by H. A. Hargreaves
Being Spiritual Advisor to a mixed group of nationalities in a closed Arctic environment was no sinecure for the newly appointed chaplain, especially when each faction was against every other and all united against him. He could not even bury the dead properly because of Union regulations...
* * * *
The perspective was rather surrealistic. From the edge of the apron a few yards ahead of him, an intricate web of plastic pipe, conduit and cable stretched outward across the permafrost to the perimeter of the townsite. It was bounded on one side by a finished subdivision and on the other by the two hundred foot razorback ridge thrusting up at right angles to the river. Arching overhead was a maze of temporary lattice, from which this service hardware was suspended and high above that was the infinitely more complex, invisible web of SAC, endlessly whispering to the Arctic sky. Some wag, he thought, must surely have worked out a name later to suit those initials. Supersonic Air Carapace, indeed! Well, it was a sac after all, meshed above and below to protect man from this hostile environment. Or were they still deceiving themselves? A Closed Environment set into the Arctic Protected Environment. Wasn’t it Isaiah who had said, ‘The earth lies polluted under its inhabitants?’
He slouched against an untidy pile of wooden crating and watched while a spindly monster rolled slowly forward with high-pitched whine, trailing cable like some futuristic umbilical cord. As two men handed up bags from the side-bed, two more emptied them into the cooker and the operator lowered the long, wide-mouthed blower over the edge of the apron to lay a steady stream of foam. Three feet of Schlagge foam, the perfect insulator, shielding the permafrost, embedding the service hardware, making a grey-white, supertough floor for the last subdivision of Tundra City. Walls too, eventually, for the homes in which the final one hundred and fifty families would live. But at least the interiors would have colourful laminates, a vital addition. He looked outward from under the latticework, through the SAC shimmer, across the reach of rivermouth towards Welcome Sound and shivered slightly as his eyes strained to find where grey-white met white-grey in the fine haze of lifted snow.
Even where he stood, a few droplets sifted on to his silver hair, indicating that the new section of SAC was not completely meshed yet. He straightened his gaunt frame slowly, forcing ageing joints to measure his full six-foot-five. Flicking spray from his lowered hood he turned away from the construction area, where already men were dismantling the first section of lattice, stopping only to pull off a gauntlet and run his hand over the wood he had leaned against. When had he last felt real wood, he wondered; even rough scrap like this ? Crating. The extravagance of it made him painfully aware again that he was an alien here. The machines had been cradled in this, carried by tractor train on the ice of Hudson Bay (thus getting around the Protected Environment regulations) for hundreds of miles from the Quebec shore to this mining site, to get the construction done by break-up. The credits it had cost were too much for him to imagine. With a shrug and a pushing back of old shoulders, he moved off the growing apron and through the subdivision airscreen, into the comfortable five degrees centigrade of Tundra City’s ‘main’ street.
Stepping out in a deceptively unhurried pace, he returned to City Center, turning huge brown eyes up to the chrono mounted on the only third storey in town. 16.20—plenty of time before his appointment with Vladmir Homynyk, and he was reluctant, as always, to go to his own quarters. He sauntered through the lobby, reading notices on the bulletin boards, passed the steps to the upstairs rec rooms and entered the barnlike gymnasium, cum cinema-theatre, cum ballroom—and church.
At the far end, next to the left stage entrance, was a flush plastic door with a sign: ‘Benjamin Scroop, Spiritual Advisor.’ Grimacing, Scroop visualised a third line: ‘Computerised Confessions,’ which was perhaps more appropriate in view of what he had accomplished here so far. Some seven hundred and fifty souls were entrusted to his care, in three splinter congregations and a sprinkling of other sects and to an individual they seemed either engaged in insidious obstruction or totally inert. For the life of him he could not understand why he, with less than a year to mandatory retirement, should have been plucked from his parish in Greater Danbury, Connecticut, and posted to a—a mine town. All Hail the Great God Computer, he muttered mutinously. Well this time the computer had erred, and the Placement Committee was either blind or senile to have accepted its recommendation. Yet in his heart he knew his self-deception and with a soul-sick acceptance he granted the computer its dispassionate accuracy.
He himself had spun the thread which led to this end many years ago. Schlitz, or something, he had called himself, the man who appeared one night at the Scroop ELS, asking for help which the Spiritual Advisor could not provide. The Continental Computer had somehow struck that man off as dead and so he was dead to the world, for all practical intents and purposes. Scroop had watched him go back out into the darkness, to cope alone with his dilemma, and after a sleepless night the scholarly cleric, with his earned DD, had set aside his love for religious history and begun a new study. He would acquire the proper pastoral skills.
Now with ironic amusement he went into his ‘office’ and private quarters which, unpartitioned, had previously been used to store gym apparatus. It was part of the general conspiracy to keep him uncomfortable, to let him know he was unwelcome. It was bad enough, with its unrelieved grey-white walls, ceiling, floor, its slapped-in fixtures and furnishings. But what these independent Old Canadians didn’t realise was that he had more space here than in his Stretched Efficiency Living Space at home; vastly more than in the ELS of those many years ago, with a wife and seven children. Here, the old widower rattled like a pea in a dry pod. And he had the two vital tools of his trade hooked up and working, both the viewer-scanner and the remote access computer console. Theoretically, it should merely be a matter of time until he had this situation under control, drawing upon the resources of the Regional Computer and the library, in Winnipeg. Nevertheless, it was as if his familiar arch-enemy, the Continental Computer, while acknowledging him as a wily master technocrat; had named him for this task to show him what he had really lost on that night when he decided to meet his parishioners’ world on its own terms.
Meanwhile, it was time to meet another master, Vladmir Homynyk, and as if on cue the Chief Steward of Local 764, Mining, Smelting, and Refining Union, appeared at Scroop’s door. ‘Come in, come in,’ Scroop said mildly, ‘take a pew.’ He rolled his own chair past the corner of the scanner, into what might be called casual space between the equipment and the door, but Homynyk refused to descend to informality. Prowling restlessly through the cramped office, from door to partition setting off the tiny bed-sitter and back again, he turned abruptly and asked ‘What is it this time? You got any more ideas that can’t be done?’ He placed a meaty hand on top of the computer console and smeared grime on to its hood from his thumb. (There had been ample time to wash and change after he left the pits.) Scroop built a steeple with long, pale fingers and looked over it with wistful brown eyes. ‘I’m afraid it’s nothing new, Vladmir,’ he murmured, ‘just the same old question. As Patriarch, when are you going to arrange for me to provide your congregation with daily religious instruction?’
