“Sir, I’ve never had any traffic with the heretics. I—”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Langholt said heavily. “I’m simply warning you that you’re heading in an unhealthy direction. I fear for you. Look—” He thrust the incriminating letter to Kirby into a disposal unit, where it flamed and was gone instantly. “I’ll forget that this whole episode ever happened. But don’t you forget it. Walk more humbly, Mondschein. Walk more humbly, I say. Now go and pray. Dismissed.”
“Thank you, Brother,” Mondschein muttered.
His knees felt a little shaky as he made his way from the room and took the spiral slideshaft downward into the chapel proper. All things considered, he knew he had got off lightly. There could have been a public reprimand. There could have been a transfer to some not very desirable place, like Patagonia or the Aleutians. They might even have separated him from the Brotherhood entirely.
It had been a massive mistake to go over Langholt’s head, Mondschein agreed. But how could a man help it? To die a little every day, while in Santa Fe they were choosing the ones who would live forever—it was intolerable to be on the outside. Mondschein’s spirit sank at the awareness that now he had almost certainly cut himself off from Santa Fe for good.
He slipped into a rear pew and stared solemnly toward the cobalt-60 cube on the altar.
Let the Blue Fire engulf me, he begged. Let me rise purified and cleansed.
Sometimes, kneeling before the altar, Mondschein had felt the ghostly flicker of a spiritual experience. That was the most he ever felt, for, though he was an acolyte of the Brotherhood of the Immanent Radiance, and was a second-generation member of the cult, at that, Mondschein was not a religious man. Let others have ecstasies before the altar, he thought. Mondschein knew the cult for what it was: a front operation masking an elaborate program of genetic research. Or so it seemed to him, though there were times when he had his doubts which was the front and which the underlying reality. So many others appeared to derive spiritual benefits from the Brotherhood—while he had no proof that the laboratories at Santa Fe were accomplishing anything at all.
He closed his eyes. His head sank forward on his breast. He visualized electrons spinning in their orbits. He silently repeated the Electromagnetic Litany, calling off the stations of the spectrum.
He thought of Christopher Mondschein living through the ages. A stab of yearning sliced into him while he was still telling off the middling frequencies. Long before he got to the softer X rays, he was in a sweat of frustration, sick with the fear of dying. Sixty, seventy more years and his number was up, while at Santa Fe—
Help me. Help me. Help me.
Somebody help me. I don’t want to die!
Mondschein looked to the altar. The Blue Fire flickered as though to mock him by going out altogether. Oppressed by the Gothic gloom, Mondschein sprang to his feet and rushed out into the open air.
two
HE WAS A conspicuous figure in his indigo robe and monkish hood. People stared at him as though he had some supernatural power. They did not look closely enough to see that he was only an acolyte, and, though many of them were Vorsters themselves, they never managed to understand that the Brotherhood had no truck with the supernatural. Mondschein did not have a high regard for the intelligence of laymen.
He stepped aboard the slidewalk. The city loomed around him, towers of travertine that took on a greasy cast in the dying reddish glow of a March afternoon. New York City had spread up the Hudson like a plague, and skyscrapers were marching across the Adirondacks; Nyack, here, had long since been engulfed by the metropolis. The air was cool. There was a smoky tang in it; probably a fire raging in a forest preserve, thought Mondschein darkly. He saw death on all sides.
His modest apartment was five blocks from the chapel. He lived alone. Acolytes needed a waiver to marry and were forbidden to have transient liaisons. Celibacy did not weigh heavily on Mondschein yet, though he had hoped to shed it when he was transferred to Santa Fe. There was talk of lovely, willing young female acolytes at Santa Fe. Surely not all the breeding experiments were done through artificial insemination, Mondschein hoped.
No matter now. He could forget Santa Fe. His impulsive letter to Supervisor Kirby had smashed everything.
Now he was trapped forever on the lower rungs of the Vorster ladder. In due course they would take him into the Brotherhood, and he would wear a slightly different robe and grow a beard, perhaps, and preside over services, and minister to the needs of his congregation.
