Night of Light

  But the work of sawing through flesh and bone left him panting as if he'd run several kilometers. His legs trembled, and the faces below him blurred, and ran into two broad white featureless faces. He couldn't last long.

  The leader of the men of Algul stepped forward and held out his arms. "Jump, Carmody," he called joyfully. "Jump! I will catch you; my arms are strong. Then we will scatter this weak, sniveling brood, and go to the temple and there --"

  "Wait!"

  The woman's voice, coming from behind them, loud and commanding, yet at the same time musical, froze them.

  He looked up, over the heads of the men.

  Mary.

  Mary, alive and whole again, as he had seen her before he emptied his gun into her face. Unchanged, except for one thing. Her belly was swollen enormously; it had grown since he had last seen her and was now ripe to give birth to the life within her.

  The leader of the men of Algul said to Carmody, "Who is this Earth woman?"

  Carmody, standing on the edge of the base, ready to leap down, hesitated and opened his mouth to reply. But Tand spoke first.

  "She is his wife. He killed her upon Earth and fled here. But he created her the first night of the Sleep."

  "Ahhhh!"

  The seven of Algul sucked in their breath and drew back.

  Carmody blinked at them. Apparently, Tand's information held implications he didn't see.

  "John," she said, "it is no use your murdering me again and again. I always rise. I always will. And I am ready to bear the child you did not want; he will be here within the hour. At dawn."

  Quietly, but with a tremor in his voice that betrayed the great strain he felt, Tand said, "Well, Carmody, which shall it be?"

  "Which?" said Carmody, sounding stupid even to himself.

  "Yes," said the leader of Algul, stepping back beneath the pedestal. "Which shall it be? Shall the baby be Yess or Algul?"

  "So that is it!" said Carmody. "The economy of the Goddess, of Nature, of What-have-you. Why create a baby when one is at hand?"

  "Yes," said Mary loudly, her voice still musical but demanding, like a bronze bell. "John, you do not want our baby to be as you were, do you? A frozen dark soul? You do want him to be of heat and light, don't you?"

  "Man," said Tand, "don't you see that you have already chosen who the babe shall be? Don't you know that she has no brain of her own, that what she says is what you think, really think and truly desire in the depths of your soul? Don't you know that you are putting her words into her mouth, that her lips move as you direct them?"

  Carmody almost fainted, but not from weakness and hunger of body.

  Light, light, light. . . Fire, fire, fire. . . Let himself dissolve. Like the phoenix, he would rise again. . .

  "Catch me, Tand," he whispered.

  "Jump," said Tand, laughing loudly. A roar of laughter and of cries that sounded like hallelujahs burst from the men of Yess.

  But the men of Algul shouted in alarm and began running away in all directions.

  At the same time the dark purplish haze began to grow lighter, to turn pale violet. Then, suddenly, the ball of fire was above the horizon, and the violet light was white again, as if someone had yanked aside a veil.

  And those of the men of Algul who were still in sight staggered, fell to the ground, and died in the midst of convulsions that threw them from side to side and that broke their bones. For a time they thrashed like chickens with their heads cut off, then, bloody-mouthed, lay still.

  "Had you chosen otherwise," said Tand, still embracing Carmody after his leap downward, "we would be lying in the dust of the street."

  They began walking toward the temple, forming a circle around Mary, who walked slowly and stopped now and then as the pains struck her. Carmody, walking behind her, gritted his teeth and moaned softly, for he too felt the pangs. He was not alone; the others were biting their lips and holding their hands tight upon their bellies.

  "And what happens afterward to her -- to it?" he whispered to Tand. He whispered because, even if he knew that this Mary-thing was not self-conscious, was really manipulated by his thoughts -- and now by those of the others, too -- he had become suddenly sensitive to the feelings of other people. He did not want to take a chance on hurting her, even if such a thing did not seem possible.

