It would be simple. And elegant.
Ward was pleased with himself.
He returned to the ladder. Once more into the dome, dear friends. He climbed quickly in the light gravity. Despite his concerns, he was actually beginning to enjoy the experience. If he could make this work, it would make a rousing finish to his tour at World’s End. Hell, this was the stuff of legend.
Within a few minutes he was back in the observer’s cage.
The quasar was still there.
He estimated where he would mount Amy’s computer cover, a little above belt high on the wall to his left. Then he removed two mesh panels to provide an unimpeded angle to Amy’s position on the floor. He stacked them well out of his way, reminding himself that he now had no protection on the open side of the cage against a seven-story fall. With the same thought, he felt around until he found and stowed the canvas bag in which he’d carried the amplifier.
Next he turned to the eyepiece assembly. It was held in place by four screws. He removed these, pulled the assembly clear, and set it on the floor. A smear of light now touched the mesh wall about a foot above the table. He opened Amy’s computer, and reluctantly broke off the cover.
He moved the coffee tin and put the cover on top of it, in the light. Then he adjusted the focus. The light beam from the telescope brightened, and a patch of wall on the far side of the dome lit up. “Okay,” he called. “We’re in business.”
Amy cheered him on. He angled the beam down the wall. But the floor of the cage cut it off. He adjusted the eyepiece housing and moved the mirror higher. Moved it as high as possible. The luminous circle went down, but still did not reach ground level. “This might not work after all,” he called.
“Why not?”
“Angle’s not good.” The light beam drifted out into the dome. He felt very high, and very exposed. “I don’t see how we can do it without another mirror.”
She was slow to respond. When she did, her voice sounded tired and far away. “Is there another washroom?”
“In the annex.”
“How about the telescope? Maybe there’s a spare mirror in the telescope?”
“No—”
“A redundant mirror, maybe? Reflective metal? Do we have reflective metal anywhere?”
“I wish,” he said, “we had some lights in here. There might be something, but I’m damned if I can think what it might be.”
He heard a crash, and knew she had tossed something. Bostonian good manners giving way to frustration.
Maybe the bureaucrats were right. Maybe this is no place for people.
He sank down, between the observer’s chair and the table. The computer cover was rectangular, about the size and general dimensions of his hand. The mirror itself was dark, though he could see the red reflection of the quasar at the far end of the cage.
Amy’s voice floated up from the well. “Coffee,” it said.
Ward was weary, and in no mood for jokes.
“Coffee,” she repeated. “Use the coffee tin.”
The light beam struck the computer cover, which was tied to the mesh wall with strips from Ward’s sleeves and angled by packing the canvas bag behind it; it flashed on a downward trajectory until, at the far end of the cage, it glanced off the bottom of the coffee tin, which was tied to a table leg by shoe laces and the rest of Ward’s shirt. Then it fell seven stories to the bathroom mirror, to whose stability Amy had contributed her blouse; passed through the air lock, and was deflected by Ward’s watch case back into the sky. Toward the approaching comsat.
Three shorts. Three longs. Three shorts.
S.O.S.
“We were lucky,” she said, spearing a piece of cheese.
Ward sipped his drink and smiled. “Lucky, hell. We were good. We saved ourselves. And we saved NASA some money.”
Amy’s eyes were glowing. “I can’t help wondering where we’d have been if you hadn’t had a shiny watch case? Or if I hadn’t been carrying my computer?”
“We’d have come up with something else.”
“That’s easy to say. Listen, this experience underscores the philosophy that deep space should be left to robots and automated systems.” She dipped her cheese into the mustard, and gracefully swallowed it. “Things go wrong too often. When they do, people die.”
“When they do, people make it work anyhow.” He smiled at her. At that moment, he was aglow with self-satisfaction. “They can’t send us home. Somebody has to be here to pick up the pieces. We’ll be going back to World’s End, Amy. And beyond.”
“Ward’s Corollary to Murphy’s Law.”
“Yeah. You could say that.” He finished off his drink.
FRIENDS IN
HIGH PLACES
In the distance, toward the center of town, he could see the torches. The mob was gathering. The evening was cool, but he was damp with perspiration. He sensed a presence in the trees. A hawk, probably.
He could still get safely away. Leave now, and he’d be okay. It wasn’t as if they’d follow him. But what then? After all this, if he ran, what would be left for him?
He fell to his knees. Help me.
The branches moved softly in the wind. A full moon floated in the late evening sky.
Please.
The distant voices were getting louder. Shouts. A cheer.
If there’s another way to do this—.
The garden felt like a barricade, a fortress. It was as if he could stay there, remain where he was, and they would not find him. It was only outside, along the road, that the danger lay.
Peter had promised to stand by him. “As long as I have breath in my body.” Peter meant well, and he believed what he was saying. But when the money was on the table his courage would fail. In the end he would run, like the others, and he would live the rest of his days with that memory.
Can’t we find another way to do this?
A cloud began to drift across the face of the moon. And the torches were on the move.