Fine. The Brotherhood was the fastest-growing religious movement on Earth, and surely it was a noble work to serve in the cause. But a man without a religious vocation would not be happy presiding over a chapel, and Mondschein had no calling at all. He had sought to fulfill his own ends by enrolling as an acolyte, and now he saw the error of that ambition.
He was caught. Just another Vorster Brother now. There were thousands of chapels all over the world. Membership in the Brotherhood was something like five hundred million today. Not bad in a single generation. The older religions were suffering. The Vorsters had something to offer that the others did not: the comforts of science, the assurance that beyond the spiritual ministry there was another that served the Oneness by probing into the deepest mysteries. A dollar contributed to your local Vorster chapel might help pay for the development of a method to assure immortality, personal immortality. That was the pitch, and it worked well. Oh, there were imitators, lesser cults, some of them rather successful in their small way. There was even a Vorster heresy now, the Harmonists, the peddlers of the Transcendent Harmony, an offshoot of the parent cult. Mondschein had chosen the Vorsters, and he had a lingering loyalty to them, for he had been raised as a worshiper of the Blue Fire. But—
“Sorry. Million pardons.”
Someone jostled him on the slidewalk. Mondschein felt a hand slap against his back, dealing him a hard jolt that almost knocked him down. Staggering a bit, he recovered and saw a broad-shouldered man in a simple blue business tunic moving swiftly away. Clumsy idiot, Mondschein thought. There’s room for everyone on the walk. What’s his hellish hurry?
Mondschein adjusted his robes and his dignity. A soft voice said, “Don’t go into your apartment, Mondschein. Just keep moving. There’s a quickboat waiting for you at the Tarrytown station.”
No one was near him. “Who said that?” he demanded tensely.
“Please relax and cooperate. You aren’t going to be harmed. This is for your benefit, Mondschein.”
He looked around. The nearest person was an elderly woman, fifty feet behind him on the slidewalk, who quickly threw him a simpering smile as though asking for a blessing. Who had spoken? For one wild moment Mondschein thought that he had turned into a telepath, some latent power breaking through in a delayed maturity. But no, it had been a voice, not a thought-message. Mondschein understood. The stumbling man must have planted a two-way Ear on him with that slap on the back. A tiny metallic transponding plaque, perhaps half a dozen molecules thick, some miracle of improbable subminiaturization—Mondschein did not bother to search for it.
He said, “Who are you?”
“Never mind that. Just go to the station and you’ll be met.”
“I’m in my robes.”
“We’ll handle that, too,” came the calm response.
Mondschein nibbled his lip. He was not supposed to leave the immediate vicinity of his chapel without permission from a superior, but there was no time for that now, and in any event he had no intention of bucking the bureaucracy so soon after his rebuke. He would take his chances.
The slidewalk sped him ahead.
Soon the Tarrytown station drew near. Mondschein’s stomach roiled with tension. He could smell the acrid fumes of quickboat fuel. The chill wind cut through his robes, so that his shivering was not entirely from uneasiness. He stepped from the slidewalk and entered the station, a gleaming yellowish-green dome with lambent plastic walls. It was not particularly crowded. The
commuters from downtown had not yet begun to arrive, and the outward-bound rush would come later in the day, at the dinner hour.
Figures approached him. The voice coming from the device on his back said, “Don’t stare at them, but just follow behind them casually.”
Mondschein obeyed. There were three of them, two men and a slim, angular-faced woman. They led him on a sauntering stroll past the chattering newsfax booth, past the bootblack stands, past the row of storage lockers. One of the men, short and square-headed, with thick, stubby yellow hair, slapped his palm against a locker to open it. He drew out a bulky package and tucked it under one arm. As he cut diagonally across the station toward the men’s washroom, the voice said to Mondschein, “Wait thirty seconds and follow him.”
