Father Cotterson nodded, with pursed lips. “I had not known she had made so much progress.”
“But…but…” Father Al managed to get his tongue working again. “Is there no danger that she will learn of the technology thou dost so wish to keep hidden?”
“Nay.” Brother Mordecai smiled. “She is of our sister Order.”
“The Anodeans?”
Father Cotterson nodded, smiling. “It doth warm my heart, Father, to learn that our Orders are maintained still, on other worlds.”
“Yet ‘tis indeed a problem of security,” another monk volunteered. “Our old disciplines seem to wear thin, Father Cotterson, in the closing of our minds to the espers without our Order.”
Father Cotterson stiffened. “Hath one of the King’s ‘witch-folk’ learned of technology from our minds, Father Ignatius?”
“I think not,” the monk answered. “Yet, the whiles I did meditate on mine electrolyte vies an hour agone, I did sense an echo, an harmonic to my thoughts. I did, of course, listen, and sensed the mind of a babe in resonance with mine. So ‘tis not an immediate threat; yet the child will, assuredly, grow.”
“Might not his parents have been listening to his thoughts!”
“Nay; I sensed no further resonance. And yet I think it matters little; the babe’s mind held an image of his mother, and ‘twas the High Warlock’s wife.”
Father Cotterson relaxed. “Aye, ‘tis small danger there; Lady Gallowglass cannot have escaped learning something of technology, and must assuredly comprehend the need of silence on the issue.”
“I take it, then, thou hast found ways of shielding thy minds from other telepaths?” Father Al burst in.
“Indeed.” Father Cotterson nodded. “ ‘Tis linked with the meditation of prayer, Father, in which the mind is closed to the outside world, but opened toward God. Yet it doth seem we’ll have to seek new ways to strengthen such closure. Brother Milaine, thou’It attend to it?”
A portly monk nodded. “Assuredly, Father.”
“Research is, of course, common amongst we who are cloistered within this monastery,” Father Cotterson explained.
Father Al nodded. “ ‘Twould not be a House of St. Vidicon, otherwise. Yet I assume such activity is forbidden to thy parish priests.”
“Nay; ‘tis more simply done.” Father Cotterson started cutting his ounce of meat. “Monks trained for the parishes are taught only their letters and numbers, and theology; only those who take monastic vows are trained in science and technology.”
“A practical system,” Father Al admitted, “though I mislike secrecy of knowledge.”
“So do we, Father.” Father Cotterson’s eyes burned into his. “Knowledge ought to be free, that all might learn it. Yet ‘twas only through subterfuge that Father Ricci, the founder of our Chapter, did manage to retain knowledge of science when he did come to Gramarye; and assuredly, he’d have been burned for a witch had he attempted to teach what he knew. Those who originally did colonize this planet were intent on forgetting all knowledge of science. We’d likely suffer burning ourselves, if we did attempt to disclose what we know—and ‘twould throw the land into chaos. The beginnings of science did batten the turmoil of Europe’s Renaissance, on Terra; what would knowledge of modern technology and science do to this medieval culture? Nay, we must keep our knowledge secret yet awhile.”
“Still, the High Warlock may ope’ us a path for the beginnings of teaching it,” Father Ignatius offered.
“Indeed he may.” Father Cotterson’s eyes gleamed with missionary zeal.
“Saint Vidicon,” Father Al murmured, “ was a teacher.”
“As are we all—are we not?” Father Cotterson fairly beamed at him. “Are we not? For how can we gain new knowledge, and not wish immediately to share it with others?”
This, Father Al decided, was the kind of fanaticism he could agree with.
Father Cotterson turned back to his monks. “Apropos of which, Brother Feldspar, how doth thy researches?”
Brother Feldspar chewed his meat thoughtfully. “Dost thou not wish more salt on this fowl, Father?”
“Indeed I do, but…”
The salt-cellar appeared in front of Father Cotterson with a whoosh of displaced air.
He sat back sharply, eyes wide, startled.
The company burst into laughter.
After a second, Father Cotterson relaxed and guffawed with them. “A most excellent jest, Brother Feldspar! Yet I must caution thee against thy proclivity for practical jokes.”
“Yet without it, Father, how would I ever have begun to seek methods of teleporting objects other than myself?”
“Truth,” Father Cotterson admitted. “Yet I think thou didst make intermediate bits of progress in thine experiments that thou didst not inform us of. Beware, Brother; we might credit someone else with thy results! For a moment, I thought Brother Chronopolis had made progress.”
“Sadly, no, Father,” Brother Chronopolis smiled. “The theory is sound, and I do think we could manufacture a quantum black hole—but we fear to do it on a planet’s surface.”
Father Al tried not to stare.
“Indeed,” Father Cotterson commiserated. “I shudder to think of the effects of so steep a gravity-gradient, Brother; and I’ve no wish to find myself atop a sudden new volcano! Nay, I fear the experiment will have to wait till we’ve access to space flight.”
Brother Chronopolis turned to Father Al. “Father, when thou dost depart Gramarye…”
“Well, I could not perform the experiment myself.” Father Al smiled. “I do be an anthropologist, not a physicist. Yet where I can provide aid, I will rejoice to do so.”
“The rest is for the Abbot to consider,” Father Cotterson said firmly.
Manufacture quantum black holes? The DDT’s best scientists still thought they couldn’t exist! Either the Gramarye monks were very mistaken—or very advanced. There was a way to find out… Father Al said casually, “Hast thou made progress in molecular circuitry?”
The whole room was silent in an instant; every eye was fastened to him. “Nay,” breathed Brother Chronopolis, “canst thou make a circuit of a molecule?”
Well. They were very far behind, in some things. “Not I, myself. Yet I do know that ‘tis done; they do fashion single crystalline molecules that can perform all the functions of…” What was that ancient term? Oh, yes… “…an whole integrated-circuit chip.”
“But thou knowest not the fashion of it?”
“I fear I do not.”
“ ‘Tis enough, ‘tis enough.” Brother Feldspar held up a quieting palm. “We know it can be done, now; ‘twill not be long ere we do it.”
Somehow, Father Al didn’t doubt that for a minute.
“A most excellent evening, indeed,” Father Cotterson sighed as he opened the oaken door and ushered Father Al in. “Thy presence did stimulate discussion wonderfully, Father.”
“ ‘Twas fascinating, Father—especially that account of the nun who doth surgery without opening the body.”
“Well, ‘tis only the mending of burst blood vessels, and the massaging of hearts thus far,” Father Cotterson reminded him. “Yet it doth hold great promise. I trust this cell will be to thy satisfaction, Father.”
“Luxurious,” Father Al breathed, looking around at the nine-by-twelve room with bare plaster walls, a straw mattress on an oaken cot-frame, a wash-stand and a writing-desk with a three-legged stool. “True wood is luxury indeed, Father!”
“To us, ‘tis the least expensive material,” Father Cotterson said with a smile. “I’ll leave thee to thy devotions, then, Father.”
“God be with thee this night, Father,” Father Al returned, with a warm smile, as Father Cotterson closed the door.
Then Father Al darted over to it, carefully pressing his ear against the wood. Faintly, he heard a key turn in a lock—and all his earlier forebodings came flooding back. Disappointment stabbed him; he’d found himself liking the monks’ company so well that he’d hoped his suspicions were unfounded, then had become almost certain it was only his own paranoia.