So if the system was working correctly, she had reasoned, the onset of the long diastole should have immediately sent the heart monitor outside the expected range and triggered an alarm. But it didn 't Neither the first time nor any other time. Is it possible that we have a double failure here? If so, how did the unit continue to pa.s.s self-test?

At first Nicole had thought about phoning one of her a.s.sistants in the life science office at ISA to discuss the anomaly she had found, but she decided instead, since it was a holiday for ISA, to telephone Dr. Hakamatsu in j.a.pan. That phone call to him had completely bewildered her. He had told her flatly that the phenomenon she had observed must have been in the patient, that no combination of component failures in his probe could have produced such strange results. "But then why were there no entries in the warning file?" she had asked the j.a.panese electronics designer.

"Because no expected range values were exceeded," he answered confidently. "For some reason an extremely wide expected range must have been entered for this particular cosmonaut. Have you looked at his medical history?" Later on in the conversation, when Nicole told Dr. Hakamatsu that the unexplained data had actually come from the probes inside one of his countrymen, namely cosmonaut-scientist Takagishi, the usually restrained engineer had actually shouted into the phone. "Wonderful," he had said, "then I'll be able to clear up this mystery in a hurry. I'll contact Takagishi-san over at Kyoto University and let you know what I find."

Three hours later Nicole's video monitor had revealed the somber face of Dr. Shigeru Takagishi. "Madame des Jardins," he had said very politely, "I understand that you have been talking with my colleague Hakamatsu-san about my biometry output during the simulations. Would you be kind enough to explain to me what you have found?" Nicole had then presented all the information to her fellow cosmonaut, concealing nothing and expressing her personal belief that the source of the erroneous data had indeed been a probe malfunction.

A long silence followed Nicole's explanation. At length the worried j.a.panese scientist had spoken again. "Hakamatsusan just visited me here at the university and checked out the probe set inside me. He will report that he I found no problems with his electronics." Takagishi had then paused, seem-> ingly deep in thought. "Madame des Jardins," he had said a few seconds later, "I would like to ask you a favor. It is a matter of the utmost importance to me. Could you possibly come to see me in j.a.pan in the very near future? I would like to talk with you personally and explain something that may be related to my irregular biometry data."

There had been an earnestness in Takagishi's face that Nicole could neither overlook nor misinterpret. He was clearly imploring her to help him. Without asking any more questions, she had agreed to visit him immediately. A few minutes later she had reserved a seat on the overnight supersonic flight from Paris to Osaka.

"It was never bombed during the great war with America/'

Takagishi said, waving his arms at the city of Kyoto spread out below them, "and it suffered almost no damage when the hoodlums took over for seven months in 2141.1 admit that I am prejudiced," he said, smiling, "but to me Kyoto is the most beautiful city in the world."

"Many of my countrymen feel that way about Paris," Nicole answered. She pulled her coat rightly around her. The air was cold and damp. It felt as if it might snow at any moment. She was wondering when her a.s.sociate was going to start talking about their business. She had not flown five thousand miles for a tour of the city, although she did admit that this Kyomizu Temple set among the trees on a hillside overlooking the city was certainly a magnificent spot.

"Let's have some tea," Takagishi said. He led her to one of the several outside tearooms flanking the main part of the old Buddhist temple. Now, Nicole said to herself as she stifled a yawn, he's going to tell me what this is all about. Takagishi had met her at the hotel when she had arrived. He had suggested that she have some lunch and a short nap before he returned. After he had picked her up at three o'clock, they had come directly to this temple.

He poured the thick j.a.panese tea into the two cups and waited for Nicole to take a sip. The hot liquid warmed her mouth even though she didn't care for the bitter taste.

"Madame," Takagishi began, "you are doubtless wondering why I have asked you to come all the way to j.a.pan on such short notice. You see," he spoke slowly but with great intensity, "all my life I have dreamed that perhaps another Rama s.p.a.cecraft would return while I was still alive. During my studies at the university and during my many years of research I was preparing myself for one single event, the return of the Ramans. On that March morning in 2197 when Alastair Moore called me to say that the latest images from Excalibur indicated that we had another extraterrestrial visitor, I nearly wept with joy. I knew immediately that the ISA would mount a mission to visit the s.p.a.ceship. I resolved to be part of that mission."

The j.a.panese scientist took a drink from his tea and looked to his left, out across the manicured green trees and the slopes above the city. "When I was a boy," he continued, his careful English barely audible, "I would climb these hills on a clear night and stare into the sky, searching for the home of the special intelligence that had created that incomparable giant machine. Once I came with my father and we huddled together in the cold night air, looking at the stars, while he told me what it had been like in his village during the days of the first Rama encounter twelve years before I was born. I believed on that night"-he turned to look at Nicole and she could again see the pa.s.sion in his eyes-"and I still believe today, that there was some reason for that visit, some purpose for the appearance of that awesome s.p.a.ceship. I have studied all the data from that 6rst encounter, hoping to find a clue that would explain why it came. Nothing has been conclusive. I have developed several theories on the subject, but I do not have enough evidence to support any of them."