Homynyk snorted, ‘You’re wasting your time and mine. Religious instruction begins with the men, and you aren’t qualified.’
Scroop asked innocently, ‘And just once more, why am I not qualified?’ In disgust Homynyk made as if to leave, but turned with undisguised scorn and levelled a forefinger.
‘I told you a dozen times, we saw all this coming before I was born. When Old Canada and the US incorporated. We ain’t just Orthodox Ukrainians—we’re unionists. The community don’t just have any old Holy Joe. He’s a priest and he’s a card holder: a chaplain of the local. I told you to read the Union’s Reformed Constitution.’ He wiped his nose with a hairy wrist, as Scroop rolled his chair back to the scanner and flipped the switch. ‘That’s one of the things we got against you CUSS men,’ the steward finished. ‘You got all the answers under your switches, except the ones you need for a man’s world.’
‘But I took your advice, Vladmir,’ Scroop offered quietly. “I flipped a switch and read the constitution. And I flipped it again and read the original constitution, because in some places the new one simply says “as per the old”.’ Vladmir’s eyes narrowed slightly and Scroop continued. ‘A Spiritual Advisor for the Christian United Spiritual Society is acceptable to all sects of the merged Christian faith, but he does have to meet local needs.’
Vladmir’s voice dripped scorn as he answered, ‘And we in Old Canada never merged. Regardless of the UN ruling on our petition, you don’t belong. You don’t qualify.’
Scroop leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘I was up at 04.00, Vladimir,’ he replied. ‘I went down to pithead 6 during the first shift. The foreman very kindly showed me how to operate the auger and I cut two feet of face. I rode an ore car up and helped couple it at the tunnel siding.’ Vladmir opened his mouth, but Scroop held up a hand. ‘I was over at the smelter at 10.00,’ he continued, ‘for a look-in. Got a chance to pry slag out of one furnace. Hot work, even in the suit. And last,’ he smiled faintly, ‘I was over at the refinery at 14.00. A docker let me put some ingots on the robofreight with his forklift.’ Vladmir moved back into the room and sank heavily into a chair. Scroop’s smile became absolutely benign. ‘Yes, the original constitution must have had men like me in mind. And the second doesn’t revise that section on chaplains one bit. I believe I’ve qualified three times over, don’t you?’
Not that it really changed things, Scroop thought after Homynyk had left. The Chief Steward knew that he had seriously underestimated his rival. But it would be long and hard work till Scroop gained real acceptance with the congregation. The computer had given him a group profile of astonishing cohesion and identification with the patriarchal figure. There were, however, theological points on which he could develop his own roots within the congregation. One thing was certain: they were in desperate need of spiritual renewal and guidance. From him? His own soul-sickness rose again, but he consciously thrust it down. There was more work that he was peculiarly fitted to do and he had best be about it.
Henri LeBlanc preferred to work during the third shift and since he was the manager of the Hudson Bay Company store, no one could argue, had anyone cared. Perhaps it was because even during the early summer, when it never really got dark, there was less business than during the other two shifts, hence he could take care of the light duties created by his second job as nominal mayor of Tundra City. He was in a mood apparently as expansive as his ample middle and greeted Scroop jovially enough. ‘Which hat shall I put on. Mr. S.A. ?’ he chuckled. ‘On what business do you come to my little shop?’ Scroop glanced through the clear plastic to the main floor of the store below and lowered himself into a chair as if listening for squeaky hinges. ‘Henri, mon fils,’ he grunted, ‘it has nothing to do with your congregation—at the moment, though there are certain things which must soon cease upon pain of excommunication. Yours!’ He watched as a shadow of fear flitted across the other’s face, and then barked a short laugh. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘you were too good a student while you were at seminary to take me seriously. After a number of years one easily forgets things, or perhaps one may have left before acquiring certain knowledge. Such as who may give absolution, or extreme unction to the dying when an ordained priest is within call.’
Henri’s normally ruddy face went quite pale and Scroop pressed while he had the storeman on the defensive. ‘No, no,’ he waved a boney hand, ‘let us not speak of this unfortunate death for the moment. I come, rather, to speak for Christian charity. The matter of the sacramental wine. Not for myself, though I would prefer to consecrate official spirits for my daily communion. For the Anglicans, Henri!’ He added just a hint of pleading to his voice. ‘They have not taken communion for years, some of them, because the congregation has not had a priest, yet now they refuse because the wine is not “official”.’
Somewhat relieved, Henri threw up his hands and rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘On this matter, you know that I would like nothing better than to be of help,’ he said, still not looking directly at Scroop. ‘It is, as I have pointed out, the fault of the Continental Transportation Code. Beer, cider, distilled spirits and fortified wines may be transported to the distributor authorised in a Closed Environment. Moi! But it says nowhere anything about sacramental wines. Moreover, it is clear, there, that no public or private carrier may transport the intoxicating beverages for an individual in a Closed Environment. Toi! My hands, they are tied/ he cried, throwing the said members wide in a rather contradictory gesture.
Scroop clucked to himself in disappointment. ‘Henri,’ he reproved, ‘have you no pride in your own company? A company looking to its three hundred-and-fiftieth birthday?’ Henri looked bewildered at the cleric’s seeming shift of subject. Scroop used the tone one normally reserves for scolding children. ‘The Hudson Bay Company has always enjoyed certain exemptions from enacted legislation. Always!’ he emphasised the last. ‘The final volume of regulations from the Department of Transport in Old Canada retained most of those exemptions for townsite branches and among them were many that maintained good relations between The Church and the Company. Now the AmeriCanadian Continental Transportation Code says: “Except where specifically altered in the following document, existing legislation of both countries shall remain in effect.” I can give you the exact passages which allow you to transport sacramental wine for all good Christian purposes.’ He dropped a sheet of foolscap on Henri’s desk, with a single short, scribed line of letters and numbers.
