Forbidden Sanctuary (25 page)

Zanla sat and waited, his mind devoid of insights, his spirit afraid.

Tomorrow he was supposed to begin carrying out his threat, but he had no wish to do so. He had hoped the threat alone would be sufficient. If he could believe Bacquier, it did have some effect, but obviously not enough. Only enough to bring the Pope here to talk. There had been too much talk.

And what did he have to say to this creature? He was obviously a fanatic, an emotionalist. He would probably harangue him—possibly try to convert him. Zanla shuddered with disgust. There was much about the Numian
hasali
he found old-fashioned or nonsensical, but it was his
hasali,
his life. Carrying on negotiations with a follower of Chitlan, or someone like Chitlan, would be a true test of his training.

Then what was the point? There was hardly any, Zanla supposed, except that you had to carry through on what you had begun. He could not refuse the only opportunity that had been offered him to meet the enemy face to face. If it was improper to capture him, it was not improper to harangue him in return.

Samish was standing in the doorway. "Pope Clement," he announced.

"Let him enter." Zanla rose and composed himself as best he could. After a moment the Pope appeared.

Looking at him, Zanla felt a sudden, strong sense of displacement, the kind that occurs during an improper bonding, when suddenly you are not sure where you are, or if this
you
who is bonding is the
you
who is questioning the bonding.

Why had he expected a young man, full of passion and anger?

What was there about this very different person that made Zanla so nervous, and yet so relieved?

He was old, of course, and dressed differently from the other men Zanla had seen. The trappings of his position, perhaps. But beyond the age and the clothing was something more, something that reached Zanla despite the alien features: goodness, dignity, suffering...

And why was that so familiar?

There was no time to reflect on these questions. He bowed and spoke to the interpreter—who, he understood, had started it all. No matter; she was his guest. "I am happy to see you again, Angela. Convey my greetings to your Pope. Does he have a title?"

"Your Holiness."

Holiness. He was not sure he understood
holiness
. "I welcome his Holiness in the name of the Numoi."

"I am grateful for this opportunity to speak with you," was the reply.

"Please be seated." And now what? What were the magic words that would solve this problem? Did this man possess them? "I have no idea what you have to say to me," Zanla began. "I hope that you will tell me that you are returning my crew member. What is the point of saying anything else?"

"I am not sure," the Pope responded. "My experience has been that it increases understanding to meet one's enemy. I will no longer be the faceless monster who has stolen Tenon; you will no longer be the faceless alien who threatens our world with destruction. Perhaps together we can find our way out of our dilemma."

"I do not want to destroy anything," Zanla pointed out. "I only want Tenon back."

"Yes, I understand—and I have no wish to cause you distress. But how can we return him to you, knowing that he faces death for his beliefs?"

This was where Zanla's understanding started to falter. "That does not seem to bother most of your fellow humans," he observed. "Tenon and his sort represent a serious threat to our civilization. We must put such rebels to death if we are to survive ourselves. What is he to you, that you want to protect him?"

"He is a child of God," the Pope responded.

This meant nothing to Zanla, and he had no wish to delve into Chitlanian beliefs. So he persisted with his previous point. "You may have different standards for proper conduct among your people. If so, then I respect them. I ask you also to respect the standards of the Numoi. They are not capricious; nor are they evil, in any way that I can comprehend."

The Pope was silent for a moment after he heard Angela's translation, as if there were something
he
did not understand, or as if there were something he wanted to explain that could not be explained. Finally he said, "Tenon will pose no threat to your civilization while he is among us. We simply want to protect him, because he has asked us to."

"
You
perhaps are not interested in what Tenon might know," Zanla countered. " But I know that Bacquier, Aronson, and those like them are interested. And I know they have the power on this planet. I do not know if they would try to conquer us. But I cannot risk my race's survival on their goodwill."

Again the Pope did not reply at first. Angela stared nervously back and forth between them.

"You must face facts," Clement said at last. He spoke slowly and intensely. "Tenon will not be returned. I will not permit it. Perhaps he cannot be hidden indefinitely, but perhaps you cannot stay here indefinitely. In any case, your threat will achieve very little."

Zanla gazed into the man's eyes, and they were steady and unafraid. He felt a surge of anger, and was ready to flout all Laws of Hospitality, to throttle this fellow who threatened his people, who stood between him and vindication. But the anger passed as suddenly as it had come. The truth of the matter was, he had no wish to harm these humans. He didn't even hate this old man who was his enemy. He just wanted to do what was right, and that had become so terribly difficult. His anger gave way to despair. "What do you want from me?" he cried out, forgetting all his diplomacy. "You have put me in an impossible position. If you will not return Tenon then give me another solution. I am a reasonable creature. Show me the light, and I will follow it."

Hopeless, Zanla thought as Angela translated. The distance is too great; we cannot begin to understand each other. And for the first time since his initial Voyage, Zanla questioned the will of the Ancients. Of what value was any of this? Why cross the Universe, to stare into this old man's eyes and realize you both were doomed?

The Pope shifted in his seat and spoke, very softly. Angela looked at him and said something in return. The Pope spoke again. Angela seemed to become very upset and started to reply, but the Pope silenced her with a gesture and directed her to translate.

"Take me instead," she said softly, in Numian.

Zanla was confused. "You, Angela? What do I need of you?"

