Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

Chapter 14

In a panic, Tony jumped up and down on the contact. He may not have had any mass, but apparently he was gathering energy, because the contact finally moved—not enough, but it moved.

“May I help you?” asked a rich, resonant voice.

Tony started so violently he nearly leaped out of the circuit. Turning, he saw a distinguished-looking gentleman in a top hat and opera cape over a tuxedo, silver-headed walking stick in hand. His hair was silver, too, and so was his neatly-trimmed mustache.

“Who,” Tony squeaked, “are you?”

“Horace Astin at your service.” The old gent swept off his hat for an elaborate bow. “Member of the resident company of this theater back when it had one, in 1912. Collapsed in the wings right after my finest performance as Old Hamlet’s Ghost. Perhaps that is why I prefer to haunt. Couldn’t leave the theater, you know.”

Tony didn’t, but he did grasp the fact that there were now two spirits instead of one. “Think if we both jump on the contact, it might move?”

“It might,” the ghost conceded, “but I have a simpler solution.” He flipped his cane over and jammed the silver head between the contacts. With a snap, electrons flowed. Astin yanked his cane out.

Okay, the contact sprang up again, but it had only had to close once. Tony froze, listening to the horrendous noise of the car bomb that went on and on far longer than any explosion really could have—and when it had almost died away, boomed again. The audience roared at the sound cue itself.

Trembling with relief, Tony wiped sweat from his imaginary forehead. “Thanks very much, Mr. Astin.”

“Not at all, my good fellow. The show must go on, you know.”

Tony didn’t, but he wasn’t abut to say so. “ ’Scuse me—gotta check on the action.”

“Of course,” Horace Astin said agreeably, and waved his hat as Tony sprang out of the laptop and peeked around the screen to see the stage. He was just in time to see Cassandro stagger back in through the door with the steering wheel around his neck—and the audience went wild, rocking the walls with laughter, hooting and cheering.

Rally slept blissfully through it all.

When the laughter began to slacken, I said, “Go Cue Sixty-five—curtain down!”

The curtain fell and the applause crashed on my free ear. I glanced at the stage, saw the actors lined up trembling with eagerness, and said, “Curtain up.”

The applause grew even louder. The cast all bowed, straightened up, waited a second, then bowed again.

“Curtain down,” I said.

As soon as it touched the stage floor, Andy was gesturing at me to raise it again. I waited a few seconds to build audience desire, then said, “Curtain up.”

Another wave of applause hit, and the actors bowed again.

After five curtain calls, I decided enough was enough and called, “Go houselights.”

The applause slackened, and the murmuring began as the audience gathered up their purses and hats and started for the door.

The actors came running to berate me, everyone sure they could have milked the applause for one more bow at least, but I wasn’t there to tell them that the audience would have realized it was being milked and would have resented it. No, by the time they got to the stage manager’s desk, I was halfway to the light booth to see what was the matter with Rally.

He was sound asleep.

Rally was sitting slumped forward with his head on his arms, a laptop to either side and a plastic cup knocked on its side next to his forearm. I picked up the glass and took a sniff. That definitely wasn’t ginger ale. So the whole cast had been drinking champagne during intermission—just one very small glass, apparently, or it would have thrown their timing off—and one of them, not wanting to be selfish, had brought Rally a glass. I had a notion that if I could have afforded a chemical analysis, I would have found more in it than fermented grape juice.

Lyle edged in the door—sideways was the only way he would fit, and even then he had to duck—and stared at Rally. “What happened to him?”

“We’ll never know,” I said, “and neither will he, I suspect. You want to grab his shoulders, Lyle? We oughta get him to bed.”

Lyle took Rally’s shoulders, and I took his feet. As we went out the door, Lyle said, “There’s a pile of old curtains in one of the stage-left dressing rooms.”

“Flame-proofing,” I warned. “If it’s old enough, traces can get in the dust.”

“So we throw a tarp over them,” Lyle said. “I’ll take first shift.”

“Yeah, Rally shouldn’t wake up in a strange place alone,” I agreed. “Who’s gonna cover for him tonight?”

“The local hand,” Lyle grunted. “Let her do something while she’s watching. Doesn’t this count as a criminal offense, Jack?”

“What, slipping him a mickey? It’s not enough to call the cops in for. Besides, the last thing I want is for us to get bogged down with the local law.”

“Yeah, they might make us stay around for a couple of days.” Lyle looked up at me. “Who do you think did it, Jack?”

“I don’t know,” I grunted, “but suddenly I’m beginning to suspect that all those ‘accidents’ that have been happening, may not have been so accidental after all.”