  "Her work will be done when Yess is born," said the Kareenan. "She will die. She is dying now, began dying when the Sleep ended. She is being kept alive by our combined energies and by the unconscious will of the infant within her. Let us hurry. Soon the Wakers will be coming from their vaults, not knowing if this time Yess or Algul won, not knowing if they must rejoice or weep. We must not leave them long in doubt, but must get to the Temple. There we will enter the holy chamber of the Great Mother, will lie in mystical love and procreation with Her, in that act that cannot be described but can only be experienced. The swollen body of this creation of your hate and your love will deliver the baby and will die. And then we must wash and wrap the baby and have him ready to show the adoring people."

  He squeezed Carmody's hand affectionately, then tightened his grip as the pangs struck again. But Carmody did not feel the bone-squeezing strength because he was fighting his own pain, hot and hard in his own belly, rising and falling in waves, the terrible hurt and awful ecstasy of giving birth to divinity.

  That pain was also the light and fire of himself still exploding and dissolving into a million pieces. But now there was no panic, only a joy he had never known in accepting this light and fire and in the sureness that he would at the end of this destruction be whole, be one as few men are.

  Through this pain, this joy, this sureness was a lacing of determination that he would pay for what he had done. Not pay in the sense that he would forever be plunged into self-punishment, into gloom and remorse and self-hate. No, that was a sickness, that was not the healthy way to pay. He must make up for what he had been and had done. This universe, though it still ran like a hard cold machine and presented no really sweet-smiling face to mankind, this world could be changed.

  What means he would employ and just what sort of goal he would choose, he did not know now. That would come later. At this moment, he was too busy carrying out the final act of the drama of the Sleep and the Awakening.

  Suddenly he saw the faces of two men he had never expected to see any more. Ralloux and Skelder. The same, yet transfigured. Gone was the agony on Ralloux's face, replaced by serenity. Gone was the harshness and rigidity on Skelder's face, replaced by the softness of a smile.

  "So you two came through all right," Carmody said throatily.

  Wonderingly, he noted that one was still clad in his monk's robes but that the other had cast them off and was dressed in native clothes. He would have liked to find out just why this man accepted and the other rejected, but he was sure that both had their good and sufficient reasons, otherwise they would not have survived. The same look was on both their faces, and at the moment it did not matter which path either had chosen for his future.

  "So you both came through," Carmody murmured, still scarcely able to believe it.

  "Yes," replied one of them, which one Carmody couldn't determine, so dreamlike did everything seem, except for the reality of the waves of pain within his bowels. "Yes, we both came through the fire. But we were almost destroyed. On Dante's Joy, you know, you get what you really want."

  PART TWO

  "And now I must go back to Kareen?" Father John Carmody said. "After twenty-seven years!"

  He had been sitting quietly enough while Cardinal Faskins told him what the Church wanted of him. But he could be motionless no longer. Although he did not soar from his chair, he rose swiftly, arms up and then out, as if he intended to fly. And that posture expressed what he wished to do at that moment -- wing away from the cardinal and all he represented.

  He began pacing back and forth across the polished, close-grained, dark gooma-wood floors, his hands clasped behind him for a while, then unlocked, only to re
join above his stomach. Outwardly, he had not changed much; he was still a little porcupine of a man. But now he wore the maroon garb of a priest of the Order of St. Jairus.

  Cardinal Faskins stooped in his chair, his green eyes bright above the big hooked nose. His head turned this way and then that to keep the pacing Carmody in view. He looked like an aged hawk uncertain of his prey but determined to make a move at the first chance. His face was wrinkled; his hair, white. A half-decade ago, he had voluntarily given up jerries, and his one hundred and twenty-seven years were catching up with him.

  Suddenly John Carmody stopped before the cardinal. He frowned and said, "You really think I'm the only one qualified for this mission?"

  "Best qualified," Faskins said. He straightened a little and placed his hands on the arms of the chair as if to shove himself upward and out on the strike.

  "I've told you once why this is so urgent. Once should be enough; you're an intelligent man. You're also dedicated to the Church. Otherwise, you would not have been considered for the episcopal seat."

