Free Project Pope by Clifford D. Simak Page B

I’ll have your clothing for you.”
    â€œThanks,” said Tennyson. “You’re proficient at your job. Do you do it often?”
    â€œI am Mr. Ecuyer’s man, sir. He has two of us. He is loaning me to you.”
    When he emerged from the bath, Tennyson found that the bed had been made and his clothes laid out on it.
    The robot, he realized, now really seeing him for the first time, was a close approximation of a human—an idealized, shiny human. His head was bald and his polished metal was quite frankly metal, but other than that, he was passing human. He wore no clothing, but his entire body had a decorative look about it that gave the illusion of clothes.
    â€œWill you wish breakfast now?” the robot asked.
    â€œNo, only coffee now. Breakfast can come later. I’ll look in on Mary and then be back.”
    â€œI’ll serve the coffee in the living room,” said Hubert. “In front of the fireplace. I’ll stir up the fire and have it blazing well.”

Chapter Eleven
    Tennyson found the garden in the rear of the building where the clinic was housed. The sun was coming up and to the west the mountains loomed close—perhaps seeming much closer than they were, he thought—a great wall of blue shadow, with the blueness changing tone and character, darker at the base, lighter near the mountaintops, with the whiteness of the icy peaks glittering with a diamond brightness in the first light of the sun. The garden was formal and well kept and, in this early-morning hour, had a softness to it. Brick-paved walks ran through it, the walks bordered by low-growing shrubbery and neatly laid-out beds of flowers, many of which were in bloom. Looking at them, Tennyson was unable to find one with which he was familiar. Far to his right, at the other end of the garden, three figures in brown robes strolled slowly, apparently in deep reflection, down a path, their gleaming skulls bowed forward, metal chins resting on their breasts.
    The chill of the night was rapidly disappearing with the rising of the sun. The garden was a quiet and pleasant place, and Tennyson found himself thinking how fine it was to be there. At an angle where three paths ran together, he came upon a bench of stone and sat down upon it, facing the blue loom of the mountains.
    Sitting there, he was astonished to find within himself a quiet, warm pride of competence he had not felt in years. Mary was doing well—perhaps beginning the road to full recovery, although it was still too early to be sure of that. The fever was abating and her pulse was stronger. The breathing was less labored. He had seen, or imagined he had seen, a faint flicker of latent consciousness in her eyes. She was old, of course, but in that pitifully shrunken body, he had sensed a willingness and a’ power to fight for life. Perhaps, he told himself, she might have much to fight for. She had found Heaven, Ecuyer had said, and that was patent nonsense. But having found Heaven, or what she thought was Heaven, the wish might be strong within her to learn a great deal more about it. That, at least, had been the sense of what Ecuyer had told him the night before—that Mary’s life must be saved so she could learn more of Heaven.
    There was no logic in it, he told himself. Someone was mistaken—either that, or it was some sort of joke, some sort of in-joke in Vatican or, perhaps, in the Search Program. Although Ecuyer, telling him of it, had not sounded as if he might be joking. He had told Ecuyer, and sitting there on the garden bench, he now told himself again, that Heaven, if it in fact existed, was not the sort of place that could be found. Heaven is a state of mind, he had said to Ecuyer; and Ecuyer had not disputed that, although it had been apparent that Ecuyer, a self-confessed not-quite-believer in Vatican itself, had held some sort of faith that Heaven could be found.
    Nonsense, he told himself again. There was not a