Lyle was silent as we eased Rally out of the door to the balcony lobby and started down the main stairs. Then he said, “That almost-fight last night—you could say Jory got us into it . . .”

“What, by trying to get that local to quit drooling into Dulcie’s neckline? Might as well say Dulcie started it by being so desirable.”

But he had a point. I was going to have to review all the accidents and see where Jory had been a few minutes before.

Tony hated to leave Jack to his detective work alone, but he had a date with Sandy that night—at least, he hoped he did. Besides, St. Vidicon must have had him on a bungee cord or something, because the theater lobby grew redder and redder until Tony seemed to be swimming in wine. Then the wine developed lumps that turned into shapes, and he found he was walking down the maroon hallway again by Father Vidicon’s side. “Thanks, Father. We got ’em through that one, anyway.”

“The rest is their own concern,” Father Vidicon said, “that is, until they call upon us again.”

It was nice of the priest to include him, but he knew nobody was going to call upon Saint Tony. Besides, the way he was feeling toward Sandy was scarcely saintly. “I’d better wake up,” Tony said. “Don’t want to be late for work.”

“Perish the thought,” Father Vidicon agreed. “Remember, Tony—no closer than six inches.”

Sandy and Tony were quite well behaved for several weeks after that, going to the theater and the ballet and the movies and spending Saturdays and most of Sundays together, roaming the city. Once she asked to see his apartment, which of course ended with a little light cuddling before they resolutely went back out to see if they could find any new sights.

There were minutes of very agreeable silence, staring into each other’s eyes or gazing at the scenery in the park while they held hands, but most of the time, they were talking—sometimes serious, sometimes not, sometimes reducing each other to bundles of laughter. At work, Tony found it hard to concentrate on the latest problem he was trouble-shooting—images of Sandy kept popping up over the screenful of code.

After each date, though, he did see her home, and she always invited him in for brandy, and the chats always turned into cuddling sessions, which Tony usually managed to end before they turned into outright fore-play.

Finally, one night when he managed to stop, and said, “I . . . I’d better go,” she turned cold as ice. “If you do, don’t come back.”

“What? I . . . I don’t understand.”

“You can’t keep doing this to me! You can’t keep getting me all worked up, then run out on me!”

“I don’t mean to . . .”

“Don’t mean to frustrate me? Don’t mean to leave me hanging? But you do it.”

“Only respect . . .”

“Or cowardice? What are you afraid of, anyway, Tony? Are women really all that frightening?”

“Not at all. You’re wonderful creatures, you more than any.”

“And your idea of proving that is to walk out on me?”

“You haven’t said ‘yes’ yet.”

“What do you think I’m saying now?”

“Not to the right question! If this doesn’t work out between us, I don’t want you doubly hurt!”

“It’s gone too far for that already,” Sandy said, her voice shaking. “Why? Are you planning to run out on me?”

“No, of course not! I want it to work out, want it to last forever! But you only want it for the moment!”

“Enough moments add up to a lifetime,” Sandy returned, “and if they don’t, I might as well have gotten something out of it. If I’m going to suffer the agony, I damn well want to have the ecstasy first, don’t you think?”

A sudden stillness came over Tony, a sudden certainty. “I don’t think you should have to suffer at all.” He stood up. “Let me know when you’re ready to hear me ask the right question.” He caught up his jacket and went to the door.

Sandy caught up with him before he turned the knob and pressed it shut. “What if I don’t believe in marriage?”

“It exists,” Tony said.

“Oh sure, people get married, but I’ve never seen it work out the way it’s supposed to! A lifetime of wrangling and quarreling, or some really bitter fights before a divorce—why take the chance?”

“Because I have seen it work out,” Tony said. “Okay, not with joy and symphonies every step of the way, but I’ve seen couples in their sixties still together, still loving each other.”

“Loving each other again,” Sandy corrected, “And I notice you don’t say still in love.”

“No,” Tony said. “The priest doesn’t work magic when he says the words. There are rough spots, sometimes rough years, but people can make it work, and when they’re in their sixties, they’re awfully glad they did.”

“After they fell out of love but had to keep living together,” Sandy said. “I’m sorry, Tony, but I don’t want to wait until I’m sixty-five to be happy.”

“I don’t want to wait either,” Tony said softly, “but I will if I have to.”

Sandy stared in surprize, and her hold on the door weakened enough for Tony to open it. She made a wild grab, but he stepped toward the opening, and she jolted into him, face-to-face. He kissed her, sweetly, sadly, then leaned back to gaze into her eyes, and whispered, “Good night.”

He stepped out into the hall before she snapped, “Good-bye!” and slammed the door behind him.