The rotund mayor-manager was clearly stunned. Scroop rose stiffly and began to button his parka, then turned and faced him. ‘About the child, Henri. It will comfort your soul to know that she was not certifiably dead when I reached the dispensary.’ Then he intoned sternly: ‘ “It is a stiff-necked people and I will bend them.” You know the verse ? I will give you your penance in the proper place.’ As he stalked from the office Henri stammered, ‘Good day, Father,’ and Scroop wondered as he walked down the stairs whether it had been a conscious capitulation.
* * * *
It was not quite 18.00 and he still had two appointments and he was bone tired. He sat in the autoteria toying with his food, not really hungry and afraid to eat too much lest he get dull. Autoteria food was all the same anyway, he decided, which was only half the truism since all food was literally the same whether you dialled it here or at home. He hadn’t really enjoyed eating since Martha’s death and no one became a gourmand on a Spiritual Advisor’s credits once his Family AP was gone. Bitter humour, he thought looking at his newer All Purpose Card. At his age and in this place he was suddenly receiving more credits than he had ever dreamed of—for ‘hardship allowance’. Yet this was luxury compared to the conditions in that old ELS, with seven kids and a wife crammed into triple-tiered bunks and his work to clear away before they could eat in shifts.
The gnawing pain was with him again; loss of something more than family. Back then he had known a deep contentment that had nothing to do with material things or close relationships and for a fraction of a second he had glimpsed it again, as he was leaving Henri LeBlanc’s office. To serve a spiritual need once more, instead of manipulating the maze. He tossed off the rest of his coffee, slipped his AP Card into a pocket and left his half-finished meal.
All family accommodation in Tundra City was essentially the same, differing only in the number of bedrooms, yet Cyril Jameson and his wife had managed to make their flat look somehow more finished. Not exactly elegant; more like the picture of what an elegant home ought to be. The Town Engineer-School Principal ushered Scroop in with an offhand casualness, graciously offered a drink which was graciously declined and settled his lean, athletic body into a graceful chair. After the required preliminaries, his wife excused herself.
‘Now, Sir, how can I help you?’ Jameson asked expectantly. Scroop, who had already probed without success for a chink in this armour of gentility, decided that there was no longer any virtue in playing by Jameson’s rules.
‘We could start,’ he said brusquely, ‘with my WC.’
Jameson’s face went a startled blank, and the seconds lengthened until he responded lamely: ‘I see. Or rather, I’m not sure I do see.’
Scroop was relentlessly tactless. ‘Perhaps I should have said,’ he continued, ‘my lack of a WC. You must surely have answered my memo personally, since your name is scribed at the bottom.’
Jameson coloured slightly. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I did see your memo, but I, uh, turned it over to my clerk. Part-time, you know.’ Then he seemed to draw up a little more assurance. ‘Nevertheless, I do recall the answer made very clear our reasons for not providing a—bathroom—in your quarters. For the time being.’ He managed to look a bit offended. ‘I would have thought that this was hardly the place...’
Scroop cut him off with a guffaw. ‘Course not,’ he replied, and sprawled slightly on the divan, obviously not to be budged for some time.
Jameson rose and asked, ‘Sure you won’t have a drink? I think I’ll have one myself, after all.’ He slotted the Family AP and dialled jerkily, then returned to sit and sip with clear apprehension over what gauche act Scroop would commit next. That worthy straightened and looked him in the eyes. ‘Jameson,’ he said in businesslike tones, ‘there have been no confirmations in this parish since it was first opened. Yet there are at least two dozen people of a proper age. Why haven’t they been instructed?’ - Jameson looked into his glass and answered in a faintly amused tone. ‘You know yourself that I’m only a Lay Reader, not a Deacon.’
Scroop tapped a finger on his knee in annoyance. ‘Come now,’ he retorted, ‘there’s been a ruling on that for centuries. In remote parishes a Lay Reader, or even a Warden, may be so empowered. That power has been implicit with your licence from Howard Keewatin.’ Scroop waved a stiff hand as Jameson angrily leaned forward. ‘I know, I know. Now it’s my job. Classes will be announced next Sunday. Next, I want you to find something appropriate for a baptismal font.’
Jameson shot to his feet. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘That’s too much. No agent of CUSS is going to baptise children in my parish.’ He flushed and a vein swelled at his temple.
Scroop said quietly, but ominously, ‘Sit down, Jameson. Your parish? Not yours, or mine. But you are my Lay Reader, so long as I make the annual request.’ He waited until the angry man had regained control and understood the threat. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let me tell you something that none of you has taken the trouble to look up. Henry Danbury presided at my ordination, many years ago. Nevertheless, I took some precautions when I came, including a call when I stopped over at Churchill. The Bishop of Keewatin made it to the heliport in time to place his hands on my head and bless me.’
Jameson was clearly shaken by the revelation, but he appeared not to be finished. ‘All right,’ he conceded, ‘we’ll grant your apostolic succession. We’ll grant the UN ruling on our petition, that one CUSS Advisor may serve the townsite.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘It’s too bad you didn’t have more time with the Bishop. He could have told you why he hasn’t sent a priest to us. Why he won’t come himself, even if we have a hundred children ready for confirmation.’
Suddenly hyper-alert, Scroop couldn’t have cared less for the moment who was winning the battle of wills here. This was vital information which he had not been able to unearth. Jameson, in his agitation, hardly noticed Scroop’s. interest. ‘Sure each denomination wanted its own priest, and that seems inefficient. But don’t fool yourself that the General Manager could have kept them out for long on that ground. Hobbs may be a virulent atheist but he’s not an idiot. Our worker priests could have qualified as legitimate personnel even under his interpretations.’
Jameson thrust clenched fists into the pockets of his lounging suit, stamped across the room, and swung around scowling. ‘It’s the nature of the beast behind the ridge,’ he said. ‘Or its potential nature. Somehow the rumour got around that we were separating radio-isotopes. Particularly the stuff used in fission weapons. The worst part of it is that it’s possible, theoretically. We have magnetic centrifugal separators at the refinery. The ore is rich in half a dozen heavy metals, including Uranium. Put the method and the material in the same place and then try to explain to the average man what the difference is between our “floaters” and a plasma separator.’
