Project Pope

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Project Pope
Clifford D. Simak
Prologue
Thomas Decker was half an hour from home when Whisperer stopped him in his tracks.
- Decker, said Whisperer, speaking inside Decker's mind. Decker, now I'll get you. This time I will
get you.
Decker swiveled about on the game trail he had been following, his rifle raised, held away from his
body, ready to snap to his shoulder against the first sign of danger.
There was nothing in sight, nothing stirring. The heavy growth of trees and brush came down close
against the trail on either side. It all hung motionless. There was not the slightest breeze, no flicker
of a bird. There was absolutely nothing. Everything was frozen, as if eternity had clamped down.
- Decker!
The word was inside his mind. There had been no sound, nothing spoken. The only sound was in
his mind and he had never been able to decide, in all his previous encounters with Whisperer, if
there had been a sound inside his mind. He just knew the words, lodged there in that area of his
brain in the front of his head, just above his eyes.
- Not this time, Whisperer, he said to the other, speaking to it as it had bespoken him, no words
uttered, but forming the thoughts and words inside his mind for Whisperer to read. Today I'm not
playing any games with you. I've played the last game with you. There won't be any more.
- Chicken, said Whisperer. Chicken, chicken, chicken!
- To hell with your chicken business, said Decker. Come out and show yourself and see if I am
chicken. I've had it with you, Whisperer. I'm up to here with you.
- You are chicken, said Whisperer. You had me in your rifle sights last time and you did not pull
the trigger. Chicken, Decker, chicken.
- I have no reason to kill you, Whisperer. Actually no wish to. But, so help me God, I'll let you have
it just to get rid of you.
- If I don't get you first.
- You've had chances at me, said Decker. You must have had a lot of chances. So let's quit this
bickering. Let us stop this horseplay. You don't want to kill me any more than I want to kill you.
You just want to keep on playing. I'm sick of your silly games. I'm hungry and I'm tired and I want
to get on home. I don't want to play hide-and-seek with you, chasing you up and down the woods.
By now he had figured out where Whisperer was located, and he shifted slightly in the path to face
the spot where Whisperer was hidden in the underbrush.
- You had good luck this time, said Whisperer. You found a lot of gems. Maybe even diamonds.
- You know damn well I didn't. You were with me. You watched me all the time. I sensed you.
- You work hard, said Whisperer. You should find diamonds now and then.
- I'm not looking for diamonds.
- What do you do with what you find?
- Whisperer, why all these silly questions? You know what I do with them.
- You give them to the captain of the ship to sell at Gutshot. He steals you blind. He sells them for
three times what he tells you that he gets.
- I suspect he does, said Decker. But what the hell? He needs the money more than I do. He's
putting together a stake to buy that place on Apple Blossom. Why this sudden interest, Whisperer?
- You do not sell him all?
- That is true. I keep the better pieces.
- I could use some of your better pieces.
- You, Whisperer? What would you want of them?
- Shape them. Carve them. Change them.
- You are a carver, Whisperer?
- Not an accomplished carver, Decker. Just a hobbyist. Now he knew exactly where Whisperer was
located. If he made the slightest move, he would let him have it. Whisperer wasn't fooling him with
this talk of gems and carving. It was just a lot of talk to throw him off his balance.
He might as well, Decker told himself, put an end to it. For months now, this hidden clown had
been pestering him, trailing him and watching him, jeering at him, threatening him, getting him to
play the silly game, making an utter fool of him.
- I could show you, in a stream not far from here, said Whisperer, a place where there are many
gems. There is one piece, a large chunk of jade, I want very much myself. Get the jade for me and
you can have all the rest.
- Get it yourself, said Decker. If you know where it is, get it for yourself.
- But I cannot, said Whisperer. I have no arms to reach, no hands to grasp, no strength to lift. You
must do it for me. After all, why not? We are friends. We have played games enough to even be old
friends. We've been at it long enough.
- Once I get my hands on you, said Decker. Once I get you in the sights again.
- What you had in your sights, said Whisperer, was not me. It was a shadow, a shape I made that
you would think was me. When you saw the shape and did not shoot, I knew you were my friend.
- Friend or not, said Decker, shape or not, shadow even, next time I'll pull the trigger.
- We could be friends, said Whisperer. We've spent an infancy together. We have romped and
played together. We've grown to know one another. Now that we have matured...
- Matured?
