The congregation looked a bit confused, and he didn’t blame them—it wasn’t exactly the most coherent sermon he had ever delivered. But what could you expect, on an ad-lib basis? He did notice a look of surprise on a few of the derelicts’ faces, though, followed by thoughtful brooding. At least not all the seed had fallen on rocky ground.

He hurried on to the Creed, then pronounced the intention of the Mass. “Dear Lord, if it pleases You, allow the soul of Your servant, the sainted Vidicon of Cathode, to lend his strength in defense of this member of the Order founded in his name, by battling the forces of perversity that ring Your Holy Church, turning them against themselves, to the confounding of those who seek its downfall, and who war against holiness and freedom of the soul. Amen.”

From there on, it was pretty straightforward, and he could relax and let himself forget the troubles of the moment while he became more and more deeply involved in the Sacrament. As always, the spell of the Mass wove its reassuring warmth around him; soon all that existed were the Host and the wine, and the silent, intent faces of the congregation. A surprising number of them turned out to be in shape for Communion; but, fortunately; one of the Franciscans was standing by in the sacristy, and came out to unlock the tabernacle and bring out a ciborium, so no one went away empty.

Then they were trooping out, singing the recessional, and Father Al was left alone, with the usual sweet sadness that came from knowing the Mass was indeed ended, and that he must wait a whole twenty-four hours before he could say it again.

Well, not quite alone. The Franciscan came over to him, with a whispering of his rough robe. “A moving Mass, Father—but a strange sermon, and a strange intention.”

Father Al smiled wanly. “And stranger circumstances that brought them forth, Father, I assure you.”

He had almost reached the departure port again when the public address system came to life, with the howling of a siren behind the voice. “All passengers please clear the area. Conditions of extreme danger obtain; a ship is returning to port with damage in its control system. All passengers please clear the area immediately.”

It went on to repeat the message, but Father Al was already on his way back toward the main terminal. He only went as far as the rope, though—the red emergency cord that attendants were calmly stringing across the corridor, as though it were a daily event. But one look at their eyes assured Father Al that this was rare, and dreaded. “My Lord!” he prayed silently. “I only sought aid for myself, not danger to others!” And he found the nearest viewscreen.

Emergency craft were moving into position, amber running-lights flashing. Snub-nosed cannon poked out of their noses, ready to spray sealant on any ruptures in the hull of ship or station. A hospital cruiser drifted nearby.

And, in the distance, a dot of light swelled into a disc—the returning ship.

The disc swelled into a huge globe, filling a quarter of the velvet darkness, pocked with the parabolic discs of detectors and communicators. Then the swelling stopped; the huge ship drifted closer, slowing as it came. The emergency craft maintained a respectful distance, wary and alert, as the liner loomed over them, till it filled the whole sky. Then the front of the hull passed beyond the range of the viewscreen. Father Al listened very carefully, but heard nothing; he only felt the tiniest movement of the station about him as the behemoth docked in the concave gate awaiting it. He breathed a sigh of relief; no matter what trouble they’d detected, the control system had functioned perfectly for docking.

He turned away, to see the attendants removing the velvet rope, with only the slightest tremor in their hands. “Excuse me,” he said to the nearest. “What ship was that, docking there?”

The steward looked up. “Why, it was the liner for Beta Casseiopeia, Father. Just a minor problem in the control system—they could’ve gone on with it, really. But our line doesn’t believe in taking chances, no matter how small.”

“A wise policy,” Father Al agreed. “ ‘The Universe’ll get you, if you don’t watch out.’ ”

The attendant smiled thinly. “I’m glad you understand.”

“Oh, perfectly. In fact, it’s something of a fortunate coincidence for me; I was supposed to be on that liner, but my ship from Terra arrived a bit late.”

The attendant nodded. “ ‘Fortunate’ is right. The next ship for Beta Cass. doesn’t leave for another week.”

“Yes, I know. You will let them know they’ve another passenger waiting, won’t you?”

Six hours later, the engineers had found and replaced a defective circuit-grain, and Father Al slid into his couch, stretching the webbing across his body with a sigh of relief, and prayers of thanks to St. Vidicon and God.

No reason to, really; it was probably all just a coincidence. No doubt St. Vidicon had sat by smiling in amusement all the time, and the ship would’ve returned to port even without Father Al’s Mass. But a little extra praying never hurts, and it had kept him occupied.

Besides, in the realm of the supernatural, one never knew. Rod Gallowglass might really be important enough to merit the personal attention of the Imp of the Perverse. Father Al just hoped he’d reach Gramarye in time.

The jets cut out, and the great black horse landed at full gallop. He slowed to a canter, stubby wings folding back into his sides, and then to a trot.

“Elben Pond, Toby said,” Rod muttered, glaring at the dark sheet of water barely visible through the trees. “Here’s Elben Pond. Where are they?”

“I hear them, Rod,” Fess answered.

A few seconds later, Rod could, too: two small voices crying, “Geo-ff!” Geo-ffrey!“ And a full one calling, ”Geoffrey, my jo! Geoffrey! Whither art thou?”

“Geof-frey, Geof-frey!” Cordelia’s voice came again, with sobs between the cries. Then Fess was trotting into a small clearing, with the little lake gleaming at its edge, and Cordelia’s head poked out of the shrubbery as Rod swung down. “Papa!” And she came running.

“Oh, Papa, it’s turrible! It’s all Magnus’s fault; he disappeared Geoffrey!”

“Did not!” Magnus howled, agonized, as he came running up, and his mother seconded him as she landed on her knees next to her daughter.

“Cordelia, Cordelia! Magnus did not do it, he only said it!”

“You sure his just saying it couldn’t make it happen?” Rod looked up at her over Cordelia’s head. “Magnus may be the only warlock who’s ever been able to teleport someone else, except for old Galen—but Magnus did do it, when he got into that argument with Sergeant Hapweed.”

“Aye, and it took old Galen himself to fetch him back! Oh, we’ve sent for him—but truly, I misdoubt me ‘tis that! Magnus would not lie on a matter of such gravity.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Rod transferred Cordelia to her mother’s arms and caught Magnus against him. The boy resisted, his body stiff, but Rod stroked his head and crooned, “There, now, son, we know you didn’t do it! Maybe something you said makes you think so—but I know you can’t do a thing like that without meaning to!”

The eight-year-old trembled; then his body heaved with a huge sob, and he wept like a thundercloud, bellowing anguish. Rod just hung on and kept stroking the boy’s head and murmuring reassurances until his sobs slackened; then he held Magnus gently away, and said quietly, “Now, then. Tell me what happened, from beginning to end.”

Magnus gulped and nodded, wiping at his eyes. “He was trying to play my games, Papa, the way he always does—and you’ve told me not to let him climb trees!”