Again Takagishi stopped talking to drink some of his tea. Nicole had been both surprised and impressed by the depth of feeling he had exhibited. She sat patiently and said nothing while she waited for him to continue. "I knew that I had a good chance to be selected as a cosmonaut," he said, "not only because of my publications, including the Atlas, but also because one of my closest a.s.sociates, Hisanori Akita, was the j.a.panese representative on the selection board. When the number of scientists remaining in the compet.i.tion had been reduced to eight and I was one of them, Akita-san suggested to me that it looked as if the two leading contenders were myself and David Brown. You'll recall that up until that time, no physical examinations of any kind had been conducted."

That's right, Nicole remembered. The potential crew was first reduced to forty-eight and then we were all taken to Heidelberg for the physicals. The German doctors in charge insisted that each of the candidates must pa.s.s every single medical criterion. The academy graduates were the first group tested and five out of twenty failed. Including Alain Blamont "When your countryman Blamont, who had already flown half a dozen major missions for the ISA, was disqualified from consideration because of that trivial heart murmur-and the Cosmonaut Selection Board subsequently upheld the doctors by denying his appeal-I completely panicked." The proud j.a.panese physicist was now staring directly into Nicole's eyes, entreating her to understand. "I was afraid that I was going to lose the most important opportunity of my career because of a minor physical problem that had never before affected any part of my life." He paused to choose his words carefully. "1 know that what I did was wrong and dishonorable, but 1 convinced myself at the time it was all right, that my chance to decipher the greatest puzzle in man's history should not be blocked by a group of small-minded doctors defining acceptable health only in terms of numerical values.

Dr. Takagishi told the rest of his story without embellishment or obvious emotion. The pa.s.sion he had fleetingly demonstrated during his discussion of the Ramans had vanished. His monotonic recital was crisp and clear. He explained how he had cajoled his family physician into falsifying his medical history and providing him with a new drug that would prevent the occurrence of his diastolic irregularity during the two days of his physical at Heidelberg. Although there had been some risk of deleterious side effects from the new drug, everything went according to plan. Takagishi pa.s.sed the rigorous physical and was ultimately selected as one of the two mission scientists, along with Dr. David Brown. He had never thought again about the medical issue until about three months ago, when Nicole had first explained to the cosmonauts that she was planning to recommend the usage of the Hakamatsu probe system during the mission instead of the standard temporary probe scans once every week.

"You see," Takagishi explained, his brow now starting to furrow, "under the old mission technique I could have used that same drug once a week and neither you nor any other life science officer would ever have seen my irregularity, But a permanent monitoring system cannot be fooled-the drug is much too dangerous for constant use."

So you somehow worked out a deal with Hakamatsu, Nicole thought, jumping ahead of him in her own mind. Either with or without his explicit knowledge. And you input expected value ranges that would not trigger in the presence of your abnormality. You hoped that n.o.body a.n.a.lyzing the tests would call for a full biometry dump. Now she understood why he had summoned her urgently to j.a.pan. And you want me to keep your secret.

"Watakuski no doryo wa, wakarimas," Nicole said kindly, changing into j.a.panese to show her sympathy for her colleague's anguish. "I can tell how much distress this is causing you. You need not explain in detail how you tampered with the Hakamatsu probes." She paused and watched his face relax. "But if I understand you correctly, what you want is for me to become an accomplice to your deception. You recognize of course that I cannot even consider preserving your secret unless I am absolutely convinced that your minor physical problem, as you call it, represents no possible threat to the mission. Otherwise I would be forced-"

"Madame des Jardins," Takagishi interrupted her, "I have the utmost respect for your integrity. I would never, never ask you to keep my heart irregularity out of the record unless you agreed that it was really an insignificant problem." He looked at her in silence for several seconds.