- Yes, Decker, our friendship has matured. No more play is needed. It was only a rite. Perhaps it
was foolish of me to inflict the rite upon you. A rite of friendship only.
- A rite? You're crazy, Whisperer.
- A rite you did not recognize, did not understand, and yet you played it with me. Not always
willingly, not always in good temper, often cursing and frothing and thirsting for my blood, but you
played it with me. And now that the rite is done, we can go home together.
- Over my dead body will we go home together. I'll not have you cluttering up the cabin.
- I would not clutter greatly. I would take little room. I could squeeze into a corner. You would not
even notice me. And I need a friend so greatly. I must pick a friend so carefully. I must find one
that is tuned to me -
- Whisperer, said Decker, you are wasting your time. Whatever the hell you are driving at, you're
wasting your time.
We could be good for one another. I would carve your gems and talk with you on lonely nights and
sit before the fire with you, and there would be many tales we could tell each other. You, perhaps,
could help me with Vatican -
- With Vatican! yelled Decker. What in the name of Christ have you to do with Vatican?
One
Jason Tennyson, fleeing for his life, came in low over the precipitous mountain range that lay to the
west of Gutshot. Immediately after he caught sight of the lights marking the town, he pressed the
ejection button and felt himself flung upward with a greater violence than he had expected. For a
moment he was enveloped in darkness; then, as his body spun, he saw the lights of the town again
and thought that he also saw the flier. But whether he saw the flier or not, he knew, was of slight
importance. It would continue over Gutshot, angling slightly downward over the ocean that
hemmed in the tiny town and spaceport against the towering mountains. Some fifty miles out to
sea, if his calculations were correct, the flier would go into the water and be lost. And lost as well,
he hoped, would be Dr. Jason Tennyson, lately court physician to the margrave of Daventry. The
radar at Gutshot space base undoubtedly had picked up the flier and would track it on its course
across the water, but at its low altitude, the base would soon lose contact with it.
His fall was slackening and suddenly, as the chute popped open to its full extent, he was jerked
sidewise and began swinging in wide arcs. An updraft caught the chute, forcing it back toward the
looming peaks and slowing the swinging; but in a moment it slid out of the updraft and was floating
smoothly downward. Tennyson, dangling at the end of the lines, tried to make out where he would
land; it seemed toward the south end of the spaceport. He held his breath and hoped. He threaded
his arms through the chute straps and clutched his medical bag, holding it close against his chest.
Let it go well, he prayed - let it continue to go well. So far it had gone surprisingly well. All the
way he had held the flier low, rocketing through the night, making wide circuits to avoid feudal
holdings, where radars would be groping skyward, for in this vicious world of contending fiefs, a
close watch was always kept. No one knew at what time or from what direction raiders might come
swooping in.
Peering down, he tried to gauge how close he might be drifting to solid ground, but the darkness
made it impossible to judge. He found himself tensing, then consciously willed himself to relax.
When he hit, he had to be relaxed.
The grouping of lights that marked the town was some distance to the north; the spatter of
brilliance that was the spaceport was almost dead ahead. A blackness intervened to shield out the
spaceport lights and he hit the ground, knees buckling under him. He threw himself to one side, still
holding tightly to the bag. The chute collapsed and he struggled to his feet, pulling on lines and
shrouds.
He had landed, he saw, close to a group of large warehouses at the south end of the port. It had
been the bulk of the warehouses that had cut off the spaceport lights. Luck, he realized, had been
with him. Had he been able to plan it, he could not have chosen a better landing site.
His eyes now were becoming accustomed to the night darkness. He was situated, he saw, near an
alley that ran between two of the warehouses. He saw also that the warehouses were set on pilings;
a foot or so lay between the ground and the foundations of the buildings. And there, he thought,
was where he could hide the chute. He could bundle it together and push it as far into the space as
he could reach. If he could find a stick of some sort, he could even push it farther. But all that was
needed was to push it far enough that it would not be spotted by a passerby. This would save him
considerable time. He had feared that he might have to try to dig a hole or find a clump of trees in
which to hide the chute. All that was necessary would be for it not to be found for several days;
hidden underneath the warehouse, it might not be found for years.
Now, he thought, if he could find a ship and, somehow, get aboard. He might have to bribe some
member of the ship's personnel, but that should not be hard. Few of the ships, most of which were
freighters, that touched down at Gutshot would visit the port again for a long time, perhaps for
years; others of them might never come this way again. Once on the ship, he would be safe. Unless
someone found the chute, there would not be any evidence that he had ejected from the flier.
