Forbidden Sanctuary (17 page)

She still recalled with anger and dismay the investigation of the space-shuttle explosion, in which the Antitechnology Crusade insisted they had sabotaged the craft, and the government insisted the explosion had been due to pilot error, and nobody seemed very interested in finding out what had really happened. Or the case of the Middle Eastern diplomat who had kidnapped the seventeen-year-old D.C. high school gymnast...

Well, no sense dredging those things up. No job is perfect. This case could have been worse. She would do much better trying to figure out the thought processes of Father Bernardi than worrying about when Gibson and Fitzgerald were going to put the clamps on her. She felt the plane descend toward LaGuardia, and attempted to think like an underachieving Jesuit.

* * *

"If they're in New York, it looks pretty tough," Agent Dewey said. "No one is saying anything. They're protecting one of their own. We've tapped his mother's phone, a few cousins and friends, we've got a couple of stakeouts, but if he lies low and isn't stupid..." Dewey shrugged.

"You've talked to the mother?" West asked.

Dewey nodded. "She doesn't know what to make of any of this. She's got the Pledge of Allegiance framed on the wall of her apartment. But she wouldn't talk. Could hardly expect her to."

"Still, it's important. Bernardi must be pretty close to her, only son and all. If he's going to be in trouble, he might call, give her some information. Also, she'd be the one most likely to be able to run down all his friends."

"She didn't talk," Dewey repeated.

"I think I'll go have a chat with her myself."

Dewey made a you're-the-boss gesture. West didn't have time to worry about hurt feelings.

* * *

The apartment was nicer than West had anticipated. It was a co-op up near Columbia, complete with landscaping and security guards. A couple of lurking reporters waylaid her as she went in, but she brushed them aside. She didn't care much for reporters.

Mrs. Bernardi studied West's credentials for a long moment before letting her in. "There have been so many people," she said wearily.

She was a slight woman, in her late sixties, West guessed, with tinted hair and sharp features. She was wearing red slacks, a ruffled shirt, and open-toed sandals. West would not have supposed her to be Bernardi's mother.

The furnishings of the apartment also didn't go with her: chock full of Sacred Hearts, crucifixes, Infants of Prague, Virgin Marys, and other Catholic personages West couldn't identify. And, of course, pictures of her son: high school graduation, college graduation, ordination, Bernardi playing basketball, Bernardi toothless in the fourth grade. Tough to tell exactly who was being worshiped here. West noted a framed portrait of Pope Clement in the middle of one particularly crowded wall.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" Mrs. Bernardi asked. "I don't usually, but this business has got me so nervous."

"Not at all. Please do." West loathed the habit.

"I don't really know why you people have come back. I mean, I told that gentleman this morning that I don't know anything."

"You must understand we have to be persistent," West said with her winningest smile. "Perhaps you've thought of something in the meantime—some friend your son mentioned he might go to in a time of trouble, somebody who owed him a big favor."

Mrs. Bernardi took a deep drag. "Oh, everybody owed Albert favors. He's that kind of person. But you see, I don't understand why you'd think I would want to help you. I mean—he's my son. My only son. And you want to capture him."

"I can sympathize, Mrs. Bernardi. I have a son too," West lied. "And I wouldn't want any harm to come to
him.
But here's how I see it: the United States government is committed to finding your son. No matter how many friends he has, sooner or later he will be caught. Now I don't know what will happen to him if he is caught. But I can assure you that things will be easier for him if he is found now than if he is found later after considerable damage has been done to our interests."

"But I can't see that he's committed any
crime,"
Mrs. Bernardi exclaimed. "What law has he broken by going off with this poor unfortunate creature?"

"Well, I'm not a lawyer," West lied again, "so I couldn't say for sure. But—" West paused, looked uncertain, then asked: "Mrs. Bernardi, do you love your country?"

"Of course I do," Mrs. Bernardi replied defensively.

West nodded. "Good. I trust, then, that you will keep secret what I am about to tell you. I am breaking the law by even mentioning this. Mrs. Bernardi, your son is in grave danger."

The mother's eyes watered in an almost Pavlovian response. "Why?" she whispered.

West's eyes swept the room, as if looking for intruders or microphones. "You must have heard that the aliens possess the secret of faster-than-light travel, something that Earth scientists have said is not even theoretically possible. Now it seems extremely likely that Tenon—the alien your son is protecting—has sufficient knowledge to give us the solution to this puzzle.

"At this very moment, Mrs. Bernardi, agents of foreign powers hostile to America are searching for your son. Do you realize what an advantage it would be to any nation to have this information? They could be masters of the world—perhaps of the Universe. And your son stands in their way. Do you think they will deal with him as fairly and justly as the United States government would, Mrs. Bernardi?"

Mrs. Bernardi shook her head mutely. The ash on her cigarette, unheeded, dropped onto her slacks. She brushed at it hurriedly and then turned away from West, choking back a sob.

"Of course your son is a good man, a holy man," West continued. "He did what he thought was right. But we know now that no harm will come to this alien if he is returned to his ship. And we know that every moment the two of them are out there, unprotected, the danger for both of them increases. That's why it is so important that you tell us what you know."