Scroop didn’t have to be a genius to understand. Jameson could see he was following. ‘So there isn’t a priest in Old Canada,’ he finished, ‘who will come to Tundra City, or any sect that will send one. Meanwhile, Hobbs plays it cosy and denies just hard enough to keep the rest of the world relatively convinced that we’re not warmongers, including the UN and CUSS.’
There was a long silence before Scroop finally spoke. ‘You said, I believe, theoretically possible?’
Jameson puffed his cheeks in exasperation. ‘Not you too ? Of course it’s theoretically possible. Even a Civil Engineer like me can tell you that. But not with the same equipment. So how do you hide an operation like that?’
Scroop nodded apologetically. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He got up with genuine reluctance and said with less genuine optimism, ‘I do have two more pleasant things to tell you. First, we should have official sacramental wine for communion when Henri’s next shipment comes from the Manitoba Liquor Commission. Second, there’s a cassette alongside my scanner which says, “I will be in Tundra City some time next fall. Howard Keewatin.” He sounds like a man who tends his flock.’
It struck Scroop, as he made his way back to City Center, that Jameson would worry over his reaction to the nuclear weapons rumour. Could it be that a CUSS Advisor was better than no priest at all? It wouldn’t last, though, and the Anglicans, with that infuriating diffidence which seemed inherent, would be the last to accept him. After all, he thought wryly, there was that ancient joke—how did it go—about God coming home to Old Canada to live with his Anglican heirs. He doubted that the joke would go over well with Alvin Hobbs.
The muted hum of a vehicle brought him back to the present with a slight start, and he moved quickly to the corner of the main intersection to wave down the approaching service truck.
‘Goin’ through, Padre?’ the driver asked and Scroop sighed wearily as he folded his long body into the passenger seat. The young man dialled up and they accelerated smoothly towards the tunnel mouth. Shifting a wad of something to his other cheek with a trace of embarrassment, he glanced sideways at Scroop and cleared his throat. ‘I been meanin’ to get to mass regular,’ he began, ‘now you’re here. Went for a while, but Henri and most of the rest speak French, an’...’
He trailed off and Scroop said gently, ‘I understand, my son. A habit broken is hard to restore.’ They were into the tunnel now (another way around the Protected Environment regulations), but he ignored the mine entrance and ore cars on the right, the river access branch and storage chambers to the left. With studied casualness he asked, ‘When was the last time your confession was heard?’
The driver drummed nervous fingers on the steering wheel, then answered. ‘Before you came.’ There was awkward silence and he blurted out, ‘Before I came two years ago.’
They came out into grey light and the driver turned hard right with visible relief, dialling off to a quick stop in front of the Admin. Building. Scroop levered himself out on to the foam and leaned back into the cab. ’Confession for third-shift RC’s is 06.30 Thursday mornings. There’s no queue,’ he added, and stood with bare hand in a half-gesture of benediction while the truck pulled away. He noted with satisfaction that he had three minutes to spare before his appointment with Hobbs, at 21.20.
* * * *
The office was the man; an extension of Alvin Hobbs’ personality. One saw first the massive, tidy desk, then the severe, solid chairs and file decks, after that the unrelieved walls of simulated oak, the deep brown carpet, and finally the panoramic sweep of industrial complex framed by recessed tan curtains. The General Manager, veteran of many union and government battles, stood at his window in clear command of the scene; mine, smelters, separators, power plant; the complete site. Scroop knew that he was supposed to be intimidated, aware of how insignificant he and his problem were.
‘Then it’s No again?’ he asked slowly.
‘I’ll disregard the “again”, Scroop,’ the manager replied evenly. ‘Aside from the fact that you have a wide scope for recreation at City Center, I have many reasons for not allowing this silly proposal.’
Scroop tried a placatory tone. ‘Sometimes when you settle into a comfortable routine, you don’t realise that you’re using the facilities in a monotonous fashion; getting stale.’
‘Nonsense,’ Hobbs snapped. ‘I hardly get over to use them any...” He flushed and switched his ground. ‘Having a number of kids in the complex for a prolonged period is out of the question. Why do you think they put the townsite on the other side of the ridge to begin with ? That’s a nuclear power plant.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the window.
Scroop caught him up. ‘But I understand that groups are brought over by Mr. Jameson occasionally, for a half-day lecture.’
Hobbs reeled off with relish: ‘AmeriCanadian Multi-Related Industries Operations Regulations: Section 432; paragraphs 18 to 20. For educational purposes, under supervision, when accompanied by a school official. And your snow sculpture contest doesn’t qualify.’
Scroop wasn’t done yet, however. ‘Surely the heliport,’ he persisted, ‘in a fairly shielded area behind an outcropping, doesn’t come under the same regulations?’
Hobbs smiled thinly. ‘Probably does, at my discretion,’ he purred, ‘but in addition, you cannot allow the SAC to be interrupted over a heliport, except during landings and takeoffs. International Closed Environment Standard Legislation : Volume Two: Section SAC; Sub-Section Air Transport; Regulation One. So your budding artists may not collect a foot or so of snow on my heliport and roll it into glorified snowmen.’ He gestured impatiently as Scroop began yet again. ‘And there’s no way they will set foot outside the SAC in violation pf the World Court Protected Environment Agreement.’
Scroop murmured ‘Ah, yes, we don’t need chapter and verse on that. No, what I was going to suggest was that exception’s have been made to the heliport rules. I’ve seen a very old notice about a kite-flying contest. It couldn’t have been held on the Center playing field.’ He went on more quickly. ‘The regular flight got away this morning. We’ve three free days then, there’s a nice storm brewing and we could have the port clean and dry, with the sculpturing on one of the spare pads, in forty-eight hours.’
Even in mid-sentence, Scroop sensed that Hobbs had been waiting for this. The manager glanced at his chrono and moved towards the door. ‘I’m busy, Scroop,’ he said with a patronising air. ‘Too busy for people who don’t grasp what life up here is all about. Stick to preaching. I suppose you know the rules and regs of that.’ He opened the door and motioned Scroop through. ‘Meanwhile,’ he ended, ‘I have another appointment. With some officials who just arrived by copter.’ The barb was flicked with seasoned skill and Scroop knew the timing of their meeting had been nicely calculated.