The chute safely hidden, the bag now unstrapped from about his waist and carried in his hand, he
made his way down the alley between the two warehouses. At the mouth of the alley, he stopped.
Out on the port, directly opposite where he stood, was a ship. The gangplank was down and a long
line of people - all of them aliens of various sorts - were being herded up the plank and into the ship
by a small group of ratlike creatures. The line extended some distance back from the ship, and the
ratlike guards were yelling at the aliens in the line, waving clubs at them to hurry them along.
The ship would be taking off soon, Tennyson told himself, puzzled at what kind it was. Few
passenger liners came down at this port, and this one did not have the appearance of a liner. It was a
dumpy old tub, blackened and disreputable. Its name was painted above the port and it was some
time before Tennyson could make out that it spelled WAYFARER, for the paint was flaking and
there was much rust upon the hull. There was no smartness to the ship. It was not the sort of craft
that any self-respecting traveler would choose. But, while he looked at it with some distaste,
Tennyson reminded himself that he was not in a position to be discriminating. The ship apparently
would be leaving soon, and that was far more important than knowing what kind it was. If he could
manage to get aboard, that would be good enough. If his luck still held for him...
Tennyson edged out beyond the alley's mouth. To his right, beyond the warehouse, a splash of light
flared out across a walk that paralleled the perimeter of the field. Walking out cautiously a few feet
farther, he saw that the light came from a small bar.
Some sort of altercation had arisen at the bottom of the gangplank. A spiderlike alien, all arms and
legs, was arguing with one of the ratlike creatures that were superintending the boarding. As
Tennyson watched, the spidery alien was pushed out of the line, with one of the rat beings
following, prodding it with a club.
The front of the warehouse lay in deep shadow and Tennyson edged along it rapidly. He came to
the end and stood still, looking at the bar. His best course, he figured, would be to get beyond the
bar and approach the ship from its forward end. Huddling in its shadow, he might be able to
approach the gangplank and wait for a chance.
The last of the line of passengers were snaking up close to the gangplank. In a few more minutes,
the boarding would be completed. The ship might not take off immediately, but he had the hunch
that if he was going to get aboard, he would have to act quickly.
To get past the bar, he decided that he would simply walk past, moving confidently, as if he had the
right to be there. Someone might see him but probably would pay no more than passing notice of
him. The spidery alien had disappeared and the guard had returned to a position near the gangplank.
Leaving the corner of the warehouse, Tennyson set off down the walk that passed in front of the
bar. Beyond the bar, deep shadows again lay in front of another warehouse. If he could reach that
warehouse without being challenged, he probably could make it to the ship. On a secondary port
such as this one, security measures were not tight.
Now he was passing in front of the bar. Looking in one of the three windows from which the light
poured, he glimpsed a coat rack standing beside the door. He paused in midstride, riveted to
attention by what he saw. Hanging on the rack was a blue jacket, with the word WAYFARER
stitched in gold thread across one breast. Above it rested a cap that matched the jacket.
Acting on impulse, Tennyson swung toward the door, went through it. A mixed group of humans
and aliens were sitting in tables at the back; a few were lined up at the bar. The barkeep was busy.
A couple of people lifted their heads and looked at him when he came in, then went back to what
they had been doing.
Swiftly he reached out to grab the jacket and the cap, then was out the door again, his shoulders
hunched, expecting an outcry behind him. But there was none.
He slapped the cap onto his head, shrugged into the jacket.
The line in front of the ship's gangplank was gone; apparently everyone had boarded. Only one
ratlike creature remained standing at the gangplank's foot. Swiftly, purposefully, Tennyson strode
across the field, heading for the ship.
The one ratlike guard might challenge him, but he doubted it. The jacket and cap should be
sufficient disguise. More than likely the guard would not recognize him as an intruder. Few humans
could recognize any particular alien; to them all aliens looked alike. The same was true of aliens,
who ordinarily could not distinguish one human from another.
He reached the foot of the gangplank. The ratlike creature made a sloppy salute.
'Welcome, sir,' it said. 'Captain has been asking after you.'
Two
After a time, one of the ratlike crewmen found him in the small, closetlike equipment hold where
he had squeezed himself to hide. The crewmen hauled him out and took him to the captain, who
was alone in the control room, sitting at his ease in one of the three chairs. At the moment nothing
needed to be done; the ship was running on its own.
