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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 businesss, 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?

  Chapter 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 an
d 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.”

  Chapter 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 crewman 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?”