Equally calculated was the cold dismissal as they moved into the anteroom, where Hobbs nodded curtly and then boomed an effusive, ‘Welcome to Tundra City, gentlemen,’ at the two men before his secretary’s desk. Unfortunately, there was too little room for Scroop to leave unnoticed and he found himself facing a small, turbanned individual whose black eyes shone like buttons, pulling ancient fabric into a maze of fine wrinkles. Those eyes, without haste, took in Scroop from head to toe, pausing fractionally at the venerable symbol on his breast. Somehow, while returning a soft ‘Thank you, Mr. Hobbs,’ he halted Scroop with a slightly raised finger. ‘An equal pleasure,’ he added, ‘to be met by Doctor Scroop.’
Hobbs was obviously disconcerted, yet he covered his reaction extremely well. Even so, it seemed to amuse the second man, burly, dark-haired, untidy looking. With only a breath of disbelief in his voice, Hobbs asked, ‘You’ve met then?’
The small man smiled serenely and answered, ‘Not in the flesh, Sir. If I may...?’ He bowed slightly towards his companion and said formally, ‘Doctor Scroop—Doctor Horwitz. And I am Rahjan Sikh.’ He turned back to Hobbs and said pleasantly, ‘We are here primarily, of course, to discount certain misunderstandings, as technological observors. But you have here a religious anachronism which is peculiarly apt for me and for Jacob, who heads the Semitic League delegation.’
Horwitz, who had watched with seeming detachment, stepped forward and extended his hand. ‘You are the same Scroop then. Neo-Rational Theology and the Cambridge Platonists. I read it at New Union Seminary when I took rabbinical orders. Before the metallurgical degrees at home. A long ... a while back.’ Scroop winced inwardly despite Horwitz’ attempt to gloss the slip.
He was spared an answer when Sikh took up the conversation again. ‘We three must talk at length, Dr. Scroop. In a way we all operate in a dual capacity, as holy men and technologists and there is much you can tell us about un-absorbed sects in isolated communities, particularly with your specialisation.’ Then with the same effortless capacity he seemed to release Scroop and draw Horwitz and Hobbs into the office. Scroop shook his head at the incredible power of the man—the ‘Miracle Worker of the Punjab’, —and could well believe that he deserved his international reputation. He wondered what Hobbs would make of Sikh’s comment about their dual capacities, for it was fairly clear that the manager had not yet recognised why Scroop, of all Spiritual Advisors, should have been sent here.
He was in luck again: the VIP wagon was still in front of the Admin. Building when he came out and he persuaded the driver that there would be plenty of time to run him under to City Center. He had hardly the time to savour the luxury of the ride when his chauffeur dialled off and he was left standing on aching legs. It seemed a worse indignity than usual to walk the length of the busy gym, pick up his toilet kit and walk half the length back to the men’s locker room and showers. Moreover, though, the hot water soaked out some of his deep physical fatigue, it served only to release the other, the spiritual pain.
Despite his real need for sleep, when he retired to his quarters he opened his prayer cabinet, rolled out the mat and sank to calloused knees. With eyes on the composited symbol within, he turned his mind to the preliminary disciplined associations. His thoughts swung from the open-bottomed Omega, signifying the dispensing of all things to men, to the over-printed Alpha, narrowing upward to the infinite point of Godhead. Slowly the period of those pendular thoughts closed, focussing on the cross at the centre of the symbol, the cross in which all crosses were captured and Scroop entered the sanctuary of prayer.
* * * *
He surfaced dizzily out of clinging sleep, to realise that the vidphone had been chiming insistently in the office for some time. Making his groggy way to the scanner desk, he spoke furrily into the phone and squeezed his eyes shut once or twice in an effort to read his chrono dial. It was 05.34 and the voice speaking in his ear said ‘Horwitz! Jacob Horwitz. I’m at the dispensary. Sikh had a heart seizure earlier this morning. He managed to call for aid, but by the time the doctor reached him it was too late. I thought you should be the first to know, because it may present complications.’ Which was probably the prime understatement of Scroop’s lifetime.
By 08.00, Scroop was beginning to realise just how many and how far-reaching the complications were. To begin with, he had learned while signing the death certificate at the dispensary that Sikh was not Rahjan’s family name, but the generic one given him by adoring compatriots. So far as they were concerned, he was The Sikh, the religious example for a people. Try as he might, he could not seem to make the importance of this clear to an irritable, or more accurately, a hostile Alvin Hobbs. The manager had at first refused to see the Spiritual Advisor, fobbing him off with a suggestion that he send a memo and it had only been when Scroop threatened to bring Horwitz into it that Hobbs had backed down. He was still, however, boiling at this new intrusion into his normal schedule.
‘Look,’ said Scroop patiently, ‘the UN delegation demanded first that the body be taken immediately to the nearest international airport and flown directly to the Punjab.’
Hobbs snorted in derision. ‘With that storm out there it will be three days before we can get the copter out, if we’re very lucky.’
‘I told them that,’ Scroop explained, ‘and they said what about a boat to Churchill.’
Hobbs clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Don’t they know anything?’ he groaned.
Scroop plodded on. ‘I told them that the ice is rotten and even a hovercraft wouldn’t be safe from sudden upthrusts, but nevertheless a boat couldn’t get through.’
Hobbs said sarcastically, ‘Well, at least you’ve learned something about life up here.’
Scroop ignored it, and continued. ‘So we have the alternatives of preserving the body until it can be removed for burial, which the delegation say can be no more than three days anyway with stretching the laws, or giving it the proper rites here, which involve cremation, preferably on a pyre and casting the ashes into a river.’
Hobbs looked closely at Scroop, disbelief growing visibly. ‘Those are alternatives?’ he asked. ‘Here?’ He collapsed into his chair in a fit of laughter. Then, more soberly, he looked again at Scroop and said, ‘Come on, now. How can you be serious? And after all, what does it matter to you ? Oh I know, he’s an international figure, but who besides a bunch of perpetually starving Indians is going to complain if we can’t give him a royal send-off?’ He smiled nastily. ‘Anyway, you’re a Christian. Why should you muck around with a dirty heathen?’