'What is this you have?' the captain asked.
'Stowaway,' the rat creature said. 'Dug him out of a small aft hold.'
'Okay,' the captain said. 'Leave him here. You can go.'
The rodent turned to go.
'My bag, please,' said Tennyson.
The rat turned around, still holding the bag.
The captain said, 'Give the bag to me and then get out of here. Get the hell out of my sight.'
The rat turned over the bag and left hurriedly.
The captain examined the bag thoughtfully, then lifted his head and said, 'So it is Jason Tennyson,
is it? M.D.?'
Tennyson nodded. 'Yes, I am a doctor.'
The captain set the bag down on the deck beside him. 'I've had a few stowaways in my time,' he
said, 'but never a doctor. Doctor, tell me, just what is going on?'
'It's a long story,' said Tennyson, 'and I'd prefer not going into it.'
'You'd been in that hold for hours,' the captain said. 'I suppose you sneaked on at Gutshot. Why did
you wait so long?'
'I was about to come out,' said Tennyson. 'Your rat-faced friend beat me to it.'
'He is no friend of mine.'
'My error,' said Tennyson.
'There aren't many humans out here,' the captain said. 'The farther out you go, the fewer you will
find. I have to use this kind of scum to man the ship. And I have to haul loads of other scum out to
End of Nothing and-'
'Out to the end of what?'
'End of Nothing. That is where we're going. Don't tell me you weren't headed there?'
'Until this moment,' Tennyson said, 'I had never heard of it.'
'Then it must be that you were intent on leaving Gutshot.'
'That, Captain, is a fair assumption.'
'In some sort of trouble there?'
'I was running for my life.'
'And popped onto the first ship that was taking off?'
Tennyson nodded.
'Sit down, man,' the captain said. 'Don't stay standing there. Would you like a drink?'
'That would be fine,' said Tennyson. 'Yes, I could use a drink.'
'Can you tell me?' the captain asked. 'Did anyone see you duck into the ship?'
'I don't think so.'
'You're fairly sure?'
'Well, you see, I went into a bar. One of the spaceport joints. When I left, it seems that somehow I
got hold of the wrong jacket and wrong cap. I was, if I remember, in somewhat of a hurry...'
'So that's what happened to Jenkins's cap and jacket. Jenkins is my first mate.'
'I'll return the jacket and the cap,' said Tennyson. 'I left them in the hold.'
'I find it strange,' the captain said, 'that you did not take the pains to find out this ship's destination.
You, apparently, have no wish to go to End of Nothing.'
'Any place away from Gutshot,' said Tennyson. 'They were closing in on me. Well, maybe not, but
I had the feeling that they were.'
The captain reached for a bottle that was standing on a table beside him and handed it to Tennyson.
'Now I'll tell you, mister,' he said, 'I am convention-bound to quote the rule book to you. It says in
Article Thirty-nine, Section Eight, that any stowaway must be placed in detention and returned
thereafter, as speedily as possible, to the port where he had stowed away, there to be delivered up to
the port authorities. During the intervening period, while he is on board the vessel on which he
stowed away, he is required to do such tasks, however menial, the captain may assign to him to
help defray his passage. Are you aware of these provisions, sir?'
'Vaguely,' said Tennyson. 'I know it is illegal to stow away. But I must tell you-'
'There is, however, another matter which I feel compelled to consider,' the captain told him. 'I have
the feeling, knee-deep as I am in alien scum, that humans under whatever circumstances, should
always stick together. We run fairly thin out here and it is my opinion that we should be supportive
of one another, overlooking transgressions if they be not too odious. . .
'Your attitude does credit to you,' said Tennyson. 'There has been something I've been trying to tell
you and haven't had the chance. You see, sir, I am not a stowaway.'
The captain turned steely eyes on him. 'Then tell me what you are. If you're not a stowaway, what
are you?'
'Well, let us say,' said Tennyson, 'that I was simply pressed for time. That I did not have the time to
arrange for passage by going through the formal channels. That, for compelling reasons I have
revealed to you, I couldn't afford to miss your ship, so came aboard in a rather unorthodox manner,
passed on board by an unsuspecting alien crew member who mistook me for the mate and -'
'But you hid away.'
'Easy to explain. I feared that you might not give me the time to explain my situation and be so
conscientious as to heave me off the ship. So I hid and waited until there seemed little chance you
could do anything but continue on your way.'
