Project Pope by Clifford D. Simak Page B

protein …”
    â€œShe still may live,” said Tennyson. “Her body will have to fight against the virus. We can give her some support. We can help her fight, but we can’t do anything about the virus. She has to beat that herself.”
    â€œShe’s old,” said the nurse. “She hasn’t much to fight with.”
    â€œEven with the protein,” asked Ecuyer, “we can’t be sure?”
    â€œNo, we can’t,” said Tennyson.
    â€œAbout the protein agent? You want to think about it further? The decision is up to you. But I’d judge we haven’t too much time. What is your recommendation, Doctor?”
    â€œAs a physician, if the decision were mine alone, I would use the protein. It may not help. But so far as I know, it is the only thing with which to fight an unknown virus. I have to be honest with you. The protein could conceivably kill her. Even if it helped, it might not help enough.” He moved to Ecuyer’s side, laid a hand on his arm. “This woman means a great deal to you?”
    â€œTo all of us,” said Ecuyer. “To all of us. To Vatican.”
    â€œI wish I could help you more. I’m in no position to insist on anything. Is there something I can do or tell you that would help you in reaching a decision?”
    The woman on the bed moved, raising her head and shoulders from the pillow, fighting for a moment in an attempt to raise herself even further, then falling back again. Her face twisted and her lips moved. Words came from her. “The towers,” she cried. “The great and shining staircase. The glory and the peace. And the angels flying …”
    The face untwisted, relaxing. The words shut off.
    Tennyson looked at the nurse. She was staring at the woman as if hypnotized.
    Ecuyer was pawing at Tennyson’s shoulder. “We use the protein,” he said. “We will use the protein.”

Chapter Nine
    The suite was large and well appointed. The living-area floor was covered by thick carpeting, the furniture stopped just this side of elegance; in a huge fireplace that took up half of one wall a fire burned. Off to one side was a dining area, doors opened into a kitchen and a bedroom; gilded mirrors and tasteful paintings hung upon the wall, intricate carvings of what appeared to be ivory were positioned on the mantel.
    â€œSit down and take it easy,” Ecuyer said to Tennyson. “Make yourself at home. I can guarantee that chair over there is comfortable. And what are you drinking?”
    â€œWould you have some Scotch?”
    â€œYou have good taste,” said Ecuyer. “How did you run into Scotch? It’s virtually unknown. Only a few old human hands …”
    â€œThe captain on the ship,” said Tennyson, “introduced me to it. An Old Earth drink, he told me.”
    â€œYes, the captain. He keeps us well supplied, Several cases every trip. We have a standing order from a planet called Sundance—a human planet, as you might guess. It is the only place within a thousand light-years that stocks it. The cases always seem to be a little short. The captain pilfers them. We make no comment on it. It is, we figure, a legitimate kickback.”
    Ecuyer brought the drinks, handed one to Tennyson and settled himself with the other.
    â€œDrink up,” he said. “I think we may have something to drink to.”
    â€œI hope so,” said Tennyson. “The patient, even this soon, seems to be responding to the protein. We’ll have to keep close watch of her.”
    â€œTell me, Doctor, do you always show this much devotion to your patients? You stayed at Mary’s bedside until she showed signs of possible improvement. You must be tired. I will not keep you long. You should get some rest.”
    â€œIf you have a place for me.…”
    â€œA place for you? Dr. Tennyson, this is your place. It is yours so long as you stay with us.”
    â€œMy