The acolyte pretended to study the newsfax ticker. He did not feel enthusiastic about his present predicament, but he sensed that it would be useless and possibly harmful to resist. When the thirty seconds were up, he moved toward the washroom. The scanner decided that he was suitably male, and the ADMIT sign flashed. Mondschein entered.
“Third booth,” the voice murmured.
The blond man was not in sight. Mondschein entered the booth and found the package from the locker propped against the seat. On an order, he picked it up and opened the clasps. The wrapper fell away. Mondschein found himself holding the green robe of a Harmonist Brother.
The heretics? What in the world—
“Put it on, Mondschein.”
“I can’t. If I’m seen in it—”
“You won’t be. Put it on. We’ll guard your own robe until you get back.”
He felt like a puppet. He shrugged out of his robe, put it on a hook, and donned the unfamiliar uniform. It fitted well. There was something clipped to the inner surface: a thermoplastic mask, Mondschein realized. He was grateful for that. Unfolding it, he pressed it to his face and held it there until it took hold. The mask would disguise his features just enough so that he need not fear recognition.
Carefully Mondschein put his own robe within the wrapper and sealed it.
“Leave it on the seat,” he was told.
“I don’t dare. If it’s lost, how will I ever explain?”
“It will not be lost, Mondschein. Hurry now. The quickboat’s about to leave.”
Unhappily, Mondschein stepped from the booth. He viewed himself in the mirror. His face, normally plump, now looked gross: bulging cheeks, stubbly jowls, moist and thickened lips. Unnatural dark circles rimmed his eyes as though he had caroused for a week. The green robe was strange, too. Wearing the outfit of heresy made him feel closer to his own organization than ever before.
The slim woman came forward as he emerged into the waiting room. Her cheekbones were like hatchet blades, and her eyelids had been surgically replaced by shutters, of fine platinum foil. It was an outmoded fashion of the previous generation; Mondschein could remember his mother coming from the cosmetic surgeon’s office with her face transformed into a grotesque mask. No one did that any more. This woman had to be at least forty, Mondschein thought, though she looked much younger.
“Eternal harmony, Brother,” she said huskily.
Mondschein fumbled for the proper Harmonist response. Improvising, he said, “May the Oneness smile upon you.”
“I’m grateful for your blessing. Your ticket’s in order, Brother. Will you come with me?”
She was his guide, he realized. He had shed the Ear with his own robe. Queasily, he hoped he would get to see that garment again before long. He followed the slim woman to the loading platform. They might be taking him anywhere—Chicago, Honolulu, Montreal—
The quickboat sparkled in the floodlit station, graceful, elegant, its skin a burnished bluish-green. As they filed aboard, Mondschein asked the woman, “Where are we going?”
“Rome,” she said.
three
MONDSCHEIN’S EYES WERE wide as the monuments of antiquity flashed by. The Forum, the Colosseum, the Theater of Marcellus, the gaudy Victor Emmanuel Monument, the Mussolini Column—their route took them through the heart of the ancient city. He saw also the blue glow of a Vorster chapel as he whizzed down the Via dei Fori Imperiali, and that struck him as harshly incongruous here in this city of an older religion. The Brotherhood had a solid foothold here, though. When Gregory XVIII appeared in the window at his Vatican palace, he could still draw a crowd of hundreds of thousands of cheering Romans, but many of those same Romans would melt from the square after viewing the Pope and head for the nearest chapel of the Brotherhood.
Evidently the Harmonists were making headway here, too, Mondschein thought. But he kept his peace as the car sped northward out of the city.
“This is the Via Flaminia,” his guide announced. “The old route was followed when the electronic roadbed was installed. They have a deep sense of tradition here.”
“I’m sure they do,” said Mondschein wearily. It was mid-evening by his time, and he had had nothing to eat but a snack aboard the quickboat. The ninety-minute journey had dumped him in Rome in the hours before dawn. A wintry mist hung over the city; spring was late. Mondschein’s face itched fiercely beneath his mask. Fear chilled his fingers.