Scroop felt anger swell his throat shut, choking off any reply. Hold it, he thought, as reason took over, that’s a question my new congregations might well ask. But the answer is so fundamental, his mind—or heart—said. So fundamental, indeed, that he was at a loss to put it into words. He gritted his teeth and turned away in disgust, starting to slip his parka over the white utility suit which hung on his gaunt frame. Inexplicably, his silence seemed to goad Hobbs almost beyond control, for he shouted at the back of Scroop’s silver-haired head: ‘Listen! It’s your problem. You’re so all-loving; you work it out. But I refuse—this office refuses—to be involved.’
So it was that a dispirited, dull Scroop, head beginning to throb slightly from tension and fatigue, found himself moving almost dreamlike through a day much like the previous one save that yesterday he had been on the offensive. Now he was groping after solutions that he knew didn’t exist, possibilities that he knew were at best improbabilities.
First on the list was Henri LeBlanc, whose answers were as predictable as the fact that he resented his recent humility. ‘It is known to me, all too painfully, that there are only two drawers in the dispensary morgue,’ he said, pressing a hand to his chest. ‘Are they not both occupied by members of the True Faith ? If Mr. Hobbs had not made certain that the dispatcher was an obstructionist, the body of my poor cousin Claude would be by now in St. Felicien.’ He sighed gustily. ‘It would not be taken kindly by us if the dear departed members were in any way disturbed until they are removed from the townsite.
‘But,’ he said with a hint of challenge, ‘you have the powers, my dear Sir. You may not order that they be put together in the one drawer, of course, for that is specific in the regulations.’
Scroop tried to concentrate on this potential loophole and drew himself up short, recognising that Henri was dangling bait. ‘No, what about the cold rooms and freezers here at the Company?’ he asked, and Henri smiled in false sympathy.
‘It is again, quite obviously, against the regulations of the public health. I have, already prepared the citations for you.’ He smiled again, dropping a sheet of foolscap into Scroop’s lap. ‘One may not put the body of even a true believer into those places.’ Scroop did not deny him his moment of triumph: he left while the portly mayor still oozed unctious sorrow.
Vladmir Homynyk didn’t trouble to disguise his delight at the turn of events and he too was totally prepared for any totally unsympathetic to Scroop’s problem. The Spiritual Advisor, a big-city man, had been only dimly aware of that phenomenon of small communities called instant relay. But Homynyk met every query with detailed information, all of it negative, which revealed that he had been preparing almost from the moment of Sikh’s death. Scroop had the feeling that he was being moved along a giant maze until he either dropped from exhaustion or gave up.
‘Surely,’ Vladmir stated, ‘a Chaplain of the Union knows that in a mine the temperature increases. And if that weren’t enough, you know we fill in the older shafts with the slag. As for the storage chambers along the river access branch, nothing may be placed in them which could attract carnivores.’ He shook his head as Scroop objected. ‘Nothing! No matter what it’s sealed in. Although it’s actually left open to the atmosphere, it’s interpreted as part of the Closed Environment. Now the wharves ...’ and he paused until Scroop roused himself to sniff at the carrot. ‘The wharves,’ he continued, ‘are part of the Protected Environment and nothing may be left on them except in the course of loading or unloading cargo.’ It was rather a crude ploy, if not actually vicious and it stung Scroop sufficiently to make him more alert.
‘All right,’ he admitted, ‘you can’t help me to hold the body until the storm blows over. But isn’t there any way to cremate it? The separators are out, naturally, but what about the smelters ?’
Vladmir’s face reflected first surprise, indicating that he had not considered this, then distaste and finally near-nausea as he all-too-vividly did consider it. ‘Do you remember what’s done to the ore before it’s fed through the slots into those smelters?’ he swallowed. ‘Say you were desperate enough to do that to a body. How would you separate the ashes from the slag?’
Scroop nodded mutely and picked up his parka again. He had been going to stop by the autoteria for a late breakfast, but instead he would go straight to the school to talk with Jameson.
* * * *
‘My dear fellow,’ Jameson said in syrupy tones, ‘I sympathise with you, but I fail to see how I can help you in any way.’ A tiny tug at the corner of his mouth belied the tone of voice. ‘Before you even ask, the refrigeration plant is out. We looked into that last year when Henri got an overshipment of beeves for the catering service.’
Scroop brushed the suggestion away with a gesture of annoyance. ‘Next,’ he said, ‘you’ll tell me that we can’t dispose of the body in the sewage plant, or burn it in the fake fireplace at City Center.’ He gathered up his energy, uttered a mental prayer, and went on. ‘What I had in mind was a trifle different. We can’t do a proper mortician’s job on the body, but it could be placed in a closed container on the rink and allowed to lie in state for a few days. Surely people won’t mind giving up their skating for that long.’
For a moment Scroop had a wild hope that he’d won, but then Jameson shook his head. ‘Won’t do, y’know,’ he said. ‘We looked into that sort of thing too, for an ice fair with booths. Can’t put anything like that on the rink. Sinks in, after a while, and could easily cut the piping. The nature of ice, of course. You wouldn’t want that gas escaping.’
Scroop resisted an insane temptation to drag the engineer from behind his desk and into a classroom, just to see what third manner he would adopt there. He was beaten, however: finished; and as frustration settled crushingly upon him all he wanted to do was go back to his quarters and stretch out.
In the bleak comfort of home, the fact that he had been defeated at his own game somehow hurt much less than that he had failed in a real case of spiritual necessity. He was willing to take a setback as technological expediter, although that had become so much a part of his existence that he had virtually lost his original purpose in mastering the craft. That was the crux of it, wasn’t it ? Something in him had reawakened—the minister to the spirit—and at the first real challenge he had gone down like a gutted tenement. Dare he question the Supreme Intellect, and ask if the humbling of an old man was worth the repercussions in that troubled international world outside ? It was ironic too that the reawakening had been aided by one whose strong spiritual values were alien to Scroop. A lesson for the old man in this as well ? But by whatever God one worshipped, Sikh deserved a far better exodus than seemed inevitable. Even Hobbs, the atheist, should see that or be made to see it. Not his problem! ‘I refuse to be involved!’
