God of Tarot Read online

  Village, he thought. From the same Latin root as villa, the manor of a feudal lord. Inhabited by feudal serfs called villains, whose ignorant nature lent a somewhat different meaning to that word in later centuries. Society was fragmenting into its original components, under the stress of deprivation of energy. Electronics was virtually a dead science in the hinterlands where there was no electricity; automotive technology was passé where there was no gasoline. Horsepower and handicrafts had quickly resumed their former prominence, and Brother Paul was not prepared to call this evil. Pollution was a thing of the past, except in mining areas, and children today did not know what the term "inflation" meant, since barter was the order of the day. People lived harder lives now, but often healthier ones, despite the regression of medical technology. The enhanced sense of community in any given village was a blessing; neighbor was more apt to help neighbor, and the discontented had gone away. Light-years away.

  However, he approached each village carefully, for the villains could be brutish with strangers. Brother Paul was basically a man of peace, but neither a weakling nor a fool. He donned his Order habit when near population centers to make himself more readily identifiable. He would defend himself with words and smiles and humility wherever he could, and with physical measures when all else failed.

  Though he was a Brother of an Order with religious connotations, he neither expected nor received free benefits on that account. He rendered service for his night's board and lodging; there was always demand for a man handy with mechanical things. He exchanged news with the lord of each manor, obtaining directions and advice about local conditions. Everyone knew the way to MT. Each night he found a different residence. In some areas of the country, actual primitive tribes had taken over, calling themselves Saxons, Huns, Cimmerians, Celts, or Picts, and in many respects they did resemble their historic models. The Saxons were Americans of northern European descent; the Huns were Americans of middle European admixed with Oriental descent; the Cimmerians seemed to be derived from the former fans of fantasy adventure novels. Elsewhere in the world, he knew, the process was similar; there were even Incas in Asia. He encountered one strong tribe named Songhoy whose roots were in tenth-century Black Africa. Their location, with ironic appropriateness, was in the badlands of black craters formed by savagely rapid and deep strip mining for coal. Once there had been enough coal in America to power the world for centuries; no more.

  The Holy Order of Vision, always hospitable to peaceful travelers, had entertained and assisted Shamans and Druids and other priestly representatives, never challenging their beliefs or religious authority. A Voodoo witch-doctor could not only find hospitality at the Station, he could converse with Brothers of the Order who took him completely seriously and knew more than a little about his practice. Now this policy paid off for Brother Paul. The small silver cross he wore became a talisman of amazing potency wherever religion dominated—and this was more extensive every year. Political power reached only as far as the arm of the local strong man, but clerical power extended as far as faith could reach. The laity gave way increasingly to the clerical authorities, as in medieval times. Thus Brother Paul was harvesting the fruit of the seeds sown by his Order. In addition, he had rather persuasive insights into the culture of Black societies, whether of ancient Africa or modern America. He fared very well.

  After many pleasant days of foot travel he entered the somewhat vaguely defined demesnes of twentieth-century civilization. Here there was electricity from a central source, and radio and telephones and automotive movement. He obtained a ride on a tram drawn by a woodburning steam engine; no diesels or coal-fired vehicles remained operative, of course. The electricity here was generated by sunlight, not fossil fuel, for MT was as yet unable to preempt the entire light of the sun for the emigration program. "Maybe tomorrow," the wry joke went.

  The reason for the lack of clear boundaries to the region was that the electric power lines did not extend all the way to the periphery, and batteries were reserved for emergency use. But radio communication reached some distance farther out, so that selected offices could be linked to the news of the world. At this fringe, wood was the fuel of choice where it was available.

  This was a pleasant enough ride, allowing Brother Paul to rest his weary feet. He felt a bit guilty about using the Order credit card for this service, but in one day he traversed more territory than he had in a week of foot travel. He could not otherwise have arrived on time.

