“Which means Your Holiness has finally talked them into it!” Father Vidicon gusted out a huge sigh of relief. “At last!”

“Yes, I can’t help thinking how nice it must have been to be Pope in, say, 1890,” His Holiness agreed, “when the Holy See had a bit more authority and a bit less need of persuasion.” He heaved a sigh of his own, and clasped his hands on the desktop. “And it’s come just in time. Reverend Sun is speaking to the General Assembly Monday morning—and you’ll never guess what his topic will be.”

“How the Church is a millstone around the neck of every nation in the world.” Father Vidicon nodded grimly. “Priests who don’t pass on their genes, Catholics not attempting birth control and thereby contributing to overpopulation, Church lands withheld from taxation—it’s become a rather familiar bit of rhetoric.”

“Indeed it has; most of his followers can recite it chapter and verse. But this time, my sources assure me he intends to go quite a bit farther—to ask the Assembly for a recommendation for all U.N. member nations to adopt legislation making all these ‘abuses’ illegal.”

Father Vidicon’s breath hissed in. “And—with so large a percentage of the electorate in every country being Sunnite…”

“It amounts to virtual outlawing of the Roman Catholic Church. Yes.” His Holiness nodded. “And I need hardly remind you, Father, that the current majority in the Italian government are Sunnite Communists.”

Father Vidicon shuddered. “They’ll begin by annexing the Vatican!” He had a sudden nightmarish vision of a Sunnite prayer meeting in the Sistine Chapel.

“We’ll all be looking for new lodgings,” the Pope said drily. “So you’ll understand, Father, that it’s rather important that I tell the faithful of the whole world before then, about the Council’s recent action.”

“Your Holiness will speak on television!” Father Vidicon cried. “But that’s wonderful! You’ll be…”

“My blushes, Father Vidicon. I’m well aware that you consider me to have an inborn affinity for the video medium.”

“The charisma of John Paul II, with the appeal of John the XXIII!” Father Vidicon asserted. “But what a waste, that you’ll not appear in the studio!”

“I’m not fond of viewing myself as the chief drawing-card for a sideshow,” His Holiness said sardonically. “Still, I’m afraid it’s become necessary. The Curia has spoken with Eurovision, Afrovision, PanAsiavision, PanAmerivision, and even Intervision. They’re all, even the Communists, willing to carry us for fifteen minutes…”

“Cardinal Beluga is a genius of diplomacy,” Father Vidicon murmured.

“Yes, and all the nations are worried about the growth of Sun’s church within their borders, with all that it implies of large portions of their citizenry taking orders from Singapore. Under the circumstances, we’ve definitely become the lesser of two evils, in their eyes.”

“I suppose that’s a compliment,” Father Vidicon said doubtfully.

“Let’s think of it that way, shall we? The bottleneck, of course, was the American commercial networks; they’re only willing to carry me early Sunday morning.”

“Yes; they only worry about religion when it begins to affect sales,” Father Vidicon said thoughtfully. “So I take it Your Holiness will appear about two p.m.?”

“Which is early morning in Chicago, yes. Other countries have agreed to record the speech, and replay it at a more suitable hour. It’ll go by satellite, of course…”

“As long as we pay for it.”

“Naturally. And if there’s any failure of transmission at our end, the networks are not liable to give us postponed time.”

“Your Holiness!” Father Vidicon threw his arms wide. “You wound me! Of course I’ll see to it there’s no transmission error!”

“No offense intended, Father Vidicon—but I’m rather aware that the transmitter I’ve given you isn’t exactly the most recent model.”

“What can you expect, from donations? Besides, Your Holiness, British Marconi made excellent transmitters in 1990! No, Italy and Southern France will receive us perfectly. But it would help if you could invest in a few spare parts for the converter that feeds the satellite ground station…”

“Whatever that may be. Buy whatever you need, Father Vidicon. Just be certain our signal is transmitted. You may go now.”

“Don’t worry, Your Holiness! Your voice shall be heard, and your face be seen, even though the Powers of Darkness rise up against me!”

“Including Maxwell’s Demon?” His Holiness said dourly. “And the Imp of the Perverse?”

“Don’t worry, Your Holiness.” Father Vidicon made a circle of his thumb and middle finger. “I’ve dealt with them before.”

“ ‘The good souls flocked like homing doves,’ ” Father Vidicon sang, “or they will after they’ve heard our Pope’s little talk.” He closed the access panel of the transmitter. “There! Every part certified in the green! I’ve even dusted every circuit board… How’s that backup transmitter, Brother Anson?”

“I’ve replaced two I.C. chips so far,” Brother Anson answered from the bowels of the ancient device. “Not that they were bad, you understand—but I had my doubts.”

“I’ll never question a Franciscan’s hunches.” Father Vidicon laced his fingers across his midriff and sat back. “Did you check the converter to the ground station?”

“ ‘Converter?’ ” Brother Anson’s head and shoulders emerged, covered with dust. “You mean that huge resistor in the gray box?”

Father Vidicon nodded. “The very one.”

“A bit primitive, isn’t it?”

Father Vidicon shrugged. “There isn’t time to get a proper one, now—and it’s all they’ve given me money for, ever since I was ‘promoted’ to Chief Engineer. Besides, all we really need to do is to drop our 50,000-watt transmitter signal down to something the ground station can handle.”

Brother Anson shrugged. “If you say so, Father. I should think that would kick up a little interference, though.”

“Well, we can’t be perfect—not on the kind of budget we’re given, anyhow. Just keep reminding yourself, Brother, that most of our flock still live in poverty; they need a bowl of millet more than a clear picture.”

“I can’t argue with that. Anyway, I did check the resistor. Just how many ohms does it provide, anyway?”

“About as many as you do, Brother. How’d it test out?”

“Fine, Father. It’s sound.”

“Or will be, till we go on the air.” Father Vidicon nodded. “Well, I’ve got two spares handy. Let the worst that can happen, happen! I’m more perverse than Murphy!”

The door slammed open, and the Monsignor was leaning against the jamb. “Father… Vidicon!” he panted. “It’s … catastrophe!”

“Murphy,” Brother Anson muttered; but Father Vidicon was on his feet. “What is it, Monsignor? What’s happened?”

“Reverend Sun! He discovered the Pope’s plans, and has talked the U.N. into scheduling his speech for Friday morning!”

Father Vidicon stood, galvanized for a second. Then he snapped, “The networks! Can they air His Holiness early?”

“Cardinal Beluga’s on three phones now, trying to patch it together! If he brings it off, can you be ready?”

“Oh, we can be ready!” Father Vidicon glanced at the clock. “Thursday, 4 pm. We need an hour. Any time after that, Monsignor.”

“Bless you!” the Monsignor turned away. “I’ll tell His Holiness.”

“Come on, Brother Anson.” Father Vidicon advanced on the backup transmitter, catching up his toolkit. “Let’s get this beast back on line!”

“Five minutes till air!” the Monsignor’s voice rasped over the intercom. “Make it good, reverend gentlemen! Morning shows all over the world are giving us fifteen minutes—but not a second longer! And Reverend Sun’s coming right behind us, live from the U.N.!”

Father Vidicon and Brother Anson were on their knees, hands clasped. Father Vidicon intoned, “Saint Clare, patron of television…”

“…pray for us,” finished Brother Anson.