"When Hakamatsu first phoned me last evening," he continued quietly, "I thought originally that I would call a press conference and then resign from the project. But while 1 was thinking about what I would say in my resignation, 1 kept seeing this image of Professor Brown. He is a brilliant man, my American counterpart, but he is also, in my opinion, too certain of his own infallibility. The most likely replacement for me would be Professor Wolfgang Heinrich from Bonn. He has published many fine papers about Rama but he, like Brown, believes that these celestial visits represent random events, totally without connection in any way to us and our planet." The intensity and pa.s.sion had returned to his eyes. "1 cannot quit now. Unless I have no choice. Both Brown and Heinrich might miss the clue." Behind Takagishi, on the path that the led back to the main wooden building of the temple, three Buddhist monks walked briskly past. Despite the cold, they were dressed lightly in their usual charcoal gray smocks, their feet exposed to the cold in open sandals. The j.a.panese scientist was proposing to Nicole that they spend the rest of the day at the office of his personal physician, where they could study his complete and uncensored medical history dating back to his childhood. If she would be willing, he added, they would give her a data cube containing all the information to take back to France and study at her leisure. Nicole, who had been listening intently to Takagishi for almost an hour, momentarily diverted her attention to the three monks now purposefully climbing the stairs in the distance. Their eyes are so serene, she thought. Their lives so free of contradiction. Onemindedness can be a virtue, ft makes all the answers easy. For just a moment she was envious of the monks and their ordered existence. She wondered how well they would handle the dilemma that Dr. Takagishi was presenting her. He is not one of the s.p.a.ce cadets, she was now thinking, so his role is not absolutely critical to mission success. And in a sense he is right The doctors on the project have been too strict. They never should have disqualified Alain. It would be a shame if . . .

"Daijobu," she said before he had finished talking. "1 will go with you to see your doctor and if I don't find anything that bothers me, I will take the entire file home with me to study during the holidays." Takagishi's face lit up. "But let me warn you again," she added, "if there is anything in your history that I find questionable, or if I have the slightest shred of evidence that you have withheld any information from me, then I will ask you to resign immediately."

"Thank you, thank you so much," Dr. Takagishi replied, standing and bowing to his female colleague. "Thank you so much," he repeated.

10 THE COSMONAUT AND THE POPE.

General O'Toole could not have slept more than two hours altogether. The combination of excitement and jet lag had kept his mind active all night long. He had studied the lovely bucolic mural on the wall opposite the bed in his hotel room and counted all the animals twice. Unfortunately, he had remained wide awake after he had finished both counts. He took a deep breath, hoping that it would help him relax. So why all this nervousness? he thought. He is l.u.s.t a man like all the rest on Earth. Well., not exactly. O'Toole sat up straight in his chair and smiled. It was ten o'clock in the morning and he was sitting in a small anteroom inside the Vatican. He was about to have a private audience with the Vicar of Christ himself, Pope John-Paul V.

During his childhood, Michael O'Toole had often dreamed of someday becoming the first North American pope. "Pope Michael," he had called himself during the long Sunday afternoons when he had studied his catechism alone. As he had repeated the words of his lessons over and over and committed them to memory, he had imagined himself, maybe fifty years in the future, wearing the ca.s.sock and papal ring, celebrating ma.s.s for thousands in the great churches and stadia of the world. He would inspire the poor, the hopeless, the downtrodden. He would show them how G.o.d could lead them to a better life.

As a young man Michael O'Toole had loved all learning, but three subjects had especially intrigued him. He could not read enough about religion, history, and physics. Somehow his facile mind found it easy to jump between these different disciplines. It never bothered him that the epistemologies of religion and physics were one hundred and eighty degrees apart. Michael O'Toole had no difficulty recognizing which questions in life should be answered by physics and which ones by religion.

All three of his favorite scholastic subjects merged in the study of creation. It was, after all, the beginning of everything, including religion, history, and physics. How had it happened? Was G.o.d present, as the referee perhaps, for the kickoff of the universe eighteen billion years ago?

Wasn't it He who had provided the impetus for the cataclysmic explosion known as the Big Bang that produced all matter out of energy? Hadn't He foreseen that those original pristine hydrogen atoms would coalesce into giant clouds of gas and then collapse under gravitation to become the stars in which would be manufactured the basic chemical building blocks of life?

And I have never lost my fascination for creation, O'Toole said to himself as he waited for his papal audience. How did it all happen? What is the significance of the particular sequence of events? He remembered his questions of the priests when he was a teenager. I probably decided not to become a priest because it would have limited my free access to scientific truth. The church has never been as comfortable as lam with the apparent incompatibilities between G.o.d and Einstein.

An American priest from the Vatican state department had been waiting at his hotel in Rome the previous evening when O'Toole had returned from his day as a tourist. The priest had introduced himself and apologized profusely for not having responded to the letter that General O'Toole had written from Boston in November. It would have "facilitated the process," the priest had remarked in pa.s.sing, if the general had pointed out in his letter that he was the General O'Toole, the Newton cosmonaut. Nevertheless, the priest had continued, the papal schedule had been juggled and the Holy Father would be delighted to see O'Toole the next morning. As the door to the papal office swung open, the American general instinctively stood up. The priest from the night before walked into the room, looking very nervous, and quickly shook O'Toole's hand. They both glanced toward the doorway, where the pope, wearing his normal white ca.s.sock, was concluding a conversation with a member of his staff. John-Paul V came forward into the anteroom, a pleasant smile on his face, and extended his hand toward O'Toole. The cosmonaut automatically dropped to one knee and kissed the papal ring.

