Stasheff, Christopher – St Vidicon to the Rescue

 

Prologue

 

THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. VIDICON OF CATHODE

 

"Praise God, from Whom electrons flow! Praise Him, the Source of all we know! Whose order's in the stellar host! For in machines, He is the Ghost!"

 

"Father Vidicon," Monsignor reproved, "that air has a blasphemous ring."

 

"Merely irreverent, Monsignor." Father Vidicon peered at the oscilloscope and adjusted the pedestal on Camera Two. "But then, you're a Dominican."

 

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

 

"Simply that what you hear may not be what I said." Father Vidicon leaned over to the switcher and punched up color bars.

 

"He has a point." Brother Anson looked up from the TBC circuit board he was diagnosing. "I thought it quite reverent."

 

"You would; it was sung." The Monsignor knew that Brother Anson was a Franciscan. "How much longer must I delay my rehearsal, Father Vidicon? I've an archbishop and two cardinals waiting!"

 

"You can begin when the camera tube decides to work, Monsignor." Father Vidicon punched up Camera Two again, satisfied that the oscilloscope was reading correctly. "If you insist on bringing in cardinals, you must be prepared for a breakdown."

 

"I really don't see why a red cassock would cause so much trouble," the Monsignor grumbled.

 

"You wouldn't; you're a director. But these old camera tubes just don't like red." Father Vidicon adjusted the chrominance. "Of course, if you could talk His Holiness into affording a few digital cameras …"

 

"Father Vidicon, you know what they cost! And we've been the Church of the Poor for a century!"

 

"Four centuries, more likely, Monsignor—ever since Calvin lured the bourgeoisie away from us."

 

"We've as many Catholics as we had in 1355," Brother Anson maintained stoutly.

 

 

"Yes, that was right after the Black Death, wasn't it? And the population of the world's grown a bit since then. I hate to be a naysayer, Brother Anson, but we've only a tenth as many of the faithful as we had in 1960. And from the attraction Reverend Sun is showing, we'll be lucky if we have a tenth of that by the end of the year."

 

"We've a crisis in cameras at the moment," the Monsignor reminded. "Could you refrain from discussing the Crisis of Faith until they're fixed?"

 

"Oh, they're working—now." Father Vidicon threw the capping switch and shoved himself away from the camera control unit "They'll work excellently for you now, Monsignor, until you start recording."

 

The Monsignor reddened. "And why should they break down then?"

 

"Because that's when you'll need them most." Father Vidicon grinned. 'Television equipment is subject to Murphy's Law, Monsignor."

 

"I wish you were a bit less concerned with Murphy's Law and a bit more with Christ's!"

 

Father Vidicon shrugged. "If it suits the Lord's purpose to give authority over entropy into the hands of the Imp of the Perverse, who am I to question Him?"

 

"For the sake of Heaven, Father Vidicon, what has the Imp of the Perverse to do with Murphy's Law?" the Monsignor cried.

 

Father Vidicon shrugged again. "Entropy is the loss of energy within a system, which is self-defeating; that's perversity. And Murphy's Law is perverse. Therefore, both of them, and the Imp, are corollary to Finagle's General Statement: 'The perversity of the universe tends toward maximum.'"

 

"Father Vidicon," Monsignor said severely, "you'll burn as a heretic some day."

 

"Oh, not in this day and age. If the Church condemns me, I can simply join Reverend Sun's church, like so many of our erstwhile flock." Seeing the Monsignor turn purple, he turned to the door, adding quickly, "Nonetheless, Monsignor, if I were you, I'd not forget the Litany of the Cameras before I called

'roll and record.'"

 

"That piece of blasphemy!" the Monsignor exploded. "Father Vidicon, could St. Clare care enough about television to be its patron?"

 

"She did see St. Francis die, though she was twenty miles away at the time—the first Catholic instance of 'television,' 'seeing-at-a-distance.'" Father Vidicon wagged a forefinger. "And St. Genesius is officially the patron of showfolk."

 

 

"Of actors, I'll remind you—and we've none of those here!"

 

"Yes, I know—I've seen your programs. But do remember St. Jude, Monsignor."

 

"The patron of the desperate? Why?"

 

"No, the patron of lost causes—and with those antique cameras, you'll need him."

 

The door opened, and a monk stepped in. "Father Vidicon, you're summoned to His Holiness."

 

Father Vidicon blanched.

 

"You'd best remember St. Jude yourself, Father," the Monsignor gloated. Then his face softened into a gentle frown. "And, Lord help us—so had we all."

 

Father Vidicon knelt and kissed the Pope's ring, with a surge of relief—if the ring was offered, things couldn't be all that bad.

 

"On your feet," Pope Clement said grimly.

 

Father Vidicon scrambled up. "Come now, Your Holiness! You know it's all just in fun! A bit irreverent, perhaps, but nonetheless only levity! I don't really believe in Maxwell's Demon—not quite.

And I know Finagle's General Statement is really fallacious—the perversity's in us, not in the universe.

And St. Clare…"

 

"Peace, Father Vidicon," His Holiness said wearily. "I'm sure your jokes aren't a threat to the Church—and I'm not particularly worried by irreverence. I don't really think the Lord minds a joke now and then. But I've called you here for something a bit more serious than your contention that Christ acted as a civil engineer when He said that Peter was a rock, and upon that rock He'd build His Church."

 

"Oh." Father Vidicon tried to look appropriately grave. "If it's that feedback squeal in the public address system in St. Peter's, I'll do what I can, but…"

 

"No, I'm afraid it's a bit more critical." The hint of a smile tugged at the Pope's lips. "You're aware that the faithful have been leaving us in increasing droves these past twenty years, of course."

 

Father Vidicon shrugged "What can you expect, Your Holiness? With television turning everyone toward a Gestalt mode of thought, they've become more and more inclined toward mysticism, needing doctrines embracing the Cosmos and making them feel vitally integrated with it, but the Church still offers only petrified dogma and logical reasoning. Of course they'll turn to ecstatics, to a video demagogue like Reverend Sun, with his hodgepodge of T'ai-Ping Christianity, Taoism, and Zen Buddhism…"

 

 

"Yes, yes, I know the theories." His Holiness waved Father Vidicon's words away, covering his eyes with the other palm. "Spare me your McLuhanist cant, Father. But you'll be glad to know the Council has just finished deciding which parts of Teilhard's theories are compatible with Catholic doctrine."

 

"Which means Your Holiness has finally talked them into it!" Father Vidicon gusted out a huge sigh of relief. "At last!"

 

"Yes, I can't help thinking how nice it must have been to be Pope in, say, 1890," His Holiness agreed, "when the Holy See had a bit more authority and a bit less need of persuasion." He heaved a sigh of his own and clasped his hands on the desktop. "And it's come just in time. Reverend Sun is speaking to the General Assembly Monday morning—and you'll never guess what his topic will be."

 

"How the Church is a millstone around the neck of every nation in the world." Father Vidicon nodded grimly. "Priests who don't pass on their genes, Catholics not attempting birth control and thereby contributing to overpopulation, Church income withheld from taxation—it's become a rather familiar bit of rhetoric."

 

"Indeed it has; most of his followers can recite it chapter and verse. But this time, my sources assure me he intends to go quite a bit further—to ask the Assembly for a recommendation for all U.N.

member nations to adopt legislation making all these 'abuses' illegal."

 

Father Vidicon's breath hissed in. "And with so large a percentage of the electorate in every country being Sunnite…"

 

"It amounts to virtual outlawing of the Roman Catholic Church. Yes." His Holiness nodded. "And I need hardly remind you, Father, that the current majority in the Italian government are Sunnite Communists."

 

Father Vidicon stared. "They'll begin by annexing the Vatican!" He had a sudden nightmarish vision of a Sunnite prayer meeting in the Sistine Chapel.

 

"We'll all be looking for new lodgings," the Pope said drily. "So you'll understand, Father, that it's rather important that I tell the faithful of the whole world, before then, about the Council's recent action."

 

"Your Holiness will speak on television!" Father Vidicon cried. "But that's wonderful! You'll be

…"

 

"My blushes, Father Vidicon. I'm well aware that you consider me to have an inborn affinity for the video medium."

 

"The charisma of John Paul II with the appeal of John the XXIII!" Father Vidicon asserted. "But what a waste, that you'll not appear in the studio!"

 

"I'm not fond of viewing myself as the chief drawing card for a sideshow," His Holiness said sardonically. "Still, I'm afraid it has become necessary. The Curia has spoken with Eurovision, Afrovision, PanAsia-vision, PanAmerivision, and even Intervision. They're all, even the Communists, willing to carry us for fifteen minutes …"

 

"Cardinal Beluga is a genius of diplomacy!" Father Vidicon murmured.

 

"Yes, and all the nations are worried about the growth of Sun's church within their borders, with all that it implies of large portions of their citizenry taking orders from Singapore. Under the circumstances, we've definitely become the lesser of two evils, in their eyes."

 

"I suppose that's a compliment," Father Vidicon said doubtfully.

 

"Let's think of it that way, shall we? The bottleneck, of course, was the American commercial networks; they're only willing to carry me early Sunday morning."

 

"Yes, they only worry about religion when it begins to affect sales," Father Vidicon said thoughtfully. "So I take it Your Holiness will appear about 2:00 P.M.?"

 

"Which is early morning in Chicago, yes. Other countries have agreed to record the speech and replay it at a more suitable hour. It'll go by satellite, of course…"

 

"As long as we pay for it."

 

"Naturally. And if there's a failure of transmission at our end, the networks are not liable to give us postponed time."

 

"Your Holiness!" Father Vidicon threw his arms wide. "You wound me! Of course I'll see to it there's no transmission error!"

 

"No offense intended, Father Vidicon—but I'm rather aware that the transmitter I've given you isn't exactly the most recent model."

 

"What can you expect, from donations? Besides, Your Holiness, British Marconi made excellent transmitters in 1990! No, Italy and southern France will receive us perfectly. But it would help if you could invest in a few spare parts for the converter that feeds the satellite earth station …"

 

"Whatever that may be. Buy whatever you need, Father Vidicon. Just be certain our signal is transmitted. You may go now."

 

"Don't worry, Your Holiness! Your voice shall be heard and your face seen, even though the Powers of Darkness rise up against me!"

 

"Including Maxwell's Demon?" His Holiness said dourly. "And the Imp of the Perverse?"

 

"Don't worry, Your Holiness." Father Vidicon made a circle of his thumb and middle finger. "I've dealt with them before."

 

"The good souls flocked liked homing doves,'" Father Vidicon sang, "or they will after they've heard our Pope's little talk." He closed the access panel of the transmitter. "There! Every part certified in the green! I've even dusted every circuit board… How's that backup transmitter, Brother Anson?"

 

"I've replaced two chips so far," Brother Anson answered from the bowels of the ancient device.

"Not that they were bad, you understand—but I had my doubts."

 

"I'll never question a Franciscan's hunches." Father Vidicon laced his fingers across his midriff and sat back. "Did you check the converter to the earth station?"

 

"'Converter'?" Brother Anson's head and shoulders emerged, covered with dust. "You mean that huge resistor in the gray box?"

 

Father Vidicon nodded. "The very one."

 

"A bit primitive, isn't it?"

 

Father Vidicon shrugged. "There isn't time to get a proper one, now—and it's all they've given me money for, ever since I was 'promoted' to Chief Engineer. Besides, all we really need, to do is to drop our fifty-thousand-watt transmitter signal down to something the earth station can handle."

 

Brother Anson shrugged. "If you say so, Father. I should think that would kick up a little interference, though."

 

"Well, we can't be perfect—not on the kind of budget we're given, anyhow. Just keep reminding yourself, Brother, that most of our flock still live in poverty; they need a bowl of millet more than a clear picture."

 

"I can't argue with that. Anyway, I did check the resistor. How many ohms does it provide?"

 

"About as many as you do, Brother. How'd it test out?"

 

"Fine, Father, it's sound."

 

"Or will be, till we go on the air." Father Vidicon nodded. "Well, I've got two spares handy. Let the worst that can happen, happen! I'm more perverse than Finagle!"

 

 

The door slammed open, and the Monsignor was leaning against the jamb. "Father… Vidicon!" he panted. "It's … catastrophe!"

 

"Finagle," Brother Anson muttered, but Father Vidicon was on his feet. "What is it, Monsignor?

What's happened?"

 

"Reverend Sun! He discovered the Pope's plans and has talked the U.N. into scheduling his speech for Friday morning!"

 

Father Vidicon stood, galvanized for a second. Then he snapped, "The networks! Can they air His Holiness early?"

