Schmidt said nothing.
“I’ve been sent on this mission by the Holy Father himself,” Reynaud added.
“The Pope?”
“Yes.”
“Why is he interested in astronomy?”
Reynaud chuckled, bitterly. “He isn’t. Nor are the cardinals that surround him. They are merely interested in preserving their power, and keeping the truth from the people.”
Schmidt stared at him in disbelief. “You are a priest and you say such things?”
“A priest? Me? Oh no! Not a priest. I’m not even a monk, really. I’ve taken no vows.”
Confused, Schmidt said, “I thought…we had heard that you had retired to a monastery…”
“Yes. Yes, I had. But His Holiness has brought me out of retirement. Here I am in the world again—and it’s a very different world from the one I left, years ago.”
The two men talked as the night faded from the sky and the sun rose over the endless gray waters of the Pacific. The other passengers slowly stirred out of their sleep, stretching cramped muscles, yawning, groaning, lining up at the plane’s lavatories.
Stewards started moving along the aisle, helping people get rid of their blankets and pillows. Over Schmidt’s shoulder, Reynaud noticed that the stewards were all young men. Eventually they brought little plastic trays of breakfast. Reynaud couldn’t bear to look at the stuff once it was set before him: it was gray and dead, as plastic as the receptacles on which it was served.
The pilot came on the intercom and cheerfully announced that in a few hours’ time they would be landing at Kwajalein.
“If I can find it,” he added with a chuckle.
Reynaud shuddered a little. He looked over at Schmidt, who had eaten every scrap of food on his tray and closed his eyes to sleep. With a sad shake of his head, Reynaud turned to stare out at the featureless gray expanse of ocean so far below them, wishing that he could sleep without dreaming.
He awoke with a cold, gasping start as the plane thumped and banged.
“Landing gear,” said Schmidt, now wide awake. “I was going to wake you…”
Reynaud thanked him and looked out the window. A ring of islets showed green and white against the sea.
The plane circled the largest island of the group and finally landed with a thump that seemed more like a controlled crash than a true touchdown. But Reynaud was grateful for small miracles: purgatory was over and he could enter paradise.
The scientists were ushered off the plane and into the blindingly hot sunlight of the equatorial island. The airport seemed to be filled with Americans, many of them in military khakis, the rest in open-necked shirts and shorts.
Smiling, efficient, broad-shouldered young men led the scientists across the crushed coral rock rampway and into a cement block building. It was air-conditioned to the point of chilblains. Americans, Reynaud thought. Always so extravagant. Papers were examined, luggage picked up. Reynaud let himself be bundled into a jeep with Schmidt and another man.
“Your luggage’ll be on th’ truck,” said their driver, an energetic-looking sailor. He put Reynaud on the seat beside him; the other two had to crawl into the rear seats.
As he gunned the jeep’s motor to roaring life, the sailor asked, “You a Catholic priest, sir?”
“No,” Reynaud replied in English. “I am a lay brother of the Order of St. Dominic.” The Order of Thomas Aquinas, he added silently. And of Torquemada.
The jeep lurched into motion. “Oh. I was wonderin’, with your black suit and all,” the driver yelled over the motor’s howl. “We got a chaplain on the island but he ain’t Catholic. They fly the Catholic padre in on Sundays from Jaluit to hear confessions and say Mass.”
“You are a Catholic?” Reynaud asked, clutching the edge of his seat as the jeep barreled along the dusty road.
“Ah, well, sometimes, yeah,” the sailor stammered. “You know how it is.”
Reynaud said nothing, but thought, I know exactly how it is.
After a few terrifying minutes of racing past featureless blurs of cement block buildings, the driver pulled the jeep over to the side of the road in a grinding, squealing, skidding stop.
“Kwajalein Hilton,” he announced.
Reynaud saw a three-story gray drab building.
“Bachelor Officers Quarters,” the sailor explained as a swirl of coral dust drifted past the jeep. “BOQ is the way most people say it. Not for you, Father…” He tugged at Reynaud’s sleeve and said to Schmidt and the other scientist, “You two guys are gonna be stayin’ in here.”
They climbed out of the jeep as Reynaud remained in his seat.
“Yer luggage’ll catch up with you in a couple minutes.” The sailor put the jeep in gear and left them standing in a spray of dust. “You rate special, Father. You got a whole trailer to yerself.”
“I’m not a priest,” Reynaud said. “You should call me Brother.”
The driver gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Sounds kinda funny. But if that’s the way you want it…okay, Brother, here we are.”
He skidded the jeep to a stop and pointed grandly to a house trailer, one of a dozen standing in a row on the sandy soil, gleaming metal under the hot sun.
“All for you, Fa…eh, Brother.”
The sailor came into the trailer with Reynaud, showed him the sink and the refrigerator, the narrow, cotlike beds, the built-in cabinets, the toilet.
“By Kwaj standards, this is the Ritz.”
Reynaud nodded and mumbled his thanks. The sailor grinned and turned on the air conditioner.
“Linens are in here.” He opened a closet door. “I can make your bed for you.”
“Oh no, please. I can do it for myself.”
“Well, you got privacy and runnin’ water. What more can you ask for? See you Sunday, at Mass.”
Reynaud nodded absently and the sailor left, shutting the flimsy metal door behind him carefully. It felt as if a small, playful puppy had just gone away. Reynaud stood there, feeling bewildered, listening to the air conditioner rattle and groan and fill the trailer with a clammy, morguelike chill.
Exiled, he thought to himself. That’s what young Schmidt said, and he’s right. We’ve all been exiled to this horrible place. I sought the peace and protection of the monastery and the Pope himself pulled me away from it, exiled me here in this wretched island. Whatever becomes of me is their fault, not my own.
Stoner stalked out of the air-conditioned chill of the administration building, into the enfolding warmth of the setting sun. It was muggy, but the heat felt good after the artificial dryness of the air inside—and McDermott’s stubborn obstructionism.
Go take a long walk, Stoner commanded himself, seething. Find an empty spot on the beach and do an hour’s worth of exercising—before you punch out Big Mac’s stupid face.
McDermott was dragging his feet about the rendezvous mission. He had not yet sent his recommendation to Washington, and wouldn’t allow anyone else to make such a recommendation. Stoner had spent an hour arguing with the old man, to no avail.
Why won’t he go for it? Stoner asked himself for the twentieth time. What’s wrong with him that he can’t…?
Then he saw Jo, coming down the “company town’s” only street from the computer center, heading toward him.
“Hi, Keith,” she said brightly as she approached him. “How’re y…?” She saw the thundercloud expression on his face. “Wow! What’s got you pissed?”
“Your pal McDermott,” Stoner growled.
Jo’s own face stiffened with anger. “My pal, huh? What’s he doing now?”
“The same old crap—delaying until it’s too late to do what needs to be done.”
She eyed him tauntingly. “I think it’s the heat. It’s got old Mac down. Literally.”