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Proxima Station!
So down, and into the tube. The only saving grace was that he didn't have to pass
through Customs, as long as he stayed within the Station. That, and the speed of
the pneumatic car it could cross the two-and-a-half kilometers in three minutes.
It could've done the trip in less than a minute, if the computer didn't limit it to
1.5 G acceleration and deceleration at the beginning and end of the trip. Under
the circumstances, Father Al would've settled for the quicker time, and taken his
chances on ending his existence as a thin paste on the front of the car. It had
taken him five minutes to find the tube, and a four-minute wait before the car
came.
Deceleration pushed him toward the front of the car, then eased off and
disappeared. The doors hissed open, and he was on his feet, turning and twisting
between other passengers, threading his way toward the platform. "Excuse me&
Excuse me& I beg your pardon, madame& Oh, dear! I'm sorry about your foot,
sir& "
Then he was through, and standing, hands clasped on his suitcase handle, glaring
at the lift's readout. The minutes crawled agonizingly by while a discreet,
impersonal voice from the ceiling informed him that Chairlady Spaceways'
Flight 110 to Beta Casseiopeia was about to depart from Gate 11; last call for
Chairlady Spaceways'Flight 110&
The lift doors hissed open. Father Al held himself back by a straining effort of
will as the passengers filed out; then he bolted in. That was a mistake; five
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people crowded in behind him. The doors hissed shut, and he began elbowing his
way back to them. "Excuse me& I'm sorry, but this really is imperative& I'm
sorry, sir, but my liner's leaving, and the next one's apt to be quite a while
coming& "
Then the doors hissed open, and he charged out, with one eye watching to avoid
a collision, and the other watching for signs. There it was Gates 10 through 15,
and an arrow pointing to the left! He swerved like a comet reeling around the
Sun, leaving a trail of bruised feet, jogged elbows, and shattered tempers behind
him.
Gate 11! He skidded to a halt, leaped toward the door and realized it was
chained shut. With a sinking heart, he looked up at the port-wall and saw a
glowing spot already small and diminishing, the St. Elmo's-Fire phosphoresence
that surrounded a ship under planetary drive, growing smaller and dimmer as his
ship moved away.
For a moment, he sagged with defeat; then his chin came up, and his shoulders
squared. Why was he letting it bother him? After all, it wouldn't be that long
before the next flight to Casseiopeia.
But the datawall said otherwise; the next flight to Beta Cass. wasn't leaving for a
week! He stared at it in disbelief, Yorick's warning to hurry echoing in his ears.
Rod Gal-lowglass was going to disappear, and Father Al had to make sure he
disappeared with him!
Then a nasty suspicion formed at the back of his mind. Admittedly, it was too
soon to say three times is enemy action, and he'd only been delayed twice; but
Rod Gal-lowglass was about to discover some sort of extraordinary power within
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himself, and probably had some major flaw in his personality, as almost
everyone had well-hidden and well-rationalized, to be sure, but there
nonetheless. That flaw could be a handle to grasp his soul by, and twist him
toward evil actions again, well-hidden and well-rationalized, not recognized as
evil; but evil nonetheless. He could be a very powerful tool in the hands of Evil
or a great force for Good, if someone were there to point out the moral pitfalls
and help him steer clear of them.
Definitely, it helped Evil's chances if Father Al missed contact with Rod
Gallowglass.
And it was so easy to do just make sure he missed his ship, and arrived on
Gramarye too late! All Hell had to do was to help human perversity run a little
more than its natural course. Perhaps the captain of the liner had been in a bad
mood, and hadn't been about to wait a second longer than was necessary, even
though one of the booked passengers hadn't arrived yet& Perhaps the spaceport
controller had had an argument earlier that day, and had taken it out on the rest
of the world by assigning the ship from Terra to the South 220 terminal, instead
of the North 40; so Finagle had triumphed, and the perversity of the universe had
tended toward maximum.
Father Al turned on his heel and strode away toward the center of the terminal.
Father Al arrived in the main concourse and strolled down the row of shops,
searching. The Church did all it could to make the Sacraments available to its
members, no matter how far from Terra they might be and especially in places
where they might need its comfort and reinforcement most. There was one Order
that paid particular attention to this problem; surely they wouldn't have ignored a
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major way-station on the space lanes&
There it was a curtained window with the legend, "Chapel of St. Francis
Assisi" emblazoned on it. Father Al stepped through the double door, gazed
around at the rows of hard plastic pews, the burgundy carpet, and the plain,
simple altar-table on the low dais, with the crucifix above it on a panelled wall,
and felt a huge unseen weight lift from his shoulders. He was home.
The Franciscans were very hospitable, as they always were. But there was a bit
of a problem when he explained what he wanted.
"Say Mass?M>M>? With respect, Father, it's six o'clock in the evening."
"But surely you have evening Masses."
"Only on Saturday evenings, and the vigils of holy days."
"I'm afraid it really is necessary, Father." Father Al handed the Franciscan his
letter from the Pope. "Perhaps this will make the situation more clear."
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