“Precisely,” MacKinnie said.
“Thus we have reason with us,” Casteliano said. “And if that fails-”
MacKinnie gestured toward a group of pikemen on the battlements. “Then there is another argument.”
Two days later, MacKinnie begged audience with His Ultimate Holiness, Primate of all Makassar, Vicar of Christ, and Archbishop of New Rome. He was led into a small office behind the council room where Casteliano was seated in his shirtsleeves examining Temple records. The Archbishop looked up and smiled.
“It was easier than you thought, was it not?” he said.
“Yes, Your Reverence. I still find it hard to believe that we had no bloodshed. But my men remain on guard, just in case.”
“I told you there were few doctrinal differences, and these men are not only realists, but believers. If we had approached them from a Navy landing ship and demanded obedience to New Rome, we would have had to demonstrate our power, but it would have been managed. As it was, arriving in the city like beggars, they would never listen to us. How could they believe we were great lords of the True Church from the stars? But with you at our side, and your soldiers commanding their Temple, they had little choice but to listen.”
“You were highly persuasive. Your Reverence.”
“As were your actions. It was not difficult to make them see the hand of God in your victory, and His wrath in the death of Sumbavu. Did you foresee that as well?”
“No, Your Reverence.”
“It is as well. Now what may I do for you?”
“I don’t know how to begin. Yet I must have your help. I see no other way.”
“Colonel — do not be surprised, the title is commonly used by your soldiers — you hold this Temple, not me. You could depose me as easily as you created me, particularly if you supported the council against me. What is it I can do that you cannot do for yourself? Do you want to be crowned king of this city? They would do that for you.”
MacKinnie laughed. “Nothing that simple. But — but may I speak to you in confidence? Have I earned the right to ask something which, if you refuse, you will not thwart me from attempting another way?”
The Archbishop took a small strip of cloth from the table in front of him, kissed it, and placed it over his shoulders. “My son, for thousands of years the confessional has never been violated. By tradition, by the laws of God, and by the most stringent of Imperial edicts, what you tell me in confession can never be revealed. Have you something to confess?”
Nathan MacKinnie breathed deeply, stared at the old man, and thought for a moment before beginning. “All right. As you surmised, we are from a newly discovered planet which will be a colony world when they get around to classifying us. They won’t do that until we have a working planetary government, and King David’s advisors are managing to delay that. They won’t be able to hold up too much longer. We want to build a spaceship before they make us a colony world.”
“A spaceship! Just how advanced are you? What makes you think … no, how does this affect me?”
“Father, I came here to get copies of every technical work I can find in that library. Our people think we can do it if we know how. I’m a soldier, not a scientist, and I don’t know if they can do it or not, but we’ve got to try!”
The Archbishop nodded. “You would try. Tell me, Colonel MacKinnie, are you typical of the people of your planet?”
“I don’t know. In some ways, yes. Why?”
“Because, and I say it reverently, God help the colonists they sent to your world if you are. You don’t know when to give up. Yes, I’ll help you.” He thought for a few moments, then laughed. “And we’ll stay within the letter of the regulations. Although I doubt that would impress a Navy court martial if they found you smuggling copies of technical books. Makassar was classified before they discovered the library, and so far they haven’t updated it. The classification is ‘primitive.’ Therefore, any art or craft found here can be taken to any other part of the Empire.
“So, yes, we’ll help you and gladly. Think what a splendid joke on the Imperial Traders Association this will make!” He struck a small gong on the desk and told the servant who entered in response, “Go to the holy relics and bring Brother LeMoyne, if you please.”
LeMoyne was a small man with sandy hair and flashing blue eyes. He knelt perfunctorily before Casteliano, kissed his ring, and said, “And what may I do for His Ultimate Holiness other than refrain from letting New Rome know his present title?”
The Archbishop laughed. “You can see why he will never be a bishop. Tell me, can you make the holy relics speak yet?”
“The library is in amazingly good condition, Your Reverence. The Navy technicians fixed much of the equipment when they made copies of the tapes. The Old Empire used nearly indestructible plastics, and everything has been preserved with holy zeal. It only needs a power source to make it work.”
“What kind of power?” MacKinnie asked.
“Oh, any good source of current. It doesn’t take a lot. Very efficient people, the Old Imperials. They powered the whole palace from a small direct conversion unit taking heat from natural hot springs. That’s still working, but the regulators aren’t. The unit is putting out so little power now that it won’t run much of the system — but wecan get a few watts from it, after more than three hundred years! They built better than they knew in those days.”
Casteliano nodded sadly. “Their equipment was splendid. But it didn’t save them.”
“No. Anyway, in addition to the old power unit, we have a hand-powered generator the Navy left. We’ve got part of the reader working off that, and it won’t take long to get everything else in order. Uh, it would be no great trick to build a powered generator, but we couldn’t let the natives see it operate.”
“I think not for the moment,” Casteliano said. “The Church has sometimes evaded the technology transfer restrictions, but that is a serious matter, not to be done without much thought. We need the Navy’s cooperation.” He paused thoughtfully. “Trader MacKinnie would like to inspect the library if that is convenient.”
“Certainly. Now?” LeMoyne asked.
“Yes,” MacKinnie said. “And if you could send for one of my people, Kleinst—”
“Oh, he’s been down there helping me all morning,” LeMoyne said. “Does His Ultimate Holiness care to accompany us?”
Casteliano looked in dismay at the litter of parchment on his desk. “I would be delighted, but this work must be done.” He sighed. “Get thee behind me, Satan-”
LeMoyne shrugged and led MacKinnie out of the office. They went down winding stone stairways until they reached massive doorways guarded by four pikemen and a crimson-uniformed Temple officer. The pikemen snapped to attention as MacKinnie approached.
The officer looked doubtful. “He is a layman. Only the consecrated may enter—”
“Who’ll stop the colonel?” one of the pikemen asked.
“He has been sent by His Ultimate Holiness,” LeMoyne said. “Man, do you not know that if it had not been for the colonel, the maris would have the relics?”
“True,” the Temple officer said. He took torches from the wall and handed them to MacKinnie and LeMoyne, then stood aside. He did not look pleased.
There were two more guardrooms, but these were empty. Then they went down a broader stairway of marble.
“This is almost certainly Old Empire,” LeMoyne said. “After the wars, the survivors built most of the Temple structure over it. Here we are, just beyond that doorway.”
They went through. At last, MacKinnie thought. I’ve come a long way to see this—