She moved her head back and forth in disagreement. "His Holiness says: take him instead of Tenon. A trade." The Pope spoke some more, and she translated quickly. "Perhaps your people will forgive you if you return with one of the most important members of the alien race. They need not know the conditions of the trade. Perhaps they will see it as a bold and daring maneuver on your part. Certainly it could not be seen as weakness. You take a chance that the secret of your travel will be discovered. But believe me, we are a curious, restless race, and simply knowing that the problem can be solved is enough to ensure that someday it will be, with or without Tenon. Just by coming here and meeting us you have made it impossible for your civilization ever to be the same again. So you might as well get something in return for that. I cannot tell you precisely how to make bombs or computers or televisions, but I can tell you much—more than anyone cleared by the United Nations, for example, who would tell you only what our governments want you to know. Take me and leave Tenon behind."

Zanla listened closely to the reasoning, but the reasoning meant less to him than a sudden image: of an old man leaning on a stick as he crossed a cobblestoned courtyard, heavy robes draped limply over his slight figure. It was Elial, the last time Zanla had seen him, having forgiven Zanla and set his course straight for the future, going back inside to prepare for death like a true Numian. All his life Zanla had tried to measure up to the standards Elial had set for him, and always he had fallen short. Just as, perhaps, Numos had always fallen short of Elial's expectations for it. Elial should have been one of the Ancients. He was meant to create, not to carry on.

And here was the source of the image: this old alien, sitting across from him, reminded him of Elial. Proof, if any were still needed, of the ultimate similarity of the races. This man shared the same tired dignity, the same air of having been born in the wrong time and place, the same quiet intelligence. Was this, then, an insight? Should he follow the Pope's advice as he would have followed Elial's?

Another image appeared: Elial questioning. "What is the most difficult action?"

"Tell me, Master."

"It is the one that must give of self. And why is that the most difficult action?"

"Tell me, Master."

Elial put his palms out toward his pupil. "Because we never really know what it is that we give."

Zanla looked across at the old man giving of self. If Zanla accepted, what was it that he would receive?

He did not know.

* * *

Ergentil's eyes wandered over the pages of the Chronicle of the Ancients, but for once she could not concentrate on them, they made no sense. Below her, on the third level, Zanla was meeting with the enemy, and perhaps the future of her planet was being decided. Perhaps it had already been decided: it would not be unlike Zanla to tell her nothing, to let her find out from a junior officer that the meeting was over, that all had been settled, that Departure was imminent....

She stifled her anger; it was pointless. What mattered was the result, not how she was treated. If he ignored her and saved Numos, what did she have to complain of? And really, it had not been so bad lately—the shared crisis, if it had not made them as close as bondmates should be, at least had not driven them farther apart.

She tried again to focus on the Chronicle. She needed wisdom, and this was the only place she knew to find it.

"You set quite a good example, Priestess. I am hesitant to disturb you."

She shut the book and looked up at Zanla standing in the doorway, ill at ease as usual. She said nothing. Eventually he entered and walked past her. His back to her, he examined her austere wall coverings portraying events in the lives of great priestesses. He had seen them a hundred times already. What did he want? "Will the Pope return Tenon?" she asked.

The wall coverings remained quite interesting. She controlled her temper. "Why are you here, if you will not speak to me?" she whispered.

Zanla turned finally. "No, he will not return Tenon," he replied.

She had expected as much. "Then what has happened?"

"He has made an offer." Zanla began to pace. He couldn't go far in the small room. Ergentil's gaze followed him. "He has offered to come with us instead of Tenon. A trade."

Ergentil tried to make sense of this piece of news. "We leave Tenon in their hands, and take their leader instead?"

"Precisely."

"And did you accept this offer?"

His pacing continued. There is no way out, Ergentil thought. The question must still be answered, sooner or later. "It is a reasonable solution to the problem," Zanla said. "At least we get something in exchange for Tenon. The man can tell us much. An alien in person will mean more to the Council than all our notes and reports."

A few days ago she would have screamed invective at him. Now... something had changed. She breathed deeply and stood up. Zanla stopped pacing and looked at her. "You cannot do it," she said. "Whatever you decide, Zanla, you cannot bring their leader to Numos."

Zanla closed his eyes. "Why not?"

"Because it is exactly what they want. As soon as this Pope is on Numos he will be in touch with the Chitlanians. His very presence—his very existence—will give them strength. And meanwhile, back here, the humans can still interrogate Tenon. Before very long we will be attacked on two fronts: from space, and on Numos itself."

"Tenon knows nothing," Zanla said. "And we can keep the Pope guarded."

"Tenon knows about the bonding and the
retheo,
which is more than the Earth scientists do. And who is to say that the Pope's guard will not be another secret Chitlanian? Think of the risk, Zanla."

"There is risk in everything we do now. The Pope is an old man. He will not do us harm."

"He can do us nothing but harm. Will he help us eliminate the Chitlanians? Will he help us develop weapons to fight off an invasion from Earth? What will you achieve by bringing him back with us?"

Zanla was silent for a while, his eyes open now, staring at the floor. Ergentil sat back down, waiting for his response. "Perhaps it is time we changed," he murmured, "exposed ourselves to new ideas, looked to the future instead of the past. Perhaps this is where the weight of events is pushing us. Perhaps this is what the Ancients wanted us to do, what they hoped would come of these Voyages: the next step, the next twist of the spiral—"

"It is not your decision," Ergentil interrupted, her voice suddenly harsh. "You cannot risk the safety of Numos based on some muddled interpretation of the Chronicle. You do not have that right. If our future will be as you describe it, then it must come without your assistance."

"I am the Master of this Ship," Zanla replied coldly. "The Council has chosen
me
to make these decisions for Numos. Not you, not my officers. I am the one who brought us to these people. I will decide what risks we will take with them."