 

"Cardinal Beluga's on three phones now, trying to patch it together! If he brings it off, can you be ready?"

 

"Oh, we can be ready!" Father Vidicon glanced at the clock. "Thursday, 4:00 P.M. We need an hour. Anytime after that, Monsignor."

 

"Bless you!" the Monsignor turned away. "I'll tell His Holiness."

 

"Come on, Brother Anson." Father Vidicon advanced on the backup transmitter, catching up his tool kit "Let's get this beast back on line!"

 

"Five minutes till air!" the Monsignor's voice rasped over the intercom. "Make it good, reverend gentlemen! Morning shows all over the world are giving us fifteen minutes—but not a second longer!

And Reverend Sun's coming right behind us, live from the U.N."

 

Father Vidicon and Brother Anson were on their knees, hands clasped. Father Vidicon intoned,

"Saint Clare, patron of television …"

 

"… pray for us," finished Brother Anson.

 

"Saint Genesius, patron of showfolk…"

 

"One minute!" snapped the Monsignor. "Roll and record!"

 

"… pray for us," murmured Brother Anson.

 

"Rolling and recording," responded the recording engineer.

 

"Saint Jude, patron of lost causes …"

 

 

"… pray for us," murmured Brother Anson.

 

"Slate it!" Then, "Bars and tone!"

 

They could hear the thousand-cycle test tone in the background, whining. Then it began beeping at one-second intervals.

 

"Ready mike and cue, ready up on one!"

 

"Five!" called the assistant director. "Four! Three!"

 

"Black! Clip tone!" the Monsignor cried. "Mike him! Cue him! Up on One!"

 

Television screens all over the world lit up with the grave but faintly-smiling image of the Pope.

"Dearly beloved in Christ…"

 

The picture flickered.

 

Father Vidicon darted a glance at the converter. Its tally light was dead. Beside it, the light glowed atop the back-up converter.

 

"Quick! The big one died!" Father Vidicon yanked open the top of the long gray box and wrenched out the burned-out resistor.

 

"There are a few points of theology on which we can't agree with Reverend Sun," His Holiness was saying. "Foremost among these is his concept of the Trinity. We just can't agree that Reverend Sun is himself the third Person, the 'younger son' of God…"

 

Brother Anson slapped the spare resistor into Father Vidicon's palm.

 

"… nor is the sharing of a marijuana cigarette a valid form of worship, in the Church's eyes," the Pope went on. "But the Council does agree that…"

 

The screen went dark.

 

Father Vidicon shoved the spare into its clips and threw the routing switch.

 

The screen glowed again. "… have always been implicit in Catholic doctrine," His Holiness was saying, "but the time has come to state their implications. First among these is the notion of 'levels of reality.' Everything that exists is real; but God is the Source of reality, as He is the Source of everything.

And the metaphor of 'the breath of God' for the human soul means that…"

 

"Yes, it's gone." Father Vidicon yanked the burned-out resistor out of the backup "The manufacturers must think they can foist off all their defectives on the Church."

 

Brother Anson took the lump of char and gave him a new resistor. "That's our last spare, Father Vidicon."

 

Father Vidicon shoved it into its clips. "What're the odds against three of these blowing in a space of ten minutes?"

 

"Gunderson's Corollary," Brother Anson agreed.

 

Father Vidicon slapped down the cover. "We're up against perversity, Brother Anson."

 

The tally blinked out on the main converter as the little red light on the backup glowed into life.

 

"We're out of spares," Brother Anson groaned.

 

"Maybe it's just a connection!" Father Vidicon yanked open the cover. "Only four minutes left."

 

"Is it the resistor, Father?"

 

"You mean this piece of slag?"

 

"… the oneness, the unity of the cosmos, has always been recognized by Holy Mother Church," the Pope was saying. "Christ's parable about the 'lilies of the field' serves as an outstanding example. All that exists is within God. In fact, the architecture of the medieval churches…"

 

A picture of the Cathedral of Notre Dame appeared on the screen. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the decorative carving …

 

… and the screen went blank.

 

"It died, Father Vidicon," Brother Anson moaned.

 

"Well, you fight fire with fire." Father Vidicon yanked out the dead resistor. "And this is perversity!" He seized the lead from the transmitter in his left and the lead to the earth station in his right.

 

Around the world, screens glowed back into life.

 

"… and as there is unity in all of Creation," the Pope went on, "so is there unity in all the major religions. The same cosmic truths can be found in all, and the points on which we agree are more important than the ones on which we disagree—saving, of course, the Godhood of Christ, and of the Holy Spirit. But as long as a Catholic remembers that he is a Catholic, there can certainly be no fault in his learning from other faiths, if he uses this as a path toward greater understanding of his own." He clasped his hands and smiled gently. "May God bless you all."

 

And his picture faded from the screen, "We're off!" shouted the Monsignor. "That was masterful!"

 

In the transmitter room, Brother Anson chanted the Dies Irae, tears in his eyes.

 

The Pope moved out of the television studio, carefully composed over the exhaustion that always resulted from a television appearance. The Monsignor dashed out of the control room to drop to his knees and wring the Pope's hand. "Congratulations, Your Holiness! It was magnificent!"

 

"Thank you, Monsignor," the Pope murmured, "but let's judge it by the results, shall we?"

 

"Your Holiness!" Another Monsignor came running up. "Madrid just called! The people are piling into the confessionals—even the men!"

 

"Your Holiness!" cried a cardinal. "It's Prague! The faithful are flocking to the cathedral!"

 

"Your Holiness—New York City! The people are streaming into the churches!"

 

"Your Holiness—Reverend Sun just cancelled his U.N. speech!"

 

"Your Holiness! People are kneeling in front of churches all over Italy, calling for the priests!"

 

"It's the Italian government, Your Holiness! They send their highest regards and assurances of continued friendship!"

 

"Your Holiness," Brother Anson choked out, "Father Vidicon is dead."

 

They canonized him eventually, of course—there was no question that he'd died for the Faith. But the miracles started right away.

 

In Paris, a computer programmer with a very tricky program knew it was almost guaranteed to hang. But he prayed to Father Vidicon to put in a good word for him with the Lord, and the program ran without a hitch.

 

Art Rolineux, directing coverage of the Super Bowl, had eleven of his twelve cameras die on him, and the twelfth started blooming. He sent up a quick prayer to Father Vidicon, and five cameras came back on-line.

 

Ground Control was tracking a newly-launched satellite when it suddenly disappeared from their screens. "Father Vidicon, protect us from Finagle!" a controller cried out, and the blip reappeared.

 

 

Miracles? Hard to prove—it could've been coincidence. It always can, with electronic equipment.

But as the years flowed by, engineers and computer programmers and technicians all over the world began counting the prayers, and the numbers of projects and programs saved—and word got around, as it always does. So the day after the Pope declared him to be a saint, the signs went up on the back wall of every computer room and control booth in the world: "St. Vidicon of Cathode, pray for us!"

 

Chapter 1

 

The door was all glass with the company's name and logo etched in: RODRIGO AND

ASSOCIATES Market Analysis. Inside all was chrome, glass, and plush. Everyone was dressed to the nines, so Tony was glad he had elected to wear a suit that day, even if it was somewhat rumpled.

Computer troubleshooters didn't have to dress up, but Tony tried to fit in with the employees at whatever company he was visiting. From the Wall Street address, he'd guessed these people believed in formality.

 

He pushed on through the door. The receptionist looked up with a smile. "Good morning. What can I do for you?"

 

Tony stepped up to the desk and handed the young man his card. "Business Systems Solutions."

 

"Ah." The receptionist nodded and gestured toward a chair. "Would you like to sit down? Ms.

Clavier will be with you in a moment.”

 

"Thanks." Tony stepped over and sank down into plush so thick it seemed to embrace him—not an entirely pleasant experience. He took advantage of the opportunity to give the reception area a more thorough examination. Everything screamed "Now!" and "Rich!" The receptionist's desktop was thick glass, its legs chrome; the floor was thick burgundy carpet with such a deep pile that it had to be synthetic. The only organic note was the walnut panelling, and it seemed out of place. Rich, but out of place. The room was obviously designed to impress visitors with the firm's wealth and stability, both rather necessary on Wall Street.

 

A young woman came in, and Tony forgot to breathe for a minute or two. She was beautiful, that was all there was to it, from the auburn hair cut in a sleek bob to the tailored jacket and skirt that let eighteen inches of shapely calf show above the slender shoes. But it was her face that really caught Tony's attention, the look of a pixie grown up—and she was coming toward him!

 

"Mr. Ricci?" She held out a hand. "I'm Sandra Clavier, the company's network administrator."

 

Tony stood and took her hand as his stomach sank; network administrators didn't like calling for help. If you had to bring in an outside specialist, it meant you didn't know everything about your job.

Normally it didn't bother him, but the other people he dealt with weren't quietly gorgeous. Nonetheless, he managed to screw up his courage, and say, "Puh-pleased to meet you, Ms. Clavier."

 

"Call me Sandy," she invited, "and if you can make our computers work smoothly again, I'll be very pleased to have met you." She turned toward the door.

 

"I'll show you to a cubicle where you can work, if you'll follow me."

 

Tony would have followed her anywhere for the sheer joy of it. The graceful sway was hypnotizing and made him feel like a lumbering elephant as he followed.

 

Well, no, a lumbering log was more like it—Tony was lean, at least; all his working out did that much for him. Other than that, following a fascinating creature like this, he felt awkward and weird, like a gargoyle in a jacket and tie. His hair was the color of straw and not much more manageable; he knew his nose was too long, his eyes too narrow, and his chin too much of a lump. He might not be all that bad to look at most of the time, but compared to Sandra Clavier, he must be downright ugly.

 

She led him through a door and into a huge room filled with standard-issue cubicles. She navigated the maze with ease and stopped by a gray-walled enclosure like all the rest, except that it held only a chair, desk, and filing cabinet; the desktop was bare, and so were the walls. "We cleared one for you to work with," Ms. Clavier said. "If there's anything else you need, just give me a call; I'm extension two-eight-four-one."

 

'Two-eight-four-one," Tony repeated, that being all he could think of to say, and sat down so that he would look a little less awkward. He should have booted the desktop, but that would have required looking away from her. "You've been having interruptions in service?"

 

"Yes, the strangest kind." Sandy frowned, and Tony stopped breathing again. "I've never seen a virus like this one. Every now and then, for no reason I can pinpoint, all the screens go blank. Then text starts to scroll up, bits and tags of some story in a weird archaic style, like something out of the King James Bible—but the Bible doesn't describe a modern man going down the road to Hell."

 

Not having read the Book, Tony frowned and tried to look wise. "That's a new one on me, too. Any idea what triggers it?"

 

"None." Sandy was beginning to sound exasperated. "I've asked everyone to keep logging their work, and whenever one of the interruptions occurred, I had them print out the few minutes before and went through them—but I can't find any word or phrase that's entered every time. No number, either, for that matter."

 

"A real puzzle." Tony grinned in spite of himself, then tried to squelch it.

 

But Sandy smiled. "You like puzzles too, huh? Well, I guess it goes with the territory. Do you want the printouts?"

 

"If you don't mind." Tony nodded, then took refuge in more talk about the problem—what else could he say to a creature like this? "How long do the interruptions last?"

 

 

"Six minutes," Sandy said. "Always six minutes to the second; I've timed them. Then the screens revert to the current work without any changes at all, almost as though it had been saved." She sighed.

"No damage, really—just a very frustrating inconvenience. Add up all the interruptions, and it's really hurting productivity. Six minutes is enough to break a worker's concentration so badly that it takes a while to get it back, so it's costing the company a great deal of time—especially since the staff has figured out that the interruptions always last just long enough to work in an extra coffee break. Then it takes another five minutes to get them back to their desks and working again." She shook her head, clearly frazzled.

 

"Sounds like you're being hacked, sure enough," Tony said. "Well, let me talk to your mainframe and see what I can find."

 

"A cure, I hope." Sandy flashed him a dazzling smile. "Get that priest out of our system, Mr. Ricci, and I'll owe you a big one."

 

Priest?

 

She turned and glided away. Tony watched the folds of her suit amplify her movements as long as he could, then turned away with a distinct sense of disappointment and reached down to power up the desktop.

 

As it booted, he let himself envision Sandy's face. Contemplating the memory, he wondered why she had cast such a spell over him. He forced himself to be as analytical as possible—it was the only defense against the emotions she raised—and had to admit that she was only moderately pretty; the suit only hinted at a figure, and neither the tilt of her nose nor the curve of her lip was exceptional—until she smiled, of course—and her complexion wasn't quite flawless. The slight touches of makeup were applied perfectly, but Tony was old enough to know the difference between art and nature, though he had to admire skill. He decided it was her eyes that had cast the spell over him. They were dark, a wonderful shade of green (like old jade, he thought) with long, thick lashes; very, very large—and, Tony decided, horribly distracting.