Of course Tony knew he’d been really stupid, turning down an invitation like that. Any man in his right mind would have leaped at the chance to jump into bed with a beauty like Sandy. Did that constitute getting serious or just taking advantage? Or did all those dates with no sign of anything more than petting constitute taking advantage? He supposed sex could be interpreted as a sign of getting serious, though he’d known a lot of men for whom it was anything but.

“This is all your fault, you know,” he told Father Vidicon in a dream that night. “I never thought of sex as a sin until I met you.”

“Ah, the sad state of Catholic education!” Father Vidicon sighed. “I see that Finagle is afoot even in popular culture.”

“Probably more there than anywhere,” Tony said glumly. “Our TV sets tell us ‘Go, go!’ but the schools and the preachers tell us, ‘Don’t, don’t!’ ”

“There is good sense in it,” Father Vidicon said. “Sex should involve emotional commitment, Tony, and does when a woman is young. The heartbreak of the first break-up is far worse if bodies have been involved.”

“I suppose so,” Tony said, “but that’s what a priest is supposed to say.”

“Tony! You don’t think I’d mislead you?”

“Not willingly,” Tony said, “though you haven’t been entirely forthcoming either.”

“Me?” Father Vidicon cried in genuine surprize. “What information have I withheld from you?”

“Now that you ask,” Tony said, “I’ve found myself wondering what you’re doing while I’m off fighting little gremlkins.”

“Those interludes do have their interesting sides.”

“What about that run-in you had while I was convoying Gadget and Nick? You were fighting the minion who lay behind all their troubles, weren’t you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” St. Vidicon admitted.

Tony counted five paces, waiting for the priest to go on. When he didn’t, Tony prodded, “You going to tell me about it?”

“Why bother?” Father Vidicon asked. “You can read about it on your computer.”

“Hey, I’ve earned the right to hear about it from the horse’s mouth! I mean . . .”

Father Vidicon laughed. “No offense taken, Tony. Well, enough; if you really want to know what happened, I’ll tell you. Let’s walk while we talk, though, shall we?” He set off down the hall, and as he told the story, his voice began to fall into the Renaissance rhythms and patterns of King James’s scholars.

Saint Vidicon strode bravely onward through the throat of Hell. He was newly martyred, having died in place of a resistor, that the word of His Holiness the Pope might reach unto every corner of the world for the saving of its souls—but even ere he had come to Heaven, he had found himself pitted against the Imp of the Perverse, that he might achieve governance over the spirit of self-defeat, for the glory of God and the salvation of all who labor with video or keyboard. Yet having routed the Imp, he did not seek escape, but strode ahead in answer to the call he felt, the new vocation the Lord had given.

As he went, the crimson of the walls about him darkened down toward ruby, then darkened further still, toward purple. Protuberances began to rise from the floor, each taller than the last, excrescences that did stand upon slender stalks as high as his waist. Then did their tips begin to broaden and to swell until he saw that, every few paces, he did pass a glowing ball that stood by his hip. And he did see a strip upon the ceiling that did widen, with decorations that did glow upon it, curlicues and arabesques. It sprouted chandeliers, and square they were, or rectangular, and they did hang down from chains at each corner. Yet neither were they chains, but cables or, aye, rods. “These are like to tables,” Father Vidicon did murmur. “Tables inverted.” Then he did notice that a bulge, extruding from the ceiling, did broaden out, then sprouted upon a side. The good father frowned and bethought him, “ ’Tis like unto a chair.” And it was, in truth.

Thus did the saint realize that he did pace upon the ceiling of a hallway with a strip of carpet oriental, and with chairs and tables hanging above his head. And Lo! He did pass by a mirror set into the wall that did glow with the maroon of the wall across from it, and as he did step past, he saw himself inverted, with chest and hip vanishing upward. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to rid himself of the sight, and when he did ope them, he did see that the walls now did flow past him toward his front; indeed, the mirror did slide past a second time, from back to fore. With every step he took, the walls went farther past, and dizziness did claim him. Then did thrills of danger course through his nerves, for he saw that he had come upon a region of inversion, where all was upside down and progress turned to regress, where every step forward took him two steps backward, and all was opposite to how it should have been. “I near the demon,” the saint bethought himself, and knew that he came nigh the Spirit of Illogic.

Yet Saint Vidicon perceived that he could not approach that spirit unless it chanced that he might discover some way to progress. He stopped; the motion of the wall stopped with him, as it should; and Father Vidicon did grin with delight, then took one step backward. In truth, the wall did then move from front to back. He laughed with joy and set off, walking backward. The mirror slid past him again, going from the front, then toward the back, as was fit and proper. So thus, retreating ever, Father Vidicon went onward toward the Spirit of Contrariness.