'By all of this, do I understand you to be saying that you stand prepared to pay your passage?'
'Most certainly I do. If you'll only name the figure.'
'Why,' said the captain, 'most willingly indeed. And I'll charge you not one tittle above the regular
fare.'
'That's considerate of you, sir.'
'Dr. Tennyson,' the captain said, 'please go ahead and drink. You have not touched the bottle to
your lips. It makes me nervous to see you sit there and merely fondle it.'
'I'm sorry, Captain. I didn't mean to make you nervous.' Tennyson tipped the bottle, took a generous
swallow, then lowered it again.
'Marvelous,' he said. 'What is it?'
'It's a concoction called Scotch,' the captain told him. 'It first was brewed on Mother Earth.'
'You mean Old Earth?'
'That's right,' the captain said. 'The home planet of us humans.'
'I have a great curiosity about Old Earth. Have you ever been there?'
The captain shook his head. 'Few humans have ever set foot upon its sacred soil. We are scattered
far and thin in space, and few of us go on that pilgrimage we always promise ourselves that
someday we will make.'
'Ah, well,' said Tennyson. He tilted the bottle once again.
'To get back to our arrangement,' the captain said. 'I fear I have to tell you that I have no place for
you. The cabins, the few that I have, are filled. Even my own quarters are rented out to a horde of
scaly horrors who are pilgriming to End of Nothing. At the end of the voyage, I shall have to
fumigate the place before I can move back in, and it may be years before I am rid of the stench of
them.'
'Why let them have it, then?'
'Because of money,' said the captain. 'This particular band of scum is filthy rich and they must have
my best accommodations without regard to cost. So that is how it is. I charged each of the bastards
a triple fare. Although I think now I may live to regret my greed. The mate and I are sharing his
quarters, turn and turn about. The mate is a devoted garlic eater. Thinks it keeps him healthy. Only
dire necessity forces me to crawl into his bunk.'
'The mate is the only other human?'
'Ordinarily, yes. Just the two of us. The crew is made up of rat people, like the one who found you,
and other assorted unsavory beings. The passenger hold and cabins are filled with nauseating
pilgrims.'
'If you dislike aliens so much, why are you in this business? Surely you could operate in freight.'
'Five more years of this,' the captain said. 'Five more years is all that it will take. There's no real
money in freighting. But hauling these damned pilgrims is profitable if you can stand it. And I can
stand it, just barely, for another five years. For, by then, I will have money enough to retire. Back to
a pink planet, name of Apple Blossom. Silly name, of course, but it's perfect for the planet. Have
you ever been on a pink planet, Doctor? There are not many of them.'
'No, I never have.'
'Pity,' said the captain.
A tap sounded from the direction of the open door.
The captain swung about in his chair. 'Oh, there you are, my dear,' he said, obviously pleased.
Tennyson also swung about. A woman stood in the doorway. She was statuesque, with broad
shoulders and hips. Her eyes crinkled in an expressive face. Her mouth was generous and soft, her
hair a halo of gleaming gold.
'Come in, please,' said the captain. 'As you see, we have picked up another passenger. Four humans
aboard on a single trip. I believe that to be a record.'
'If I am not intruding,' she said.
'You are not,' the captain told her. 'We are pleased to have you. Jill Roberts, this is Dr. Tennyson.
Dr. Jason Tennyson.'
She held out her hand to Tennyson. 'I am glad to see another human. Where have you kept
yourself?'
Tennyson froze momentarily. Turning her head, the woman had exposed her other cheek. Across it,
from temple to jaw, covering almost the entire right cheek, was an angry, ugly slash of red.
'I am sorry, Doctor,' she said. 'It is the way I am. It has horrified my friends for years.'
'Please forgive me,' said Tennyson. 'My reaction is inexcusable. As a physician. . .'
'As a physician, there is nothing you can do about it. It is inoperable. No cosmetic surgery is
possible. Nothing. I have to live with it; I have learned to live with it.'
'Miss Roberts,' said the captain smoothly, 'is a writer. Articles for magazines. A long shelf of
books.'
'If that bottle has not grown fast to your hand,' said Jill Roberts to Tennyson, 'how about letting
loose of it?'
'Certainly,' Tennyson said. 'Let me wipe it off.' He scrubbed its neck on his shirt sleeve.
'It appears there are no glasses aboard this bucket,' said Jill Roberts. 'But I don't really mind.
