But what goes up, must come down. The velocity of a bullet, having reached the apex of its trajectory, and falling once again to the ground, is the same as it was when it left the muzzle of the rifle, discharged into the sky. Following the jubilation, came a different kind of rifle fire. More pointed. Single shots. With a different kind of shouting. Angry shouting. Angry fire. Some of it from directly beneath Barthes’ window. Then silence. Then horns. Then sirens. Then, finally, a less easy quiet, with night watchmen milling like disturbed ants on the street. Finally, relief, and, in the wee hours, sleep.

So it came as no surprise to hear on the morning news—having caught up at last with the wind—that fighting in the east of the city had been fierce on Thursday, with scattered fighting throughout the night. Colchis spent his Friday alternately doing normal things: a bit of washing up, a bit of writing—while plotting exit strategies and contemplating some security meetings of his own for Saturday morning. Then, in the afternoon, four explosions rattled his windows from about half a mile away. Then sirens. Then helicopters. And then an evening movie on the tri-v. And then he waited for the news delay, that would tell him what had been.

The satellite on which Barthes’ regular communication access depended remained inaccessible for days, leaving him feeling deaf, dumb, and blind. Tense, tense, tense: everything and everyone was tense. He spent one day twiddling with a presentation showing some of his progress. He queued it up to send once re-connected. Then, once the connection came up, solar flares, or something, had communications down anyway. Fierce fighting was rumored near the Medical College. Reports flowed in to the main Zion Univers ity campus: windows rattling on and off for three days; mortars falling in residential neighborhoods everywhere; security guards posted everywhere; TCM and civil police nowhere to be seen. Daytime curfews had shut down all transportation between city districts. Stranded at his office, he had good news from the Zion campus itself: no disturbances there, and work managed to limp along. Barthes was amazed by the courage exhibited every day, day after day, by those around him.

And then, abruptly as it had begun, came several days and nights of calm. The air was stunningly clear, lending Barthes to pensive consideration of the landscape, and agriculture, and history of New Utah. At Zion University, the large, new instructional lab and reading rooms were complete, and at both facilities the datasets were brought online. Evening Citizen Workshops were scheduled to teach all comers how to access public lecture, archival, and research media.

Colchis spent his nights troubleshooting, upgrading, and updating all the behind the scenes cataloguing, circulation, and reference support more-or-less taken for granted at home institutions. He emerged each morning to glorious weather. Cool, breezy, and clear. Finally, they were done. It was on to Bonneville for Colchis Barthes now.

10

Verbal Contracts

Faith has to do with things that are not seen, and hope with things that are not at hand.

—Saint Thomas Aquinas

The Barrens, New Utah

For all of Mena’s warnings, Collie Orcutt didn’t seem the least concerned or interested in the status of Asach Quinn’s beliefs. In fact, he wasn’t particularly bothered about Asach’s identity. “Get in,” was all he’d said. Asach got in.

The girl in the front seat was another matter. About nineteen, twenty years old, Asach guessed. It was refreshing to see someone her age not in a cowled bonnet and long, black dress. Asach attempted conversation, but the girl just stared resolutely ahead. “Don’t mind her,” said Orcutt, “her position goes to her head.”

He looked old as the hills. Older. Ages were always hard, on other planets. Differences in sun, wind, and work aged human skin more, or less, than one expected. Spacers were more predictable, but even then. It just depended on how much exposure, and to what kind of radiation, they’d had.

But in Orcutt’s case, Asach had the sense that he really was old. Wiry, fit, agile, strong, but old. There was little else think about, as they went boiling overland. Asach had lost all sense of direction.

“Took a big chance, just waitin’ out there like that.”

Asach shrugged. “I had water, and patience.”

“What would you have done, if nobody’d shown up to getcha?”

“Somebody would have. Somebody always does.” Asach stared out the window. Collie laughed.

“Well, you’ve got faith. I like that.”

Suddenly, the girl swiveled. Her eyes were still downcast, but she was at least facing Asach’s direction. “And what about Hope? Charity?”

Asach tried to sound kind, but circumspect. “That’s what I’m here to talk about, I guess.”

Orcutt snorted. “We’ve heard that before.”

They sank back into silence. For all the days already spent on the road, this leg seemed to last forever.

As they finally bounced into a packed-earth courtyard, sun low on the horizon, the evening chill dropped like a dusting of invisible snow. Asach groaned inwardly, and stretched. Too many nights sleeping rough. Too many days like this. Asach hoped for a comfortable bed, although looking at the state of the place, did not expect one.

“I’m going up to the barn,” the girl said, without looking back.

“Sure, sugar. Say g’night to Agamemnon,” and then, to Asach, “her horse. That girl will marry that beast one day.”

Asach turned for the door. “Just a minute,” said Orcutt. He gripped Asach’s upper arm; steered a new direction, pointed. “You see that?”

The evening glow suffused each little clump of dead bunch grass, glittering in ranks marching off to the distance. A pinky stain marked the stub of a mined-out mountain at their end. “Last one ‘o y’all to come here claimed that crap would be our salvation. Lies though and through.”

“I know,” Asach said.

Collie dropped the arm, looked critically at Asach’s face. “Mena said you was comin’. Didn’t say why.”

Asach thought again about the answer to this inevitable question. Had thought all day. But there and then, locked in Collie Orcutt’s gaze, decided not to lie. Not to tell the truth, precisely, but not to lie. “I’ve come to find the source.”

Orcutt did not respond. Asach tried again, mentally reaching for the catechism. Found a universal line. “In His Gaze, we are all pilgrims, we are all Seers, and all islands are One.”

Collie took in the cloak; the open, guileless face. Decided.

“We’ll, you’ve come dressed for it.” Then, in a bellow that carried all the way up to the barn, “Laurel, better get back down here. Got a pilgrim wants to Gather.”

In the end, Asach was grateful indeed for Mena’s insistent preparation. Laurel was neither patient, nor kind, but all business. “What are His Numbers”

Asach rattled that off without problem.

“What are His Tenets?”

Thankfully, that was short as well.

“Can you say His Creed?”

Asach struggled a moment with this. A mental picture formed of a chant-and-response, but the details were fuzzy. “Not alone. I—”

But Asach was saved by Laurel’s impetuousness. “That’s right,” she said, nodding, “you can only say the creed together with your island. Or at another gathering, if you are a traveler.”

Asach was getting a sense that there were Gatherings and gatherings, but the distinctions remained unclear.