Project Pope

  “Yes, I see,” he said. “Yes, that would make a story.”

  “By the time I got through with it, it would make a book.”

  “How did you run into it in the first place?”

  “Things I picked up here and there. Over several years. I kept hearing things. Funny little whispers. None of them too important, some of them with little information in them. But, pieced all together, they got more and more intriguing.”

  “So you’ve been digging at it for years. Trying to pick up clues.”

  “That’s true. I worked hard at it. Not all the time, of course, but whenever I had a chance. I did a fair amount of thinking. The more I thought about it, the more the facts seemed worth going after. I may, as a matter of fact, have hypnotized myself with my thinking on it. It may turn out there is little here, no more than a bunch of silly robots embarked on a nonsensical enterprise.”

  Both of them fell silent for a moment, giving their attention to the food.

  “How is your room?” asked Jill. “Mine is quite satisfactory.”

  “So is mine,” said Tennyson. “Not the lap of luxury, but I can get along with it. One window gives a view of the mountains.”

  “There aren’t any telephones,” said Jill. “I asked about it and was told there are no phones at all. A phone system has never been set up. There are electric lights, though, and I asked about that. I said how come electricity but no phones? No one seemed to know.”

  “Maybe no one ever felt the need of phones,” said Tennyson.

  “Pardon me, sir,” said a voice. “Pardon the intrusion, but it is important.…”

  Tennyson looked up. A man was standing at his elbow. He was tall, somewhat beyond middle age, with a craggy face, smoothed-back hair, and a bristling, neat mustache that was turning gray.

  “I understand,” said the man, “that you are a physician. At least, I am told you are.”

  “That’s right,” Tennyson replied. “I am Jason Tennyson. The lady with me is Jill Roberts.”

  “My name,” said the man, “is Ecuyer. I’m from Vatican. Our physician was killed several days ago in a hunting accident.”

  “If there is some way in which I can be of service.…”

  “You’ll pardon me, ma’am,” said Ecuyer. “I dislike to interrupt your dinner and take away your partner. But we have a very ill woman. If you’d have a look at her.…”

  “I have to get my bag,” said Tennyson. “It’s in my room.”

  “I took the liberty,” said the man from Vatican, “of asking the manager to have it brought down for you. It will be waiting in the lobby.”

  Chapter Eight

  The woman was old. Her face resembled a withered apple, the mouth pinched in, the puffy cheeks showing an unhealthy, hectic pink. The black button eyes stared at Tennyson with no sign that she had seen him. She struggled for breath. Beneath the sheet, the body was shrunken and stringy.

  The gray-garbed nurse handed the chart to Tennyson.

  “This woman is important to us, Doctor,” said Ecuyer.

  “How long has she been this way?”

  “Five days,” said the nurse. “Five days since …”

  “Anderson should not have gone on his hunting trip,” said Ecuyer. “He told me she’d be all right; rest was all she needed.”

  “Anderson is the man who was killed?”

  “He and the two others. They tried to talk him out of going. He was new here; he did not recognize the danger. I told you it was an Old One of the Woods, did I not?”

  “No, you didn’t. What is an Old One?”

  “A huge carnivore. Bloodthirsty, ferocious. Attacks a man on sight. The other two went along in an effort to protect the doctor—”

  “The temperature has held for the last three days,” said Tennyson to the nurse. “Has there been no break?”

  “None at all, Doctor. Small fluctuations. Nothing that could be called significant.”

  “And the respiratory difficulty?”

  “It seems to be getting worse.”

  “The medication?”

  “It’s all on the chart, Doctor.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Tennyson.

  He picked up the woman’s scrawny wrist. The pulse was rapid and shallow. The stethoscope, when he held it against her chest, communicated the rasping of the lungs.

  “Food?” he asked. “Has she taken nourishment?”

  “Only the IV the last two days. Before that a little milk and some broth.”

  Tennyson looked across the bed at Ecuyer.

  “Well?” asked the Vatican man.

  “I think pneumonia,” said Tennyson. “Probably viral. Have you facilities for making tests?”

  “We have a laboratory, but no technician. He was with Anderson and Aldritt.”

  “All three were killed?”

  “That’s right. All three. Perhaps you, Doctor …”

  “I do not have the expertise,” said Tennyson. “All I can do is treat the disease. You have medical and pharmaceutical supplies?”

  “Yes, a wide range of them. Ordinarily, we do not run so thin on medical staff. We did have two technicians, but one resigned several months ago. We’ve not been able to replace him. End of Nothing, Doctor, apparently is not the kind of place that attracts good people.”

  “My best diagnosis,” said Tennyson, “is some type of viral pneumonia. It would help to know the type, but without trained personnel, that’s impossible. There are so many new viruses, picked up and transmitted from planet to planet, that it’s hard to pinpoint one specific agent. Within the past year or two, however—or so I read in medical journals—a new broad-spectrum antiviral substance—”

  “You mean protein-X,” said the nurse.

  “Exactly. Do you have it?”

  “Some came in on the last trip Wayfarer made. The trip before this one.”