  He spent this night at the Station of the Coordinator for the Order in this region: the Right Reverend Father Crowder. Brother Paul was somewhat awed by the august presence of this pepper-maned elder, but the Right Reverend quickly made him even less at ease. "How I envy you your youth and courage, Brother! I daresay you run the cross-country kilometer in under three minutes."

  "Uh, sometimes—"

  "Never cracked three-ten myself. Or the five-minute mile. But once I managed fifteen honest pullups in thirty seconds on a rafter in the chapel." He smiled ruefully. "The chapelmaster caught me. He never said a word—but, oh, the look he gave me! I never had the nerve to try it again. But I'm sure you would never allow such a minor excuse to interfere with your exercise."

  Obviously the man knew something about Brother Paul's background—especially the calisthenics he had been sneaking in when he thought no one was watching. He hoped he wasn't blushing.

  "The mission you now face requires a good deal more nerve than that sort of thing," Right Reverend Crowder continued. "You have nerve, presence of mind, great strength, and a certain refreshing objectivity. These were qualities we were looking for. Yet it will not be easy. Not only must you face God—you must pass judgment on His validity. I do not envy you this charge." He turned and put his strong, weathered hands on Brother Paul's shoulders. "God bless you and give you strength," he said sincerely.

  God bless you... Brother Paul swayed, closing his eyes in momentary pain.

  "Easy, Brother," the Right Reverend said, steadying him. "I know you are tired after your arduous journey. Go to your room and lie down; get a good night's rest. We shall see you safely on the bus to the mattermission station in the morning."

  The Right Reverend was, of course, as good as his word. Well rested and well fed, Brother Paul was deposited on the bus for a four-hour journey into the very depths of civilization. Thus, quite suddenly, he came to the MT station: Twenty-First Century America.

  He was met as he stepped down from the coach by an MT official dressed in a rather garish blue uniform. "Very good," the young man said crisply, sourly eyeing Brother Paul's travel-soiled Order robe. "You are the representative of the Visual Order—"

  "The Holy Order of Vision," Brother Paul corrected him tolerantly. A Druid never would have made such an error, but this was, after all, a lay official. "Holy as in 'whole,' for we try to embrace the entire spirit of—"

  "Yes, yes. Please come this way, sir."

  "Not 'sir.' I am a Brother. Brother Paul. All men are brothers—" But the imperious functionary was already moving ahead, forcing Brother Paul to hurry after him.

  He did so. "Before I go to the colony world, I'll need a source of direct current electricity to recharge my calculator," he said. "I'm not an apt mathematician, and there may be complexities that require—"

  "There isn't time for that!" the man snapped. "The shipment has been delayed for hours pending your arrival, interfering with our programming. Now it has been slotted for thirty minutes hence. We barely—"

  He should have remembered: Time, in the form of schedules, was one of the chief Gods of MT, second only to Power. Brother Paul had become too used to a day governed by the position of the sun. He had been lent a good watch along with the calculator for this mission, but had not yet gotten into the habit of looking at it. "I certainly would not want to profane your schedule, but if I am to do my job properly—"

  With a grimace of exasperation the man drew him into a building. Inside was a telephone. "Place an order for new batterie
s," he rapped out, handing the transceiver to Brother Paul.

  Such efficiency! Brother Paul had lost familiarity with telephones in the past few years. Into which portion of the device was he supposed to speak? He compromised by speaking loudly enough to catch both ends of it, describing the batteries. "Authorization granted," the upper part of the phone replied after a click. "Pick them up at Supply."

  "Supply?" But the phone had clicked off. That seemed to be the manner, here in civilization.

  "Come on," the functionary said. "We'll catch it in passing." And they did; a quick stop at another building produced the required cells. These people were not very sociable, but they got the job done!

  "And this," the man at the supply desk said, holding out a heavy metal bracelet.