They halted in front of a drab brick building somewhere a few dozen miles north of Rome. Mondschein shivered as he hurried within. The woman with platinum eyelids led him up the stairs and into a warm, brightly lit room occupied by three men in green Harmonist robes. That confirmed it, Mondschein thought: I’m in a den of heretics.
They did not offer their names. One was short and squat, with a sallow face and bulbous nose. One was tall and spectrally thin, arms and legs like spider’s limbs. The third was unremarkable, with pale skin and narrow, bland eyes. The squat one was the oldest and seemed to be in charge.
Without preamble he said, “So they turned you down, did they?”
“How—”
“Never mind how. We’ve been watching you, Mondschein. We hoped you’d make it. We want a man in Santa Fe just as much as you want to be there.”
“Are you Harmonists?”
“Yes. What about some wine, Mondschein?”
The acolyte shrugged. The tall heretic gestured, and the slim woman, who had not left the room, came forward with a flask of golden wine. Mondschein accepted a glass, thinking dourly that it was almost certainly drugged. The wine was chilled and faintly sweet, like a middling-dry Graves. The others took wine with him.
“What do you want from me?” Mondschein asked.
“Your help,” said the squat one. “There’s a war going on, and we want you to join our side.”
“I don’t know of any wars.”
“A war between darkness and light,” said the tall heretic in a mild voice. “We are the warriors of light. Don’t think we’re fanatics, Mondschein. Actually, we’re quite reasonable men.”
“Perhaps you know,” said the third of the Harmonists, “that our creed is derived from yours. We respect the teachings of Vorst, and we follow most of his ways. In fact, we regard ourselves as closer to the original teachings than the present hierarchy of the Brotherhood. We’re a purifying body. Every religion needs its reformers.”
Mondschein sipped his wine. He allowed his eyes to twinkle maliciously as he remarked, “Usually it takes a thousand years for the reformers to put in their appearance. This is only 2095. The Brotherhood’s hardly thirty years old.”
The squat heretic nodded. “The pace of our times is a fast one. It took the Christians three hundred years to get political control of Rome—from the time of Augustus to that of Constantine. The Vorsters didn’t need that long. You know the story: there are Brotherhood men in every legislative body in the world. In some countries they’ve organized their own political parties. I don’t need to tell you about the financial growth of the organization, either.”
“And you purifiers urge a return to the old, simple ways of thirty years ago?” Mondschein asked. “The ramshackle buildings, the persecutions, and all the rest? Is that it?”
/> “Not really. We appreciate the uses of power. We simply feel that the movement’s become sidetracked in irrelevancies. Power for its own sake has become more important than power for the sake of larger goals.”
The tall one said, “The Vorster high command quibbles about political appointments and agitates for changes in the income tax structure. It’s wasting time and energy fooling around with domestic affairs. Meanwhile the movement’s drawn a total blank on Mars and Venus—not one chapel among the colonists, not even a start there, total rejection. And where are the great results of the esper breeding program? Where are the dramatic new leaps?”
“It’s only the second generation,” Mondschein said. “You have to be patient” He smiled at that—counseling patience to others—and added, “I think the Brotherhood is heading in the right direction.”
“We don’t, obviously,” said the pale one. “When we failed to reform from within, we had to leave and begin our own campaign, parallel to the original one. The long-range goals are the same. Personal immortality through bodily regeneration. And full development of extrasensory powers, leading to new methods of communication and transportation. That’s what we want—not the right to decide local tax issues.”
Mondschein said, “First you get control of the governments. Then you concentrate on the long-range goals.”
“Not necessary,” snapped the squat Harmonist. “Direct action is what we’re interested in. We’re confident of success, too. One way or another, we’ll achieve our purposes.”
The slim woman gave Mondschein more wine. He tried to shake her away, but she insisted on filling his glass, and he drank. Then he said, “I presume you didn’t waft me off to Rome just to tell me your opinion of the Brotherhood. What do you need me for?”
“Suppose we were to get you transferred to Santa Fe,” the squat one said.
Mondschein sat bolt upright. His hand tightened on the wineglass, nearly breaking it.