Such as a man living forever? A possibility the Cyclan must accept. Did cybers fear death? Would Zao, for example, fight to the last to retain his individual identity?
A question the cyber could have answered but never would. When old he would be taken, his brain freed of its hampering prison of flesh, placed in a vat of nutrient fluid and added to the other brains forming the tremendous complex of Central Intelligence. To live for endless millennia, conscious and aware, safely buried beneath miles of rock on a bleak and lonely world. His destiny and reward-if he did not fail.
Carmodyne had built the church, hiring the best architects and designers, using the best of materials to construct a soaring edifice of arches and gables, of peaks and a soaring tower in which he had set a sonorous bell.
Brother Tobol had objected.
"Why the bell, my lord?"
"Why?" Carmodyne, big, bluff, impetuous, had snorted his impatience. "Why to summon the worshipers, of course."
"To summon?" Brave in his annoyance, Tobol had shaken his head. "We do not issue orders, my lord. We do not demand suppliants to come to us. The Church of Universal Brotherhood wields no compulsion."
"But how else can they tell when to come to worship?"
"To worship what? Stones? Glass? Metal? Faith is not housed in buildings, my lord. It lives in the heart."
Carmodyne had been hurt. "Are you saying you don't like the building? That you object to my having given it to you?"
The last, at least Tobol could answer with inoffensive truth.
"My lord we are grateful for all you do. For all you give. For your generosity and kindness and concern. If I have offended I crave forgiveness." A trained psychologist, Tobol knew how to play on emotion. Knew also when to be humble, when to sooth and, despite his misapplied generosity, Carmodyne had meant well.
A man now dead but the building he had left remained a burden to the church as it did to his heiress. Looking up at the soaring tower, Fiona Velen pursed her lips with barely disguised anger.
"The fool! To have spent so much for so little! Typical of my uncle but now I have to meet the cost. How much do you think it would bring at auction?"
"Very little, my lady." Brother Tobol, now older by a year, shrugged thin shoulders beneath the brown homespun of his robe. "The adornments are built into the fabric and removing them would cost more than they are worth. The design is hardly suited to commercial purposes nor does it lend itself to regular habitation. Your uncle, I fear, was poorly advised."
By romantic notions culled from old books and legends.
Tales of an age which had never been illustrated by cities and towers of the imagination. Castles, strongholds, places of ancient worship-what had made the fool spend so much?
Watching the play of emotion over her strongly boned face the monk said quietly, "There will be no protest at any decision you choose to make. In the meantime, may it be used as your uncle intended?"
A memorial if nothing else, and a living one; despite her anger she had to admit that. If only the charges had been settled she would have been able to look at it with greater pleasure for, in its way, it was a masterpiece. But who could use beauty as collateral? Buy shares with artistic appreciation?
The land it stood on could be sold, of course, and the new owner would be responsible for upkeep and charges due. Arment? A moment and she rejected the idea; the man was too busy building his holdings. Judd? Attracted to her as he was he could be less than cautious but she knew him too well not to guess at the price. One she was reluctant to pay. Prador? Hurt by the recent attack he was in no condition to do other than lick his wounds. Helm? If he bought it at all it would be to convert it to rubble.
The problem annoyed her. Deals were made in the comfort of detachment; lands and properties bought, sold, offered at auction in an endless flow of manipulation. To see the place, to talk to the monk, to imagine her uncle standing where she was standing now, remembering his voice, his manner, his infectious laughter-what had made him do it?
"Some wine, my lady?" Tobol glanced at the ruby sun now low in the green-hazed sky. "Some food, perhaps? We have cakes and bread spiced with various flavors. A hobby," he confessed. "To mix and knead and bake. Had I not joined the church I think I would have been happy as a baker."
And he would have made a good one, she decided after tasting the proffered delicacies. As Samuel would have made a good vintner if the wine was of his making. As Jeld, the youngest, a good attendant. He had been both deft and silent, not even the sandals covering the bareness of his feet audible on the tessellated floor. Only the burning intensity of his eyes had spoiled the image of the perfect servitor.
The eyes of a fanatic-but all monks had to be that. Why else did they choose to live as they did?
"Some more cake, my lady?" Tobol gestured to a plate heaped with elaborate confections of sugar and nuts crusting convoluted pastry. "A little more wine?" He signaled for the table to be cleared as, again, she shook her head. "Would you care to see more of the church? There is an interesting carving in the northeast corner which may amuse you and the pattern of light thrown on the paving from the clerestory is at its best this time of day."
The food and wine had soothed her and she had spent too much time not to waste a little more. The carving lived up to its promise and she was entranced by the cunning pattern of light which threw the interior into a cavern dusted with rainbows. Carmodyne's work? Had he ordered the placing of the tinted glass as he must have commissioned the carving?