West waited patiently while the woman cried. Finally the tears stopped and Mrs. Bernardi looked up at her. Behind the smeared makeup she looked terribly old. "I don't know anything," she whispered hoarsely. "Albert obeys the Pope. Tell the Pope he is in danger."

West sighed. "If that's how you feel, Mrs. Bernardi. We will have to do our best without your help. If anything should happen to... well. Thank you for your time."

"I don't know anything," Mrs. Bernardi repeated, her eyes pleading for understanding.

She was lighting another cigarette with trembling hands as West let herself out.

* * *

Back in the car West noticed that her phone's message light was flashing. It was Dewey, asking her to call the office. At the next stoplight she obeyed.

"Any luck?" he asked her.

"Not yet. I'm pretty certain she knows something, though. She's close to cracking."

"Uh-huh. Of course, we may not need her."

West decided she didn't like Dewey. "Spill it," she commanded.

"Bernardi's credit card. Two plane tickets to Las Vegas."

"Las Vegas?" she repeated incredulously.

"You figure this alien's got a system to beat the slot machines?" Dewey asked.

West didn't bother to reply.

Chapter 16

Zanla had not sought an insight since just after his student days, when his first Voyage had caused him to reconsider his entire life, to try to understand what made him the way he was.

Most people had no use for the exercise nowadays—couldn't see that it accomplished anything. Zanla hadn't even bothered to use it when they first arrived on Earth, and he'd had to make some tremendously important decisions. But now he needed it; and Elial, his teacher, who believed deeply in insights, had told him:
when you feel you need it, that is when it will work.

He stood alone in the darkened Room of the Ancients, hands clasped behind his back, swaying slightly. A blue cape lay lightly on his shoulders, a rug was soft beneath his feet. He felt the pressure of the rug, the slight stretching of his arms, the weight of the cape. The search, as always, began inside.

He was alert but worried. Thinking too much with too little result. Thinking about the wrong things: about how this business would affect the stuttering progress of his career, about the difficult relationship between himself and Ergentil, about the memory that hung like a pall over all he tried to do. One by one he pushed these concerns out of his consciousness. They only got in the way of a pure consideration of the problem.

When they were gone he approached it, tentatively, timidly.

Tenon.
Heretic, fool.
Why hadn't he been discovered and weeded out? Zanla felt his anger swelling, but there was no insight in anger. If he were Tenon, then, what would he have done?

He tried, but the question was hopeless, and he quickly withdrew from it. It was more than he could do to pretend he was an enemy of Numos. Such creatures could only be despised.

A snatch of dialogue came into his mind. "Why do we explore the Universe?" he had asked Elial once, when he was a callow youth and thought he was capable of understanding such matters.

"To teach us humility," the Master had replied with a smile.

"But how can it teach us humility, if it only proves that we are the greatest beings in existence?"

"That you cannot understand until you have done it."

True. His arrogance had long been tempered by a perception of his race's insignificance in the scheme of all-that-is. When the
retheo
was set, the crew became powerless, at the mercy of chance and hostile darkness (if, of course, it had been set fairly, and not to one of the safe readings that guarantees a Master an uneventful Voyage and a mediocre career afterward). That sense of powerlessness, Elial had felt, was the central meaning of the Voyages.

Would Elial have felt the same about this first meeting with aliens? Had they searched for generations, in order to find a race that would tell them that all their achievements counted for nothing?

It was not impossible. Still, the one achievement remained—the one that had brought them here, the one that was now in danger. Humility need not imply abject surrender.

Purify the mind, then.
What were the natives' weaknesses? How could he use his strength? Surely he had learned something in his time on this planet.

This planet. He thought of the first wary steps, hesitant breaths, he in front to show why he was fit for the Council, but fear clutching at him too.

He thought of the sky and the grass, the building and the wide black path that convinced him that here at last was a race that could build and—perhaps—think.

Walking slowly through the early-morning mist toward the building and the road, seeing the creature come out of the building and move in their direction, oblivious... knowing that the moment was at hand and wondering what the shifting patterns of fate would make of it for all of them.

Zanla saw the man's face see theirs, take in their short robes and silver chains, and then notice the shining blue Ship overpowering the mist behind them. He saw the man back away slowly, then turn and run, hands in the air, shouting over and over a word that Zanla had since come to learn: "No! No! No!" The sound echoed in their minds as they waited uncertainly for the next shift in the patterns.

As ever, the insight came unbidden. This time it was as pure and enigmatic as Elial could have wished.

We are the creatures of their nightmares.

Zanla shifted his weight, and his mind moved as well, circling the thought, probing it, judging its truth....

He could not tell. All he knew was that it gave him a plan, and before he had had no plan. It would not be perfect, but he doubted there was a better one.

He took off the blue cape, folded it carefully over his arm, and walked out of the room. His first officer was waiting across the corridor. "Samish, how well can you speak the alien language?"

"A few words only, Master. Enough to communicate."

"You can't write it, I suppose."

"No, only the Priestess—"

"Yes, I know. Send her—no. I had better go to her myself."