"Even so was the wish of our ancestors, though I sometimes question their wisdom," Sister Paterna Testa said. "Well, as you ask, I shall promise. How was it done?"
"By a magical instrument called 'television,' by which the picture of the Holy Father was projected into every living room on the planet," the abbot said, "or at least those who chose to see it—and since the issue was hotly debated, more than half the planet watched. Certainly all the Catholics did, and the fallen-away Catholics, of whom there were many, many more."
"And St. Vidicon was responsible for maintaining this magic spell?"
"This electronic miracle, let us say," the abbot answered. "It was he who was the engineer who oversaw the operation of the transmitter—but the instrument was old and faulty, and kept burning out resistors and failing."
"So he took the place of that resistor," Sister Paterna Testa said in awe.
"He did indeed, and the Pope's speech was heard through to the end," the abbot said. "Fallen-away Catholics came flooding back into the churches, and the world's governments saw that they could not rule against so very many of their citizens—so the Church was saved."
"But Father Vidicon was dead," Sister Paterna Testa whispered.
The abbot nodded. "The electrical fire that had burned out the resistors, also burned out his life. He was declared a saint within the year, for none could doubt that he was a martyr for the Faith."
"None could," Sister Paterna Testa agreed, "though by the time the Pope declared his knowledge, many miracles had already saved those who called upon the Saint for aid."
The abbot nodded. "Any who worked with magical equipment, even as Father Vidicon had."
"Of course." Sister Paterna Testa smiled. "By the time they called upon him, St. Vidicon had already bested the worst of the spirits that plague humankind with the urge to fail, and thereby turn their own devices against them."
"What spirits were those?" The abbot leaned forward, the intensity of his hunger for learning finally unveiled. "How did Father Vidicon defeat them?"
Sister Paterna Testa laughed softly, then began the tale.
"So our Order was founded by one who served as the channel for Creation?" the abbot asked, his eyes alight with the glory of the tale.
"So the tales say." Sister Paterna Testa's eye twinkled. "But would it not be a victory for Finagle if we were to believe such a tale as might be made up by a nun with a wild imagination?"
"Or by a priest like our own Father Ricci, his was not above a prank or two." The abbot grinned, sharing her amusement. "Well, Sister, when I write down this account, I shall caution all who read it to take it as pure imagination—an amusing tale only, but one that illustrates Father Vidicon's essential nature."
"Which is?"
"Devout, but with a sense of humor—and a huge enjoyment of irony, and a delight in solving paradoxes." The abbot throttled back his amusement and nodded. "Have no fear, Sister—this tale may not be true, but it is an inspiration."
"Indeed—for any member of your order must be an engineer before he can become a monk, is that not so?"
"It is."
"Then how shall we claim descent from St. Vidicon?" Sister Paterna Testa demanded. "We are not engineers, after all, but teachers and healers."
"Healers of the human mind," the abbot pointed out, "and I cannot help but think, Sister Paterna Testa, that so complex an entity as the brain must easily be liable to as much confusion and paradox as any computer."
Now Sister Paterna Testa smiled with her full warmth, face radiant as she leaned forward and rested her hand on his. "Trust me, Father Abbot—it surpasses them all."
When that the blessed Father Vidicon did seize upon a high-voltage line and did cleave unto it, aye, even unto death, so that the words of our blessed Holy Father the Pope might reach out through the satellites to all the television transmitters of the world, for the saving of our most Holy and Catholic Church—aye, when that he did thus die for the Faith and did pass into one enduring instant of blinding pain, he was upheld and sustained by the knowledge that, dying a martyr, he would pass straightway to Heaven and be numbered among the Blest.
How great was his dismay, then, to find himself, as the pain dimmed and awareness returned, falling through darkness, amidst a cold that did sear his soul. Distantly did he espy certain suns, and knew thereby that he did pass through the Void, and that his eternal fall was not truly so, but was only the absence of gravity. Indeed, he knew the place for an absence of all, and fear bit his soul—for thus, he knew must Hell be: a place of lacking, of absence of being.
Then, in his terror, did he cry out in anger, "My God! For Thee did I give my life! Wherefore hast thou doomed me?" Yet no sooner were the words said than he did repent, and cursed himself for a faithless fool, thus to doubt even now in death, that the Christ would uphold him.
And straightway on the heels of that thought, came the shock of insight—for he saw that, if he did die to cheat the Imp of the Perverse, defeating Finagle himself by his very perversity, he must needs expect reversal of expectation—which is to say that, if he died expecting the vistas of Heaven, he would most certainly discover the hollowness of Hell.
Then courage returned, and resolution; for he did come to see that the struggle was not ended, but only begun anew—that if he did desire Heaven, he would have to win to it. Then did he wonder if even the saints, they who dwelt in God, could count their toils ended—or if they chose eternally to struggle 'gainst greater forces.
Then did his Mission become clear to him, and the blessed knew wherefore he had come to this Void. The enemy 'gainst whom he had striven throughout his life, endured still—and now would Father Vidicon confront him, and look upon his face.
With the thought, his fall slowed, and he saw the mouth of a tunnel ope in the darkness before him, and it did glow within, a sullen red. Closer it did come, and wider, stretching and yawning to swallow him; yet Father Vidicon quailed not, nor tried to draw back. Nay, bravely he stood, stalwart in nothingness; yea, even eagerly did he strain forward, to set foot upon infirm, fungoid flesh and stride into Hellmouth.
As he strode, the sullen glow did brighten, gaining heat until he feared it would sear his flesh, then remembered that he had none. Brighter and hotter it flowed, until he turned thorough a bend in its tube, and found himself staring upon the Imp of the Perverse.
Gross it was, and palpable, swollen with falsehood and twisted with paradoxes. Syllogisms sprouted from its sides, reaching toward Father Vidicon with complexes of bitterness, and it stood but did not stand, on existential extensions.
"Turn back!" roared the Imp, in awesome sardonicism. "Regress, retrograde! For none can progress that do come within!"
"Avaunt thee!" cried Father Vidicon. "For I know thee of old, bloody Imp! 'Tis thou who dost drive every suicide, thou who dost strengthen the one arm of the Bandit who doth rob the gambler compulsive, thou who dost bring down freezing snow upon the recumbent form of the will-leached narcotic! Nay, I know thee of old, and know that he who retreats from thee, must needs pursue thee! Get THEE behind ME—for I shall surpass thee!"
"Wilt thou, then?" cried the Imp. "Then look to thy defense—for I shall undo thee!"
Then a great calm came upon the Blessed One, and he slowly stood straight, smiling gently and saying, "Nay, I shall not—for I know now that to become defensive is to bend the sword so that it strikes against thyself. Nay, I shall not defend, but offend!" And so saying, he leaped upon the Imp, striking out with his fist.
But the Imp raised up a shield, a plane of white metal, flat as a fact and bare as statistics, and polished to so high a gloss that it might not have existed. "See!" cried the Imp, full of glee. "See the monster thine offense hath wrought!"