This Fortress World Read Online Free

know how those illusions are produced? Can you identify the forces that create a three-dimensional image so deceptively complete that a hand must be passed through it to shatter the illusion, an image which exists only in the mind of the operator? Do you know how thoughts are transmitted from one mind to another, how material objects are transferred from place to place in spite of walls, how the Barrier and the Portal act to screen those who wish to enter, to pass those who have needs that we can and should satisfy and bar all others?"
    I hesitated. "No, Father."
    "Nor do I," said the Abbot softly. "Nor does anyone on this world, nor on any other. When one of the machines breaks down, sometimes we can repair it and often we cannot. Because we don't know anything about the forces involved. I might say to you that this is, in itself, a miracle. That we can use these strange, divine forces, knowing nothing of their principles, to spread the Message among the people is a gift from God; we have been given guardianship over a small part of His divine omnipotence. That would be the power to work miracles of which we tell the people, and that would be true."
    "Yes, Father."
    His eyes studied me wisely. "But that would be casuistry. I will not use that argument to satisfy your doubts. For the machines we use in the Cathedral were the work of men, divinely inspired though they may have been. You have studied in the Archives. You know that we still find plans, occasionally, which our trained lay brothers decipher, from which they draw up designs and our craftsmen execute, and we test. It has occurred to me that man was once wiser and greater than he is today. But perhaps, if we persevere in our labors and our faith, someday we, too, may understand the forces with which we work."
    "I have thought that, Father."
    The Abbot glanced up shrewdly, nodding. "There is one explanation I have not offered. It is usually reserved for those who have taken orders and even then it is not often given."
    I flushed, feeling subtly flattered. "If there is anything I should not—"
    He silenced me with a strong, white hand. "That, William," he said gently, "is for me to decide. It has been left to my discretion by the Bishop and through him from the Archbishop himself. Your need is great, and because of that, because of your very doubts, you will be of great worth to us and to the service of God. Others, more easily satisfied, will be content to do less and be less. Someday you, too, will be Abbot, I am sure, or even"—he smiled with humility—"rise much higher in the hierarchy. Perhaps even to Archbishop itself, for though the galaxy is wide still one man in it must be Archbishop."
    "Oh, no, Father," I objected. "I have no ambition—"
    "Perhaps not. But preferment will seek you out. This, however, is what I want you to consider. The people—the slaves, the serfs, the freedmen, the mercenaries, the Peddlers, even the nobility—live in a world of chaos, besieged by countless sense impressions, beset by a thousand daily doubts of the wisdom of God. Their lives are hard, often bitter, and it should not be surprising that a simple message of faith finds them unresponsive. The masses of the people demand proof, constant daily proof, of the presence of their God and his power. Is it trickery to give them what they need? No. It is kindness."
    "I see that, Father."
    "But we live simply here in the monastery. We are protected from chaos and even from ourselves. We have the time and inclination for study and contemplation. We live close to God. Should we need the crutches to faith with which we aid the people?"
    "No, Father. No." And for a moment, forgetting all else, I was swayed by the rich persuasiveness of the Abbot's voice into what seemed like a blinding flash of insight.
    "That we should not need miracles to sustain our faith," the Abbot continued, "is our gift from the Church for renouncing the worldly life. We are provided with the environment most