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the door.
    “Piet—” the Pope began, then gave him a sharp gesture of dismissal. He looked at the remainder of the diners, forcing them to return his gaze. “We wish to discuss,” he said in a tone that would accept no opposition, “the matter of the Protestant Fundamentalists who are preaching the Second Coming. They are finding support among many Catholics, which is most distressing. Even the Separatists with their travesty of the Vatican are saying that Our Lord will return before the year 2001, and the world will be restored to God.”
    “Yes?” said Cardinal Pingari. “What do you wish us to do about it?”
    Celestine cut himself a morsel of lamb. “We must put an end to this absurd claim. It is not fitting that we surrender to the same frenzy that has taken hold in so much of the Protestant community.” He looked directly at Bruno, Cardinal Hauptburger of Salzberg. “You have direct experience with these foolish people, don’t you? What do you recommend?”
    The Austrian Cardinal stopped eating and stared at the Pope. “Nothing I have tried thus far has stopped the madness.”
    “So. We will have to adopt stringent methods.” There was dismay in many of the Cardinals’ faces but Celestine decided to ignore this silent warning. “The millennium is to be set aside for a Jubilee, for the triumph of the Church. That will bring our flocks back, I am sure.”
    “Of course,” said Cardinal Cadini with all his reputed tact, but it was plain that neither he nor most of the rest believed the Pope.
    * * *
    In the VIP lounge at Dulles Airport, Charles, Cardinal Mendosa sat with Alexander, Cardinal Bradeston of Boston, both of them on the last leg of their respective journeys home. Each of them was tired after the conclave, the coronation and then four days in Washington D.C. making the rounds of governmental and diplomatic functions in answer to the endless questions about the new Pontiff. Now, with sour-tasting coffee in their cups, they were content to stare at the television screen on the far side of the room where a celebrated black athlete and a famous Russian ballet dancer discussed their training routines.
    “Must be a slow day for news,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “If this is the best they can come up with at nine-thirty.…” He laughed a bit.
    “Daytime television,” Cardinal Mendosa summed up. “At least it isn’t about the Pope.” He had been up half the night in the wake of another visionary dream; he was having trouble concentrating thanks to his lack of sleep and the faint, ill-defined persistence of what he had seen. “Listen to them, arguing about chicken.”
    Once again Cardinal Bradeston laughed. “I hope the housekeeper is listening. All she ever does is fry it.” He drank more of the dreadful coffee.
    The interviewer, a young woman dressed in expensive running gear, was in the middle of a long question about health routines when the show was interrupted. The dignified anchorman of INS appeared, neat but flustered. In the background was the dome of Saint Peter’s.
    Cardinal Bradeston groaned. “Now what’s Ottone done?”
    “Probably wants to bring back fasting,” said Cardinal Mendosa flippantly, reaching to turn up the sound. “Just in case.”
    “—have pronounced him dead, only nine days after his coronation.”
    Cardinal Mendosa was on his feet, overturning his coffee. “Bloody hell!”
    “What.…” Cardinal Bradeston said, crossing himself automatically. “Who’s dead?”
    “—had taken the name Celestine VI, was regarded as—”
    “Was?” Cardinal Bradeston echoed.
    “That’s what he said,” Cardinal Mendosa observed grimly, thinking that he would have to return to Rome.
    “—and it was assumed by many that the division between conservatives and liberals within the Church would not be healed during his reign. Death appears to have been the result of a massive stroke. The Vatican has ordered a full autopsy at once, promising a complete disclosure of