"Holy Father," he murmured, astonished at the excited pounding of his heart, "thank you for seeing me. This is indeed a great honor for me."

"For me as well," the pope replied in lightly accented English. "I have been following the activities of you and your colleagues with great interest."

He gestured toward O'Toole and the American general followed the church leader into a grand office with high ceilings. A very large, dark wood desk stood on one side of the room under a life-size portrait of John-Paul IV, the man who had become pope during the darkest days of The Great Chaos and had provided both the world and the church with twenty years of energetic and inspirational leadership. The gifted Venezuelan, a poet and historical scholar in his own right, had demonstrated to the world between 2139 and 2158 how positive a force the organized church could be at a time when virtually every other inst.i.tution was collapsing and was, therefore, unable to give any succor to the bewildered ma.s.ses.

The pope sat down on a couch and motioned for O'Toole to sit next to him. The American priest left the room. In front of O'Toole and the pope were great windows that opened onto a balcony overlooking the Vatican gardens some twenty feet below. In the distance O'Toole could see the Vatican museum where he had spent the previous afternoon.

"You wrote in your letter," the Holy Father said, without referring to any notes, "that there were some theological issues that you would like to discuss with me. I a.s.sume these are in some way related to your mission." O'Toole looked at the seventy-year-old Spaniard who was the spiritual leader of a billion Catholics. The pope's skin was olive, his features sharp, his thick black hair now mostly gray. His brown eyes were soft and clear. He certainly doesn't waste any time, O'Toole thought, recalling an article in Catholic magazine in which one of the leading cardinals in the Vatican administration had praised John-Paul V for his management efficiency.

"Yes, Holy Father," O'Toole said. "As you know, I am about to embark on a journey of the utmost significance for humankind. As a Catholic, I have some questions that I thought it might be helpful for me to discuss with you." He paused for a moment. "I certainly don't expect you to have all the answers. But maybe you can guide me a little with your acc.u.mulated wisdom."

The pope nodded and waited for O'Toole to continue. The cosmonaut took a deep breath, "The issue of redemption is one that's bothering me, even though I guess it's just a part of a bigger concern that I have in reconciling the Ramans with our faith."

The pope's brow furrowed and O'Toole could tell that he was not communicating very well. "I have no trouble whatsoever," the general added as an explanation, "with the concept of G.o.d creating the Ramans-that's easy to comprehend. But did the Ramans follow a similar pattern of spiritual evolution and therefore need to be redeemed, at some point in their history, like human beings on Earth? And if so, did G.o.d send Jesus, or perhaps his Raman equivalent, to save them from their sins? Do we humans thus represent an evolutionary paradigm that has been repeated over and over throughout the universe?"

The pope's smile broadened almost into a grin. "Goodness, General/' he said with humor, "you have romped over a vast intellectual territory very quickly. You must know that I do not have fast answers to such profound questions. The church has had its scholars addressing the issues raised by Rama for almost seventy years and, as you would expect, our research has recently intensified because of the discovery of the second s.p.a.cecraft."

"But what do you personally believe, Your Holiness?" O'Toole persisted. "Did the creatures who made these two incredible s.p.a.ce vehicles commit some original sin and also need a savior sometime in their history? Is the story of Jesus unique for us here on Earth, or is it just one small chapter in a book of nearly infinite length that covers all sentient beings and a general requirement for redemption to achieve salvation?"

"I'm not certain," the Holy Father replied after several seconds. "Sometimes it is nearly impossible for me to fathom the existence of other intelligence in any form out there in the rest of the universe. Then, as soon as I acknowledge that it certainly wouldn't look like us, I struggle with images and pictures that sidetrack my thinking from the kinds of theological questions that you have raised this morning." He paused for a moment, reflecting. "But most of the time I imagine that the Ramans too had lessons to learn in the beginning, that G.o.d did not create them perfect either, and that at some time in their development He must have sent them Jesus-"

The pope interrupted himself and looked intently at General O'Toole. "Yes," he continued softly, "I said Jesus. You asked me what I believed personally. To me Jesus is both the true savior and the only son of G.o.d. It would be He who would be sent to the Ramans also, albeit in a different guise." O'Toole's face had brightened at the end of the pontiff's remarks. "I agree with you, Holy Father," he said excitedly.

"And therefore all intelligence is united, everywhere throughout the universe, by a similar spiritual experience. In a very very real sense, a.s.suming that the Ramans have also been saved, we are all brothers. After all, we are made from the same basic chemicals. That means that Heaven will not be limited just to humans but will encompa.s.s all beings everywhere who have understood His message."

"I can see where you might come to that conclusion," JohnPaul replied. "But it is certainly not one that is universally accepted. Even within the church there are those who have an altogether different view of the Ramans."

