Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 45

Elizabeth said, rather stiffly. "Perhaps you would like some more comfortable clothes."

"You're kind to offer. At my last port of call, I had to steal some."

Her voice was casual. "Then you can't carry anything along with you on the d-jump?"

"Not yet. But I'm working on it."

Without taking her eyes off him, Elizabeth went to the nursery door and opened it. Outside in the corridor, sitting on a bench and placidly telling his beads, was the rugged old Franciscan friar. He looked up expectantly.

"Brother Anatoly," said Elizabeth. "May I present Marc Remillard." Anatoly got to his feet, stowed his rosary, and stared. Marc bowed slightly. Elizabeth continued. "Our visitor is in need of a change of clothing, Brother. Perhaps you'll be kind enough to find him something, then escort him back here.

Oh ... and we'll want you to attend the redactive session, if you please."

Marc was amused. "Commendable prudence, Grand Master."

Her lips tightened. She withdrew back into the baby's room and closed the door, leaving the two men together.

"You make her nervous," Anatoly observed amiably.

"And you? Or do you feel armoured against the demogorgon, wearing your breastplate of justice and helmet of salvation?"

"I ought to be afraid of you," Anatoly admitted, beckoning for Marc to follow, "but I'm too intrigued. I came to the Pliocene three years before your famous Rebellion. When you were still a Paramount Grand Master helping the Human Polity dazzle the socks off the unsuspecting exotic members of the Concilium, who hadn't quite figured us out yet. When you were a hero-the champion of the Mental Man concept."

"And what am I now?" Marc asked pleasantly.

"You're about my size, I'd say. Suppose I lend you my sinfully secular silk bathrobe and a pair of gardening dungarees? Next time you visit, I'll have something ready you can call your own.

How about white tie and tails, or a Faustian wizard outfit?"

"What am I, Brother Anatoly?"

Stopped in his tracks by an irresistible coercive hold, the old priest strained to look over his shoulder. "We're almost to my room. Why not hold off on the mind-ream job until we get there? Turning me inside out here in the hallway is a mite uncivilized."

"As you like." The grip turned him loose and they moved on. "What are you doing here on Black Crag, Brother?"

"I'm her confessor." The old man grinned ironically. "She hasn't exactly made use of my priestly faculties as yet, but she hasn't thrown me out, either. I've been waiting for you outside that nursery every day from twenty-one hours until three, for the past two and a half weeks-on her orders. D'you suppose she expects me to exorcise you, or something?"

Marc laughed heartily. "You'll have your chance in a few minutes."

They went up a small rear staircase. Anatoly said, "So you two are going to intensify Brendan's redaction, eh? Do you think the little fellow will make it?"

"One can only try."

The friar cast a shrewd glance at the figure in black that followed him. "And I wonder why you do try."

Marc did not answer.

"Is the baby just an excuse?" Anatoly opened a door at the top of the stairs. They came into a s.p.a.cious suite under the eaves of the chalet, with roof-high windows all along one side.

When they were inside with the door shut, Marc said: Now.

Anatoly gritted his teeth and stood stiff as a post with his eyes screwed shut. "Make it fast, dammit."

He felt the coercive-redactive impulses lance into him, making his scalp tingle and his closed eyes experience a neural fireworks display. As the drain commenced he lost contact with reality.

Then he found himself standing quite relaxed in the middle of the sitting room. There were shower noises coming from the bathroom, where someone was whistling "Le veau d'or."

Anatoly hunted up the magnificent scarlet brocade robe and the old faded pants and hung them on the door hook. Then he went out onto the balcony and said the First Sorrowful Mystery under the stars to steady his nerves. Gethsemane. b.l.o.o.d.y sweat. What if he does ask? All the Remillards were Catholics. If it's possible, let this chalice pa.s.s.

Does this man even know it was a sin?

"It was no sin, only a failure, Anatoly Severinovich. 'And even if my troop fell thence vanquished, yet to have attempted a lofty enterprise is still a trophy ... ' "

The priest turned around to face the challenger of the galaxy.

"Now that's really interesting. Forty-two years in Holy Orders, you hear all the sins in the lexicon. But angelism-! Now there's a genuine rarey." His eyes fell to the scars on Marc's chest.

"And are those another trophy of the lofty enterprise?"

"Not at all. Only the traces of a recent accident. They'll disappear in a few months. My body is self-rejuvenating."

"So you can ignore the vultures nibbling at your liver, eh?

Still-it must be a terrible kind of security. Lonely in the long run, too. Well ... if you ever need me, I'll be around. I told her that, and the same goes for you."

Marc was expressionless. "Listen to me, Anatoly Severinovich. I can see that you mean well, and you're a kindly man.

But don't presume to meddle in my affairs."

"Don't tell me you're so far gone that you'd zap a poor old priest just for praying for you?"

"Save your prayers for Elizabeth. I'm past the need. Now let's get back downstairs." He turned and headed for the door, with Anatoly coming after him.

"Nu, ne mudiy, my son! Your brother Jack would never let you get away with saying that."

Marc paused. His voice was deadly calm. "For a man who came to the Pliocene before my brother's ... notoriety, you seem oddly knowledgable about his mind-set."

"It's hearing all those confessions," sighed the friar. "You'd be surprised, the kind of people who've gone time-travelling to escape reality. Or maybe you wouldn't! I know a lot more about you than my memories told you in the brain-ream, son." He smiled encouragingly. "The loneliness, for instance. Is that the real reason you've come here to Black Crag-hoping to find another metapsychic who'll accept you as human instead of failed angel?"

"A very interesting question," said Marc Remillard. "Let's both try to find out the answer." Carrying his black overall, he went out laughing.

CHAPTER THREE.

Praise be to Te, it was a banner year for giant slugs!

Purtsinigelee Specklebelly chortled in satisfaction as he lifted the bark lid off the last tray of stale beer. It was crowded with plump molluscs, amber with grey spots. Each slug was nearly the size of the bananas the Lowlives grew at the plantations down at Var-Mesk-and far more succulent and nourishing.