  "Oh, Brothers don't wear jewelry, only the Cross," Brother Paul protested. "We have taken vows of poverty—"

  "Jewelry, hell," the man snorted. "This is a molecular recorder. There'll be a complete playback when you return: everything you have seen or heard and some things you haven't. This unit is sensitive to quite a few forms of radiation and chemical combinations. Just keep it on your left wrist and forget it. But don't cover it up."

  Brother Paul was taken aback. "I had understood that this was to be a personal investigation and report. After all, a machine can't be expected to fathom God."

  "Ha ha," the supply man said without humor. "Just put it on."

  Reluctantly Brother Paul held up his left arm. The man clasped the bracelet on it, snapping it in place. He should have realized that the secular powers who controlled mattermission would not cooperate unless they had their secular assurances. They did not care whether God had manifested on Planet Tarot; their God was the Machine. The Machine embraced both Time and Power, ruling all. Yet perhaps it was only fair; who could say in advance that the God of Tarot was not a machine deity? Therefore it was proper that the Machine send its representative, too.

  "And this," the supply man said, holding out a set of small rods, "is a short-range transceiver. Hold it up, speak, this other unit receives. And vice versa. Required equipment for all our operatives."

  "I am not your operative," Brother Paul said as gently as he could. He was, he reminded himself, supposed to be a peaceful man.

  "Who's paying your fare, round trip?" the man asked.

  Brother Paul sighed. He who paid the piper, called the tune. Render unto Caesar, et cetera. He took the transceivers and tucked them into a pocket. He could carry them; he didn't have to use them.

  "Mind," the supply man said, his brows furrowing, "we expect this equipment back in good order."

  "You can have it back now," Brother Paul said.

  No one answered him. He was whisked into another building and subjected to assorted indignities of examination and preparation. In their savage velocity and callousness, these procedures reminded him vaguely of the strip mining he had seen. Then he was hurried into the thermos bottle-like capsule and sealed in. All he had to do now was wait.

  He examined the chamber. It was fairly large, but packed with unboxed equipment. Crates would have been wasteful, of course; every gram counted. Most of it was readily identifiable: hand-powered adding machines, spinning wheels, looms, treadle-powered sewing machines, mechanical typewriters, axes, handsaws, wood stoves, and the like. A sensible shipment for a colony that might be as backward as the hinterlands of Earth itself.

  Those adding machines bothered him. How could he justify his fuss about the electronic calculator? He was out of tune with the technology of his mission. Perhaps he had been shortsighted. Was it rationalization to suggest that the adding machines could not readily multiply or divide numbers, do specialized conversions, or figure the cube root of pi? A slide rule could do those things, and it had no battery to run down. Why hadn't he brought along a slide rule? That would have been far more in keeping with the philosophy of the Holy Order of Vision. The lay powers of Earth were using calculators whose usefulness would cease when their power sources expired. He, as a Brother, should be showing his fellow man how to use slide rules that would function as long as mind and hands remained.

  "I am a hypocrite," he murmured aloud. "May God correct and forgive me."

  He looked at his watch—he was finally getting into that habit!—and set the elapsed-time counter. Of course mattermission was supposed to be instantaneous, the Theory of Relativity to the contrary, but there was this waiting time, and he might as well measure that. He liked to count things anyway. It was better than admitting that he was nervous.

  His eye caught the silver-colored band on his wrist. It had an elaborate decoration, like a modernistic painting done in relief. No doubt that was to conceal the lenses and mechanisms within it. When it was necessary to hide something, fit it into a complex container. As the crown-maker had done to conceal the amount of base metal diluting the value of the supposedly pure gold crown of Hieron, ruler of the ancient city of Syracuse. Except that Archimedes had cried "Eureka!" and found it, utilizing the principle of water displacement.

  Probably the band was recording things now. How fortunate it could not record his thoughts! But what would happen when he wished to perform a natural function? Maybe he could hold that wrist up over his head so the device couldn't see anything. Yet suppose he did so, and suddenly heard it cry "Eureka!"?