  The reproach, although unvoiced, was detected and briefly considered by the priest. Carmody knew that his decision to marry again, almost immediately after the Church had relaxed its discipline of celibacy, had disappointed the cardinal. Faskins had worked hard to make sure that Carmody would become the bishop of the diocese of the colonial planet of Wildenwooly. He had fought a political battle with those who believed that Carmody was too unorthodox in his methods of carrying out Christian policies. None questioned the orthodoxy of his belief; it was the offhand, or freehand, way he acted that was in doubt. Was it suitable that such an "eccentric" -- one of the kinder words used -- should wear the mitre of a bishop?

  Then, when Carmody had seemed to be in, he had married and thus removed himself from consideration. And the accusations of his enemies seemed to be vindicated. But the cardinal had never directly reproached Carmody.

  Now, John Carmody wondered if the cardinal was not using this "betrayal" as a lever? Or did he himself just feel so guilty about it that he was projecting?

  Faskins glanced at the pale yellow letters flashing on the screen at the end of the great room. "You have two hours to get ready," he said. "You'll have to start now if you're going to get to the port on time."

  He became silent, his gaze remaining on the clock.

  Carmody laughed softly and said, "What can I do? I'm not being ordered, just told I must volunteer. Very well. I'll do it. You knew I would. And I'll get started packing. But I have to tell Anna. It's going to be a hell of a shock to her!"

  Faskins shifted uneasily. "The life of a priest isn't always an easy one. She knew that."

  "I know she knows it!" Carmody said fiercely. "She told me what you said to her after I asked for permission to marry. You painted a black picture indeed!"

  "I'm sorry, John," Faskins replied with a slight smile. "Reality is sometimes not golden."

  "Yes. And you're noted for your reticence -- 'Few Phrases' Faskins, they call you -- but you talked up a tornado with her."

  "Again I'm sorry."

  "Forget it," Carmody said. "It's done. I'm not the least bit sorry about Anna. My only regret is that I couldn't have married her years ago. I baptized her, you know, and she's lived all her life in my parish."

  He hesitated, then went on, "She's pregnant, too. That's another reason why I hate to give her this shock."

  The cardinal said nothing. Carmody muttered. "Excuse me. I'll only be about ten minutes packing. I'll phone Anna and get her home. She can ride to the port with us."

  The cardinal, unable to repress his alarm, stood up.

  "I don't think I should be with you, John. You two should be alone for a while, and the only time you'll have will be on the ride to the port."

  "Nothing doing," the priest said. "You' re going to suffer along with me. Anyway, I don't intend to be alone. Anna can go with me as far as Springboard. There'll be a long wait there, and we can be alone. You're coming down with us!"

  The cardinal shrugged. Carmody poured another Scotch for him and went to the bedroom. He unfolded a suitcase and threw it on the bed. One small case would be enough for him. Anna, even though her trip would be short, would probably insist on taking two large ones for herself. She liked to be ready for any sartorial emergency. After unfolding two cases for her, he pressed a tiny button on the flat disc strapped to his right wrist. Its center glowed; a pinging rose thinly to his ears.

  He continued to pack, not wishing to waste any time and knowing that she would soon respond to his call. But when all his clothes were packed, and he noted that ten minutes had passed, he began to worry. He activated the large phone on the table by the bed and spoke Mrs. Rougon's code number. She answered at once. On seeing him, her plump face brightened. "Father John! I was just about to call you! I mean, Anna! She was supposed to be through with her shopping and here a half-hour ago. I thought maybe she forgot and came home instead."

  "She's not here."

  "Maybe she took her caller off for some reason and forgot to put it back on. You know how she is, a little absentminded sometimes, especially since she's been thinking about the baby. Oh, good heavens, Alice is crying! I have to go now! But do call back when you find Anna! Or I'll tell her to call you as soon as she gets here!"

  Carmody at once phoned Rheinkord's Fashion Shop. The clerk told him that Mrs. Carmody had left about fifteen minutes ago.

  "Did she by any chance say where she was going?"

