The Sparrow

deaf.

'None of it was published? You are telling me that not one article we sent back was submitted—'

'Maybe I shouldn't have told him,' John whispered, rubbing the bump on his broken nose.

'He was bound to find out eventually,' said Brother Edward placidly. Anger, he believed, was healthier than depression. 'You did the right thing. He's handling it fairly well, in my opinion.'

Why, Sandoz had asked John at lunch, why was he being asked about things that were in the records that were sent back? Why didn't they just read the daily reports and scientific papers? John told him that only the Father General had access to the reports. 'So, what about all the published papers?' Sandoz asked and when he got the answer, he left the table, stone-faced and seething, and headed directly for the Father General's office.

Candotti and Behr turned at the sound of Johannes Voelker's steps. He joined them at the door and listened with frank interest as Sandoz said sarcastically, 'Oh, fine! So the astronomy and the botany got through the sieve. I'm pleased to hear it, but that leaves ninety percent of what we did—' Another pause. 'Vince, people died for the data!'

Voelker, hearing this, raised an eyebrow. Probably pisses him off to hear Sandoz call Giuliani by his first name, John thought. Voelker insisted on imbuing the office of the Father General with as much imperial glory as he could, the better to play Grand Vizier, in John's admittedly biased opinion.

'For the data?' Voelker asked with dry surprise. 'Not for Christ?'

'What possible justification is there—' There was a pause and they could hear the Father General's quiet voice but couldn't make out the words without actually laying an ear against the door, an extremity no one was willing to go to, with witnesses.

Felipe Reyes arrived, brows up inquiringly, and came to a sudden halt as Sandoz shouted furiously, 'No way. There is no way you can make me responsible for this. Of all the twisted logic and half-baked—No, you let me finish! I don't give a damn what you think of me. There is no justification for suppressing the scientific work we did. That was absolutely first-rate!'

'Your man sounds upset, Candotti,' Voelker said quietly, smiling.

'He's a scientist and his work was buried, Voelker. He's got a right to be upset,' John said just as softly with as gentle a smile. 'How's the secretary biz these days? Scheduled any first-rate appointments lately?'

It would have gotten nastier had Felipe Reyes not stopped them with a look. It is almost hormonal with these two, Reyes thought. Put Voelker and Candotti in a room together and you could practically see the metaphysical antlers growing out of their heads.

They realized then that the shouting had stopped and for a long while there was no indication of what was going on inside the office. Finally, Voelker glanced at the time on his notebook and reached passed John to rap on the door.

To John's vast satisfaction, it was the Father General who yelled, 'Not now, dammit.'

Inside the office, Emilio Sandoz was staring at Vincenzo Giuliani in utter disbelief.

'So you see, it was, in retrospect, a wise decision,' Giuliani was saying, hands spread placatingly. 'If we had published everything as the data arrived, it would have been even worse when it came out later.'

Sandoz stood there, rigid, almost unable to take it in. He wanted to believe that it made no difference, but it did. It made everything different, and he tried to remember every conversation they'd had, almost faint with the fear that he'd remember saying something, unknowing, that might have wounded her.

Giuliani pulled out a chair for him. 'Sit down, Emilio. Obviously, this is a shock.' A scholar himself, Giuliani was not at all happy about the suppression of scientific work, but there were larger issues here, things Sandoz could not be told. He was not proud of himself for bringing Mendes into this, but it was a useful diversion and might unearth some relevant insight if he could get Sandoz to open up. 'You didn't know?'

Emilio shook his head, still dazed. 'She said something once. Just that she preferred bond-work for a broker to prostitution. I thought she was speaking hypothetically. I had no idea…She must have been a child,' he whispered, horrified. How did she survive being used like that? With all the resources of an adult, it had destroyed him.

She had saved his life, her AI navigation system piloting the Stella Maris back to the solar system nearly a year after her own death on Rakhat. He was a broken man, alone, incapable even when whole of coping with the navigational tasks. Sofia's programs had done it all: efficient, logical and competent as their creator. Sometimes he would call up the initial screen that put the AI program in motion and stare at the message she had left in Hebrew. 'Live,' it said, 'and remember.' It was more than he could stand to think of, and he forced himself away from it, fighting the descent into migraine. She's dead and I may as well be, he thought. The work doesn't deserve to be entombed as well.

'It makes no difference,' he insisted then, and Giuliani realized the diversion hadn't worked. 'I want our work published. Moral indignation over the authors' sex lives is irrelevant. And Anne's stuff and D.W.'s! I want all of it published. We sent back something like two hundred papers in three years. It's all that's left of what we were, Vince—'

'All right, all right. Calm down. We can address that issue later. There is more at stake here than you realize. No, just be quiet,' Giuliani said peremptorily when Sandoz opened his mouth. 'We are talking about solid science, not ripe peaches. The data will not deteriorate. We've already delayed publication for over twenty years for reasons that have seemed good and sufficient to three successive generals, Emilio.' He was not above applying leverage. 'The sooner these hearings are over and we are clear about what happened on Rakhat and why, the sooner the Society will be able to make a decision about the wisdom of publication. And I promise you will be consulted.'

'Consulted!' Sandoz cried. 'Look: I want that work published and if—'

'Father Sandoz,' the Father General of the Society of Jesus reminded him, hands folded on the table, 'you do not own that data.'

There was a moment of stunned silence before Sandoz slumped in his seat and turned away, eyes closed, mouth hard, effectively checkmated. A minute or so later, one gloved hand went involuntarily to the side of his head, pressing against the temple. Giuliani got up and went to the lavatory for a glass of water and the bottle of Prograine he now kept handy. 'One or two?' he asked when he got back. One tablet didn't quite do the job; two flattened Sandoz for hours.

'One, damn you.'

Giuliani placed the tablet in the palm of the glove Sandoz held out abruptly and watched as the man tossed the pill into his mouth and took the glass between his wrists. He could manage some things quite well with Candotti's fingerless gloves on. The gloves reminded Giuliani of those once worn by cyclists; the athletic allusion made Sandoz seem less impaired without the braces, if you didn't watch carefully. New braces were being fabricated.

Giuliani took the glass back to the lavatory and when he returned, Sandoz was resting his head on the heels of his hands, elbows on the table. Hearing Giuliani's steps, he said almost soundlessly, 'Turn off the lights.'

Giuliani did so and then went to the windows to pull the heavy outer curtains closed as well. It was another gray day, but even dull light seemed to bother Emilio when he had a headache. 'Would you like to lie down?' he asked.

'No. Shit. Give me some time.'

Giuliani walked to his desk. Rather than open the door and tell the others himself, he routed a message to the front door, asking the porter to relay it to the men waiting outside his office: the afternoon's meeting was canceled. Brother Edward was to wait in the hall for Father Sandoz.

To pass the time, Giuliani did some of what he still thought of as paperwork, reviewing several letters before signing off on transmission. In the quiet that now settled over the office, he could hear the elderly gardener, Father Crosby, whistling tunelessly outside the windows as he deadheaded the annuals and pinched back chrysanthemums. It was perhaps twenty minutes later when Emilio's head came up and he sat back gingerly in his chair, the heel of one hand still pressing hard against the side of his forehead. Giuliani closed the file he was working on and went back to the table, sitting in the chair across from Emilio.

Sandoz's eyes remained closed but, hearing the chair move, he said almost inaudibly, 'I don't have to stay here.'

'No. You don't,' Giuliani agreed neutrally.

'I want that stuff published. I could write the papers again.'