"You mean the h.o.m.ocentric group that uses quotations from St. Michael of Siena for support?"

The pope nodded.

"For myself," General O'Toole said, "I 6nd their narrow interpretation of St. Michael's sermon on the Ramans much too confining. In saying that the extraterrestrial s.p.a.cecraft might have been a herald, like Elijah or even Isaiah, foretelling the second coming of Christ, Michael was not restricting the Ramans to having only that particular role in our history and no other function or existence. He was simply explaining one possible view of the event from a human spiritual perspective."

Again the pontiff was smiling, "I can tell that you have spent considerable time and energy thinking about all this. My advance information about you was only partially correct. Your devotion to G.o.d, the church, and your family were all cited in your dossier. But there is little mention of your active intellectual interest in theology."

"I consider this mission to be by far the most important a.s.signment of my life. I want to make certain that I properly serve both G.o.d and mankind. So I am trying to prepare myself in every possible way, including discovering whether or not the Ramans may have a spiritual component. It could affect my actions on the mission."

O'Toole paused a few seconds before continuing. "By the way, your holiness, have your researchers found any evidence of possible Raman spirituality, based on their a.n.a.lysis of the first rendezvous?"

John-Paul V shook his head. "Not really, However, one of my most devout archbishops, a man whose religious zeal sometimes overshadows his logic, insists that the structural order inside the first Raman craft-you know, the symmetries, geometric patterns, even the repet.i.tive redundant designs based on the number three-is suggestive of a temple. He could be right. We just don't know. We don't see any evidence either way about the spiritual nature of the beings who created that first s.p.a.ceship."

"Amazing!" said General O'Toole. "I had never thought of that before.

Imagine if it really was created as some kind of a temple. That would stagger David Brown." The general laughed. "Dr. Brown insists," he said in explanation, "that we poor ignorant human beings would not have any chance of ever determining the purpose of such a s.p.a.ceship, for the technology of its builders is so far advanced beyond our comprehension that it would be impossible for us ever to understand any of it. And, according to him, of course there could be no Raman religion. In his opinion they would have left all the superst.i.tious mumbo jumbo behind eons before they developed the capability to construct such a fabulous interstellar s.p.a.cecraft."

"Dr. Brown is an atheist, isn't he?" the pope asked. O'Toole nodded. "An outspoken one. He believes that all religious thinking impairs the proper functioning of the brain. He regards anyone who doesn't agree with his point of view as an absolute idiot."

"And the rest of the crew? Are they as strongly opinionated on the subject as Dr. Brown?"

"He is the most vocal atheist, although I suspect Wakefield, Tabori, and Turgenyev all share his basic att.i.tudes. Strangely enough, my intuitive sense tells me that Commander Borzov has a soft spot in his heart for religion. That's true of most of the survivors of The Chaos. Anyway, Valeriy seems to enjoy asking me questions about my faith." General O'Toole stopped for a moment as he mentally completed his survey of the religious beliefs of the Newton crew. "The European women des Jardins and Sabatini are nominally Catholic, although they would not be considered devout by any stretch of the imagination. Admiral Heilmann is a Lutheran on Easter and Christmas, Takagishi meditates and studies Zen. I don't know about the other two," The pontiff stood up and walked to the window.

"Somewhere out there a strange and wonderful s.p.a.ce vehicle, created by beings from another star, is headed toward us. We are sending a crew of a dozen to rendezvous with it" He turned toward General O'Toole. "This s.p.a.ceship may be a messenger from G.o.d, but probably only you will be able to recognize it as such."

O'Toole did not reply. The pope stared out the window again and was quiet for almost a minute. "No, my son," he finally said softly, as much to himself as to General O'Toole. "I do not have the answers to your questions. Only G.o.d has them. You must pray that He will provide the answers when you need them." He faced the general. "I must tell you that I am delighted to find you so concerned with these issues. I am confident that G.o.d also has purposely selected you for this mission."

General O'Toole could tell that the audience was coming to an end.

"Holy Father," he said, "thank you again for seeing me and sharing this time. I feel deeply honored."

John-Paul V smiled and walked over to his guest. He embraced him in the European manner and escorted General O'Toole out of his office.

11 ST. MICHAEL OF SIENA.

The exit from the subway station was opposite the entrance to the International Peace Park. As the escalator deposited General O'Toole on the upper level and he walked out into the afternoon light, he could see the domed shrine to his right, not more than two hundred meters away. To his left, at the other end of the park, the top of the ancient Roman Colosseum was visible behind a complex of administrative buildings.

The American general walked briskly into the park and turned right on the sidewalk leading to the shrine. He pa.s.sed a lovely small fountain, part of a monument to the children of the world, and stopped to watch the animated, sculptured figures playing in the cold water. O'Toole was full of antic.i.p.ation. What an incredible day, he was thinking. First I have an audience with the pope. And now I finally visit the shrine of St Michael. I definitely saved the best day for last.