  "Yes, Father. She did mention she was going to the hospital for a minute. She wanted to give some comfort to Mr. Augusta; she said he hasn't been doing very well since his accident."

  Carmody sighed relief and said, "Thank you very much." He called the Way Station of St. Jairus and got immediate attention. The monitor looked a little awed at seeing the founder of the hospital himself.

  "Mrs. Carmody left five minutes ago, Father. No, she didn't say where she was going."

  Carmody called Mrs. Rougonback. "You'll have to forego your chat, I'm afraid. Tell my wife she's to call me immediately; it's very important."

  He disconnected but still was not satisfied. Why could he not get her on the caller? A malfunction in the instrument? Possible but not very likely. A caller did not wear out and had no discrete parts to go wrong. It could be put out of commission only by something like a sledgehammer blow. But it could be left off. Perhaps Mrs. Rougon was right. Anna could have removed it before washing her hands, although soap and water or even sonics would not harm the device. Then she could have forgotten to replace it.

  There was the possibility that a thief had taken the caller, since men stole even now in a land of plenty, always for a reason sufficient to them.

  He returned to his packing. Anna would not like the helterskelter folding or his choice of her clothes, but there was no time for her to dally over her wardrobe.

  The first case filled and shut, he started on the second. The phone rang. He dropped the blouse he was folding. Eagerly, he spoke the activating code and walked up to the screen even though it was not necessary. He liked to be close to anybody he talked to, even if over a phone, and especially he wanted nearness with Anna.

  The face of a city policeman appeared. Carmody grunted, and his belly shrank inward as if a knife had struck it.

  "Sergeant Lewis, Father," the policeman said. "I'm sorry. . . but I have bad news. . . about your wife."

  Carmody did not reply. He stared at the heavy craggy face of Lewis, noting at the same time, with complete irrelevance, that a bushfly was buzzing about Lewis' head. He thought, We'll never get rid of them. All of 22nd-century science is at hand, yet bushflies and other creeping, crawling creatures multiply themselves and divide our attentions, despite all human efforts. ". . .Her tattoo was blown off, so we can't officially identify her, even if her face is recognizable, and she's been identified by some of her friends who were there," the sergeant was saying. "I'm terribly sorry, but you will have to come down and make it official."


  Carmody said, "What?" and then the policeman's words sank home. Anna had left the hospital in her car. A few blocks away, a bomb under the driver's seat had gone off. Only the upper part of her body was left, and at least one arm must be gone, if the identity tattoo was destroyed.

  Carmody said, "Thank you, sergeant, I'll be right down." He walked away from the phone and into the living room. The cardinal, seeing his pale face and sagging posture, jumped up from his seat, knocking his glass off the table with a crash.

  Dully, Carmody told Faskins what had happened.

  The cardinal wept then. Later, when Carmody came out of his shock, he knew that he had seen into the depths of Faskins' love for him, for it was said by all that Faskins had no more juice in him than an old bone. Carmody himself was dry-eyed; nothing seemed to be functioning except his arms and legs and, now and then, his mouth.

  "I'll go with you," the cardinal said. "Only first I will call the port and cancel your passage."

  "Don't do that," Carmody said. He returned to the bedroom, picked up his suitcase, and, glancing at the other suitcases, one closed and one open, walked out of the bedroom. The cardinal was staring at him.

  Carmody said, "I must go."

  "You're not in shape to do so."

  "I know. But I will be."

  The doorbell rang. Doctor Apollonios entered, bag in hand. He said, "I'm sorry, Father. Here, this will help you." He reached into his blouse pocket and brought out a pill.

  Carmody shook his head. "I can make it all right. Who called you?"

  "I did," Faskins said. "I think you ought to take it."

  "Your authority doesn't extend to medical matters," Carmody answered. A soft tocsin note pealed through the room. He put down his suitcase and went to the wall. Opening a small cover, he removed a small, thin cylinder.

  "The mail," he said to no one in particular. He looked into the cubicle to see if any other mail was being recorded. The little red light was out. He closed the door and returned to his suitcase, tucking the letter into his beltbag.