  “It could be effective,” Tennyson said to Ecuyer. “Not enough is known about it to be sure. The substance specifically attacks the protein coating of a virus, destroying the entire virus. We’d be taking a chance using it, of course, but we have nothing else.”

  “What you are saying,” said Ecuyer, “is that you cannot guarantee.…”

  “No physician can make a guarantee.”

  “I don’t know,” said Ecuyer. “Somehow or other, we must save her. If we don’t use the protein …”

  “She still may live,” said Tennyson. “Her body will have to fight against the virus. We can give her some support. We can help her fight, but we can’t do anything about the virus. She has to beat that herself.”

  “She’s old,” said the nurse. “She hasn’t much to fight with.”

  “Even with the protein,” asked Ecuyer, “we can’t be sure?”

  “No, we can’t,” said Tennyson.

  “About the protein agent? You want to think about it further? The decision is up to you. But I’d judge we haven’t too much time. What is your recommendation, Doctor?”

  “As a physician, if the decision were mine alone, I would use the protein. It may not help. But so far as I know, it is the only thing with which to fight an unknown virus. I have to be honest with you. The protein could conceivably kill her. Even if it helped, it might not help enough.” He moved to Ecuyer’s side, laid a hand on his arm. “This woman means a great deal to you?”

  “To all of us,” said Ecuyer. “To all of us. To Vatican.”

  “I wish I could help you more. I’m in no position to insist on anything. Is there something I can do or tell you that would help you in reaching a decision?”

  The woman on the bed moved, raising her head and shoulders from the pillow, fighting for a moment in an attempt to raise herself even further, then falling back again. Her face twisted and her lips moved. Words came from her. “The towers,” she cried. “The great and shining staircase. The glory and the peace. And the angels flying …”

  The face untwisted, relaxing. The words shut off.

  Tennyson looked at the nurse. S
he was staring at the woman as if hypnotized.

  Ecuyer was pawing at Tennyson’s shoulder. “We use the protein,” he said. “We will use the protein.”

  Chapter Nine

  The suite was large and well appointed. The living-area floor was covered by thick carpeting, the furniture stopped just this side of elegance; in a huge fireplace that took up half of one wall a fire burned. Off to one side was a dining area, doors opened into a kitchen and a bedroom; gilded mirrors and tasteful paintings hung upon the wall, intricate carvings of what appeared to be ivory were positioned on the mantel.

  “Sit down and take it easy,” Ecuyer said to Tennyson. “Make yourself at home. I can guarantee that chair over there is comfortable. And what are you drinking?”

  “Would you have some Scotch?”

  “You have good taste,” said Ecuyer. “How did you run into Scotch? It’s virtually unknown. Only a few old human hands …”

  “The captain on the ship,” said Tennyson, “introduced me to it. An Old Earth drink, he told me.”

  “Yes, the captain. He keeps us well supplied, Several cases every trip. We have a standing order from a planet called Sundance—a human planet, as you might guess. It is the only place within a thousand light-years that stocks it. The cases always seem to be a little short. The captain pilfers them. We make no comment on it. It is, we figure, a legitimate kickback.”

  Ecuyer brought the drinks, handed one to Tennyson and settled himself with the other.

  “Drink up,” he said. “I think we may have something to drink to.”

  “I hope so,” said Tennyson. “The patient, even this soon, seems to be responding to the protein. We’ll have to keep close watch of her.”

  “Tell me, Doctor, do you always show this much devotion to your patients? You stayed at Mary’s bedside until she showed signs of possible improvement. You must be tired. I will not keep you long. You should get some rest.”

  “If you have a place for me.…”

  “A place for you? Dr. Tennyson, this is your place. It is yours so long as you stay with us.”

  “My place? I thought that it was yours.”

  “Mine? Oh, no. I have a suite much like this. But this one is for guests. For the moment, it is yours. We understand you lost your luggage, and we’ve arranged to supply you with a wardrobe. It will be here in the morning. I hope you do not mind.”

  “It was unnecessary,” Tennyson said stiffly.

  “You persist in not understanding,” said Ecuyer. “There is nothing we can do that would properly repay you.…”

  “You can’t be sure of what I’ve done. Mary still may not make it, even with the protein.”

  “But there was improvement.”

  “Yes, the pulse is better. She seems a little stronger. The temperature dropped a bit, but not enough to be significant.”

  “I have faith in you,” said Ecuyer. “I think you’ll pull her through.”

  “Look,” said Tennyson, “let’s start by being honest. You’ve talked with the captain, or some of your people have talked with him. You know damn well I didn’t lose my luggage. I brought along no luggage. I had no time to pack. I was on the run.”

  “Yes,” said Ecuyer smoothly. “Yes, we know all that. But we were not about to confront you with it. We don’t know what happened, and unless you want to tell us, we don’t want to know. We have no need to know. I know you are a doctor. I wasn’t even absolutely sure of that to start with, but now I know you are. With you there is a chance Mary will live; without you, what would have been her chance?”

  “Probably no chance at all,” said Tennyson. “Unless that little nurse had decided on her own.…”

  “She wouldn’t have,” said Ecuyer. “She had no way to know. And she would not have dared.”