 

He'd never been very good at talking with women, though, so as the terminal screen unfolded from the top of the desk, revealing a glass window through which he saw a keyboard, he banished the vision of jade eyes and turned his attention to the glowing rectangle. He plugged in his laptop and ran the diagnostic program. The screen lit up with the trademark for a few seconds; then the results box came up. Tony glanced and nodded; as he'd expected, the hardware was sound. He hit a few keys, and the diagnostics program began checking the software. It had almost finished, showing no viruses or unauthorized programs, when the screen went blank.

 

Tony stared; this wasn't the usual procedure.

 

Then white type started scrolling up the screen and merry calls echoed from cubicle to cubicle.

 

Chairs rolled and footsteps hissed across carpet as the workers, chatting gaily, headed toward the coffeemaker.

 

Tony stayed in place, of course, running program after program with staccato bursts of keystrokes, trying to track the streaming letters to their source and ignoring the happy conversation in the coffee alcove. With his gaze mostly on his laptop's screen, he caught only quick glimpses of the text on the terminal, but those piqued his curiosity savagely. Still, while the program was actually running was golden time, and he didn't dare pay attention to anything but his own trace programs.

 

Then the last line of type scrolled off the top of the screen. Tony watched the blank rectangle, fingers poised, and in the alcove, somebody called, "Okay, six minutes. Back to work."

 

As though it had heard him, the screen came to life with its virtual desktop.

 

Tony relaxed, sitting back and studying the test readouts on his laptop screen.

 

A soft footstep made him look up, then freeze, because Sandy was leaning on the cubicle screen and smiling down at him. "That tell you anything?"

 

Tony threw off the strange paralysis she induced and gestured at his laptop. "Yeah, a little bit. As far as I can tell, the problem's in the system."

 

"Inside?" Sandy frowned. "You mean it's not coming from outside?"

 

Tony managed to start breathing again—even her frowns were affecting him—and said, "The signal originated inside the mainframe."

 

"Then it's infected." Sandy's frown darkened with concern. "Can you kill the virus?"

 

"Can't say for sure." Tony turned his gaze resolutely to the laptop screen. "I'll give it everything I've got."

 

"I hope you can," Sandy said. "It's going to be very, very expensive if we have to junk the mainframe."

 

"We can put in a new one in twenty-four hours," Tony said, "but let's not play the funeral hymn until we're sure it's dead. After all, I've got a lot of results to analyze."

 

"Oh." Sandy's face cleared. "Of course—while the text was scrolling, you were running test programs and saving the results. You haven't had a chance to check them yet."

 

Tony nodded. "It's going to take some time. If my bugcatcher doesn't find the problem, I'll have to print out the code and analyze it line by line."

 

 

Sandra shuddered. "I wish you luck."

 

"Thanks." Tony started hitting keys and studying results; he was about to turn and tell Sandra the latest (negative) report when he realized she'd gone. He sighed and let the bugcatcher run. While it did, he called up the code and scanned it quickly. With just a light once-over, it looked to be the standard operating system, nothing different, nothing alien.

 

Then he realized that the virus might be buried in the text of the story itself.

 

He cleared the code and opened the log of the text. He started to scan it, too, but within two lines, he was caught and found himself reading the story.

 

When that the blessed Father Vidicon did seize upon a high-voltage line and did cleave unto it, aye, even unto death, so that the words of our blessed Holy Father the Pope might reach out through the satellites to all the television transmitters of the world, for the saving of our most Holy and Catholic Church—aye, when that Father Vidicon did thus die for the Faith and did pass into one enduring instant of blinding pain, he was upheld and sustained by the knowledge that, dying a martyr, he would pass straightway to Heaven and be numbered among the Blest.

 

How great was his dismay, then, to find himself, as pain dimmed and awareness returned, to be falling through darkness amidst a cold that did sear his very soul—for in truth, he was naught but soul.

Distantly did he espy certain suns, knew thereby that he did pass through the Void, and that his eternal fall was not truly so, but was only the absence of gravity. Indeed, he knew the place for an absence of all, and fear bit him sharply—for thus, he knew, must Hell be: a place of lacking, an absence of being.

 

Then, in his terror, did he cry out in anger, "My God! For Thee did I give my life! Wherefore hast Thou doomed me?" Yet no sooner were the words said than he did repent, and cursed himself for a faithless fool, thus to doubt even now in death, that the Christ would uphold him.

 

And straightway on the heels of that thought came the shock of insight—for he saw that, if he did die to cheat the Imp of the Perverse, defeating Finagle himself by his very perversity, he must needs expect reversal of expectation—which is to say that, if he died expecting the vistas of Heaven, he would most certainly discover the enclosures of Hell.

 

Then courage returned, and resolution; for he did come to see that the struggle was not ended, but only begun anew—that if he did desire Heaven, he would have to win to it. Then did he wonder if even the saints, they who dwelt in God, could count their toils ended—or if they chose eternally to struggle

'gainst greater forces.

 

Then did his Mission become clear to him, and the Blessed One knew wherefore he had come to this Void. The enemy 'gainst whom he had striven throughout his life endured still—and now would Father Vidicon confront him and look upon his face.

 

 

With the thought, his fall slowed, and he saw the mouth of a tunnel ope in the darkness before him, and it did glow within, a sullen red. Closer it did come, and wider, stretching and yawning to swallow him; yet Father Vidicon quailed not, nor attempted to draw back. Nay, bravely he stood, stalwart in nothingness; yea, even eagerly did he strain forward, to set foot upon infirm fungoid flesh and stride into Hellmouth.

 

As he strode, the sullen glow did brighten, gaining heat until he feared it would sear his flesh, then remembered that he had none. Brighter and hotter it flowed, until he turned thorough a bend in its tube and found himself staring upon the Imp of the Perverse.

 

Gross it was, and palpable, swollen with falsehood and twisted with paradoxes. Syllogisms sprouted from its sides, reaching toward Father Vidicon with complexes of bitterness, and it stood, but did not stand, on existential extensions.

 

"Turn back!" roared the Imp in awesome sardonicism. "Regress, retrograde! For none can progress that do come within!"

 

"Avaunt thee!" cried Father Vidicon. "For I know thee of old, bloody Imp! 'Tis thou who doth drive every suicide, thou who doth strengthen the one arm of the Bandit who doth rob the gambler compulsive, thou who doth bring down freezing snow upon the recumbent form of the will-leached narcotic! Nay, I know thee of old and know that he who retreats from thee, must needs pursue thee! Get THEE behind ME—for I shall surpass thee!"

 

"Wilt thou?" cried the Imp. "Then look to thy defense—for I shall undo thee!"

 

So saying, it reached toward Father Vidicon, twisting its hand—and of a sudden, thirst unbearable did seize the priest, a craving that could be slaked only by cheap rum. The Imp did hold out to him a bottle of brown glass with a garish label, and Father Vidicon's hand stretched out seemingly of its own accord. Appalled, the priest did pull back his hand, and the Imp did laugh at the shock that filled his face. "Surrender, cleric," it cried, "for soon or late, thou shalt take of this bottle and drink till that thirst is slaked!"

 

With dismay, Father Vidicon felt his hand rise and fought muscle against muscle to keep it from stretching toward that bottle.

 

A shout of anger escaped; shocked, Tony realized it had come from his own lips. He stared, astounded— could he really care that much whether or not the fictitious character took a drink? Surely not! He shook off the spell and punched in the commands necessary to reveal the code that underlay the letters. It would be subtle and devious, but the unknown hacker might have buried a virus in the shapes of the letters themselves.

 

The code appeared; he started scanning with a frown. No need to slow down and study—it was all familiar. He could have scanned the whole six minutes' worth, of course, but a sudden hunch had him checking the interval before the message, and sure enough, a few keystrokes brought another burst of code to the screen.

 

Now Tony did slow down and study character by character. This code was new, nothing he had ever seen before. He took a pencil and pad out of his briefcase and started trying to unsnarl it. As he worked, his frown deepened to a scowl. Faster and faster his pencil worked until it was fairly flying across the paper as he tried combination after combination.

 

"Mr. Ricci?"

 

Tony started as though he'd been bitten, head snapping up.

 

"Gee, sorry," Sandy said. "No harm intended."

 

"Me neither." Tony closed his eyes, wiping a hand across them. "Sorry—I was just concentrating so hard…"

 

"I could see that." Sandy smiled. "Think you could use a lunch break?"

 

"Definitely. My brain was beginning to go around in circles." Tony closed his laptop and stood up—

and was amazed how his joints hurt. "Ouch!"

 

"Yes, too intense by far." Sandy smiled. "The restaurant next door is pretty good, nothing special.

There's an excellent Chinese place down in the next block, though."

 

"I probably couldn't tell the difference between pretty good' and 'excellent' anyway," Tony confessed. "The restaurant next door will be fine."

 

They joined the line filing into the elevator, and an uncomfortable silence fell—uncomfortable for Tony, at least. He scanned his memory for possible conversational topics, and tried, "How long have you been here?"

 

'Three years," Sandy said. "It's a good place to work, and I'm learning a lot about telling a good stock from a bad one."

 

"Must come in handy," Tony said "Just knowing how to analyze a stock isn't insider trading, is it?"

 

"Far from it," Sandy said, amused. "In fact, it's very much from the outside."

 

The elevator stopped, and they moved slowly with the tide of other lunch-bound workers. "It does take a lot of research, though," Sandy said.

 

 

"I'll bet." Tony pursed his lips. "How do you start— with a company's earnings report?"

 

"That's one place," Sandy said, "but there are others…"

 

Tony managed to keep her talking for most of the next hour, but he didn't really register much about market research, though he did become an offhand expert on Sandy's hair, on her eyes, her nose, the expressiveness of her lips and gestures. By the time they were back in the office, she was calling him Tony, and he was very much afraid he had fallen in love—afraid because it couldn't be mutual. After all, she was beautiful, and he was a nerd—maybe pretty stylish, as nerds go, but still a nerd.

 

With a sigh, he stepped back into the cubicle and settled into the chair, hoping the streams of numbers would banish the vision of huge eyes and mobile lips. He lit the laptop, picked up his pencil, and began analyzing.

 

It worked; in a few minutes he was so deeply immersed in code that the outside world ceased to exist. He glanced at the desktop from time to time, of course, but most of his attention was on the yellow pad.

 

Then something changed. He glanced at the desktop and saw the screen was blank. His heart leaped; with three keystrokes, he opened a new file and started copying just in time for the first line of type to rise from the bottom of the screen. Dimly, he heard the workers' whoop of delight and their chatter as they moved toward the coffee alcove, but he stayed in his chair, dying to know whether Father Vidicon took the bottle or not.

 

Chapter 2

 

Appalled, the priest did pull back his hand, and the Imp did laugh at the shock that filled his face.

"Surrender, cleric," it cried, "for soon or late, you shall take of this bottle and drink till that thirst is slaked!"

 

With dismay, Father Vidicon felt his hand rise and fought muscle against muscle to keep it from stretching toward that bottle. The Imp's laughter grew till it seemed to fill the whole darkened tunnel, and that cacophony did make the priest feel alone, isolated, with no person or spirit on whom he might draw for strength.

 

But the extremity of that emotion itself was like cold water dashing in his face, waking him from the stupor of despair the Imp of the Perverse had raised in him, making him mindful that no matter where he stood or how isolated he seemed, there was always One from whom all human folk can draw comfort and rely upon for strength.

 

Then a great calm came upon the Blessed One, and he slowly stood straight, smiling gently, and saying, "Nay, I shall not—for I know now that to become defensive is to bend thy sword so that it strikes against thyself. I shall not defend, but offend!" And so saying, he leaped upon the Imp, striking out with his fist.

 

But the Imp raised up a shield, a plane of white metal, flat as a fact and bare as statistics, and polished to so high a gloss that it might not have existed. "See!" cried the Imp, full of glee. "See the monster thine offense hath wrought!"

 

And staring within, Father Vidicon did behold a face twisted with hatred, tortured with self-doubt, barefaced as a lie and bound by the Roman collar of law.

 

Yet the Blessed One did not recoil. Nay, he did not so much as hesitate to question himself or his cause; only, with a voice filled with agony, did he cry, "Oh my Lord! Now preserve me! Give me, I beg of Thee, some weapon against the wiles and malice of this Imp's Shield of Distortion!"

