SOLACE

Grant stumbled back to his quarters, stunned and hurt and angry. Assistant lab technician, he grumbled to himself. Slave labor. I might as well be in jail. This is ruining my life.

He tried praying in the privacy of his quarters, but it was like speaking to a statue, cold, unhealing, unmoved. He remembered that when he’d been a child, back home, he could always bring his tearful problems to his father. It wasn’t so much that Dad was a minister of the Lord; he was a wise and gentle father who loved his son and always tried to make things right for him. Later, in school, Grant found that even the most pious spiritual advisors didn’t have the warmth and understanding of his father. How could they?

Yet, alone and miserable on this research station half a billion kilometers from home—so distant that he couldn’t really talk with his father or wife or anyone else who loved him—Grant sought counsel.

Research Station Gold had a chapel, Grant knew from his studies of the station’s schematics. A chapel meant there must be a chaplain. Sure enough, Grant found half a dozen names in the phone computer’s listing for chaplains. To his surprise, Zareb Muzorawa was one of them, listed under Islam.

There were three Protestant ministers listed: a Baptist, a Presbyterian, and a Methodist. He tried the Methodist first, but was told that the Reverend Stanton was on a tour of duty on Europa.

In Grant’s phone screen the Presbyterian minister, the Reverend Arnold Caldwell, looked like a jolly, redcheeked character from a Dickens novel. Grant’s heart sank; Caldwell did not appear to be the kind of strong spiritual guide he needed. But he was available.

“I’ll be finished my shift here in the life-support center in less than thirty minutes,” he said cheerfully. “Why don’t you meet me in the chapel a few minutes after the hour.”

Grant agreed, fidgeted in his room for half an hour, then walked briskly to the chapel.

It was an austere compartment, about the size of three living quarters put together. A bare altar stood on a two-step-high platform. There were no decorations of any kind on the walls, not even a crucifix. Two files of empty benches could hold perhaps fifty people, at most, Grant thought.

“Ah, there you are.”

Grant turned to see the Reverend Caldwell striding up the central aisle toward him. Round in face and portly in stature, his shoulder-length hair was graying, but his eyes were bright sapphire blue and his ruddy lips were curled into a smile. He looked like a clean-shaven Santa Claus, wearing a technician’s olive-green coveralls.

“Reverend Caldwell?” Grant asked, knowing it was an inane question.

“Yes,” said Caldwell. “And you must be the young man who phoned me a bit ago.”

“Grant Archer.”

As they shook hands, Grant said, “You’re on the technical staff?”

Caldwell bobbed his head up and down enthusiastically. “Yes indeed. Station policy. There’s no room here for full-time clergy, so we all have to work at some secular job and do our ministering on our own time.”

“I see,” said Grant, thinking that explained Zeb’s listing as the Moslem minister.

“I’m with the life-support group, actually. Rather a neat combination, don’t you think? By day I worry about people’s bodies, by night I care for their souls.”

He laughed at his own joke. Grant forced a smile.

Still chuckling, Caldwell murmured, “It seems rather cold in here, doesn’t it.” Before Grant could answer, Caldwell skipped up the dais to the altar and clicked open a small door built into its side.

The chapel suddenly bloomed into a minicathedral, with stained glass windows lining the walls, a crucifixion scene from the high Renaissance behind the altar, and rows of candles burning. Grant even thought he smelled incense.

“Oh dear, wrong key,” Caldwell muttered. “That’s the Catholic scheme.”

He tried again and the elaborate decorations faded, replaced by slim windows along the side walls streaming sunlight and a gorgeous rosette of deep blues and reds on the rear wall above the entry.

“Ah, that’s better.”

“Holograms,” Grant realized. “They’re holograms.”

“Yes, of course,” said Caldwell. “Many faiths share this chamber, and no two of them agree on the proper kind of interior decoration. The Moslems allow no icons whatsoever, while the Buddhists want to see their revered one. And so on.”

Grant nodded his understanding. Caldwell gestured to the first row of benches and they sat side by side. Fearing that a worshipper might come in and interrupt him, Grant spilled out his story as quickly as he could, leaving out only the fact that the New Morality wanted him to spy on Dr. Wo. The Reverend Caldwell listened sympathetically, nodding, his trace of a smile ebbing slowly.

At last Grant finished with, “They’re taking four years of my life. Four years away from home, away from my wife. At least I thought I could accomplish something, earn my doctorate, but now …” He ran out of words.

“I see,” said Caldwell. “I understand.”

“What can I do?” Grant asked.

Caldwell was silent for several moments. He seemed lost in thought. His smile had faded away completely.

He heaved a mighty sigh, then said, “My son, the Lord chooses our paths for us. He has obviously sent you here for a reason.”

“But—”

“Neither you nor I can see the Lord’s purpose in all of this, but I assure you He has a design for you.”

“To be an assistant lab technician?”

“Whatever it is, you must accept it with all humility. We are all in God’s hands.”

“But my life is being ruined!”

“It may seem that way to you, but who can fathom the purposes of the Lord?”

“You’re telling me I should accept this assignment and let it go at that? I should be content to be a virtual slave?”

“You should pray for guidance, my son. And accept what cannot be altered.”

Grant shot to his feet. “That’s no help at all, Reverend.”

“I’m sorry, my son,” Caldwell said, pushing his rotund bulk up from the bench. “It’s the best advice I can offer you.”

It took an effort to bite back the angry reply that Grant wanted to make. He held his breath for a moment, then said between gritted teeth, “Well … thanks for your time, Reverend.”

Caldwell nodded, and his little smile returned. “Come to services Sunday. We have the ten o’clock hour. You’ll meet others of the faithful.”

“Yes,” Grant temporized. “Of course.”

“Perhaps if you meet others of your own age it will help you to adjust to your new life.”

“Perhaps,” Grant said.

He shook hands with the minister and turned to walk up the aisle and out of the chapel, thinking, The Lord helps those who help themselves. But what can I do to help myself? What can I do when Dr. Wo is against me?