Why, he wondered, had he (or Jill) not been able to foresee this situation? They had talked about it, of course — the necessity of returning from Heaven with some proof, one way or another. But they had given no adequate thought to what such proof must be. Why had they not realized the near impossibility of obtaining unquestioned proof?
If they only had more time, they could work it out. It seemed, however, that they had little time. There was a danger here, a danger that he could not define, but a danger that every fiber of his being insisted that they faced. And Whisperer agreed.
Failure, he thought. They had accomplished their mission and still they faced failure.
What the hell could he do, or Jill, or the two of them together? One thing, he knew, they could not do. They could not turn tail and run, not for a while at least.
— If we could only get word back to Theodosius, said Jill. Word that we are here and it isn't Heaven.
— I can take back word, said Whisperer.
— But who could you tell it to? There is no one on End of Nothing you can talk with. Not Theodosius, not Ecuyer….
— There are the Old Ones, said Whisperer. I can talk with them. The Old One above Decker's cabin could take the message to Theodosius.
— But we need you here.
— It would only take a while.
— No, said Tennyson, we do not want you to leave, even for a while. We might have great need of you.
— Then I can send another Duster. One of my flock brothers would carry the message for me. I told you, didn't I, that there are Dusters here?
— Yes, you did, said Jill.
— Then not to worry, said Whisperer. I'll ask one of them.
Fifty-seven
When a monk brought word that an Old One was coming up the esplanade Cardinal Theodosius went out to the basilica to meet him.
The Old One spun sedately up to the steps, halted his spinning and settled to the pavement. He instantly began his vibrating drumming and finally he managed words.
'I return your visit, he said.
'I thank you for it, said Theodosius. 'It is gracious of you. We should get together often.
'I also bring you word, said the Old One. 'I have a message for you, brought me by a Duster.
'Whisperer? Decker's Duster?
'No, not the Whisperer. One of our long-lost Dusters, happily home again. Once there were many of them here, then they went away. We had despaired of ever seeing them again. We thought of them, strangely enough, as our special children. Now one of them came back to us; we hope that others may.
'I feel happy for you, said Theodosius. 'You said the Duster brought a message.
'A message for you, Cardinal. The Tennyson and the Jill reached Heaven, but it is not Heaven.
'Thank God for that!
'You did not wish it Heaven?
'Some of us had hoped it would not be.
'Also, said the Old One, 'that the Jill and the Tennyson will be returning.
'When?
'Soon, the Duster said. They'll be returning soon.
'Fine. I shall be waiting for them.
'I suggested, said the Old One, 'that when they did return, they arrive upon this esplanade.
'How will they know?
'The Duster went back to this not-Heaven to tell them. I had it in mind that the two of us might wait here to greet them.
'We may have to wait a while.
'I have patience for long waiting and I think you have as well.
'That is fine. We both are full of patience and we have much to talk about. We can talk away the hours.
'Your pardon, please, said the Old One, 'but talking in your method is laborious for me. I cannot talk for long.
'In that case, we shall share a mutual silence. Perhaps the two of us may find we have no need of talk. Perhaps we can commune together.
'That is a noble thought, said the Old One. 'We'll attempt communing.
'If you don't mind, said Theodosius, 'I think I'll get a stool. It is silly that a robot should ever need a stool, but I have become accustomed to a stool. When I visit Jill in the library, I always sit on one. I know it is a ridiculous habit, but….
'I'll wait for you while you go to get it, said the Old One.
He waited on the esplanade while the cardinal went to get his stool.
Fifty-eight
Haystack was asleep again. He slept a great part of the time, or perhaps he only closed his eyes, all thirteen of them. Haystack didn't move around a lot, and if his eyes were closed, there was no way to tell if he was asleep or only shutting out the world. Haystack more than likely was bored, thought the Bubbly that Decker had named Smoky. There were times when Smoky had been convinced that he should get rid of Haystack, but on more deliberate consideration had always kept him on. Despite his slothfulness and his unkemptness, Haystack was a wise old bird. It would be hard to get another like him — impossible, more than likely. Also, once one had taken on another as a triad partner, the relationship was such that one shrank from disrupting it. It took a long time to build up a smoothly operating triad, and Haystack had been with him longer than he could remember. One would think, Smoky told himself, that in all that time the two of them should have become so accustomed to one another that they would be inseparable as a result of the close personal ties that entwined them both. They were inseparable all right, thought Smoky, but not because of any strong ties — close only because Haystack would not allow himself to be pried away. There was some psychological factor that made Haystack, in spite of all his wisdom, an insecure personality. He must have someone to hang on to, someone to shield him against the world. He might complain and fulminate about the racket that Plopper made, he might even threaten to take off, to break up the triad, but he would never do it because he knew that safety and security lay within the triad.
Plop, plop, plop, went Plopper.
Haystack was asleep (or maybe only had his eyes shut) and Decker was not around. A lot of the time, Smoky grumbled to himself, Decker was not around. At times he could be an amusing and entertaining creature, and there was no question that he had an audacious imagination, and all in all he had been loyal enough, but there were times when one could not help but have certain doubts of his devotion to the central triad theme. Decker, Smoky admitted, was an opportunist, albeit a most engaging one. So long as no greater opportunity presented itself, Decker would stay and, Smoky told himself with some pride, there was at the moment no better opportunity than to be with him. There was no other Bubbly in all of Center that had more clout than he had, and that clout had been generated by the wisdom of Haystack and the audacity of Decker. In his triad, he knew, he had chosen well and wisely. How then, did it come that at times he felt irritation and downright disaffection for the two of them? Would it be possible, he asked himself, once the recreation of the two newly arrived humans had been completed, that he could add them to his triad and make of it a quintet? Would he dare? Could he get away with it? It ran counter to all tradition and right thinking and there would be fierce criticism, but he could withstand some criticism if that was all it was. Would it be wise? he wondered. Three Deckers would be a bit lopsided, but there was strength in these so-called humans. With the wisdom of one Haystack and the sharp opportunism of three humans. It was something, he decided, that he must think about, think very hard about.
Plop, plop, plop, went Plopper.
Why, Smoky asked himself, should he hesitate? He already was a tetrad, although no one was aware of it, or he hoped no one was aware of it. He had concealed it rather effectively (at least so far he had) by making out that Plopper was no more than a passing pet, when the fact of the matter was that if it came down to a pinch, he would let go the other two if necessary to keep Plopper with him. He had worked it very well, he thought — no one had suspicion.