On the day before their departure Jonathan was allowed to take his disciples on a walking tour of the city of White Syd. Its workhouses and glasshouses were as impressive as any he’d seen and his wide-eyed followers drank in the sights and all his commentary as never before. Two days later they were out of sight of land and rolling across gray seas, on a week-long journey to White Sans.
After another subdued presentation, Jonathan contrived to meet his old friend and gained for his entourage a comfortable carriage up the coastal highway to White Seat. Here he deposited another bible in the most humble manner, knowing that final approval of these presents must come from the Capitol. At White Seat he was overjoyed to find the engineer. Their own youths seemed to flow in their veins again as they paced around town, the young ones barely able to keep up, or follow the complex conversation of ancient memories and events.
A luxurious carriage was obtained to waft Jonathan across a continent, along the highway he’d been instrumental in building. His disciples couldn’t help but be amazed at his fame. All along the way, in the most remote stations, old soldiers rushed forth at his arrival to kiss his hands and treat him like some divinity returned to them. But they never stayed more than a few hours, just long enough to eat and sleep and change horses. After ten days of this quick-paced odyssey, they found themselves racing one afternoon towards two glimmering towers in the distance, the magnificent world Capitol of White York.
As they were transported through the Capitol that evening they had very little chance of admiring its sights. Through tall and narrow streets they were conveyed to one of the smaller temples and deposited in its puny courtyard. From here they were led by an old priest to a group of inner rooms without windows and told that their documents would be examined by the proper officials in the next few weeks. Again Jonathan could do little but pace the floors and explain to his disciples the snares and intricacies of Church government. They listened with the greatest patience and respect, taking cue from the honors they’d seen him receive along the way.
A board was convened to review Jonathan's material; the last bible, its props and the large packet of letters, some of them sealed, that Jonathan had collected along the way as testimonials to his work and travels. He was summoned to this board and surprised to see sitting there commander hot head, now on the very committee about to examine him. The man had aged considerably, caught up in the tedium of bureaucracy. But he was still glad to see Jonathan, as one familiar and a party to his auspicious beginnings. He’d already talked long and hard to convince the board that Jonathan was an inspired and dedicated Church militant.
His old friend stood up and warmly introduced him to the other five members of the review board. There followed a long interrogation by two of these priests as to the exact nature of Jonathan's vision, the spring, the sanctuary and the skills he wished to teach his disciples. The questioning was thorough and carried out in a cold, professional manner. Jonathan stuck to the facts and described his school in its most limited bible-making scope. They probed him from all angles for other motives and intentions but he wasn’t caught off guard. He’d had a long time to prepare for this interview and painted himself as the humble servant of a vision and parried question with question, asking them what he should do about the matters of pride and the glory-seeking they suspected in him.
No doubt these inquisitors were expert in Church doctrine and wanted to make sure no schisms or deviations were about to take place from their straight and narrow course in some far off continent. The interview was abruptly cut off after more than five hours, still caught up in the most hair-splitting questions. The eldest priest told Jonathan to meet them at the same hour the next day. His former commander accompanied him out into the hallway.
"You did alright in there, old chum" he said. "I've seen this group tear most people's schemes to shreds in a matter of minutes. They wouldn't have called you back if they didn't like you."
"Well they sure know how not to show it," Jonathan replied, wiping the sweat off his brow. "How do you fit in?"
"They just called me in because I knew you," he said. "The grim one who does most of the questioning is my uncle. I can’t vote on the decision, but don't worry, the fact that you've lasted this long is a sure sign that you’re in. But let’s go your room now, I've got something to tell you."
Jonathan took his former commander to his chambers and sent his followers next door, to prepare some tea and then leave them alone.
"I don't know if you've heard any rumors" he began, " but you've come at a very awkward time. It's bad, very bad for the Church right now. You're probably the least thing on their minds. I almost envy you going back to that sanctuary in the middle of nowhere but I'll stick around for this one last fight. You know how I love a fight."
Jonathan was at a loss to understand these ramblings. He took his friend by the shoulder and looking him in the eye, asked, "what is it?"
"They're running out of paint."
It didn’t take but a second for Jonathan to realize the profound implications of this statement. He wouldn’t let go of his friend's shoulder until he heard the full details of this crisis. It was still a secret which only the highest administrators of White York knew of. But the fact was that the millions and millions of gallons of white paint that the Church had laid up in fields of reservoirs in the early days were now very nearly gone.
In fact a strange thing was going on, precipitating this trouble. Paint had been stored all along the Eastern seaboard in the very same depots that once housed oil. But the huge, metal reservoirs that were still full of paint were now leaking at an alarming rate, bursting at their seams, spilling their precious loads and whitening whole rivers. The Church suspected sabotage but knew that the natural decay of iron might also be the cause. And all the technology to repair these vessels was long gone.
The Church had long ago dismantled the plants that produced their paint, vainly thinking they had an inexhaustible supply. Now they were hastily trying to collect all the living relics of workers once involved in this industry, old engineers and chemists, to construct another plant from the scattered pieces of machinery that had been crated up. But it had been twenty-five years since then, and their hopes from these dotards were hardly sanguine.
They still had a few years of a supply at the current rate of consumption and had transferred some of this stock to smaller and more solid containers. But it was interesting to Jonathan to contemplate this meltdown; the subcutaneous panic of the Church Fathers, the trickle down anxiety through whole departments of functionaries, and finally, the inescapable horror of the error of the Church, that its very fabric and structure must soon deliquesce and dribble away, as sure as the puddles of its own spilt paint.