When Michael of Siena was canonized in 2188, fifty years after his death (and, perhaps more significantly, three years after John-Paul V had been elected as the new pope), there had been an immediate consensus that the perfect place to locate a major shrine in his honor would be in the International Peace Park. The great park stretched from the Piazza Venezia to the Colosseum, wandering around and among those few ruins from the old Roman fora that had somehow survived the nuclear holocaust. Choosing the exact spot for the shrine had been a delicate process. The Memorial to the Five Martyrs, honoring those courageous men and women who had dedicated themselves to the restoration of order in Rome during the months immediately following the disaster, had been the feature attraction of the park for years. There was considerable feeling that the new shrine to St. Michael of Siena must not be allowed to overshadow the dignified, open, marble pentagon that had occupied the southeast corner of the park since 2155. After much debate it was decided that St. Michael's shrine should be located in the opposite, northwest comer of the park, its foundation symbolically centered on the actual epicenter of the blast, only ten yards from the place where Trajan's Column had stood until it was instantaneously vaporized by the intense heat at the core of the fireball. The first floor of the round shrine was entirely for meditation and worship. There were twelve alcoves or chapels attached to the central nave, six with sculpture and artwork following cla.s.sical Roman Catholic motifs and the other six each honoring one of the world's major religions. This eclectic part.i.tion of the ground floor was purposely designed to provide comfort for the many non-Catholics who made pilgrimages to the shrine to pay their respects to the memory of the beloved St. Michael.

General O'Toole did not spend much time on the first level. He knelt and said a prayer in the chapel of St. Peter, and looked briefly at the famous wood sculpture of Buddha in the nook beside the entrance, but like most tourists he could not wait to see the incomparable frescoes on the second floor. O'Toole was overwhelmed by both the size and the beauty of the famous paintings the moment he stepped out of the elevator. Directly in front of him was a life-size portrait of a lovely girl of eighteen with long blond hair. She was bending down in an old church in Siena on Christmas Eve in 2115 and leaving behind a curly-haired baby, wrapped in a blanket and placed in a basket, on the cold church floor. This painting represented the night of St. Michael's birth and was the first in a sequence of twelve panels of frescoes that completely circled the shrine and told the story of the saint's life.

General O'Toole walked over to the small kiosk beside the elevator and rented a forty-five-minute audio tour ca.s.sette that was ten centimeters square and easily fit in his coat pocket. He picked up one of the tiny disposable receivers and clipped it into his ear. After choosing English as his language, he pushed the b.u.t.ton marked INTRODUCTION and listened as a lovely feminine British voice explained what he was about to see.

"Each of the twelve frescoes is six meters high," the woman was saying as the general was studying the features of the baby Michael in the first panel. "The lighting in the room is a combination of natural light from the outside, coming through filtered skylights, and artificial illumination from the electronic arrays in the dome. Automatic sensors determine the ambient conditions and mix the natural with the artificial light so that the viewing of the frescoes is always perfect.

"The twelve panels on this level correspond to the twelve alcoves on the floor below. The arrangement of the frescoes themselves, which follow the life of the saint in a chronological order, flows in a clockwise direction. Thus the final painting, commemorating Michael's canonization ceremony at Rome in 2188, is right next to the painting of his birth in the Siena cathedral seventy-two years earlier.

"The frescoes were designed and implemented by a team of four artists, including the master Feng Yi from China, who appeared suddenly in the spring of 2190 without any prior notification. Despite the fact that very little was known outside China of his skill, the other three artists, Rosa da Silva from Portugal, Fernando Lopez from Mexico, and Hans Reichwein from Switzerland, immediately welcomed Feng Yi to their team on the strength of the superb sketches that he had brought with him." O'Toole glanced around the circular room as he listened to the lyrical voice on the ca.s.sette. On this last day of 2199, there were more than two hundred people on the second floor of St. Michael's shrine, including three tour groups. The American cosmonaut progressed slowly around the circle, stopping in front of each panel to study the artwork and listen to the discussion on the ca.s.sette.

The major events of St. Michael's life were depicted in detail in the frescoes. The second through fifth panels featured his days as a Franciscan novitiate in Siena, his fact-finding tour around the world during The Great Chaos, the beginning of his religious activism when he returned to Italy, and Michael's use of the church resources to feed the hungry and house the homeless. The sixth painting showed the tireless saint inside the television studio donated by a wealthy American admirer. Here Michael, who spoke eight languages, repeatedly proclaimed his message of the fundamental unity of all humanity and the requirement for the wealthy to care for the less fortunate.