She remembered the face, the unmistakable parody of his own, the lips curved in laughter, the eyes crinkled with smiles. A gross, almost grotesque image, and yet it held a certain magic. As did the flowing pattern of light, the combination of hues, shadows, striations. Again she wondered why he had done it. Why build such an edifice? A question she put bluntly to Tobol.
For a moment he hesitated then said, "I believe it was because he loved beauty, my lady. Not, perhaps, the frail and delicate beauty of a flower but something on a grander scale. It had to be big and bright and splendid so he built something high and wide and filled it with light."
Light and space and hope for the afflicted. She wondered why the monk had neglected to mention that, and had failed, also, to stress the comfort given to those who came to receive it. These questions were an irritation-why was she so concerned? Carmodyne was dead and his dream should die with him.
Watching the raft as it carried her back to the city and her home, Brother Jeld said bitterly, "Well, there she goes. How long now before the church is in ruins?"
"A building is not the Church," said Tobol firmly. "We can do without it if we must."
"To use the one you started with? The tent set up at the edge of the field? Small accomplishment for two decades of labor, Brother."
A score of years during which Jeld had grown from boy into man. Time to be accepted as a novice, to be tested, trained, to become a fully fledged monk and to be sent to Sacaweena on his first mission.
Tobol wished he had been sent elsewhere.
This was an uncharitable thought and he did his best to crush it but, as at the present, it returned to disturb his equilibrium. Was it pride which made him chafe at the younger man? If so it was a sin and must be eradicated, but it was a sin which Jeld more than shared. Pride in position and attainment led to the pain of others; servants, those less high, those needing support. Pride in possessions warped the basic fabric of human nature, for to love things more than living creatures was to invite evil.
Did Jeld hold the building in higher regard than his sworn purpose in life?
Watching him, Tobol was reluctant to believe it. The face, limned by the dying light of the sun now resting on the watery horizon, held the firm resolution of youthful dedication, but that was to be expected. As was the fire in the eyes, the impatience, the fretting at what must have seemed illogical barriers. As, too, was the yearning for power, the ability to sweep aside all the obstructions which hindered the final glory of Man.
The moment when each could look at the other and realize the basic truth. There, but for the grace of God, go I.
The millennium which he would never see. As Jeld would never see or any monk now living. Men bred too fast and traveled too far for that but even while accepting that he would never see the culmination of his work, Tobol was content to do what he could-to alleviate suffering, to feed the starving, to comfort those in need. To set the example he wished others to follow.
A point he emphasized as he walked with Jeld across the sward surrounding the church.
"Of all dangers men face when dealing with their fellows pride is the most insidious. It seems so natural to display success, to show the world we have gained an advantage or achieved a measure of gratification. A man will boast of a new raft, a boat, his promotion. A woman of her new gown, her new home, a better situation. Small things, harmless it would appear, but that appearance is deceptive. For such things feed envy and envy can destroy."
"The church," said Jeld. "You are talking about the church."
This time Tobol made no play on the word. "Yes, Brother, this church. I was against it from the first and I thought you knew why. How many faiths have foundered because the original intention became lost in a desire for pomp and possessions? That danger we must avoid above all others, for to display wealth would set us apart from those we are dedicated to serve. Pride can have no place in our existence."
Which was why all monks, even the highest, wore the same brown robe, the same sandals on bare feet, had the same look of deprivation.
Food was for the starving and to wear a gem was to insult those to whom the bauble would mean food and warmth and medicine. To preach was to offend with its assumption of superiority and was itself a display of pride. To serve. To help the afflicted. To tend the sick and ill and to ease the hearts and souls of the troubled-the life of a monk.
"Is there nothing we can do?" Jeld halted to look beyond the church at the ocean below the high ground on which it stood. The light from the sun painted the spire with ruby, turning it into a glowing pillar of flame. "If she decides against us-what can we do?"
"We can hope," said Tobol quietly. "And pray."
There was nothing else and the younger man knew it. Even so, Tobol saw the sudden clenching of his hand, the tension made manifest in the jaw, the throat, signs obvious to the trained eye, even though the face had remained impassive in the frame of the thrown-back cowl. Impatience controlled but present, and the old monk could feel sympathy. How often, when young, had he felt the same frustration?
Too often and too long ago but the time which had seamed his face and taken his hair had also curbed his impatience. As it would curb Jeld's. As it would teach him that, while a monk needed to feel, yet that feeling must not be too narrow, too intense. It was right to care for the sick-but all the sick. To be concerned over the poor-but all the poor. That to burn yourself out over one individual was to rob the rest. To care too much about one building to diminish the importance of all other churches.