 

He held up his hands in supplication—and Lo! In his left, a blade did appear, gleaming with purity, its edge glittering with exquisite monofilament sharpness—and in the Blessed One's palm, its handle nestled, hollow to the blade folded.

 

The Imp sneered in laughter, and cried, "See how thy master doth requite thee! In exchange for thy life, he doth grant thee naught but a slip of a blade which could not pierce so much as a misapprehension!"

 

But, "Not so," cried Father Vidicon. "for this Razor is Ocram's!"

 

So saying , he slashed out at the shield. The Imp screamed and cowered away—but the Blessed One pursued, slicing at the Shield of Distortion, and crying, "Nay, thou canst not prevail! For I could have wasted eternity wondering where the fault lay in me, that could so twist my face and form into Evil! Yet the truth of it is shown by this Razor as it doth cleave this Shield!"

 

So saying, he swung the blade, and it cleaved the Shield in twain, revealing hidden contours, convexities and concavities of temporizing and equivocating. The Imp screamed in terror, and the Blessed One cried, " 'Tis not my image that is hideous, but thy shield that is warped!"

 

Dropping its shield, the Imp spun away, whirling beyond Father Vidicon to flee toward the Outer Dark.

 

Filled with righteous rage, the Blessed One turned to follow it—but he brought himself up short at a thought, for 'twas almost as though a voice spoke within him, saying, Nay! Thou must not seek to destroy, for thus thou wouldst become thyself an enemy of Being. Contain only, and control; for the supporting of Life will lead Good to triumph; but the pursuit of Destruction in itself doth defeat good!

 

The Blessed One bowed his head in chagrin— and there, even there in the throat of Hell, did he kneel and join his hands in penitence. "Pardon, my Master, that in my weakness, I would have forgotten the commandment of Thine example." And he held up the Razor on his open palm, praying, "Take again the instrument wrought for Thee by Thy faithful servant William. I need it not, now, for thou, oh God, art my strength and my shield; with Thee, I need naught."

 

Light winked along the length of the blade, and it was gone.

 

Father Vidicon stood up then, naked of weapons and devoid of defense, yet his heart was light and his resolution was strengthened. "Whither Thou wilt lead me, my Lord," he murmured, "I shall go, and with what adversaries Thou wilt confront me, I shall contend."

 

So saying, he strode forth down the throat of Hell, but the song that rose to his lips was a psalm.

 

The last line scrolled off the top of the screen just as someone called, "Six minutes!" and sure enough, the lines of code flashed across the screen again. Tony was surprized to find he was as disappointed to have no more story to read, as he was happy for Father Vidicon.

 

Regretfully, he looked up from his laptop—to see Sandy standing at the doorway to his cubicle, leaning on one of the screens with a smile.

 

"I don't know what you did, troubleshooter," Sandy said, "but you fixed our system."

 

Tony stared at her—not hard to do—while he let the statement soak in. Of course, he hadn't done anything.

 

Then he realized that St. Vidicon's victory had probably also chased the Imp out of the mainframe.

Of course, it could also be that, having contacted Tony, the priest had pulled his story out—but Tony instantly discounted the idea; he wasn't that important.

 

"Glad to help." Tony didn't like claiming credit for other people's work, but under the circumstances, there wasn't much choice. He closed the laptop and stood up. "I can't be sure the fix will last, though. If you have any more trouble, give me a call." He slipped a business card out of his pocket and held it out, then with a sudden inspiration turned it over and wrote on the back. He handed it to Sandy. "That's my home number. Computer problems don't always happen during business hours." It was a good excuse, anyway.

 

"Thanks, soldier." The merry glint in Sandy's eye told him he hadn't fooled her for a second. "How about a drink to celebrate? On the company's tab, of course."

 

"I'd love to. Just a sec …" Tony disconnected the cable that joined his laptop to the terminal and packed them both. "Okay, let's go."

 

Off they went, down the central aisle between cubicles, and Tony sailed blithely through a gamut of dagger glares from people who had just lost their extra coffee breaks. Tony was impervious to their resentment—he was going for a drink with a beautiful girl.

 

 

As the door closed behind them, Sandy shuddered. "I hate being stared at!"

 

"Really?" Tony asked. "I should think you'd be used to it. Not that kind of stare, of course."

 

Sandy frowned up at him. "Why would I be used to it?"

 

"Because you're a beautiful woman," Tony said. "Men must stare at you all the time."

 

Sandy blushed and looked away, and Tony suddenly realized he might have been a little too frank.

 

"I'm not beautiful," Sandy said. "Well, maybe kind of pretty, but not much."

 

Tony was flabbergasted. How could the woman not know how lovely she was? "You must have noticed men watching you."

 

"Sure, but that's because they don't know how to run their computers, and I do. They want to ask but they can't take the blow to their pride."

 

Tony was surprized at her bitterness. "It never occurred to you that it might be because you're"—

opening the door of the cocktail lounge gave him a chance to catch himself, and to pause long enough to keep from saying "beautiful" again—"attractive?"

 

"No, but it's nice of you to say so." Sandy gave him a smile that lit up the gloom of the lounge. She paused by a table just long enough for Tony to pull out a chair. She flashed him another smile as she sat.

 

Tony sat next to her. "I'm surprized to hear that you think men would resent a female computer guru. The guys I know are delighted when they find a woman who knows code."

 

"Sure, but you're engineers," Sandy said.

 

The conversation was shelved as the server came up to take their order. As he went, Tony turned back to Sandy. "Sorry, but I need to correct a mistaken impression. Being an engineer doesn't mean we don't know how to talk about anything but our work."

 

"I know that from the inside now," Sandy said, "but I didn't learn to write code in college. If you'll pardon me for saying it, women must have been in short supply in your major."

 

"Yeah, but we all found ways to make social contacts," Tony said. "Me, I volunteered for tech work in the college theater. One of my buddies got a job at a fast-food place, and another joined the student radio station. We didn't get many dates, but at least we got to talk to girls."

 

Sandy laughed, a sound that struck Tony as distinctly musical. "Still, finding a girl you could talk computers with must have been a treat."

 

"It didn't happen much in college," Tony said. "Of course, now that I'm in the working world, I'm running into more and more of you—though I'll have to admit some of them wear glasses they don't need, tie their hair in buns, and don't wear makeup."

 

"Yeah." The bitterness was back. "A girl shouldn't have to be plain for guys to believe she knows what she's talking about."

 

"Or to resent her for knowing it?" Tony risked looking into her eyes and smiled. "I'm glad you practice what you preach."

 

"I'm glad you can appreciate it." Almost reluctantly, Sandy smiled again.

 

"Oh, believe me, I can."

 

"Which?" The smiled hardened. "My not dressing down, or my knowledge?"

 

"Yes," Tony said.

 

Sandy stared at him, then laughed. The waiter must have taken it as a signal, because he brought their drinks.

 

All in all, it turned into a very pleasant evening, and even though Tony did get to take the taxi to Sandy's apartment building and got away with walking her up the steps to the door, there wasn't any sign that he had been promoted from business associate to friend. Sighing as he went back to the cab, he told himself that these things take time.

 

He wondered if he would have any more of her time to take.

 

Ridiculous! He shook off the mood as he came in the door, took off his coat, sat down at his own computer and banished the screen saver with a flick of the mouse. Time to work on the program he'd been frittering around with. He wondered why the prospect didn't fill him with the excitement it usually did, then decided he must be more tired than usual. He'd fiddle with it for fifteen minutes or so, though, and see if the pleasure of writing code didn't banish the weariness.

 

He puttered around, trying one approach after another, then on a whim decided to try a four-dimensional structure.

 

It made sense.

 

Unfortunately, it made sense because the lines of code had turned into lines of words. Tony barely had time to start capturing before the end of the second sentence.

 

 

Long did St. Vidicon stride onward down that darkly ruddy throat, till he began to tire—then heard a roar behind him, rising in pitch and loud-ness as though it approached. Looking back, he saw.. .

 

Saw what? Did it have to break off right there? Blood pounding—though whether at his eagerness to solve the puzzle or his hunger to follow Father Vidi-con's adventures, was hard to say. Tony entered a dozen lines of code into the desktop, then ran the four-dimensional structure—and the code turned into lines of biblical English, scrolling slowly up the screen. Enthralled, Tony read, the maroon hallway becoming clearer and clearer to him—until he realized, with a shock, that it was real, or virtually so. If he looked up or down, he saw not acoustical tile nor gray carpet but moist and pulsating blood-red curves

—and if he looked ahead, he saw Father Vidicon striding down that sinister throat.

 

On the other hand, Tony couldn't see his own body.

 

He was an objective viewer, then. As a disembodied presence, he drifted after Father Vidicon.

 

Looking back, Father Vidicon saw an airplane approaching, the propeller at its nose a blur. He stared, amazed that so large an object could navigate so small a space, then realized that it was a model.

Further, he realized that it swooped directly at him, as shrewdly as though it had been aimed. "Duck and cover!" he cried, and threw himself to the floor, arms clasped over his head. The aircraft snored on past him, whereupon he did look up to remark upon it, but heard the pitch of its propeller drop and slow as the craft did lower, then touch its wheels to the palpitating deck and taxi to a halt, its propeller slowing until it stopped.

 

Father Vidicon stared in wonder, then frowned; it seemed too much a coincidence, too opportune, that a conveyance should present itself when be was wearied. Still, a machine was a challenge he could not ignore; the thrill of operating a strange device persisted even after life; so he did quicken his steps until he stood beside a fuselage not much longer than himself, with an open cockpit into which he might squeeze himself— and so he did.

 

Instantly the propeller kicked into motion, in seconds blurring to a scintillating disk, and the aircraft lurched ahead, bouncing and jogging till it roared aloft and shot onward down that darkling throat. St.

Vidicon, no stranger to ill chance, searched for a seat belt, but there was none, and shivered with the omission. The plane's arrival might be mere chance, the lack of a seat belt might be only coincidence, but he braced himself for a third, and surely planned, unpleasant occurrence.

 

Sure enough, the engine coughed, then sputtered, then died; he stared in horror at a propeller that slowed to a halt. Galvanized by ill fortune, he seized the wheel, set his feet to the rudder pedals, and glanced at his gauges. There was fuel, so he dealt with malfunction.

 

Enough! The plane did tilt downward, rushing toward that obscene and gelid floor. Father Vidicon did haul back upon the wheel and the nose did tilt upward again. Relying on what little he'd read, he held his wing flaps down, keeping the airplane's nose upward as the craft settled. It struck that fleshly floor with as much impact as though it had hit upon grass; it bounced, then struck again, bounced again, and so, by a series of bounces, slowed until at last it came to rest.

 

Father Vidicon clambered down from that falsely-welcoming cockpit, telling himself sternly that never again would he operate a machine that he had not inspected—for once may have been accident and twice coincidence, but this third time was definitely enemy action.

 

But which enemy?

 

There was as yet insufficient data for a meaningful conclusion. Staggering for his first few steps, then stabilizing to stride, he made his way onward down that darkling throat, lit only by the luminescence of certain globular growths upon the walls.

 

An object loomed before him, at first dim and indistinct in the limited light, then becoming clear—

and Father Vidicon stared upon a scaled-down Sherman tank, a treaded fortress scarcely higher than his shoulder, that sat in the middle of the tunnel as though waiting for him, though in friendly fashion, for its cannon pointed ahead.

 

The Blessed One reminded himself that he had but minutes before promised himself never to drive a mechanism unverified, so he examined the treads most carefully, then opened the engine compartment and scrutinized the diesel. Satisfied that nothing was defective—ready but wary—he set foot upon a tread, climbed up, and descended through the hatch.

 

The slit above the controls showed him that dim-lit tunnel. He sat before it, grasped the levers to either side, and pushed them forward quite carefully. The tank cranked, then coughed, then clanked into motion. Warily, though, Father Vidicon held its speed to crawling, not much faster than he could walk.

His gain was that he could travel sitting down, but in truth 'twas the thrill of adventure in operating a device hitherto unknown.

 

So he went grinding down that tunnel, allowing a little more speed, then a little more, until he was traveling at a pace quite decent—till a sudden crash did sound upon his right, and the tank did slew about.

 

The telephone rang.

 

Tony gave the clock a quick glance, saw it was only twenty after nine, and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

 

'Tony?" said a somewhat shaken voice on the other end. "Sorry, I know we've just met, but I had to talk to somebody."

 

It was Sandy! "Well, I'm honored! What's the matter?"

 

 

"Nothing I can say," Sandy answered. "I just get to feeling like this at night sometimes."