And Lo! The spirit did come nigh.

The spirit approached, though he moved not; for he stood, arms akimbo, feet apart, sailing at Father Vidicon as he watched the good saint come; and the spirit’s eyes were shielded behind two curving planes of darkness. From head to foot he was clothed in khaki, aye, even to his shirt, where it did show between lapels, and his necktie was of brown. Clean-shaven he was, and long-faced, smiling with delight full cynical, crowned with a cap high-peaked with a polished visor, and insigniae did gleam upon his shoulder boards.

Then Father Vidicon did halt some paces distant, filled with wariness, and quoth he, “I know thee, Spirit—for thou art Murphy!”

But, “Nay,” quoth the spirit, “I am someone else by that same name.”

Father Vidicon’s face did darken then. “Deceive me not. Thou it is who hath enunciated that fell principle by which all human projects come to doom.”

“No mortal man or woman declared that phrase,” the spirit replied. “It sprang to life of itself among the living, and none on earth know why.”

Father Vidicon frowned. “Dost thou say thou art a Form Platonic, an essence of that source within humans that doth enunciate perversity and doom?”

“The doom’s within the doer,” the spirit answered, “How may I exorcize it? Nay, ’tis they who bring it out, not I.”

“Thou speakest false, fell foe!” Father Vidicon did cry. “Well thou dost know the wish to fail is buried deep in most and, left to lie, would sleep quiescent. ’Tis thou dost invest each mortal, thou who doth nurture and encourage that doom-laden wish!”

But the spirit’s smile remained, untouched. “If I do, what boots it? Wouldst thou truly blame me for encouragement?”

“For nurture of foul folly, aye! As thou wouldst know, if thou didst not look upon the world through the fell filter of Inversion!” Thereupon did Father Vidicon leap forth to seize those darkened lenses of the spirit, to rip away the shadow’s shades, crying, “Look not through your glasses, darkly!”

They came away within his hand, yet not only those dark lenses, but all the face, peeling off the spirit’s head like to a shrivelled husk, exposing there within a mass of hair.

Father Vidicon gazed on the coiffure, stunned.

Slowly, then the spirit turned, hair sliding aside to show another face. Hooded eyes now gazed upon the saint, darkened indeed, but not in frames; for his eyes were naught but frosted glass, and his twisting mouth a grinning grimace.

Father Vidicon did swallow thickly and looked down into his hands, where he beheld the back side of the empty mask. “Truth,” he cried, “I should have thought! Thou has backward worn they wear!”

But the spirit chortled then, “Not so! Behold my buskins!”

Then Father Vidicon looked down and found that the spirit spoke in sooth. The heels of his shoes were there, and his toes did point away upon the other side. “Alas!” the good saint cried, “What boots it?” Then up he raised his gaze, and did declare, “Thy head’s on backward!”

“In sooth.” The spirit grinned. “Wouldst thou expect aught else?”

“Nay, surely!” Father Vidicon now clamped his jaw and folded all his features in a frown. “I should have known! Thou art the jaundiced Janus!”

“Two-faced in truth,” the spirit did agree.

“That thou art not! Truth there cannot be in him who’s two-faced. Thine hinder face was false!”

“What else?” The spirit shrugged. “Yet canst thou be sure? Mayhap another countenance doth lie beneath my hair, and I have truly eyes behind, as well as those before.”

“Nay, that sight must be seen,” the saint then said, and looking up to Heaven, he did pray: “Good Father, now forgive! That in my false pride and folly, I did think myself so fit for fighting such ectoplasmic enemies. I pray Thee now Thine aid to give, and send me here a weapon to withstand this Worker of our Woe!”

But the spirit chuckled. “What idle plea is this? What instrument could thy Patron place in thy palm that could reverse the perverse?”

A spark of light did gleam within the good priest’s hand, glaring and glowing into glass, and Father Vidicon held up a mirror.

His foe laughed outright. “What! Wilt thou then fight the Spirit of Defeat with so small a service?”

“Aye,” quoth Father Vidicon, “if it shows truly.”

“Nay—for ’tis ‘DARKLY, through a glass.’ Dost thou not recall?”

But Father Vidicon held up the mirror to reflect the spirit’s face into his eyes.

“Nay, I have another, then!” it cried. One arm slipped backward into its inner pocket and did whisk out another glass, a foot or more in width, and opposed it to the plate the good saint held, reflecting back reflections into the Reverend’s regard.