The seventh fresco was Feng Yi's portrait of the confrontation in Rome between Michael and the old and dying pope. It was a masterpiece of contrast. Using color and light brilliantly, the painting conveyed the image of an energetic, vibrant, and vital young man being wrongly censured by a world-weary prelate anxious to live out his final days in peace and quiet. In Michael's facial expression could be seen two distinctly different reactions to what he was being told: obedience to the papacy and disgust that the church was more concerned with style and order than substance.

"Michael was sent to a monastery in Tuscany by the pope," the audio guide continued, "and it was there that the final transformations in his character took place. The eighth panel depicts G.o.d's appearances to Michael during this period of solitude. According to the saint, G.o.d spoke to him twice, the first time in the middle of a thunderstorm and the second time when a magnificent rainbow filled the sky. It was during the long and violent storm that G.o.d shouted out, on the claps of thunder, the new "Laws of Life" which Michael later proclaimed at his Easter sunrise service at Bolsena. On His second visitation G.o.d informed the saint that his message would be spread to the ends of the rainbow and that He would give the faithful a sign during the Easter ma.s.s.

"That most famous miracle of Michael's life, one that was watched on television by over a billion people, is shown in the ninth panel. The painting presents Michael preaching Easter ma.s.s to the mult.i.tudes gathered around the sh.o.r.es of Lake Bolsena. A vigorous spring shower is drenching the crowd, most of whom are dressed in the familiar blue robes that had become a.s.sociated with his following. But while the rain falls all around St. Michael, not a drop ever falls on the pulpit or on the sound equipment being used to amplify his voice. A perpetual radiant spotlight from the Sun bathes the young saint's face as he announces G.o.d's new laws to the world. It was this crossover from being a purely religious leader-"

General O'Toole switched off the ca.s.sette as he walked toward the tenth and eleventh paintings. He was familiar with the rest of the story. After the ma.s.s at Bolsena, Michael was beset by a flock of troubles. His life abruptly changed. Within two weeks most of his cable television licenses were rescinded. Stories of corruption and immorality among his young devotees, whose numbers had grown into the hundreds of thousands in the Western world alone, were constantly in the press. There was an a.s.sa.s.sination attempt, which was foiled at the last minute by his staff. There were also baseless reports in the media that Michael had proclaimed himself the second Christ. And so the leaders of the world became afraid of you. All of them. You were a threat to everyone with your Laws of Life. And they never understood what you meant by the final evolution. O'Toole stood in front of the tenth fresco. It was a scene he knew by heart. Almost every other educated person in the world would also recognize it instantly. The television replays of the last seconds before the terrorist bomb exploded were shown every year on June 28, the first day of the Feast of St. Peter and St. Paul and the anniversary of the day that Michael and almost a million others had perished in Rome on a fateful early summer morning in 2138.

You had called them to come to Rome to join you, To show the world that everyone was united. And so they came. The tenth painting showed Michael in his blue robes, standing high on the steps of the Victor Emmanuel Monument next to the Piazza Venezia. He was in the middle of a sermon. Around him in all directions, spilling over into the Roman fora along the jam-packed Via dei Fori Imperiali leading to the Colosseum, was a sea of blue. And faces. Eager, excited faces, mostly young, looking up and around the monuments of the ancient city to catch a glimpse of the boy-man who dared to suggest that he had a way, G.o.d's way, out of the despair and hopelessness that had engulfed the world. Michael Ryan O'Toole, a fifty-seven-year-old American Catholic from Boston, fell on his knees and wept, like thousands before him, when he looked at the eleventh panel in the sequence. This painting depicted the same scene as the previous panel, but the time was more than an hour later, an hour after the seventy-five-kiloton nuclear bomb hidden in a sound truck near Trajan's Column had exploded and sent its hideous mushroom-shaped cloud into the skies above the city. Everything within two hundred meters of the epicenter had been instantly vaporized. There was no Michael, no Piazza Venezia, no huge Victor Emmanuel Monument. In the center of the fresco was nothing but a hole. And around the perimeter of that hole, where the vaporization had not been quite as complete, were scenes of agony and horror that would shatter the complacency of even the most self-protected individuals.

Dear G.o.d, General O'Toole said to himself through his tears, Help me to comprehend the message in Saint Michael's life. Help me to understand how I can contribute, in whatever small way, to Your overall plan for us. Guide me as I prepare to be Your emissary to the Ramans.

12 RAMANS AND ROMANS.

So, what do you think?" Nicole des Jardins stood up and turned around slowly in front of the camera beside the monitor. She was wearing a form-fitting white dress made from one of the new stretch fabrics. The hem of the dress was cut just below her knees and the long sleeves were marked by one black stripe that pa.s.sed under her elbows as it ran from the shoulder to the wrist. The wide, jet-black belt matched both the color of the stripe and the color of her hair and high-heeled shoes. Her hair was pulled together by a comb at the back of her head and then left to tumble freely almost to her waist. Her only jewelry was a gold tennis bracelet containing three rows of small diamonds that she was wearing around her left wrist.