 

Tony waited and heard only shaky breathing, so he asked, "Like how?"

 

"Oh … like I'm not good enough for anything, and everything's just going down the drain." Then, more quickly, "I know I do my job well, and that there's no shame in having to call in a specialist, and it doesn't mean a woman's a failure today if she isn't married by the time she's thirty—but it's hard to remember that when you're all alone and it's dark outside."

 

"Yeah, I know," Tony said, with feeling. "Best cure is not to be alone when it's dark. Is there a coffee shop near you that's still open? Or a neighborhood tavern?"

 

The line was silent for a few seconds; Tony could almost feel Sandy's surprize and hoped it wasn't his imagination. Had he blown it, scared her away?

 

Then her voice came, definitely pleased. "There's Espresso Service just down the block. Think I ought to go there?"

 

"Yeah, but I think I should escort you," Tony said. "What's your address?"

 

"I'm on West Adams," she said, "fourteen twenty-two. Are you sure? I mean, it's so late …"

 

"Yeah, we should have met about seven-thirty," Tony agreed, "but nine-thirty's better than not meeting at all."

 

Sandy laughed, not as silvery as earlier in the day, but ready to be polished. "I'll get dressed and wait in the foyer, then."

 

"See you in…" Tony considered the distance and the chance of getting a cab. 'Twenty minutes, maybe. Certainly half an hour."

 

'Twenty minutes," Sandy said, her tone half-wondering. " 'Bye."

 

She hung up, and so did Tony, exulting. "Thank you, St. Vidicon," he said, and half expected to hear a reply, but the room stayed as quiet as a city apartment can, and besides, if the saint said anything, Tony was in too much of a rush to hear.

 

He was in such a hurry to get out the door that he didn't even notice the lines of text that had begun to scroll upward on his screen again.

 

He only lived eight blocks away and a cab came along just as he burst out the door, so neatly that Tony suspected saintly intervention. He flagged it down and stepped in, saying, "Fourteen twenty-two West Adams, please." At least he had remembered her address. He'd written it down, of course, but that's not the same thing.

 

The cab pulled up at 1422, and sure enough, there was Sandy, waiting behind her glass door, looking as fresh as she had when he'd met her that morning. Tony wondered how she did it.

 

"Eight thirty-two, Mac," the cab driver said.

 

"We're going on another block or so," Tony said. "Wait just a minute, will you?"

 

"Don't think about stiffing me," the driver warned.

 

"I won't," Tony said, and got out to run up the steps. Sandy saw him coming and came out. Tony said, "Sorry to be late."

 

"But you're right on time," Sandy looked confused. "You said half an hour."

 

"But you've been waiting ten minutes." Tony offered his arm.

 

'Ten minutes! Oh! How will I ever last?" Sandy asked in her most melodramatic tones and pressed the back of a limp-wristed hand to her fevered brow.

 

Tony laughed as they came down the steps. He opened the door. "Bet you were the best actress in your high school."

 

"In high school," Sandy agreed. "Not in college." She slipped into the taxi.

 

Tony closed the door, went around, and climbed in. "Espresso Service in the next block, okay?"

 

"You got it, folks." The driver put the car in gear.

 

Tony turned to Sandy. "So you started finding computers more interesting than audiences?"

 

"Not more interesting," Sandy said, "but I heard hopeful actors can make a living taking temp work, so I figured I'd better learn some office applications—and I started wondering how they could make all those exotic functions happen just by manipulating ones and zeros."

 

"How about manipulating ten twenty-three?" the driver asked.

 

Tony looked up and realized they had stopped. "Yeah, thanks." He handed the driver twelve dollars, then got out and came around to open Sandy's door. She managed to make it look graceful as she slipped out and took his arm again. They went in, found a table, and Tony draped his overcoat over a seat. "What would you like?"

 

 

"Raspberry mocha." Sandy sat.

 

As he brought the drinks, Tony couldn't help thinking that she looked much more cheerful than she had sounded on the phone and dared hope he might be doing something right. He sat down, and asked,

"Did you take classes or just read books?"

 

Sandy looked at him blankly, then laughed and reached out to press his hand. "I thought you meant acting. No, I actually took some courses. I was amazed how fascinating it was."

 

"Bet you took calculus in high school."

 

Sandy looked surprized, then smiled. "Yeah, math skills deteriorate fast, don't they? But when I was a sophomore, I had a date with a sexist senior who told me women couldn't learn math."

 

Tony grinned. "Proved him wrong, huh?"

 

Sandy grinned back. "Luckiest insult I ever had. Sophomore year of college, I found out that the brain is still growing during high school."

 

"Didn't know the logical centers kept growing too. Doesn't seem as though they've stopped."

 

"Use it or lose it." Sandy raised her cup in a toast, then blushed for some reason and covered it with a quick sip.

 

Tony swallowed a teaspoonful of cappuccino. "So you graduated with a B.S. and three certificates?"

 

"Four." Sandy held up fingers. "One in networking and three in operating systems."

 

Tony nodded. "I still haven't found one in hacking."

 

"Bet you could teach it, though."

 

"Who, me?" Tony was all astounded innocence. "I, who am dedicating my life to the betterment of humanity through computing?"

 

"And computer security," Sandy said, "which I'm sure you're constantly testing—unofficially, of course."

 

"Only when the site advertises a hacking contest."

 

"You win, of course," Sandy said.

 

 

"I'm flattered," Tony said, "but there are lots of hackers out there who are better than I am."

 

"Spending too much time doing legal stuff these days, huh?"

 

Her spirits certainly seemed to have improved. Tony let himself feel a little elation. "Started thinking about people's rights, too. Kind of dulled my edge."

 

"People are important." Sandy's eyes were soft and deep.

 

"Yes," Tony said with a sigh, "but computers are so much easier to understand."

 

Sandy laughed and squeezed his hand, and the rest of the evening passed quickly and pleasantly.

They were both surprized to realize midnight was approaching—so Tony whisked her back to her apartment in a yellow cab, no golden coach being available, and told her good night on her doorstep. She seemed a little surprized but thanked him for a wonderful evening, then went in, and Tony turned back to the cab with his heart singing. Only after he had given the driver his address did he wonder if she had been expecting him to try for a kiss.

 

Feeling normal again—which is to say, gauche and clumsy—he paid the driver and went back to his apartment. He went into the bathroom and studied his image critically, then shook his head. Good thing he hadn't tried for that kiss. Even with his hair neatened with gel, he was no match for a lovely creature like Sandy. Sport coat was probably way out of fashion, too.

 

He sighed; he might do as Sandy's friend, but he would be hopeless as anything more. He changed into pyjamas, then went to the kitchen to heat up a drink— hopeless or not, he was going to have to calm down a bit before he'd be able to sleep.

 

As he came back into the room, he noticed the lines of text on the screen. Frowning, he went over to the computer, sat down, saved, scrolled back to the top, and began to read.

 

Father Vidicon did throttle down, and the tank slowed dutifully—but slewed as it slowed, and the good priest realized that he was swinging about and about in a circle.

 

He pulled back on the levers, killed the engine, then clambered out of the hatch, setting foot down onto the right tread—and found nothing there beneath his step. He froze, then levered himself up and turned about to climb down the left-hand tread instead, then walked around the machine and saw that the right-hand tread was gone indeed. Looking back down the tunnel, he saw it lying like a length of limber lumber on the ground. Frowning then, he came close and sat upon his heels to study the end, and saw where the connection had broken, crystallized metal fractured, as indeed it might have if this Sherman tank had really sat in wait through six decades. " 'Nature always sides with the hidden flaw,'" he mused, then stiffened, remembering that he quoted a corollary of Murphy's Law, which was itself a corollary of Finagle's General Statement.

 

 

Yet he had defeated the Imp of the Perverse—so which other of Finagle's henchmen had engineered this mishap?

 

Or was it a henchman? It might well have been a monstrosity quite equal, for many were the minions of Finagle.

 

Suspending judgment, the Blessed One rose to stand and turned his face ahead. Onward he strode down the tunnel.

 

Tony pushed his mouse and followed, feeling as though he were an invisible camera rolling forward in a tracking shot. In fact, the screen seemed to expand until the dark red tunnel surrounded him, almost as though he really were inside it—virtual reality without goggles. Father Vidicon was a quick walker, but Tony could match him, since he had no feet. However, he didn't even try to harmonize with the priest's whistling. Besides, he'd never liked that hymn, anyway.

 

Then a voice called, "St. Vidicon, save me from Finagle!"

 

The priest stopped, gazing off into space, and Tony asked, "Who was that?"

 

"A mother of three," St. Vidicon answered, "who is trying to get them out the door to school while one has taken her lunch box before it was packed, another has cleared the table but dropped a glass which shattered, and the third cannot find her jacket, all the while the telephone is ringing." His smile turned nostalgic. "How my sainted mother managed, I have no idea." He was silent a moment, then said,

"There. I have given her what strength of spirit I may, and it has sufficed for her to shepherd all three of them out the door… no, she has forgotten her own attache' case … There, now she has it, and is into the car just in time to keep her daughter from punching her son."

 

"Where is her husband during all this?" Tony asked.

 

"He works the early shift in the factory's personnel office, so he was gone before seven … Ah! The poor woman! The car has refused to start." The priest's eyes lost focus again. "Perhaps a little more energy in the battery … No, that helped not at all; it must be a loose connection. No help for it but to send a part of my consciousness probing the circuits to find and restore it."

 

An evil laugh echoed down the hallway, and Father Vidicon spun to face it, crying, "Finagle! There would come another enemy upon me while I must deal with a call for help."

 

"Let me take care of the engine," Tony offered. "I may not be much on mechanical things, but I know circuits."

 

"Would you, then?" The saint turned to him and touched his shoulder. "I shall speed you on your way."

 

 

Tony just had time to realize he had a shoulder again, which really must have meant that he was actually in that fetid hallway, before a rushing sensation seized him, the world seemed to blur, and he found himself arrowing through reddish brown fog.

 

Chapter 3

 

Tony wondered what the reddish brown mist was, then recognized the color—copper! No. He couldn't be inside a wire. After all, where would the light be coming from?

 

Electrons, of course. What did he think was propelling him?

 

So why hadn't he been electrocuted?

 

Because he was pure energy himself—a spirit, or a fragment of spirit that was conveying information back to his mind. After all, his body would scarcely fit inside a wire, would it?

 

He decided he must have fallen asleep at his desk and be dreaming—but if this was a dream, he might as well enjoy it. He shot on through the wire, exulting in really getting into a circuit.

 

He barely had time to reflect that this was certainly a new view of electronics, before the electrons jerked to a halt and he found himself staring at a vast canyon.

 

A canyon? Inside an engine?

 

Well, of course—from an electron's point of view, and Tony couldn't be much bigger than an electron right now. No wonder the loose connection seemed like the Grand Canyon! But how to bring it closer? In frustration, he reached out toward the terminal from which the wire had come loose—and was amazed to see his arm, then see it stretching and stretching until his hand closed around the terminal. He pulled and watched his arm shrink while the terminal came closer and closer.

 

Well, why not? If he was pure energy himself, the arm was only a metaphor for his efforts anyway.

 

The terminal touched his wire, and the woman must have turned the ignition key again, for there was a burst of sparks that filled Tony's vision, then faded into darkness.

 

"Wake up, Tony! It wasn't really a shock, you know. Your mind just interpreted it that way from force of habit."

 

Tony blinked, looking up, and saw Father Vidicon leaning over him—and sure enough, he felt completely awake and not the slightest bit woozy. He sat up. "The mother! What happened to her?"

 

"Oh, the car started, thanks to you," St. Vidicon said. "She's on her way to drop the kids at school before she goes to work. You don't know how much you've improved her spirits."

 

"Glad to hear it." Tony rolled to his knees, then stood up with Father Vidicon's help. "That roar down the tunnel…"

 

The roar came again.

 

"Still making noise," Father Vidicon said. "I think it's hoping to intimidate me before it appears."

 

"I'll help!"

 

"Believe me, you've been a great help already," the priest said, "but you have your own life to live.

Back to your body, now, before more than a few nanoseconds of your time have passed."

 

"Body?" Tony looked down at himself, saw his shoes and the slacks of a business suit with legs inside them, presumably his. He stared at his arms and hands, turning them over and wriggling them.

"What's this?"

 

"A memory of your body that you brought here with your spirit," Father Vidicon said, "as soon as you volunteered to troubleshoot that engine for me." The priest waved a hand. "Back to your real body now, for it needs at least some sleep before you go to work again tomorrow."