Scroop’s fingers dug into the edges of his mattress as he stared at the grey-white ceiling, incensed by the callousness of the man. ‘Refuse to be...’ But—what if Hobbs were involved? What if it were made his problem? Scroop’s pulse quickened. That wasn’t quite the solution, but it was a pointer. Stirring at the back of his mind was a very recent memory, together with an older one, much older, of a spider that built on others’ webs. With a speed and enthusiasm that threatened bones and tendons, he rolled off the bunk and headed for his scanner, thrusting his classification key into the computer console on his way by. Whatever he might have lost over the years, he had served society and his parish well as a master technologist. Here perhaps the best way to expedite was to allow his victims to spin their own web and even add a little to it.
* * * *
If Hobbs had been angry yesterday morning, on this successive morning of interruption he was livid. He stood with his feet planted far apart, gazing the length of the table to the four men at the end of the conference room.
‘Scroop—Jameson,’ he spluttered, ‘if this isn’t a bona-fide, first-class emergency; if this has anything to do with that, that stiff over there, I’ll have both of you out of Tundra City within the hour! Walking back to Churchill through that blizzard.’
Looking innocent but concerned, and far more relaxed than a man with his problem ought to be, Scroop left it to Jameson to answer. The engineer, though obviously uncomfortable, could hardly back down now, after calling the first such meeting in the townsite’s brief history. Still he spoke to Hobbs at first with careful deference. ‘There’s a genuine emergency, all right,’ he began, ‘and Henri and Vladmir both agreed at once. It was, uh, Reverend Scroop who pointed it out. The fact still remains, whoever, discovered it, that we must deal with it immediately, ah, Mr. Hobbs.’
Henri LeBlanc and Vladmir Homynyk nodded agreement and muttered a bit, clearly at a loss to suggest any cut-and-dried answer.
To the impatient Hobbs this seemed a further irritant, and he burst out with, ‘Well, man, can you let me in on it, or am I supposed to weave a magic wand in the general direction of the townsite. What is it that you can’t solve among yourselves?’ Scroop noted with quiet satisfaction that, far from cowing the trio, Hobbs was bullying them into a rather sullen obstinacy.
Jameson, having begun, seemed delegated to continue, so he squared his shoulders, glanced around at the others and addressed the explosive Hobbs. ‘It seems that when the tractor train left, the roughnecks forgot to take some stuff back with them. A rather large pile of crating, wooden crating, for hauling the foam layers. It’s sitting in subdivision four.’ He trailed off lamely into silence.
Hobbs stared at Jameson, at all of them and drew a long breath. ‘There must be more,’ he said ominously. ‘You wouldn’t bother me just for this.’
Jameson went on doggedly. ‘It really isn’t more than that,’ he replied. ‘There is a very large pile of combustible material in sub-division four of the townsite. In violation of the International Closed Environ ... ment Standard Legislation,’ Hobbs finished.
‘Yes, we all know. So? Move it! Why bother me?’ Jameson subsided with a feeble laugh and said, ‘Gentlemen?’
Henri grunted and absent-mindedly scratched his paunch.
‘We find it is not so simple as that. To where do we move this, ah, material?’ He somehow made the last word sound unsavoury.
Jameson reared up again. ‘Everyone will agree that it can’t be left lying out on my construction site, now that the SAC is meshed. In fact, it can’t be left lying out anywhere in the townsite.’
Henri stirred himself and added defensively, ‘Yet it must also be agreed that it cannot be stored on the Company’s premises. The regulations, they are very precise on this. In any building, or adjoining annex of any building in which the public is allowed, for business or recreation.’
‘Or worship,’ Scroop said mildly, drawing a withering glance from Hobbs.
‘Or anything,’ said Henri. ‘So any of the buildings in the townsite are unsuitable.’ Despite himself, Hobbs was beginning to see the intriguing difficulties, but he was in no mood yet to be drawn in.
‘Where do you store lubricants?’ he asked Jameson, who sounded slightly condescending when he answered, ‘I doubt any of them would qualify as combustibles these days, but they would be stored in small containers near any machinery that hasn’t a lifetime seal.’
Hobbs turned to Henri. ‘How does your liquor get by? And what do they ship it in? How do you dispose of it?’
Henri looked positively petulant. ‘Perhaps you are thinking of the old-fashioned cardboard?’ he asked. ‘Plastic—a quick-deteriorating plastic. Even the bottles, Mr. Manager. I would be pleased to show you the stockroom, to catch you up on the developments.’
The general manager’s eyes glinted at the implied insult, but he checked his anger and turned to Vladmir Homynyk, who had remained pensively silent. Now, with Hobbs, Jameson, and LeBlanc all looking at him, he cleared his throat nervously. ‘I don’t have it all here at my fingertips,’ he said, ‘but I can tell you pretty straight there’s no place I’m in charge of where you’re goin’ to put that stuff.’ To Hobbs’ flaring anger he said simply, ‘Listen! I got the safety of my men to consider. Combustibles are deadly in a Closed Environment. Then how you gonna put ‘em around the smelters or separators, or in the mine?’ He was probably the least devious in the group at this moment, for he turned to Scroop and explained. ‘I suppose you’re thinkin’ of the mine like Hobbs thinks of the liquor. Well, we gave up timberin’ years ago. It’s all fibreglass knock-ups.’
Scroop said mildly again, ‘I noticed, Vladimir.’
‘Good,’ retorted the steward. ‘And you probably remember what I said about the storage areas in the river access branch. Or on the docks. Well, I know without lookin’ that what I told you about a body goes double for anything combustible.’ He gave Henri and Cyril a hard glance and said grimly, ‘You’re not gonna pass that stuff under to us.’
What followed was actually nothing more than what had gone before, save that as they took turns using the conference chamber scanner they tangled themselves more thoroughly in red tape, hope sank, and tempers rose. Scroop watched with considerable interest as they became inextricably bound by regulations, while at the far end of the chamber Hobbs exchanged the paleness of anger for the apoplectic hue of an incipient stroke.
‘Stop it!’ he finally shouted down the table at them. There was a shocked silence, a collective air of shattered dignity and then the trio tried to regain their composure.