  He smiled at himself. Ridiculous mortal vanity! What did it matter what portion of his anatomy this device might perceive? When the lay experts played back the molecules, they would quickly be bored by the minutiae of human water displacements. Let the machine capture and contain all the information it could hold, until its cup brimmethed over.

  Abruptly it struck him: a cup! This bracelet was like the Cup of the Tarot, containing not fluid but information. And the little transceivers—they were Wands. His watch was the emblem of a third suit, Disks, for it was essentially a disk with markings, and hands pointing to the time of day that in Nature was shown by the original golden disk of the sun. Three suits. What might be the fourth, that of Swords?

  That stymied him for a moment. Swords were representative of trouble, violence; he had no such weapon on him. Swords were also the suit of air, and while he had air about him, this didn't seem to apply. The sword was also a scalpel, signifying surgery or medicine, and of course there was the cutting edge of thought— That was it! The sharpest, most tangible thought was the symbolism of numbers, of mathematics. The calculator! Thus he had a full roster of Tarot symbolism. Too bad he hadn't brought along a Tarot deck; that could have distracted him very nicely.

  Brother Paul sat on a stove, waiting for the shipment to ship. After all that rush, they might at least have gotten on with it promptly once he was inside the capsule! But perhaps there were technical things to do, like switching coaches onto other sidings or whatever, lining everything up for the big jump. It was difficult to imagine how, in this nineteenth-century setting, he could be jolted to a world perhaps fifty light-years distant. He should have thought to inquire exactly where Planet Tarot was; that seemed much more important now that he was on the verge of jumping there. Was a jump of seventy light-years more hazardous than a jump of twenty light-years? The concept of instantaneous travel bothered him in a vague way, like the discomfort of an incipient stomach disorder that might or might not lead to retching. He would never understand how mattermission worked. Didn't old Albert Einstein know his math? Yet obviously it did exist—or did it?

  His watch claimed that only another minute had passed since his last look, or a total of two and a half minutes since he had set the counter. That didn't help; subjectively he had aged far more than that!

  There were chronic whispers about that objection of Relativity, rumors always denied by MT, yet persistent. Twentieth-century science had accomplished many things supposed to have been impossible in the nineteenth century; why shouldn't twenty-first century science supersede the beliefs of the twentieth? Yet he found that he now had the same difficulty disbelieving in Relativity as he had initially
had believing in it. Suddenly, in the close confines of this capsule, those whispers were easy to believe. There was no doubt that Earth was being depopulated, and that such tremendous amounts of energy were being consumed that the whole society was regressing, the victim of energy starvation. But there was also no question that the emigration mechanism, MT, had been deemed impossible by the best human minds of the past. The obvious reconciliation: people were departing Earth—but they weren't arriving at other planets. The whole vast MT program could be a ruse to—

  Suddenly his queasiness gave way to acute claustrophobia. He looked about nervously for nozzles that might admit poisonous gas. The Jews in Nazi Germany, half a century or so ago: they had been promised relief—

  No, that didn't make sense! Why go to the trouble of summoning a single novice of a semireligious Order to this elaborate setup? Anyone who wanted him out of the way could find much less cumbersome means to eliminate him! And the Order would not suffer itself to be deceived like this. The Right Reverend Father Crowder would never countenance such a thing; of this Brother Paul was absolutely sure. And the Reverend Mother Mary, angelic in her concern for the good of all men...

  The Reverend Mother Mary. Why fool himself? He had agreed to undertake this mission because she had asked him to. Oh, she had pleaded the opposite, most charmingly. But he would have been diminished in her eyes if he had heeded that plea.

  This was no more profitable a line of thought than the other had been. He was here neither for death nor for love. He was supposed to ascertain the validity of the God of Tarot, and the project fascinated him. Why distract himself with superficially unreasonable or impossible things, when his actual assignment surpassed the unreason or impossibility of either? How could a mere man pass judgment on God?