"You look beautiful, Mom," her daughter, Genevieve, answered her from the screen. I've never seen you before both dressed up and with your hair down. What happened to your normal sweatsuit?" The fourteen-year-old grinned.

"And when does the party start?"

"At nine-thirty," Nicole replied. "Very fashionably late. We probably won't have dinner until an hour after that. I'm going to eat something in the hotel room before I leave so that I won't starve."

"Mom, now don't forget your promise. Last week's Aujourd'hui said that my favorite singer, Julien LeClerc, would definitely be one of the guest entertainers. You have to tell him that your daughter thinks he's absolutely divine!" Nicole smiled at her daughter. "I will, darling, for you. Although it will probably be misinterpreted. From what I have heard your Monsieur LeClerc thinks that every woman in the world is in love with him." She paused for a moment.

"Where's your grandfather? I thought you said he would be joining you in a few minutes."

"Here I am," Nicole's father said as his weathered, friendly face appeared on the screen next to his granddaughter. "I was just finishing up a section of my new novel on Peter Abelard. I didn't expect you to call this early." Pierre des Jardins was now sixty-six years old. A successful historical novelist for many years, his life since the early death of his wife had been blessed by fortune and accomplishment. "You look stunning!" he exclaimed after seeing his daughter in her evening wear. "Did you buy that dress in Rome?"

"Actually, Dad," Nicole said, again turning around so that her father could see the entire outfit, "I bought this for Francoise's wedding three years ago. But of course I never had a chance to wear it. Do you think it's too simple?"

"Not at all," Pierre replied. "In fact, I think it's just perfect for this kind of extravaganza. If it's like the big fetes that I used to attend, every woman there will be wearing her fanciest and most expensive clothing and jewelry. You will stand out in your simple black and white. Particularly with your hair down like that. You took perfect."

"Thanks," Nicole said. "Even though I know you're prejudiced, I still like to hear your compliments." She looked at her father and daughter, her only two close companions for the last seven years. 'Tin really surprisingly anxious. 1 don't think I'll be this nervous on the day we encounter Rama. I often feel out of my element at big parties like this and tonight I have a peculiar sense of foreboding that I can't explain. You remember, Dad, like I felt the day before our dog died when I was a child."

Her father's face became serious. "Maybe you'd better consider staying in the hotel. Too many of your premonitions have been accurate in the past. I remember your telling me that something was wrong with your mother two days before we received that message-"

"It's not that strong a feeling," Nicole interrupted. "And besides, what would I give as an excuse? Everyone's expecting me, especially the press, according to Francesca Sabatini. She's still annoyed with me for refusing to have a personal interview with her."

"Then I guess you should go. But try to have some fun. Don't take things so seriously for this one night."

"And remember to say h.e.l.lo to Julien LeClerc for me," Genevieve added.

"I'll miss you both when midnight comes," Nicole said. "It will be the first time I've been away from you on New Year's Eve since 2194." Nicole paused for a moment, remembering their family celebrations together. "Take care, both of you. You know I love you very much."

"I love you, too, Mom," Genevieve shouted. Pierre waved good-bye.

Nicole switched off the videophone and checked her watch. It was eight o'clock. She still had an hour before she was supposed to meet her driver in the lobby. She walked over to the computer terminal to order something to eat. With a few commands she requested a bowl of minestrone and a small bottle of mineral water. The computer monitor told her to expect them both in between sixteen and nineteen minutes.

I really am high-strung tonight, Nicole thought as she leafed through the magazine Italia and waited for her food. The feature story in Italia was devoted to an interview with Francesca Sabatini. The article covered ten full pages and must have had twenty different photographs of "la bella signora." The interviewer discussed both of Francesca's highly successful doc.u.mentary projects (the first on modern love and the second on drugs), stressing the point, in the middle of some questions about the drug series, that Francesca repeatedly smoked cigarettes during the conversation.

Nicole perused the article in a hurry, noting as she read that there were facets to Francesca she had never considered. But what motivates her? Nicole wondered to herself. What is it that she wants? Near the end of the magazine story, the interviewer had asked Francesca her opinion of the other two women in the Newton crew. "I feel that I'm actually the only woman on the mission," Francesca had answered. Nicole slowed down to read the rest of the paragraph. "The Russian pilot Turgenyev thinks and acts like a man and the French-African princess Nicole des Jardins has purposely suppressed her femininity, which is sad because she could be such a lovely woman."

Nicole was only slightly angered by Francesca's glib comments. More than anything, she was amused. She felt a brief compet.i.tive surge but then chided herself for such a childish reaction. I'll ask Francesca about this article at just the right time, Nicole thought with a smile. Who knows?

Maybe I'll even ask her if seducing married men qualifies her as feminine.