Had he been more sympathetic or more constructive, Hobbs might have saved the situation at that point. For once in his long career, however, he made the mistake of speaking to the superficial, when he should have attacked the serious aspect of the problem. Admittedly it was ludicrous to be arguing over a pile of scrap wood, but the man who has been stymied by a two-credit puzzle has ceased to see the humour of his situation.
‘You sound like a bunch of school-kids,’ he told them. ‘Try behaving like adults, for a change.’
‘Mr. General Manager,’ said an icily-proper Henri Le-Blanc, ‘as the so-called Mayor of Tundra City, I tell you this. I am going to have that wood shipped to the Admin. Building when I get back and it will be your problem, not ours.’ Cyril and Vladmir cried in unison, ‘Hear! Hear!’ and Hobbs, hoist by his own petard, smiled sickly at them all and scrabbled mentally after a solution.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘send it to the heliport and I’ll have it looked after.’
‘You wouldn’t be ... but of course not.’ Scroop cut himself off, as if what he had been thinking were impossible.
Vladmir caught him up. ‘Wouldn’t what?’
Scroop laughed uneasily. ‘Oh, for a moment I could see the general manager opening the SAC over the heliport and burning the wood. After all, one can burn organic waste in a Protected Environment, so long as proper safety precautions are taken and the terrain is undamaged. I could probably find the regulations.’
From the look on Hobbs’ face, that was exactly what he had been considering, but Scroop hurried on. ‘The general manager has only recently informed me, however, that you cannot allow the SAC to be interrupted over a heliport except during landings and takeoffs. International Closed Environment Standard Legislation: Volume Two: Section SAC: ...’
‘Sub-Section Air Transport. Fine, Scroop,’ Hobbs said dully, ‘you’ve made your point. I suppose you, having brought the whole matter to our attention, can provide an answer.’
‘Perhaps I can,’ Scroop answered, and surprisingly not even Vladmir was surprised, since the painful pattern of the last few hours was suddenly very clear. The Spiritual Advisor moved to the scanner and dialled. ‘There is a point at which the Aquatic Pollution Acts and the Protected Environment regulations are in precise agreement. Ah, here, I believe.’ He slowed the scanner from high to mid-speed, to slow, and froze a frame, almost in one movement. ‘A community of fewer than ten thousand may deposit directly into a river of, etcetera, cubic feet of flow per minute ... well above our figure anyway ... one pound of organic waste per person per annum, provided it is biologically and chemically inert: for example, treated sewage, organic ash ... That’s what we want, Gentlemen.’
To the somewhat puzzled trio he explained. ‘Organic ash! We take the wood out on to the ice and burn it. It will weigh far less than the maximum as ash, won’t it, Cyril?’
The engineer nodded almost imperceptibly, then more vigorously as he saw the perverse simplicity of it. ‘Weight?’ he said enthusiastically, ‘Hardly a factor at all.’
Scroop smiled sweetly at him, at all of them. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you would tell us that. Then I don’t suppose there could be any objection if I allow the dispensary the use of its whirlpool bath again ? The staff have been terribly patient, but they do need it.’
More puzzled than ever, the trio looked as if they thought he had cracked under the strain. ‘Allow me, Scroop,’ Hobbs called from the far end of the room. ‘What our good Spiritual Advisor means is, why not put a body on top of the pile.’ He walked to stand directly in front of Scroop. ‘I personally can find no objection here and now. Can you?’ he addressed the other three. ‘If you can, of course, I’m willing to bet that Doctor Scroop has found a loophole.’
There was naked hatred in his eyes as he turned again to Scroop. ‘I think we will all have learned something from this exercise,’ he said. ‘For that reason it is valuable. You evidently regard the disposal of Sikh’s body as of sufficient importance to jeopardise your future here. Make no mistake. Until this morning I was willing to tolerate your presence.’ He glanced around at the others. ‘You may be able to understand his motives better than I,’ he snarled, and left the conference chamber.
* * * *
That was a question to ponder, Scroop thought, as he straightened with the body of Rahjan Sikh on his shoulder. Behind him, as he moved stiffly down the dock ladder and carefully out on to the rotten ice, there were a large number of his charges watching. Ahead, Jacob Horwitz was putting the last piece of wood on the pyre and he came back to help Scroop carry Sikh the rest of the way. In defiance of the stinging snow, the whipping tail-lash of the blizzard, he had his parka hood thrown back, and on his head sat a mitre with golden embroidered words—Kadosh ladonai. Scroop had not realised how great was this man’s religious stature too. Beneath their feet the ice groaned and heaved and as soon as the body was safely placed the Spiritual Advisor insisted that his helper return to safety. It was as dark as it would get at this time of year, helped by the storm. Nowhere near as dark as the ignorance of man. And one loves men for their faults, not despite them, Scroop recalled, with a flood of compassion for those who watched. He didn’t know if a single one of them understood why he was doing this. Cooking oil doesn’t burn all that hot, but Scroop had obtained a fair amount from the catering centre. Enough to get the crating burning at the base.
He pulled a sheet of foolscap from his parka pocket, and began reading a completely unfamiliar ceremony by the fire’s light, a ceremony so old that it might not be in present use in the Punjab. It ought to be satisfactory, he decided, as flames shot fifty feet into the air, crackling and throwing an angled spiral three times that length into the fine snow. Through the dancing heat waves he saw the body writhe practically into an upright sitting position as it was enveloped and consumed. Then with a quiet, almost anti-climactic lurch, the ice beneath the pyre opened and what remained slid hissing into the river water. Cracks sprang outward in a crazy web and water washed all the way to Scroop’s boots. He turned and groped his way towards the dock, eyes still filled by a great black spiral of flame. Requiescat in pace, he added without apology to the ceremony just completed and without hesitation began to whisper the Lord’s Prayer. As he mounted the ladder and moved through the crowd, his flock, he intoned Si iniquitates and De Profundis and it surely was not his imagination when other voices than his closed with Requiem aeternam. He swung into the access branch tunnel and two steps to the rear, one to the right, he sensed rather than saw Jacob Horwitz keep pace. It was appropriate, all of it, for in this transitory moment Benjamin Scroop could walk without self-deception, leaving all webs behind him.