Drinking out of a bottle after someone else is only another way to trade around some germs.'
She took the bottle and sat down in the one remaining chair. 'Where are you putting up?' she asked
Tennyson. 'I recollect the captain told me all the cabins are filled. He hasn't put you down in
steerage with the alien cattle, has he?'
'Dr. Tennyson,' said the captain primly, 'was a late show. I have nowhere to put him. He turned up
unexpectedly.'
She raised the bottle to her lips, lowered it, looked inquiringly at Tennyson.
'Is that true?' she asked.
Tennyson grinned. 'The captain is trying to be polite. Actually, I was a stowaway. As to
accommodations, neither of you should worry about it. I can curl up anywhere. I'm just glad to be
aboard.'
'That is not quite right either,' said the captain. 'He did stow away, but now he offers to pay his
passage. Technically, he no longer is a stowaway.'
'You must be starved,' Jill said, 'unless you brought along a lunch.'
'I never thought about it,' said Tennyson. 'I was in too much of a hurry. But I could do with a steak.'
'You'll get no steaks on this tub,' said Jill, 'but there's guck to fill the gut. How about it, Captain?'
'Surely,' the captain agreed. 'Almost immediately. I'm sure something's left.'
Jill rose and tucked the bottle underneath her arm. 'Send the food to my cabin,' she told the captain,
then turned to Tennyson.
'Come along, you. We'll get you washed up and your hair combed and see what you really look
like.'
Three
'Now for some ground rules,' said Jill. 'On such short acquaintance, I'm not about to crawl into bed
with you, but I will share the bed -or, I suppose, the bunk, for it's really not a bed. Like the captain
and the mate, we'll take turns in it. You can use the can - on board such a ship as this, I think it's
termed a head. We'll eat our meals together and we can sit and talk and play my music crystals. I'll
ignore a pass or two, being naturally good-natured and more kindly than is good for me, but if you
get too heavy, I'll heave you out.'
'I shall not get too heavy,' said Tennyson, 'however much I may be tempted. I feel something like a
stray dog someone picked up.'
He used half a slice of bread to mop up his plate, sopping up the gravy left over from the stew.
'In my ravenous hunger,' he told her, 'this meal was tasty, but it had a strange tang to it. Stew, of
course, but a stew of what?'
'Don't ask,' she said. 'Just shut your eyes and eat. Holding your nose helps, too, if you can do that
without strangling. There is a deep, dark suspicion that when one of the pilgrims die - and some of
them do, of course, packed into steerage as they are. . .'
He waved a helpless hand at her. 'Please, Jill, desist. My body needs the food and I'd like to keep it
down.'
'I would not have thought a doctor would have a queasy stomach.'
'Doctors, my dear,' he said, 'are not total brutes.'
'Put the plate away,' she told him. 'You've mopped it shining clean. I still have the captain's bottle-'
'I noticed. You just marched off with it.'
'It's not the captain's bottle. He simply pilfers it and the consignee looks the other way. He hauls in
several cases on every trip, I understand. Special-order shipments for the gnomes at Project Pope.'
'Gnomes at Project Pope? What in hell have gnomes to do with it, and what is Project Pope?'
'You mean you don't know?'
'Not at all,' he said.
'Well, I guess they're not really gnomes, although it's a term that is often used for them. Some of
them are humans, but the most of them are robots.'
'That's no real answer,' said Tennyson. 'Tell me what you're talking about. It sounds mysterious
and-'
'What about you, my friend?' she asked. 'What's all your mystery? The captain said you stowed
away and then you paid your passage. And if you don't know about Project Pope, why are you
heading out for End of Nothing? There's no reason to go there except for Project Pope.'
'So help me,' said Tennyson, 'before I set foot on this ship, I had never heard of End of Nothing or
of Project Pope. What is this End of Nothing?'
'In due time,' she said, 'I shall be glad to give you all the details that I have. But you give first. I
took you in, remember. I am sharing with you. Now, let's each have a drink, then you start.'
They each had a drink. He wrested the bottle from her and took another one, then handed it back.
'You know,' he said, 'that stuff has authority.'
'Give,' she said.
'Well, first of all, I really am a doctor.'
'I never doubted that. I had a peek into your bag.'
'You know about Gutshot, the planet that we took off from.'
