We spent the first two days taking pictures and hoping to find something through the scopes that would, somehow, imply a connection with Chris Robin. That approach produced nothing. If there was something down there, we were not likely to see it because the sheer number of churches was overwhelming. We knew there'd be tens of thousands of them, of course, but that wasn't quite the same as actually seeing them.
We had no idea how to categorize what we were looking at. Big churches, little churches, isolated churches, churches with cemeteries, churches with angels out front. What possible connection could there be with Winter's list of sightings?
“Maybe it started here,” said Alex. “Maybe this was where the first sighting occurred. Maybe someone knew what caused it.”
“But how could something like that be connected with a church?”
“Not a church, Chase. The churches. Lisle used the plural.”
“Which means what?”
“That it's not a record. At least not in the sense of a formal document. It's something else.”
“All right. I have another question.”
“I'm listening.”
“Assume you're right. Say it's some sort of historical place. Maybe the church members got together and set up some memorials. Or something. How would Robin and Winter have known to come here?”
“I doubt Robin was here previously. And we can be reasonably sure that Winter was never here. That means they saw something in the history of the place.”
“Whatever it might have been, I didn't see it.”
“We may not have recognized it if we did. That's what's so frustrating, Chase. I've been hunting through everything I can find on Villanueva and its churches. There has to be something. It's probably best for us to stop theorizing and just keep our eyes open.”
Eventually, Alex picked out a small church standing on the edge of a town in a prairie. There were no trees, the vegetation was sparse, and the ground was, aside from some low hills in the east, absolutely flat. Which was why he'd selected it. We'd have good visibility all around, so nothing could come up on us unseen. There was, he admitted, no other reason. “Let's just go down and look,” he said.
We climbed into the lander and launched. On the way down, we got another warning from Highgate. You are directed to cease and desist. Reports are being filed. Legal action may be taken. If you survive. And finally, “You are on your own.”
We rode down through pleasant, quiet skies, and descended into a field just east of the church, where we had a good view of the front doors. The grass was out of control, and there was a wooden fence that could have used some paint. Otherwise, the place appeared in remarkably good condition.
Gravity and oxygen content were ideal. It was a beautiful day, early afternoon. I'd just shut off the engines when a movement caught my eye, and we both turned to watch a four-legged creature with a long snout and wrinkled skin scramble off into the grass.
Alex released his harness and opened the door. Birds were making a lot of noise. “Okay,” he said. “Sit tight. I'll be back in a few minutes.”
I looked at the church and the green fields and listened to the wind. If I tried to get out with him, I knew that it would just provoke another argument. In the end he'd say no, no way, you're going to keep your word, and he'd stand there refusing to move until I promised him again, for real this time, that I would do what I was told. There was no need to go through all that. So I stayed in my seat and asked him to be careful.
He climbed out, dropped to the ground, checked to be sure he had the pulser he'd brought along. Then he started toward the church, walking through thick grass. When he got to the front, he paused, looked around, and climbed three wooden steps onto the deck.
The church was constructed of white plastene boards. It had a few big stained-glass windows and two large, carved doors. There was no steeple, but a white cross had been mounted on the roof immediately above the front entrance. A dozen or so headstones occupied a small tract of land off to one side. They were worn down by the weather.
A sign stood in front with several lines of unfamiliar symbols. It was leaning toward the skimmer and looked ready to collapse. I asked Gabe, the lander AI, if he could read it.
“It's Kabotai,” he said, over the link. “It was one of the terrestrial languages seven thousand years ago. Do you wish to know what it says?”
“Yes, Gabe, if you will.”
“One moment, please.”
Alex paused in front of the doors and turned to survey the town. It consisted of about sixty buildings, most of which would have been private homes. A three-story structure rose over the rest, a public hall of some sort. The church faced out on a park. Again, the grass was unkempt, but the benches were in good shape, as well as an overhang that would have protected visitors from the sun. Behind the overhang was a small white building that had probably provided washrooms.
“Chase,” said Gabe, “it says what time the Sunday service is. And also: 'Enter here. A special friend awaits you inside.' Friend is capitalized, suggesting it is a reference to the Deity.”
It sent a chill through me.
The sun was directly overhead. Except for the grass, and the fact that the only sound we could hear was the wind, the town looked occupied. It was as if we'd simply arrived when everyone was off visiting somewhere. I kept waiting for a door to open. For a dog to bark. Even Alex, who is usually pretty composed in tense situations, looked uneasy. “St. Monica's,” I said, over the link.
“Pardon?”
“St. Monica's. It should have a name.” I climbed out of the lander.
He looked sternly at me. “Chase.”
“I can't just sit in there, Alex. Let's try being reasonable.”
“Okay. Do what you want. But don't get yourself killed.” He reached for the doorknob. Turned it. Looked back at me. “Was that where you went to church?”
“No. But Monica suggests congeniality. Warmth.”
“This place could use some.”
“Couldn't we all?”
He pulled on the door. Something clicked, and it opened. He slipped inside.
I followed immediately behind. In the entryway, a light came on.
The interior had a high ceiling. The sun shone lazily through a series of arched windows. They were narrow but reached from about knee-high well up into the overhead. They were brightly painted, with images of prophets, angels, and saints.
Holy-water fonts stood just inside the doors, and I was shocked to discover they held water. Benches were arranged on either side of a central aisle, and an altar dominated the front, with a pulpit placed off to one side. Directly above us was a gallery for the choir. Statues of Jesus and Mary, of St. Joseph, an angel, and three or four figures with halos, were distributed around the interior. One of them, a young woman, had clasped her hands in prayer. “St. Monica,” I said.
“Probably Mary Magdalene,” said Alex. “I've never seen anything like this. How can this place be thousands of years old?”
“Regular maintenance does it every time.”
The altar appeared to be white marble, but it was actually just plastene. A cloth was spread across it. Two candles and a large cup that might have been gold rested on it. Had the candles been lit, I think I'd have started seriously suspecting a divine presence.
We walked up the aisle and stopped in front of the railing that separated the altar from the rest of the interior. “We're probably the first people to come in here in thousands of years,” Alex said. “It's a beautiful chalice.”
“It is.”
“I can't help thinking that it would bring a decent price on the market.”
I probably winced. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“You don't approve.”
“No.”
“Why not? I can't see that anyone would be hurt.”
“I think we should pass on this one.”
“Why?”
“Alex, let's not lose our focus on why we came here.”