 

Tony started to object, but Father Vidicon faded away before his eyes. So did the dark red tunnel, and he found himself staring at his bedroom ceiling, striped with sunlight through the windows, and heard the early-morning roar of city traffic. He sat up, looked down at his blanket-covered legs, and wondered how he had made it from the computer to the bed. All he could think of was that it was a good thing he'd shifted to pyjamas.

 

The only problem with helping St. Vidicon was that Tony couldn't brag about it to Sandy—but he could talk to her. More to the point, listen—if he had the chance. Heart hammering, he dialed her number."Hello?"

 

"Sandy? This is Tony."

 

"Tony! How nice of you to call!"

 

He wondered why she sounded so surprized even as he swallowed and plucked up his faltering nerve. "I was, uh, wondering if"—he reminded himself that he was a capable professional in his own field—"if you'd like to go to, uh, to dinner Friday night."

 

"Why, I'd love to! Thanks very much. Where shall I meet you?"

 

Tony hadn't thought that far ahead, but he improvised. "Well, I've always liked the Marinara.

 

Unless you don't like Italian?"

 

"I love Italian! I'll meet you there at, oh … seven-thirty?"

 

"Sounds great. But, uh, I could pick you up—just a cab, of course …"

 

"That's very sweet of you, but not at all necessary." Her voice had become very firm. "I'll meet you at the Marinara at seven-thirty Friday night, then."

 

"Seven-thirty," Tony confirmed, heart in his throat. "Uh … good day."

 

"Good-bye," Sandy said sweetly, and hung up.

 

So did Tony, with a shaky hand and a sigh of relief. "Thank you, St. Vidicon!"

 

It might have been his imagination, but he thought he felt a glow of reassurance surround him for a minute.

 

Somehow Friday seemed a very long way away, and the day stretched on interminably, especially since Tony was sent out on a call to troubleshoot a local area network. It took him most of the morning to track down the terminal whose user had decided to try a little programming of his own, then all of the afternoon to remove the traces of the amateurish attempt at writing code from the server and the other terminals. The only bright spot of the day happened during afternoon coffee break when Tony, obsessed with the problem as usual, brought his cup back to his cubicle-away-from-home and found text beginning to scroll up. He punched a few keys to start capture and sat down to read.

 

Instead, a banner appeared across the top of the screen:

 

To arms, Tony! Help the poor fellow whose computer has crashed!

 

Yrs. Trly,

Fr. Vidicon

 

Tony stared. Surely the saint didn't think he could help during working hours!

 

The phone rang. Tony picked it up and heard his boss, Harve, saying, "Grab your tool kit and go, Tony! Fifty-first and Seventh, Suite Twenty-thirteen! Just a computer crash, but you never know."

 

"On my way." Tony hung up, reflecting that one of the nice things about this business was that you never knew what would be coming next.

 

Then he realized that he had known. Apparently St. Vidicon had given the clerk whose computer had crashed the good sense to call for help.

 

 

He started for the door, but hesitated. Better see if his saintly benefactor had any background information. He went back to his keyboard and typed in, "Someone else needing help?"

 

A text box appeared with print scrolling. "A software engineer who's trying to run a new application he has designed, but it keeps freezing his system."

 

Tony typed back, "Blue Screen of Death?"

 

"Indeed," the screen answered.

 

"Be glad to, Father!" Tony was delighted to dive into something he could understand. Code made sense, unlike relationships.

 

At the office of SubWare Development, Inc., Tony was taken to the cubicle of a very shamefaced engineer who, unless Tony was completely mistaken, had lingering traces of acne on his face. "Hi.

Something wrong here?"

 

"Yeah, a lot!" The young man held out a hand. "Richard Arkin."

 

'Tony. What were you doing when it crashed?"

 

"Running a new program I'd just finished—well, tried to run it, anyway. It's none of the standard bugs, I can tell you that."

 

"Sounds like fun." Tony grinned and sat down at the keyboard. "You take lunch yet?"

 

"Well, no. I wanted to finish the program."

 

"This might be a good time, then. See you in an hour." Tony rebooted the computer, ignoring Richard's yelp of dismay, then called up the code for the new program. As he studied it line by line, the numbers seemed to reach out to surround him, and he knew it was one of his better days.

 

It was just an illusion, of course, but he seemed to be inside the program and was shocked to see deformed and twisted digits drifting aimlessly, not flowing as they should. On closer look, he saw the

"digits" were really clumps of ones and zeros, so deformed they almost seemed to resemble …

 

Insects.

 

To be more exact, bugs.

 

Tony began to get a very nasty feeling. He rose up as high as he could, trying to get a new perspective on the situation, and looked down on the drifting digital bugs. Instantly, he saw that they formed a gyre, an expanding, rising spiral. He cross-referenced, found its center, and dived back.

 

There it lay, a pair of vertical spirals, a double helix— but cramped and distorted, with uneven amounts of distance between turns. Tony's hair stood on end as he recognized a virus.

 

The debate still continued as to whether or not organic viruses were living things. They were molecules, but they exhibited some of the symptoms of life, such as the ability to reproduce—and this one was generating offspring, and those offspring were bugs. Definitely it was as alive as any information could be, and was mumbling to itself: "One, ten, eleven, one hundred twelve!"

 

Twelve?

 

"Data drives the driven drivel, info forms formations forgone!"

 

On and on it mumbled, pure gibberish—because, Tony realized, it might have been pure information, but it had no intelligence—so it constantly spewed code which made no sense of any kind and was therefore guaranteed to stop any program in its tracks, maybe even to scramble all the data on a hard drive. Tony had to find a way to stop it, and stop it fast, before it escaped into this engineer's address book and e-mailed itself to thousands of other computers.

 

How do you kill something that isn't quite alive but that generates chaos?

 

By opposing it to obsessive order, of course. Tony remembered a college friend's computer's address. He dived into the data stream, surged upward and upward, traced the route to the DSL port, and shot out into the Internet.

 

He found it still on the hard drive of the mathematician's computer—apparently he moved his All-Purpose Bug Killer with him whenever he upgraded. It was certainly a new perspective on the tool—

instead of lines of code, from the inside, it looked like a giant comb. "Come on, Bug Killer! I've got a job for you!" Tony grabbed the comb—and was surprized when it turned on him. It pounced, and for the first time, Tony realized that those teeth were very sharp.

 

He dodged at the last instant, and the teeth bit deeply into the electron stream. Sparks cascaded from it as it leaped up and struck again.

 

Tony decided to find another bug killer and shot back through the circuit toward the DSL port. Just before he left the computer, he glanced back over his shoulder—but the giant comb was still coming, leaping after him in coruscating bounds. Tony shouted in panic and shot out into the Internet.

 

He dodged through the connections and portals back to Richard's computer, but he could tell from the sound of sparks fizzing behind him that the comb was still coming. He began to wonder how getting back into Richard's computer was going to help anything, but what else could he do?

 

 

He flashed through the port and down into the program—maybe the bugs would hide him. He swerved around behind the virus, putting the dense cloud of bugs it was emitting between himself and the comb—but through the snowy cascade, he saw the giant comb slow, then stop, then begin raking the tide of twisted digits, breaking the bugs back into their components. In its wake, it left straightened, orderly ones and zeros that snapped back into their original places in Richard's program. Relentlessly, the comb advanced on the virus.

 

Tony left the two of them to battle it out and swam out of the infected computer. He found the pure stream of an antivirus program, lingered long in its cleansing jet, then finally, limp and exhausted, limped home to his body.

 

Tony recovered from the limpness and weakness in the cab back across town and was almost himself by the time he walked back in the door and made it to his cubicle. There he collapsed in his chair, staring at his screen saver. After a few minutes, he flicked the mouse and saw some text that hadn't been there when he'd left. He glanced at his watch—half an hour till quitting time: not enough time to accomplish anything useful, but plenty to find out what St. Vidicon had been doing while he'd been gone. Feeling a bit more settled, he smiled and began to read.

 

Down that hallway darkly red did the good priest wander, but had not paced long ere he came to a bank of recorders whose reels spun two-inch-wide tape. He frowned, remembering such things from his youth, but finding no television cameras or control chains nearby—though his eye did light upon an antique electric typewriter without a platen. "A computer terminal!" he cried in delight, and went to sit by the console and log on.

 

Behind him reels did hum, and he froze, reminding himself that he dealt with a device unknown.

Casually, then, he typed in a program he knew well—but when he directed the computer to run, the reels spun only for a minute before the printer chattered. Looking over to it, he saw the words, "Error on Line 764"—but the type-ball flew on until it had drawn a picture in marks of punctuation. Peering closer, Father Vidicon beheld the image of a beetle. "It doth generate bugs!" quoth he, then realized that he was in a realm in which any device would have a hidden flaw.

 

Rising from that place, he resolved most sternly that he would ignore any other device he found, and onward marched.

 

Well! Now Tony knew why he'd succeeded with Richard's computer. His patron had been shutting down the archetypal Bug Generator for him! He read on.

 

Full ten minutes did Father Vidicon stride before a doorway blocked his path, and a lighted panel lit above it in the yellow-lettered word "REHEARSAL." The Blessed One's pulse did quicken, resolution forgotten, for in life he had been a video engineer, and he quite clearly did approach a television studio much like the one in which he first had learned to operate a camera, in the days of his youth.

 

He wondered if he should enter, but saw no reason not to, if the souls within were only in rehearsal.

 

He hauled open the sand-filled door, discovering a small chamber four feet square with a similar door set opposite him and another in its side, as a proper sound lock should have. He closed the door behind him carefully, so that sound might not be admitted, then opened the door to the side and stepped into the control room.

 

It lay in gloom, with three tiers of seats rising, all facing bank upon bank of monitors—the first tier of seats for the engineers, the second for the switcher, director, and assistant director, and the third for observers. Each position sat in its own pool of light from tiny spotlights hung above.

 

None were peopled. He stood alone.

 

Looking out through the control room window, he saw the studio likewise unpeopled, but with huge old monochrome cameras aimed at easels, each with a stack of pictures. Even as he watched, the tally light on Camera One went out as its mate atop Camera Two came on, and on Camera One's easel, one picture fell to the floor, revealing another behind it.

 

Father Vidicon frowned; it was clearly an automatic studio, and even more clearly a temptation.

 

Still, he saw no harm in it, and since the studio blocked the tunnel, it had to be navigated—so he sat down before the switcher, smiling fondly as he saw only a preview bank and two mixing banks with not even a downstream key cluster; the memories that it evoked were dear.

 

But he could not wallow long in nostalgia, for a voice called from the intercom, "Air in five… four

… three …"

 

Quickly, the saint split the faders and went to black.

 

"… two… one … You're on!" the voice cried.

 

Father Vidicon faded in Camera One, seeing a vision of St. Mark's Plaza appear on the program monitor as a mellow voice began to narrate a travelogue. Father Vidicon glanced at Camera Two's monitor, saw a close-up of the gilded lion, and readied a finger over the button Two on the air bank. As the voice began to speak of the lion, he punched the button and the close-up of the lion appeared on the line monitor. Grinning then, he began to fall into the old rhythm of a program, taking from one detail to another, then seeing a photograph of a gondola on a canal and dissolving to it.

 

Just as the image became clear, though, the picture fluxed, shrinking, then expanding, then shrinking to die. Instantly did Father Vidicon dissolve back to Camera One—and it too bloomed and died.

 

'Telecine!" he roared, that his voice might be heard through the director's headset (since he wore none). 'Trouble slide!"

 

 

And Lo! The telecine screen lit with a picture of an engineer enwrapped in layers of videotape as he spooled frantically through an antique videotape recorder, attempting to clear a jam. It was a still picture only, so Father Vidicon leaned back with a sigh, then rose on rather wobbly legs. "I should have known," he muttered, "should have remembered." Then he walked, though rather unsteadily, back into the sound lock, then on into the studio. Around the cameras he went and drew aside the heavy velvet drape that hid the back wall—and sure enough, it had hidden also the double door to the scenery storage room. He hauled open the portal, stepped in among the ranked flats, threaded his way through piled sofas and stacked chairs, and found the entry door beyond. He opened it, stepped through, and found himself back in the dim light of the maroon tunnel.

 

The priest set off again, mouth in a grim line, for, said he unto himself, "Now, then, we know which minion of Finagle's we shall face," for surely there could be no doubt who sided with the hidden flaw, who made machinery fail in crucial moments, who was attracted to devices more strongly as they became more complicated, and it was not Nature.

