It was also a hard word to hear.
“Plague!” It came out of Rigo’s belly like a grunt.
These days the word meant only one thing. A slow virus of the most insidious type and hideous aspect. A slow virus which emerged at last to make the body devour itself as in a spasm of biological self-hatred. Father Sandoval had insisted on showing Rigo a banned documentary made by a fellow priest, now dead, at an aid station where plague victims were treated and given whatever rites would comfort them. There had been bodies on all the cots, some of them still living. Rigo’s eyes had slid across the picture, observing it without wanting to see it. The cube had made him see it. It had included sound and smell, and he had recoiled from the stench as he tried to shut out the guttural, agonized coughs, the mutilated bodies, the eyes sunk so deep they made the faces seem skull-like.
“Plague,” he muttered again. The rumor was that it had moved from planet to planet, lying dormant for decades, only to emerge at last in place after place, giving no hint of its origin, subverting every attempt to stay it. The rumor was that science had proved helpless, able to isolate the monster but utterly incapable of stopping it once it had invaded a human host. The rumor had been circulating for over twenty years. If there really was plague, by now the victims must be numbered in the billions. So said rumor and rumor only, for Sanctity denied that there was plague, and what Sanctity denied, the human worlds denied—by and large.
“You mean my uncle?” Roderigo demanded.
“I didn’t know he was your uncle until today. The Hierarch.” The acolyte turned to stare at him with suddenly human eyes.
“I’m not supposed to say anything to you, sir. Please, don’t tell them I did. Here are the rooms of the division chief for Missions, sir. If you have questions, you must ask the division chief. You must ask Sender O’Neil.”
The acolyte turned away, losing himself in the stream of anonymous acolytes, only at the turn of the corridor turning back to stare at Roderigo Yrarier, who still stood there before the door, his eyes down, an expression of loathing on his face.
“That acolyte should be disciplined,” said a watcher. “Look at him, standing there, staring.” The watcher himself was staring nearsightedly through the crack of a very slightly opened door, his age-spotted hand trembling on the wall beside it.
“He’s only curious,” said his companion from over his shoulder. “How often do you think he gets to see anyone except the Sanctified. Shut the door. Did you understand what the old man said, Hallers?”
“The Hierarch? He said his nephew had a chance of finding what we need because of the horses.”
“And do you think Yrarier will succeed?”
“Well, Cory, he has a fine dramatic look to him, doesn’t he? All that black hair and white skin and red, red lips. I suppose he has as good a chance as anyone.”
The man addressed as Cory made a face. He, himself, had never been dramatic-looking, and he often regretted that fact. Now he looked simply old, with wispy hair frilling his ears and spiderwebs of wrinkles around his eyes. “He looks more dramatic than clever, but I hope he succeeds. We need him to succeed, Hallers. We need it.”
“You don’t need to tell me that, Cory. If we don’t get a cure soon, we’re dead. Everyone.”
There was a pause. Hallers turned to see his lifelong companion staring at the floor, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Even if we get it very soon, I think it will be better if we let the dying go on, some places.”
Hallers moved uncertainly toward his companion, his expression confused. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Well, Hallers, suppose we get the cure tomorrow. Why should we save everyone? Our own best people, of course, but why bother with everyone else? Why bother with some of the worlds, for example?”
Silence in the room while Hallers stared and Cory Strange watched for his reaction. Shock at first. Well, when Cory had first had the idea, he had been shocked at it too. But then Cory had realized what it could do for Sanctity….
“You’d let them die? Whole worlds of men?”
The other shrugged elaborately, wincing as the shrug started a sudden pain in one arthritic shoulder. “In the long run, I think it would be best for Sanctity, don’t you? Mankind is too widespread already. Sanctity has done what it can to stop exploration, but it does go on. A group here, a group there, sneaking out. Little frontier worlds, here and there. And what happens? A place like Shafne, for example, where we can’t even get a decent foothold! No, men are spread far too widely for us to control well.”
“That’s certainly the current view of the Council of Elders, I agree, but—”
“In any case,” the other interrupted, “we need to keep an eye on Yrarier so we know what he’s up to. Didn’t you tell me that Nods had been assigned to Grass? Head of Acceptable Doctrine with the penitents there, didn’t you say? Or did someone else tell me?”
“It must have been someone else. You mean our old friend Noddingale?”
“Him, yes. Though he’s adopted one of those strange Green Brother names. Jhamlees. Jhamlees Zoe.”
“Jhamlees Zoe?” The other laughed breathlessly.
“Don’t laugh. The Brothers are quite serious about their religious names. Stay a moment while I write a note. Have one of your youngsters pack it into something innocent-looking, cover it with a code note and a destruct-wrap, and send it on the ship that takes Yrarier.”
He sat at his desk and began to write, “My dear old friend Nods …” his hand forming the letters with some difficulty.
His equally ancient friend, leaning over his shoulder, interrupted
