“I have no idea,” the Monsignor answered, “but it should be a great pleasure indeed. His Holiness wishes to speak to you, Father Uwell—in person.”

“ ‘On September 11, 3059 (Terran Standard Time), a man named Rod Gallowglass will begin learning that he is the most powerful wizard born since the birth of Christ. He dwells on a planet known to its inhabitants as ‘Gramarye’… Then he gives the coordinates, and that’s all. Nothing more but his signature.” The Pope dropped the letter on his desk with a look of disgust.

Joy flooded through Father Al; he felt like a harp with the wind blowing through it. His whole life he had waited for it, and now it had come! At last, a real wizard!

Perhaps…

“Reactions?” His Holiness demanded.

“Does he offer any proof?”

“Not the slightest,” His Holiness said in exasperation. “Only the message that I’ve just read you. We’ve checked the Public Information Bank, but there’s no ‘Rod Gallowglass’ listed. The planet is listed, though, and the coordinates match the ones McAran gives. But it was only discovered ten years ago.” He passed a faxsheet across the desk to Father Al.

Father Al read, and frowned. “The discovery is credited to a Rodney d’Armand. Could it be the same man?”

The Pope threw up his hands. “Why not? Anything is possible—and nothing probable, when you’ve so little information. But we checked his PIB bio. He’s a younger son of a cadet branch of an aristocratic house on a large asteroid called ‘Maxima.’ He had a short but varied career in the space services, culminating in his enlistment in the Society for the Conversion of Extra-terrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms…”

“The what?”

“I don’t think I could say it again,” His Holiness sighed. “It seems to be a sort of government bureau that combines the worst aspects of both exploration and espionage. Its agents are supposed to seek out the Lost Colonies, decide whether or not their government is headed towards democracy and, if it’s not, put it onto a path that will eventually evolve a democracy.”

“Fantastic,” Father Al murmured. “I didn’t even know we had such a bureau.”

“Any government that’s overseeing three-score worlds should have a bureau that just keeps track of all the other bureaus.” His Holiness spoke from personal experience.

“I take it, then, that this Rodney d’Armand discovered a Lost Colony on Gramarye.”

“Yes, but the Lord only knows which one,” the Pope sighed. “You’ll notice that the PIB sheet doesn’t tell us anything about the inhabitants of the planet.”

Father Al looked. Sure enough, any human information on the planet was summed up in one word at the bottom of the page: CLASSIFIED. It was followed by a brief note explaining that the planet was interdicted to protect its inhabitants from exploitation. “I’d guess it’s a rather backward culture.” Excitement thrilled through Father Al’s veins—were they backward enough to still believe in magic?

“Backward, indeed.” The Pope peered at another paper on his desk. “We checked our own data bank, and found we did have an entry on the planet—just a very brief report, from a Cathodean priest named Father Marco Ricci, that he’d accompanied an expedition by a group calling themselves the ‘Romantic Émigrés.’ They found an uncharted, Terra-like world, seeded a large island with Terran bioforms, and established a colony, four or five hundred years ago. Father Ricci requested permission to establish a House of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode—your own Order, I believe, Father Uwell.”

“Yes, indeed.” Father Al tried not to let his disappointment show; the Cathodeans had to be engineers as well as priests. No planet could be too backward, if they were there. “Was he granted permission?”

His Holiness nodded. “So it says; but apparently the Curia was never able to convey the news to him. The Interstellar Dominion Electorates fell about that time, and the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra was established. As you know, one of the first things PEST did was to lose the Lost Colonies. There was no way to communicate with Father Ricci.”

“Well, that’s hopef… I mean, that might create problems.”

“Yes, it might.” The Pope fixed him with a glittering eye. “We may have another splinter sect there, calling themselves Roman Catholics, but out of touch with us for centuries. No telling what heresies they’ll have dreamt up in that time.” He sighed. “I’d hoped to have a rest from that sort of thing for a while.”

Father Al knew what the Pope meant. Just before he’d been elevated to the Chair of St. Peter, Cardinal Kaluma had conducted the negotiations with the Archbishop of Burbank, a Lost Colony that had been found about twenty years before. They’d managed to keep the Faith fairly well, except for one heresy that had taken firm root: that plants had immortal souls. It turned out to be a fundamental point of doctrine on Burbank, since the whole planet was heavily involved in botanical engineering, with the goal of creating chlorophyll-based intelligence. The talks had become rather messy, and had ended with the establishment of the Church of Burbank. Its first act had been to excommunicate the Church of Rome. His Holiness hadn’t been quite so drastic; he’d simply declared that they were incommunicado, and that the Church of Burbank could no longer really be said to be Roman Catholic.

A shame, too. Other than that, they’d been so sane…

“I will be discreet, Your Holiness, and only report accurately what I discover.”

“Oh?” The Pope fixed Father Al with an owlish eye. “Are you going somewhere?”

Father Al stared at him for a moment.

Then he asked, “Why else would you have sent for me?”

“Quite so,” His Holiness sighed, “I admit to the decision. It rankles, because I have no doubt that’s what this McAran intended.”

“Have we any choice, really?” Father Al asked quietly.

“No, of course not.” The Pope frowned down at his desktop. “A letter that’s been lying in the vaults for a thousand years acquires a certain amount of credibility—especially when its sender has managed to accurately predict the reign-name of the Pope. If McAran could be right about that, might he not be right about this ‘wizard?’ And whether the man is really a wizard or not, he could do great damage to the Faith; it has never proven terribly difficult to subvert religion with superstition.”

“It’s so tempting to believe that you can control the Universe by mumbling a few words,” Father Al agreed.

“And too many of those who are tempted, might fall.” The Holy Father’s frown darkened. “And, too, there is always the infinitesimal chance of actually invoking supernatural powers…”

“Yes.” Father Al felt a shadow of the Pope’s apprehension. “Personally, I’d rather play with a fusion bomb.”

“It would do less damage to fewer people.” The Pope nodded.

Pope John XXIV stood up slowly, with the dignity of a thundercloud. “So. Take this with you.” He held out a folded parchment. “It is a letter in my hand, directing whoever among the clergy may read it, to render you whatever help you require. That and a draft for a thousand Therms, are all the help I can send with you. Go to this planet, and find this man Gallowglass, wherever he is, and guide him to the path of the Lord as he discovers his wizardry, or the illusion of it.”

“I’ll do my best, Your Holiness.” Father Uwell stood, smiling. “At least we know why this man McAran sent his letter to the Vatican.”

“But of course.” The Pope smiled, too. “Who else would’ve taken him seriously?”