 

And Lo! The monster did approach—or, more precisely, the saint did approach the monster, who smiled as he saw the Blessed One come nigh, glanced down to make a check mark on his clipboard, then looked up again to grin—or his lips did; Father Vidicon could not see his eyes, since they were shadowed by a visor of green, and his face that of a gnome, not a man. He wore a shirt that was striped and held by sleeve-garters, its collar tightened by a necktie, though over it he was clothed in coveralls (but they were pin-striped), and his left hand bore socket wrenches in place of fingers. Clean-shaven he was, and round-faced, smiling with delight full cynical, the whiles his right hand did play upon a keyboard.

 

Then Father Vidicon did halt some paces distant, filled with wariness, and declared, "I know thee, Spirit—for thou art the Gremlin!"

 

"I do not make policy," the creature replied, "I only execute it."

 

"Seek not to deceive!" Father Vidicon rebuked. "Thou art the one who doth seek to find the hidden flaw and doom all human projects."

 

" 'Tis in the nature of humans to bring it out," the Gremlin retorted. "I only execute what they themselves have overlooked."

 

"Wouldst thou have me believe 'tis Nature who doth side with the hidden flaw, though well we know that Nature makes not machines?"

 

"Nature sides with me," the Gremlin returned. "Canst thou blame me for the nurture of the natural?"

 

" 'Tis not Nature thou dost serve, but Entropy!"

 

"What else?" the spirit gibed. "Humans seek to build, when 'tis the way of Nature to fall apart."

 

 

"Only in its season," Father Vidicon admonished, "when the time of growth is behind."

 

"Not so," the Gremlin answered, "if the flaw's inherent in the new-bora creature. Thus only when it doth come to maturity doth its undoing become manifest."

 

"And what of those whose flaws emerge before they're grown?"

 

The Gremlin shrugged. "Then they never come to the age at which they can build, and only looking backward can they see a life worth living."

 

"Thou dost lie, thou rogue," Father Vidicon said sternly, "for that cannot be behind which is before!"

 

"Oh, so? Hast thou, then, heard never of the Mule?" The Gremlin's hand did beat upon the keyboard, and letters of a glowing green did glimmer in the gloaming 'fore his face: "BOOT MULE."

Father Vidicon did step back with a presentiment of foreboding; then the words did vanish, and beside the Gremlin stood a stocky quadruped, with longish ears laid back, teeth parting in a bray.

 

"I should have thought," the priest did breathe. "This is the beast most susceptible to thee, for 'tis also the most contrary; when we most wish it to work, it will not."

 

"All who will not work are with me," the Gremlin answered, "as are those who, in the name of standing firm, give way to stubbornness." He reached out to stroke the beast, and chanted, " 'The mule, we find, Hath two legs behind, And two we find before.

 

We stand behind before we find What the two behind be for.'"

 

And the saint did find the mule's tail confronting him, and the hooves kicked up and lashed out at his head.

 

But St. Vidicon did bow, and the feet flashed by above. "Affront me not," quoth he, "for I do know this beast hath fallibility."

 

"Then make use of it," the Gremlin counselled, "for he doth set himself again."

 

'Twas true, the mule did once again draw up his hooves to kick. Father Vidicon did therefore run around the beast up toward its head.

 

But, "What's before, and what's behind?" the Gremlin cried. "Behold, I give the beast his head, and he doth lose it! For if we know what that behind be for, then assuredly, what's behind's before!"

 

Father Vidicon did straighten up before the mule's face—and found it was a tail, with hooves beneath that did lash out.

 

"Surely in his stubbornness," the Gremlin said, "the mule has lost his head!"

 

The good priest did shout as he did leap aside, quickly, but not quite quickly enough, and a hoof did crack upon his shoulder, and pain shot through his whole side. He cried out, but his cry was lost in the Gremlin's laughter, which did echo all about.

 

"Thou canst not escape," the spirit cried with gloating glee, "for if thou dost run around the beast, thou wilt but find what thou hast lost!"

 

Hooves slashed out again, and the priest did throw himself upon the ground. The mule's feet whistled through the air above him, then drew back to stand, and began to hobble toward him.

 

"Come, come!" the Gremlin cried. "Thine heart was ever in thy work! Wouldst thou now lie about and trouble others? Wouldst thou be underfoot?"

 

But the priest had scrambled to his feet, a-running, and heard the thunderous echo of galloping hooves behind. At a thought, however, he turned back. 'Two backward sets both running must go against each other; they thereby must stand in place!"

 

Assuredly, the poor beast did; for each pair of legs, in leaping forward, did naught but counter the other's thrust.

 

"Let it not trouble thee," the Gremlin counselled, "for I've held him close thus far—yet now I'll give the beast his head!"

 

Father Vidicon knew then that he had but a moment to draw upon the strength of Him to Whom he was in all ways dedicated; and holding up his hands to Heaven, he did pray, "Good Father, now forgive!

That in my pride I did think myself equipped to defeat the Finder of Flaws. Lend me, I pray Thee, some tool that will find and hinder all contrariness that this creature doth embody!"

 

Of a sudden, his hands weighed heavy. Looking there, he found a halter.

 

A bray recalled him to his conflict, and he saw the mule's tail grow dim, then harden again to show forequarters topped by a head that did reach out, teeth sharp to bite, as the Mule leaped forward.

 

Chapter 4

 

Father Vidicon shouted and spun aside, flailing at the Mule with the halter—and sure enough, it caught. The Mule swerved and reared, braying protest, but Father Vidicon did hold fast to reins and turn the Mule toward its master, then leaped upon its back. Still under the Gremlin's mandate to attack, it galloped ahead, teeth reaching for its master.

 

 

"How now!" the creature screeched, drumming at its keyboard. "How canst thou turn my own artifact against me?"

 

The mule disappeared, leaving the saint to plummet toward the floor, the halter still in his hand—

but he landed lightly.

 

"Thou didst expect that fall!" the Gremlin accused. "How couldst thou have known?"

 

"Why, by preparing 'gainst every eventuality," the saint replied, "then expecting some other malfunction that I could not name because I had not thought of it."

 

"Thou dost not mean thou didst expect the unexpected!"

 

"Surely, for I have always expected thee, since first I learned to program Cobol." The saint approached, holding out the halter. "Know that with my Master's power, these straps can harness any who their energy expend." Still he advanced, the halter outheld.

 

"Thou dost speak of those who embody Entropy," the Gremlin protested, and did back away.

 

" 'Tis even so," the saint replied, "for to live is to expend energy, but to grow is to gain structure."

 

"You are not fool enough to think to reverse entropy!" the Gremlin cried, still backing.

 

"Only for some little while," the saint replied, "but each little while added to another can constitute a lifetime entire."

 

"Yet in the end your race shall die! In mere billions of years, your sun will explode, and all will end in fire! Thus all is futile, all is done in vain, all's absurd!"

 

"Yet while life endures, it contradicts absurdity— if it has structure." Father Vidicon relaxed the halter, then swung it at the Gremlin to ensnare.

 

The Gremlin wailed and winked out as though he'd never been.

 

Father Vidicon stared at the place where he had stood and bethought him somberly, "He is not truly gone, but will recur wheresoever people try to build—for 'gainst such as him we struggle to find meaning." Then he looked down at the halter, contemplating it a moment before he held it high in of "O

Father, I thank Thee for giving Thine overweening servant the means to banish this Foe of Humankind, no matter how briefly. I return unto Thee the Halter of one of the beasts who witnessed the birth of Thy Son, and of another who bore Him to His triumph in Jerusalem."

 

For half a minute the halter began to glow, then scintillated as it vanished.

 

 

The Blessed One stood alone, reflecting mat once again he was unarmed; but he recalled the words of the psalm and murmured them aloud: "'For Thou, O God, art my wisdom and my strength.' Nay, I shall never lack for defense within this realm, so long as Thou art with me."

 

So saying, he strode forth once more, further downward in that tunnel, wondering what other foe the Lord might send him to confront.

 

The text rolled off the screen, and Tony sighed, wishing for more. He glanced up at the clock, saw it was almost quitting time, called the front desk to make sure there were no calls for him and felt irrationally disappointed when there weren't—after all, Friday was still two days and one night away.

 

He had dinner at his favorite restaurant, but it seemed more lonely than it ever had, and his paperback didn't hold his attention. All in all, it seemed a good idea to go to bed early and try to sleep.

 

Not just "try to"—sleep came surprizingly easily. Of course, the surprize evaporated when Tony found his dream self pacing down the maroon, soft-floored corridor beside Father Vidicon.

 

The priest looked up, startled. 'Tony! A pleasure to see you." Then he frowned. "But you shouldn't be here."

 

"Are you kidding?" Tony said. "This is where the action is."

 

"You should be resting, though, not working." Father Vidicon held up a hand. "Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm delighted to have company—but this isn't your fight."

 

"Are you kidding? The number of times you've helped me out when a program wouldn't run?"

Tony grinned. "Besides, how often does a guy get to play sidekick to a saint?"

 

Father Vidicon still held up the cautioning hand. "I haven't been declared a saint yet, Tony. Indeed, my journey through this tunnel may be the ordeal that shows whether or not I'm worthy of a place in Heaven."

 

"You're kidding, of course," Tony said. "You're a martyr."

 

"Well, yes, but I try not to take things for granted." St. Vidicon turned and started down the squelching hallway again. "I really should see where this pathway leads me, though."

 

Tony fell in beside him. "You don't really think it's the road to Hell, then?"

 

"I'm beginning to suspect otherwise, yes."

 

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be talking with a saint—until St. Vidicon said, "I'm glad my message finally reached you."

 

Tony stared. "Your what?"

 

"My message," said the saint. "That's why I fed that virus into the mainframe of one of your company's clients—because I needed a troubleshooter. Specifically, you."

 

"Why me?" Tony asked.

 

"Because you have the right turn of mind," St. Vidicon told him. "You inherited it from your ancestor Mateo."

 

"My ancestor? None of my great-grandfathers was named Mateo!"

 

"No, but your forefather in the sixteenth century had a cousin named Mateo—a Jesuit who founded the China Mission and wrote the first treatise in comparative religion, comparing Confucianism to Christianity to try to discover if people could develop a sound moral code without Divine intervention."

Father Vidicon smiled. "He decided they could. It was troubleshooting in advance, laying the groundwork for religious tolerance. The trait has bred true all the way down to you."

 

Tony's father had worked for a satellite communications company, troubleshooting earth stations; his greatgrandfather had done the same thing with the phone company's landlines. He saw St. Vidicon's point. "But what kind of troubles would you want me to shoot?"

 

"Anything people call me for, when I'm already trying to fix another problem," Father Vidicon said.

"When I finish this trip through Hellmouth, maybe God will grant me the power to be in many different locations at once; but even then, I think I'll need some help."

 

"That's interesting but not informative."

 

St. Vidicon stiffened suddenly. "A call's coming in. Here, see it with me and analyze the problem."

 

He caught Tony's hand, and whether the technician wanted to or not, he saw what the saint was seeing and heard what he was hearing—a despairing, many-voiced cry for help, and the background of the predicament.

 

Up on the wall, right where you see it when you come in the door of the lab, is a sign that says,

"We have everything we need to build an electric car. We have the motor, the transmission, the steering, and the headlights. All we need now is a battery that will last long enough."

 

—T. A. EDISON

 

That's our job—developing an electric car for one of the Really Big Auto Makers—and our "lab"

 

looks like a cross between a machine shop and a clinic. The Eagle, our prototype electric car, sits on a hoist that hasn't lifted in months, sits there with its hood up to show an engine so clean you could cook on it—and a great big gaping hole where the battery ought to be.

 

The battery, at the moment, was sitting on an insulated bench with two technicians hovering over it in protective gear and masks that would have done credit to an astronaut. Behind them, Sally Barley was beaming with motherly pride. She was fiftyish, neat, tidy, bespectacled, and Director of Development.

She was also an attractive woman who wasn't aware of the fact. She wore a lab coat, bifocals, and coiled braids. Just looking at her made me feel like a slob.

 

Not that I was, of course. The waistline isn't showing too much bulge for a man in his early forties, and the creases in the slacks are still sharp. Sure, I wore gym shoes, but they were very trendy and cost more than I'd want to admit, if everyone else I knew didn't know the figure to the penny (including tax).

And I wore polo shirts because my generation was more casual than hers, not to show off my biceps and pecs (not that they weren't worth showing). The hairline hadn't receded too much and there weren't too many wrinkles. Too bad I'd never had time for that nose job.

 

"This is Eagle Fifteen," I reminded her, "and the fourteenth one only ran for thirty hours at in-town speed. You really think you've managed to double that, for highway speeds, in just one generation?"

 

"Oh, yes." Sally nodded. "Of course, I wouldn't let the stockholders know about that yet. We still have a month of trials and fine-tuning."