She shivered. 'A horrid little place, although I was glad enough to get there. It was the last stop on
the way to End of Nothing and, working my way out, there've been too many stops. I never
dreamed, of course, that I'd have to put up with such a filthy ship to get there. I asked around.
Would you believe it, this is the only ship between Gutshot and End of Nothing. This captain of
ours has the pilgrim trade tied up.'
'About the pilgrims...'
'Nothing doing. First you talk of Gutshot, then I'll talk of gnomes and popes and pilgrims.'
'It's simply told,' said Tennyson. 'Gutshot, as you may know, is a feudal planet. A lot of nasty little
fiefs headed by crews of dirty people - some of them human, but a lot of them not. I was court
physician to the margrave of Daventry. Human, as you may have guessed. A human doctor trained
in human medicine would be of little use to aliens. It was not the job I would have picked, but at
the time I considered myself lucky to get it. A young physician fresh out of medical school
ordinarily finds it hard to get started in his profession unless he has some money. I had no money,
of course, and there didn't seem to be too many clinics that were looking around for fresh new
talent; besides, it costs a fortune to set up a practice of your own, after which you'd sit around for
several years, slowly starving, until people began coming to you. Once the initial shock of Gutshot
wore off, I became somewhat accustomed to it. Like you can grow accustomed, after a time, to an
aching tooth. So I stayed on. The fees were good. In fact, to me, they seemed princely. The
margrave was not a bad guy. Not good, but not bad either. We got along together. Then the bastard
up and died on me. Nothing wrong with him. Just tipped over. Heart attack, I'd guess, although
there hadn't been any indication he was heading for one. I didn't really have a chance to determine
cause of death and-'
'But no one could blame you. It was not your -'
'What you can't comprehend,' he said, 'is the kind of politics there are in any feudal setup. A pack of
wolves held in restraint by one man. Loose the leash and they're at one another's throats. I'd not
consciously been involved in any politics, but I had sort of been the margrave's lieutenant and
advisor, unofficially of course, so considerable resentment was aimed at me. Almost immediately
the rumor sprang up that the margrave had been poisoned, and before it got well started, I was on
my way. I had no real power base and knew it. I would have been a pigeon for almost anyone. I
gathered up most of my ill-got earnings, which I had been careful to keep in a handy place and in
highly transportable form, stole a flier, and was out of there as fast as I could manage. Night was
coming on and I flew low and crooked to keep out of any radar range. I knew there was no place on
the planet where I'd be safe-'
'So you headed for the spaceport.'
'Right. I knew I didn't have much time. I figured there were people about three jumps behind me.
So I had to find a ship and find it fast. One that would be out in space before the posse hit the port.'
'So that's it?'
'That's it,' he said. 'What worries me most is the captain. I had to tell him some of it. I should have
lied, of course, but had little time to think up a lie and. . .'
She shook her head. 'You don't need to worry about our precious captain. If he's questioned, he'll
swear he knows nothing of you. He's not looking for trouble. He's got this End of Nothing
monopoly all tied up and doesn't want to lose it. It's a gold mine for him. He hauls a load of
pilgrims out, dumps them off, packs in the ones he hauled on the previous trip and takes them back
to Gutshot.'
'They all come form Gutshot? I never heard of any pilgrims there.'
'Probably none from Gutshot, which is just the port of entry to End Of Nothing. They come from all
over this sector of the galaxy, flying in from everywhere, gathering and waiting for the ship to End
of Nothing. Then our captain herds them aboard and flies them out to Project Pope.'
'You're not a pilgrim?'
'Do I look like one?'
'No, you don't. How about the loan of that bottle for a moment?'
She handed him the bottle.
'I don't know the entire story,' she said. 'I'm going out to have a look at it. It should provide material
for several articles. Perhaps even a book.'
'But you must have some idea, which is more than I have.'
'Just the basic rumor. Just the tangled stories that one hears. Actually rumor may be all, but I think
not. There must be something out there, with all this pilgrim traffic. I tried first to track down
where the pilgrims were coming from, but that proved a dead end. There is no concentration of
摘要：

ProjectPopeCliffordD.SimakPrologueThomasDeckerwashalfanhourfromhomewhenWhispererstoppedhiminhistracks.-Decker,saidWhisperer,speakinginsideDecker'smind.Decker,nowI'llgetyou.ThistimeIwillgetyou.Deckerswiveledaboutonthegametrailhehadbeenfollowing,hisrifleraised,heldawayfromhisbody,readytosnaptohisshoul...

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