  “All right, then. Say I saved the patient. Hell, man, that’s my business. That’s what I’m trained to do. Save all I can; I cannot save them all. You are not in debt to me. A simple fee would be all I ask. Maybe not even that. I left my credentials behind. At the moment, I couldn’t prove I am a doctor if my life depended on it. And I’m not sure at all of my legal right to practice here. There are such things as licenses.”

  Ecuyer waved his hand. “No need to worry on that score. If you say you are a doctor, then you are a doctor. If we let you practice here, then you have the right to practice.”

  “Yes,” said Tennyson. “If Vatican says so.…”

  “On End of Nothing, if Vatican says so, then it is so. There is no one to dispute us. Were it not for us, there’d be no End of Nothing. We are End of Nothing.”

  “All right,” said Tennyson. “All right. I’m not arguing with you. I have no wish to argue. One of your people is sick and I treated her. That’s what I’m supposed to do. Let’s not build up a case about it.”

  “By now, Doctor,” said Ecuyer, “you should have grasped the situation. We have no doctor. We very badly need one. We want you to stay on as our resident physician.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” said Ecuyer. “Can’t you see? We’re desperate. It would take us months to get another doctor. And then, what kind of doctor?”

  “You don’t know what kind of doctor—”

  “I know you have devotion to your patients. And you are honest. You are honest about how you happen to be here, and when I asked about your treatment, you’d give no guarantees. I like that kind of honesty.”

  “Someone may come storming in here with a warrant for my arrest. I don’t think it will happen, but …”

  “They’d play hell serving it,” said Ecuyer. “We protect our own. If you really are in trouble, Doctor, I can guarantee your safety here. Be you right or wrong, I can still guarantee it.”

  “All right, then. I don’t think I’ll need protection, but it’s nice to know it would be there. But what about this setup? What would I be getting into? You call this place Vatican and I’ve heard stories about a Project Pope and all of it being headed by a band of robots. Can you tell me what’s going on? This old lady, Mary, talked of angels. Is that just an old lady’s dream, a somewhat premature deathbed vision?”

  “No, it’s not,” said Ecuyer. “Mary has found Heaven.”

  “Now,” said Tennyson, “say that slow again. ‘Mary has found Heaven.’ You sound as if you mean it.”

  “Of course I do,” said Ecuyer. “She really has found Heaven. All evidence points to her having found it. We need her further observations to try to pinpoint it. Of course, we have her clones—three of them, growing up. But we can’t be certain that the clones—”

  “Evidence? Clones? What kind of evidence? If I remember rightly, Heaven is not a place. It’s a condition. A state of mind, a faith …”

  “Doctor, listen. This will take some explanation.”

  “I would suspect it might.”

  “Let’s first try to put the whole thing into perspective,” said Ecuyer. “Vatican-17, this Vatican, began almost a thousand years ago with a band of robots out of Earth. On Earth, the robots had not been members—had not been allowed to be members—of any faith. I think in some places it is different now. Robots can become communicants—not everywhere, but in certain areas, on certain planets. A thousand years ago this was not true; robots were considered beyond the pale of any religion. To be a member of any religious faith, to profess oneself to any faith, one must have a soul, or the equivalent of a soul. Robots had no souls, or were thought to have no souls, so they were barred from participating in any religious experience. How well are you acquainted with robots, Doctor?”

  “Really not at all, Mr. Ecuyer. In my lifetime I may have spoken to half a dozen of them, seen a few more than that. I did not come from robot country. There were a few in medical college, but humans and robots did not associate there. I’ve never really known one. I’ve never felt the urge—”

  “What you have just said is what ninety-nine out of every hundred humans would say. They’re not involved with robots, not concerned
with them. Probably they think of them as metal humans, as machines trying to ape humans. I can tell you they are a whole lot more than that. At one time they would not have been, but today, here on End of Nothing, they are more than that. In the last thousand years, the robots here have evolved; they have become creatures that stand apart from men. In the process of evolving, they have never forgotten, however, that they are the creations of men, and they do not resent, as you might think they would, that they are created beings. By and large, they still feel a close relationship to humans. I could talk all night telling you what I think the robots are, what these robots here are. They came here because they had been denied religious experience elsewhere, had been read out of that part of human life that had a strong appeal to them. You have to know a robot well to understand his instinctive drive toward religious experience. It may be no more than an overcompensation—a deep instinct to model himself as closely to the human race as possible. He is denied so many things that a human has; there are so many limitations placed upon him by his very nature. A robot cannot weep; he cannot laugh. He has no sexual drive—although he does create other robots. At least here our robots do create other robots, building them with refinements that the human creators never thought of, probably would not have included in a robot’s makeup even if they had thought of them. Here, on End of Nothing, a new race of robots has arisen. But I am getting ahead of myself.”

  “I can understand a religious drive as an overcompensative impulse,” said Tennyson. “Religion could be a mystery they could share with the human race.”

  “That is right,” Ecuyer told him. “There is a lot of history I could recite to you—by what thinking and what steps that small band of robots came a millennium ago to End of Nothing and set up their own religion. But we will let that go for the moment. We can discuss that some other time. If you are interested, that is.”

  “Of course I’m interested. If you can find the time.”