“It will not serve!” the good priest cried, and even as he spoke, his mirror grew to half again the size of the spirit’s, throwing back into its eyes the sight of its own face with a glass beside it, within which was his face, with a frame, within a face. The spirit shrieked and yanked his own glass aside, away, but its image held within the priest’s reflector. “ ’Tis too late to take away!” the good priest cried. “Dost thou not see thou hast begun a feedback uncontrolled?”

And so it was.

“It cannot serve!” the spirit wailed. “No feedback can sustain without a power input!”

“I have the Input of the greatest Power that doth exist,” Saint Vidicon explained with quiet calm. “All power in the Universe doth flow from this one Source!”

The mirror grew still brighter within the view of each—brighter then and brighter, white-hot, flaring, burning up the image of the Imp, and as its image burned, so did the spirit itself. For, “In truth,” quoth Father Vidicon, “thou art naught BUT image.”

Thus with wailing howl, the spirit frayed and dwindled, shimmering, burned to tatters, and was gone.

“So, at bottom, he was, at most, a hologram,” Father Vidicon mused, “and what was formed by mirrors can by them be undone.”

He laid the glass that had swallowed the spirit most carefully on its face and, folding his hands, cast his gaze upward. “Good Lord, I give Thee thanks that Thou hast preserved Thine unworthy servant a second time from such destruction! I pray Thee only that Thou wilt vouchsafe to me the strength of soul and humility that I will need to confront whatever adversary Thou wilt oppose to me.”

The mirror winked, and glimmered, and was gone.

Father Vidicon gazed upon the place where it had been and sighed “I thank Thee, Lord, that thou hast heard me. Preserve me, thus, I pray, ’gainst all other hazards that may hover.”

So saying, then, he signed himself with the Cross, and stood, and strode on farther down toward Hell.

But as Tony had been reading, Father Vidicon’s words had been turning into print, scrolling upward—and by the time they had turned into letters on a computer screen, he had been too much engrossed in the story to complain. Now that it was finished, he was too happy with the ending to feel cheated. After all, that was one fight every engineer wanted to win.

Anyway, it had taken his mind off Sandy for a little while.

A little. Now all he could think about was her, again.

“Sandy, honey, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing, Rachel.” Sandy dabbed furiously with her hanky, blotting the tears.

“Nothing?” I find my friend crying in the bathroom and it’s nothing? Tell Rachel what it really is.”

“Just a mood.” Sandy took out her compact and started trying to make repairs. She froze for a moment, repulsed by the tear-stained face in the mirror, then patted on more foundation with renewed vigor.

“What’s his name?”

Sandy froze again, then went back to her makeup.

Rachel’s eyes widened. “It’s that computer guy, isn’t it? The one I saw you with at Nepenthe the other night! What’s the matter, honey? Did he dump you?”

“No, no, it’s not his fault!” Sandy cried in alarm.

“So it is him!” Rachel came forward, arms wide. “Oh, poor Sandy! What did he do?”

“Nothing.” Sandy’s voice broke on the word. She tried to ignore it, tucking her compact away.

“Oh,” Rachel said, and her tone spoke volumes. “That’s too bad, honey. He seemed like such a nice guy.”

“He is.” Appalled, Sandy felt the tears starting again. “Oh Rachel, I think I did something really stupid.”

When Tony was about worn-out with writing letters he didn’t mail and moping in the doldrums, he acknowledged that his fascination with Sandy wasn’t going to wear off and felt doom settle over him. He headed for bed, hoping things would look better in the morning, and finally managed to drift into sleep in spite of the images of Sandy that kept flashing and fading before his eyes. It wasn’t much, as sleeps go, so he wasn’t all that surprized to find himself walking down the maroon corridor next to Father Vidicon.

“You did as your conscience told you, Tony,” Father Vidicon said. “You knew you’d be taking advantage of her, and you refused to.”

“Any man in his right mind would have taken advantage of her!”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not in your right mind.” Father Vidicon clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up! If she’s really in love with you, she’ll bolster her courage and marry you.”

“So if she doesn’t want to marry me, she must not really be in love with me,” Tony said glumly “That’s not all that reassuring, Father Vidicon.”

“And you think that if you accepted her offer, not to say blackmail, it might grow into a marriage?”

“In fact if not in name?” Tony shrugged. “There would be a chance, at least.”

“Have faith in the young woman, Tony—and have faith in yourself. Give her a while to think it over before you do anything drastic.”

“Give her a while. Yeah. Sure. Just how am I supposed to keep from going crazy while I’m waiting?”

“Well, as to that,” St. Vidicon said, “I did have something in mind.”