 

Which raised the question of why she had called me in—but there are advantages to keeping the public relations director on your side. Besides, I had a triple-A clearance from company security, so I'd been following the project ever since Eagle 1 came off the drawing board.

 

"How come you're so sure it's going to last so much longer?"

 

"Because the new motor and power train use much less current—and that next-generation electrolyte is a wonder. Too bad NASA didn't think of it sooner."

 

It made sense, after all. A battery that could keep a robot explorer going for two months on an ice moon around Saturn shouldn't have had much trouble lasting sixty hours on an American highway—and like everything else NASA developed, it was free. We didn't have to pay royalties or a licensing fee or anything. Sometimes I wondered just how much more money NASA put back into the economy than it cost us in taxes.

 

The two technicians finished sealing the battery and, very carefully, lifted it and started toward the car.

 

"Gently, boys, gently," Sally cautioned. "That's the crown jewels, there—or at least the diamond."

 

 

I was glad she'd qualified that. The battery couldn't have been worth any more than the Koh-i-Noor.

It was the whole car whose development cost probably dwarfed St. Edward's Crown.

 

The two techs were good at their jobs. In fact, they were top experts. Sally knew that. Even so, she breathed a huge sigh of relief as the battery settled into place and they started screwing the clamp down.

 

"You knew they weren't going to drop it," I reproved her.

 

"Yes, I knew," she admitted, "but accidents happen."

 

"It's a disaster!"

 

We both spun to stare at Joe Sanders, fresh off his college track team and breaking his own record for the sixty-yard dash. He skidded to a halt beside Sally, and the way he was gasping couldn't have been due to the distance between the door and the Eagle.

 

"Calm down, Joe," Sally said in her most soothing tone. "Nothing's that bad—unless the whole car blows up, of course. Now take a deep breath and tell me what happened."

 

Joe gulped, made a visible (but unsuccessful) effort to relax, then blurted, "It's the boss! He wants to drive the Eagle."

 

Since our boss was Sally, Joe could only have meant the Big Boss—the CEO of the whole blamed company. Sally turned visibly pale but said with monumental restraint, "When?"

 

"Two-thirty." Panic edged Joe's voice.

 

It was contagious. I went into panic mode too, and Sally froze. It was one-forty-five.

 

Then she turned to the boys and started rapping out orders. "Bill, check all the connections! Jodie, take it once around the track! Then turn it over to Anna and Tom for a quick wash!" She would have had them checking the onboard computer too, but microprocessors had only been invented ten years before.

 

They were just polishing the last drop off the Eagle when the Boss walked in.

 

He went straight up to Sally with a politician's smile and an outstretched hand. "Dr. Barley, your lab has to be the cleanest room in the building! And your whole staff does you credit."

 

She took his hand and gave him back smile for smile. "Thanks, Mr. Bridge. I'm proud of them all. I understand you'd like a progress report on the Eagle."

 

"No, I want to drive it."

 

 

Well, it had been a nice try, anyway. I pulled out my camera and got a quick shot of them before Sally's smile faded.

 

I didn't need speed; she kept the mouth curved. They tell me some corpses do that. "It's an honor, Mr. Bridge. I do have to advise you, though, that we haven't really tested the new battery on the track yet

—only once around to make sure the connections were sound."

 

"Oh, that's all right." Mr. Bridge waved it away. "I don't mind being your test driver." He opened the door and slid in behind the wheel before any of us could argue. "Now, where's the ignition? … I see.

And here's the gearshift… accelerator and brake in the usual places, hm? Well, wish me luck!"

 

We did. We wished us luck too, as the Eagle rolled out the door and onto the track.

 

"Just once around." Sally's voice had the tone of a prayer. "Once around is all he needs. He's just making sure it runs and seeing how it steers and stops."

 

Beside her, Bill nodded. "Once is plenty."

 

The Boss turned the far curve and came back toward us, gaining speed.

 

"Pull up," Julie pleaded. "Pull up like a nice little executive and let us finish fine-tuning it!"

 

For a minute there, we thought he'd heard her. The Eagle came up opposite us, slowing—then went right on into the turn. A massed groan came from the dozen engineers.

 

"He was only slowing for the curve," Shirley lamented.

 

"He wasn't really meaning to tease us," Jodie said beside her.

 

"Okay, twice around," Tom wheedled. "Twice around is plenty. Just bring it back to us like a good little manager."

 

Again, the Boss seemed to hear, because instead of speeding up on the straightaway, he slowed.

 

There was a massed gasp behind me as the engineers held their breaths.

 

The Eagle turned ninety degrees, out through the gate toward the city streets.

 

The engineers let out another massed groan.

 

The journalist in me took over. I sprinted down to the gate, whipped out my camera as I turned, and managed to get a clear shot of the security guard waving the Eagle through the main gate. So much for secrecy.

 

 

The Eagle vanished into the city traffic.

 

My heart down in my boots, I headed back toward the lab, wondering why I cared. It wasn't my job that was on the Line, after all.

 

Then I looked up and saw the track was bare. I frowned. I'd expected the engineers to be lined up along it, ready to cheer the Boss as he came back—after they were done cursing him under their breaths.

I went through the huge open door into the lab.

 

There they were, clustered together in the middle of the huge space with heads bowed, Sally in front of them, intoning, "St. Vidicon, patron of all who toil with screwdriver and soldering gun …"

 

"Pray for us," the engineers chorused.

 

"St. Vidicon, upholder of order and foe of chaos …"

 

"Pray for us."

 

"St. Vidicon, straightener of electron paths and adjuster of energy states …"

 

"Pray for us!"

 

I edged up to the back row and muttered to Tom, "I thought you guys were all agnostics."

 

"Pretty much," he said, "but at a time like this, you gotta pray to somebody!"

 

Beside him, Julie nodded. "St. Vidicon's only a character in a story, so he's okay."

 

I tried to figure out the sense in that while Sally went on with her impromptu litany.

 

"What a fascinating toy!" the Gremlin said to itself as it swam through the Eagle's circuits. "A triumph of ingenuity! Now, how best to make it stop working? Just loosen the battery cable—but no, that would be too obvious; no chance it would scuttle the project. Weaken the electrolyte? Again, too easy to discover. A thinning of the windings in the motor and a burn-out that would follow? Yes! It will be days before they think to look at brand-new coils!" It stretched out a long and knobby finger.

 

"Wait!" said a voice.

 

Frowning, the Gremlin turned and saw Gunderson, swimming beside him in the current.

 

"Not now, when the car is on a lightly-travelled street," said Gunderson. "Remember, the least desirable possibility must always exert itself when the results will be most frustrating. Wait until he is in the heaviest traffic and the breakdown will cause a mass collision."

 

The Gremlin pulled its finger back with a grin. "I like your style, Scandinavian."

 

"St. Vidicon, foe of Gunderson and the Gremlin," Sally called.

 

"Protect us from breakdowns!" the engineers answered.

 

Tony groaned. He too knew better than to trust management with an engineering problem. "The CEO of a corporation driving a prototype car into city streets!"

 

Head cocked to listen, St. Vidicon asked, "Hear that, Tony?"

 

Tony listened but heard a slow beat so low-pitched it was scarcely audible. Frowning, he shook his head.

 

"Touch my sleeve," Father Vidicon said.

 

Tony took hold of his arm and heard a voice. Dimly, he heard a woman call, "St. Vidicon, engineer of philosophies"—and a dozen people finished her thought—"make the world logical!"

 

St. Vidicon smiled. "Not even a saint can do that, Tony."

 

Tony stared, wounded. "You mean it isn't?"

 

"Not the human world, at least," the priest answered. "Still, I can straighten a few crooked ways."

 

Tony became absolutely still, listening to the minds and hearts of the engineers a generation before his own, until he understood the scope of the problem, and his eyes widened in horror. "Where is he?"

 

"I'll search." Father Vidicon looked down, and Tony wondered how he could see anything but the undulating floor. Still, he had no doubt the priest was scanning the city streets outside the research plant.

"Not that car," Father Vidicon muttered, "nor that one, nor that—they all stink of exhaust… That one!

The one that runs with no fire inside!" He probed, thoughts delving into the circuitry—and somehow Tony was there with him in the copper-colored fog, staring at…

 

"Begone, impertinent priest!" the Gremlin hissed.

 

"We meet again, fell spirit," St. Vidicon answered.

 

"This car is mine!"

 

 

"Yes, wait for the next one," Gunderson agreed.

 

"If you two have your way, there will never be a next one," St. Vidicon retorted, then closed his eyes in prayer. "Dear Lord, I pray thee, send some tool to correct whatever foul-ups these two may make in the situation normal."

 

His palm tingled. Looking down, he saw a roll of copper in it. Grinning, he closed his eyes, picturing the inside of the motor until it began to seem real, then became real, and knew that some part of him was inside it.

 

The Eagle turned onto a boulevard that should have been lightly travelled at that time of afternoon, but Gunderson began to mutter under his breath, suggestions that sent sudden insights into every nearby motorist who was frustrated by traffic, and they all turned onto the boulevard to find easier going. In minutes, the little Eagle was surrounded by trucks and taxis and vans.

 

"Now!" Gunderson said.

 

The Gremlin touched a wire; it shrivelled. He reached out for another—but phantom hands with nimble fingers appeared, stretching ghostly wire that sank into the coil and strengthened it. The Gremlin cried out in frustration and touched the new wire, but it refused to shrivel. Cursing, the creature touched winding after winding—but the ghostly fingers kept pace with him, replacing wire after wire.

 

"A pox upon you, priest!" the Gremlin cried.

 

'Too late," Father Vidicon's voice said. "I've left my body behind." Then he reached out to the Boss with a suggestion.

 

It had been fun, the Boss decided, but it had turned into just another drive. The Eagle hummed along as smoothly as his town car and considerably more quietly. Besides, the traffic was getting thick and beginning to get on his nerves. Who made all these cars, anyway? He turned at the next light and started back to the track. Inside his motor, the Gremlin went on touching wire after wire frantically, even stooping to loosen the battery cables, but as quickly as he wrecked, Father Vidicon fixed.

 

I decided somebody had to stand sentry, so I left the engineers trying to buck up their spirits and headed back to the gate, camera at the ready. I paced and waited, waited and paced, then heard the chime as the outer gate rose. "The Eagle is landing!" I shouted and whirled, whipping the camera up to my eye, and caught the Eagle as it glided through the inner gate and back onto the track, the Boss smiling behind the wheel. It would make a great photo for the article about the Eagle on the future day he decided to unmask it—officially, that is. I got another shot of the engineers swarming back onto the track to line up and cheer as the Eagle rolled between them and back into the lab. Then I sprinted for the door.

 

I got there in time to see the Boss climb out of the car and shake Sally's hand. "Congratulations, Dr.

Barley! First-rate work, the kind that has made this company great!"

 

 

The engineers all glowed with pleasure, and Sally beamed. "Thanks, Boss—but it's still a prototype, and we have quite a few improvements to try out."

 

"I'm sure they'll make the car thoroughly marketable by the time we need to put it in production!"

The Boss turned toward her office. "But we need to talk about the conversion problem. People won't buy an electric car, after all, if they can't recharge it while they're on the road …"

 

Sally fell in step beside him, and they headed for her office, talking about setting up a network of service stations with half a dozen high-speed charging stations apiece. "With restaurants, of course,"

Sally was saying, "so the family can have lunch while they're having the battery topped up …"

 

"Well, Tom, you made it," I said.

 

"Yes, thank Heaven!" Tom joined his hands and looked up at the roof piously. "And thank you, St.

Vidicon!"

 

"Amen!" the engineers chorused.

 

Then they shut up and whirled, looking shamefaced at the CEO who stood in the lab doorway, waving and calling, "Congratulations on a job well done! Good to know we have hard-working, loyal employees. I'll look forward to a production model this time next year!" And waving a cheery farewell, he turned and went out.

 

The team stood stunned, Sally most of all. Then, with one massive groan, they all staggered away in different directions.

 

Tom sidled up to Shirley. "Do you suppose it's too early to start praying yet?"

 

"A lucky accident, priest!" the Gremlin snarled. "I'll lock horns with you again, be certain!"

 

"Oh, I'll never doubt it," Father Vidicon returned, and withdrew his ghostly touch within his own spirit again.

 

Tony staggered at the suddenly-infirm footing. Looking around, he saw they were back in the maroon tunnel.

 

"I shall have to fight him till time's end"—Father Vidicon sighed—"again and again, I'm sure."

 

Tony frowned. "That doesn't seem fair."