It sends the wrong message, you know. It’ll be a hard sell, persuading people you love them when you let this happen to me.
In an odd way, he felt sorry for the individuals in the mob. For some of them. They were only resisting change. Trying to hang onto the past. Some would forever carry painful memories of this night.
Why? Why must we do it this way? We create a faith whose governing symbol will be an instrument of torture. They will wear it around their necks, put it atop their temples. Is this really what we want?
Somewhere, on the night wind, he heard a child’s laughter. And a dog. He hoped no children would be present during the ordeal. But he knew it would be so. Some of these barbarians would bring their kids out to watch. It was a savage land.
Are you even there? Why do you not speak? Say something. Assure me, at least, it is not all an illusion. Tell me that this night matters.
Something moved in the bushes off to his left.
He thought about Mary. He’d left her in the upper room where they’d all eaten, fighting back tears, demanding to come with him. And she had come, trailing behind Peter and the others, staying back out of sight, as if she thought he would not know.
He trembled at the knowledge she would be there all through this night.
Their overriding memory of me will be on the cross. Surely this is not the image You would have represent your concern for them. For us. Why not something less gruesome? A star, perhaps? Like the one thirty years ago? We had it right, then. That was the way to do it. Or, if that seems a bit much, a scroll would be good.
The wind died away, and the trees were still.
What is the point of your being there if we know you only in your absence?
He heard voices nearby. Peter’s. And Mary’s.
There came a moment when the moon flickered. He looked a second time and everything was as it had been. He ascribed it to the dampness in his eyes. Moments later Peter was at his side.
“They’re here,” he said.
There w
as no way he could have missed that fact. Some were drunk. Others were just loud. They’d stumbled to a halt immediately outside the garden, on the road. He walked past Peter and Mary, waved away their protests, and strode out into plain view. There were cries of ‘There he is!’ And laughter.
There were about sixty people, almost all men. Some carried clubs and swords. A small troop of guards accompanied them, and several priests, led by Silvanus. He saw Judas, hanging nervously off to one side. Another who would be forever haunted by the events of this night.
There was something odd about the guards. He needed a moment to see what it was: Their armor had changed. It was brighter. A different style altogether from what he had seen that morning. Even the helmets were of an unfamiliar design. Not that any of it mattered.
Saul was standing back with the priests and their servants. His great days lay ahead but, at this moment, he was still aligned with the savages.
The mob subsided, grew quiet, beneath his gaze. “Hello,” he said. “Why do you come to Cedron? For whom are you looking?”
Silvanus was tall, worn, uncomfortable. He didn’t like unruly scenes. Didn’t like violence. Would have preferred to be in his rooms reading the scriptures. His face had the lines of a man who did not know what it was to enjoy himself. “We are looking for Jesus of Nazareth,” he said. “I am told that is you.”
No point denying it. “Indeed,” he said. “I am the one you seek.”
Silvanus nodded. Tried to smile, but it was too much of an effort. “Take him,” he said to his servants. “And his friends.”
Jesus straightened and peered into Silvanus’s frightened eyes. “If you want me,” he said. “you have no need of these others. Let them go.”
The priest hesitated. Wilted. “Of course,” he said. “You will be sufficient.”
Peter and Mary had moved in close and were standing on either side of him. Silvanus waved them out of the way. When neither moved, one of his servants drew a sword. Peter, who was sometimes too impulsive, went for his own weapon. The crowd reacted, a few cheering, others screeching. Someone yelled ‘fight.’ They fell back to make room, and Peter’s first blow—awkward though it was—glanced off the servant’s blade and then off his temple. He screamed and the sword went flying.
Jesus grabbed Peter’s shoulder. “Put it away,” he said. The servant was on his knees, holding his head, blood dribbling through his fingers. Jesus tore a piece of his garment, took the hand away, and pressed it against the wound. “Here, Matthias,” he said. “Keep this against it until you can get some help.”
The servant stared at him. “How did you know my name?”
But the guards had already closed around Jesus. “Come with us,” they said.
Their accents were Greek.
They tied his wrists behind him and took him back the way they had come. As it moved, the crowd grew both in size and intensity. Some tried to strike him as they passed. There were cries of blasphemer and unholy.
Eventually they arrived outside the temple. A brief argument erupted as to which entrance they should use. Silvanus had directed them, and they went in through a side portico. He led the way through a series of stone passageways until they emerged finally in the presence of Annas, the high priest.
Annas was thin and weary, tired of dealing with the problems of the world. With lesser men who did not recognize his authority and privilege. He sat atop a platform on a throne of sorts, rolling his eyes in exasperation at the human refuse brought before him. Torches burned close at hand, providing a limited degree of warmth. Silvanus whispered something to him and he nodded. Then he turned toward the prisoner. “Who are you,” he demanded, “that you come here and speak against the Almighty?”
Jesus steadied himself as best he could. He was constantly being pushed and shoved. With his arms secured behind him, it was difficult to keep his balance. “You know who I am,” he said.
