The aircraft came out of a line of hills. It appeared to be tracking us. Our lander wasn't particularly noted for its acceleration capabilities, so I held my breath as we swung around to the southwest and went to flank speed. The transport was closing quickly.
“If that is the best it can do,” said Gabe, “we should have no problem.”
It wasn't, and for a few minutes it was touch and go. But gradually, we cut the rate by which they were closing, then we began to pull ahead.
“Skies are clear everywhere else,” said Gabe. “We are running at six hundred twenty knots.”
I turned to Alex. “We want to go back to Belle?”
“Let's find another church.”
NINETEEN
A church, by definition, should be a place where one may discuss the matters | of the day with his Creator. Unfortunately, too often there are others present, | with a different agenda.
We continued west in the lander, across the prairie. Then we were out over a broad blue lake. Alex sat in the right-hand seat, looking out through the wraparound, while simultaneously studying what we had of the ecclesiastical history of Villanueva. It wasn't much. Pictures of churches, monuments, spires, crosses, and chalices flickered across his display. Maps showed the locations of the Church of the Savior, and, near the coast, St. Agatha's. The Salvage Chapel, celebrated at one time though no one any longer knew precisely why, stood at the entrance to Bryce Canyon, which we passed at sundown.
Most of the structures depicted were either unidentified, or the identification had lost all meaning. Here was the Church of the Angels, located in a place whose name didn't appear on the maps. And there was a picture of a woman in red vestments, presumably a cardinal, whose name was Carassa, but about whom no other fact was known.
We went back to the Belle-Marie to recharge. It didn't make much sense to use the lander when the ship, with its scopes, provided as good a view. But Alex said something about wanting to get as close as possible, to be in a position to pursue anything of interest without having to wait. Again, the impatience was out of character, and he didn't seem inclined to offer a better explanation.
The argument for doing the search from the ship gained momentum when we flew into turbulent weather, but we stayed with the lander. I was able to get above the storm, and we were gaining on the sun, now high in the sky, but it made little difference: We'd lost sight of the ground. “It doesn't matter,” Alex said. “If what we're looking for is really confined to a single church, we aren't going to find it anyhow.”
Later, under clear skies, we passed over a construction site. Silver bots, some on legs, some incorporated into vehicles, moved across the ground with polished fluidity, hauling equipment, erecting walls, striding along girders several stories off the ground. One, a giant mechanical spider, was climbing a wall.
Not far from the construction site, we saw a church. There was nothing special about it. It looked like a hundred other churches we'd seen over the past few hours. A smaller building, probably a rectory, was attached. It dominated a neighborhood of attractive homes with wide lawns and picket fences. (The lawns were overgrown. The AIs apparently hadn't been charged with looking after yard work, other than possibly clearing fallen branches.) “Let's take a look at it,” said Alex.
“Any particular reason?” I asked.
“I like the angel.”
The angel was a sculpture near the front doors. It was a female figure, its wings spread in full flight. It lent an air of majesty to the church.
The church had an old-style Gothic design, and was maybe four stories high, with gray stone walls. A bell tower rose at one corner. A large cross, set at the peak of a sharply slanted roof, looked out across a modest avenue lined by trees. A car was passing.
A large rectangular building, constructed in the same style, stood on the other side of the avenue. A church school, probably. Lettering was engraved across its entrance. Probably St. Mark's or some such. Private homes, all apparently in good condition, surrounded the complex on three sides. Behind the church, and the homes, dense forest stretched to the horizon.
A small feline creature sat placidly in front of the school. Large birds nested along the rooftops. And music was coming from somewhere. It had no discernible rhythm, just noise, instruments I didn't recognize.
We were still getting a lot of wind. Antigrav vehicles are notoriously vulnerable to high winds, so I was careful going down. “Behind the church,” said Alex, “where we're not so visible.”
There was open space between the church and the forest. A large granite cross rose from the overgrown soil. It was, I thought, a gravesite. But if there was a stone base with an inscription, it had long ago been buried.
We settled into the thick grass. I opened the hatch, and we sat for a minute, listening to the wind and the buzz of insects, waiting to see if we'd attracted any attention. But nothing came rolling in our direction.
Alex cleared his throat. “Ready?” he asked.
We got out. There was some rain in the air, but not much more than a sprinkle. I dropped down onto the ground. A car moved past on one of the side streets. It had flared tailfins and looked unlike anything I'd ever seen at home. It was automated, of course. Empty.
Before I'd taken more than a few steps, two trucks rumbled by out front. We hustled around to the side of the church so we could see. They were going in different directions. One had an open bed filled with boards. The other was covered, but there was lettering on the side. I used my link to ask Gabe for a translation.
“Toco Liquors,” he said.
I looked at Alex. “AIs drink?”
“Maybe here they do.”
“I don't get any of this,” I said.
“I think what's happening, Chase, is that the controlling AI is simply continuing to do what it's always done. We might be seeing the resolution to the old debate about whether AIs are actually intelligent.”
I heard a noise that sounded like air moving through a vent. It was the equivalent of Gabe clearing his throat. “Alex,” he said. “Don't jump to a hasty conclusion. They may see no reason to break clear of their programing. It is what keeps them going in difficult times. Like people, if I may interject a thought of my own.”
We walked around to the front and stood admiring the angel. It was weather-beaten, and had probably never been considered exemplary sculpture. I suspected it had been cranked out by some mass-marketing process. But somehow that didn't matter. In that vast, empty place, it possessed a badly needed nobility.
Like the sign at St. Monica's, it was tilted by the passage of time and the erosion of the soil. There was something heart-stopping in that angel, trying to soar above and beyond all that desolation. “This one,” I said, “would be worth making off with.”
Alex smiled. “It would.” There was a line of symbols across its base. Three words. Badly worn, but still legible.
“Gabe,” I said, “translation, please?”
He needed a moment. Then: “Going to Heaven.” And, finally, “No, I think 'Heaven-bound' more closely captures the spirit of it.”
I looked up at the large stone cross on the roof, standing directly over the main entrance. Somehow, the architecture suggested that everything emanated from that cross.
“Chase.”
“What is it, Alex?”
“The car. Look.” An automobile was slowing. It was a blue four-door sedan, with its windows rolled down. It pulled toward the curb, close to where we were standing, and stopped.
The engine continued to run. A sudden gust of wind shook the tree limbs.
