who sit in the central chair," Brother Milton protested.
"Small wonder that it would challenge any who sat there." Gwen frowned, thinking, then called out, "Starship's computer! An you do hear me, answer!"
"I receive and am attentive," a resonant voice answered.
The two monks started and glanced at one another wide-eyed, then back at Gwen.
"I am a descendant of the colonists of this planet," Gwen said.
' 'Acknowledged. Classified information is denied to all except those of administrative rank. All other information is freely available."
The Abbot watched keenly; he had come this far before. So had Brother Milton.
"I require information regarding neurology and psychia-try."
"I regret to inform you that your request must be denied without authorization."
Gwen bit her lip in disappointment. ' T am worthy of such authorization."
"Valid authorization must be issued by the captain or his representative."
"The captain and his officers are long dead," Gwen explained.
"I acknowledge this datum. However, there may be those among his descendants who may function as his representative."
Gwen's mind raced. "What is the purpose of such restriction of information?"
"To avoid cultural contamination," the computer an-
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swered. "The colonists of this planet were quite insistent on preventing any knowledge of modern technology becoming widespread."
Gwen thought it through. "Then you may provide information to those who are already aware of contemporary technology and events in the Terran Sphere beyond this planet."
The computer was silent. The two monks exchanged glances, then turned back to watch, frowning.
"That is reasonable," the computer finally said. "Any person already containing such knowledge is either committing cultural contamination or is wisely refraining from doing so. Under such circumstances, my furnishing of knowledge would not contribute to further aggravation of the condition."
Gwen heaved a sigh of relief. She had made it past the first hurdle.
The two monks watched her in amazement.
"However," said the computer, "you must demonstrate such knowledge."
"Then ask questions and I shall answer."
"More is required," the computer countered. "Many such questions can be answered by deduction and conjecture. I require that you yourself pose questions demonstrating such knowledge."
Gwen frowned, searched for a question, and found one. As she opened her mouth to ask it, the computer intoned, "Such questions would constitute a breach of security. Unauthorized personnel might memorize the answers and present them as proof of right to know. Please hold while security measures are instituted."
"What manner of measures?" Gwen asked, alarmed, but a blue light lanced down from the ceiling, enveloping her in a transparent cone.
The two monks' mouths opened in a shout of alarm and they came plunging toward her—but she could not hear them.
The blue cone winked out. "Session will be terminated if security precautions are not observed," the computer said.
The Abbot reached her first. "Are you well, Lady Gallow-glass?"
"I am unhurt, Lord Abbot." Gwen smiled. "It is but the
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computer's means of assuring that our conversation shall not be overheard. I will ask you to bide in patience—and to pardon me for excluding yourself and Brother Milton from this event."
Brother Milton looked uncertain; so, for that matter, did the Abbot—but he stepped back, nodding, though doubtfully. " 'Tis not you who do exclude us, but the machine. Well, we must abide it—but if you are in the slightest distress, Lady Gallowglass, you have but to beckon."
"The subject will not be harmed," the computer assured him. "Please withdraw from the area in question."
Reluctantly, the two monks stepped back, and the blue cone sprang into being again.
"Please ask a question demonstrating knowledge of the modern world," the computer said. "The gentlemen who accompany you will hear neither your voice nor my own."
"Well enough." Gwen pondered. "Art you conversant with events occurring in the Terran Sphere since this planet was colonized?"
"Yes. A courier from Terra supplied me with an FTL transmitter and receiver, contemporary data storage facilities, and additional memory capacity."
Gwen nodded. "That would have been Father Aloysius Uwell, twenty years past."
"That is an accurate observation," the computer confirmed. * 'but one that could be the product of conjecture coupled with knowledge of local events."
The two monks could only watch anxiously.
"You are now continually in communication with Terra," Gwen inferred.
"I am. My data banks are regularly updated."
"Then you are aware of the existence of the Society for the Conversion of Extraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms."
"I am. It is a quasi-miiitary body officially operated by altruistic private enterprises so th
at blame for its actions cannot accrue to the government of the Terran Sphere."
Gwen nodded. "My husband is an agent of that society and has spoken with me of what he knows."
The computer was silent, digesting the information. Then
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it said, "I have heard the gentlemen nearby addressing you as Lady Gallowglass, and the SCENT agent's local alias is Rod Gallowglass."
"Even so," Gwen said. "He was born Rodney d'Armand, though he has also some twenty middle names with which I shall not trouble you."
"They are unnecessary," the computer agreed.
"Now must you ask your question," Gwen said.
"What is the current government of the Terran Sphere?"
"The Decentralized Democratic Tribunal, which is the product of centuries of effort by an organization founded by one Charles Barman. Now to technology: Your link with Terra is accomplished by audio and video signals modulated onto waves that speed faster than light, is it not?"
"It is." The computer countered with another question. "What is the medium for these waves?"
' Tachyons, which are particles that cannot go more slowly than the speed of light. Why cannot anything made of matter accelerate to that speed?''
"Because mass increases with velocity. Accordingly, it can always approach more closely to light-speed but cannot attain it."
"Like to Achilles and the tortoise," Gwen said. "There is an old conundrum that tells of a race between Achilles, the greatest soldier of the Greeks of old, and a tortoise. If Achilles did let the tortoise come halfway to the goal, then began to run, and if, in the first ten seconds, he did cut the distance between the starting point and the turtle by half, then in the next five seconds did halve it again, and in the next two seconds did halve it yet again, and in each time period did halve the distance again and again, he might approach the turtle but would never reach it."
"An exact analogy," the computer agreed. "But in the real world, such a riddle is meaningless; it is obvious that the runner would soon pass the turtle."
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