“Yes.” Annas jabbed an index finger at him. “And what have you been telling the faithful?”
The place felt closed in. Smoky. He would have preferred the cold night air. “Surely,” he said, “you know what I have been saying. Otherwise I would not be here.”
One of the servants raised a staff and came after him. Jesus turned slightly to take the blow on his shoulder, but in doing so he lost his balance. It caught him as he went down, and he landed clumsily on a stone step. “Don’t take that tone with the chief priest,” his assailant warned. He lifted the rod to hit him again, but Annas smiled in what he must have thought was a kindly manner, and directed the assailant to stop. They dragged him back onto his feet.
“Let me ask you again,” said Annas. “What is your purpose? Why do you defy the scriptures?”
“By what right,” asked Jesus, “do you question me?”
That brought a second blow. He went down again, and laughter broke out around him. There were shouts, and a commanding voice: “That’s enough.” Guards, led by an officer, pushed their way forward through the crowd. One of them shoved the servant away. “Do not hit him again,” said the officer.
Annas glared at the officer. “Your authority ends at the door, sir.”
The officer climbed onto the platform. “My authority extends wherever citizens are abused.” He signaled his men to help Jesus to his feet. They took him in charge.
Jesus looked around in confusion. The Romans were helping him? This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.
They led him through the crowd, out of the chamber, and out of the temple.
The moon was still high in the sky. He glanced up at it.
What’s going on? But it was okay. He wasn’t inclined to protest.
They released him from his bonds, but warned him not to flee. Then they marched him through the streets. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.
“Just walk,” said the officer.
They turned toward the Roman barracks. That meant Pilate.
The procurator customarily made his headquarters at the palace of Herod at Caesarea. But he usually attended the annual festivities in Jerusalem.
The grounds were deserted. The night had turned cold. Jesus did not even see the sentries who routinely guarded the place.
They took him inside, led him to an outer room, told him to wait, posted a guard, and closed the door. But it was not uncomfortable. A fire took the chill away, and there was a bench for him to get off his feet. It had already been a long night.
He rubbed his shoulder, which ached from the blow of the staff. He’d also bruised his ribs when he fell. Occasionally, he heard footsteps passing back and forth outside.
And he waited.
Eventually, the door opened, and the officer signaled him to follow. “The Proxenos will see you, prisoner. See that you behave.”
The Proxenos? It was a rank Jesus was not familiar with.
He was led down a long corridor, past several empty rooms. They turned a corner and passed through a door into the presence of a tall, dark-haired man with sharply-etched features and the manner of an aristocrat. It was a sparsely-furnished chamber, warmed by a fire. Although austere, by the standards of the barrack building, it felt almost luxurious. Its lone occupant glanced briefly at the escort. He paid no attention whatever to Jesus.
He sat on a carved wooden chair. The walls were wooden but were, for the most part, covered with thick woven drapes. A statue of Apollo stood on a side table.
“My Lord Dimonides,” said the escort, “this is the prisoner.”
“Very good, Lohagos. Thank you.”
Lohagos was, what? Greek for captain. Jesus felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he was going to get clear of this after all.
Two guards entered and positioned themselves on either side of the Proxenos. The captain closed the door against the draft and stood directly behind Jesus.
It was clear that Dimonides was annoyed. The hour was late and he had better things to do than trifle with another of these religious fanatics. What engaged his attention, Jesus saw, was t
he three women who were, even at that moment, descending into his private quarters.
But the Proxenos was what would in the distant future be described as an ‘A’ personality. He could not shut down operations for the day and leave an unpleasant task for the morning. Especially when the unpleasant task might include an angry visit from the priests.
“I’ve already heard from the authorities,” he said, still gazing off into the distance somewhere. Jesus understood he was talking about Annas. And Caiphas. They’d be unhappy at the manner in which the soldiers had snatched him away from them. “They’ll be here in the morning to demand that I impose fitting punishment.” Finally, his eyes turned toward his prisoner. “You look harmless enough,” he said. “What did you do to get all those people so upset?”
Jesus smiled. He liked Dimonides. “I challenged their religious views.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.”
“May I ask, where is Pilate?”
“Pilate?” Dimonides exchanged glances with the captain. “Who is Pilate?”
“He’s the man in charge.”
“Really? We know of no one by that name.”
“Indeed,” said Jesus. A wave of exhilaration rose in him. Thank you, Father. “I must have been mistaken.”
Dimonides pressed an index finger against his lips. “I suspect,” he said, “what you really did was challenge their authority.”
“You could put it that way.”
“Yes. I just did.” He glanced over at Apollo. The god stood mute. It was a striking piece of work. “It’s always disconcerting,” he said, “when one must deal with people who take their religion too seriously.”
“I suppose it is,” said Jesus.
“You’ve gone about publicly, I understand, and told all sorts of people that Annas and Caiphas don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“That is so,” said Jesus. “They are misinformed.”
“Of course they are. But that’s hardly relevant. The problem lies in the fact you don’t recognize your own fallibility.”
A Voice in the Night Page 19
