The Judas Rose (38 page)

Father Dorien broke in, feeling that Claude had had all the sugar and cream that was good for him in a single serving.

“You need this grammar, then, in order to proceed,” he said, and she agreed that she certainly did.

“Did you ask for it? That is, did you ask that a copy be made for you?”

She didn't answer, just stood there biting her lip and looking at her hands, and he grew impatient. “Sister Miriam Rose?” he asked sharply. “Did you hear my question?”

“Father Dorien . . . may I speak frankly? Expressing my own opinion, which may be quite wrong?”

“For heaven's sakes . . . of course. Please proceed.”

“Father . . .” She said the word, and then looked directly at him, so that he was suddenly aware of those disconcerting eyes. “Father, it is true that most of the women attending the Thursday services are exactly as you have described them. Silly ignorant women playing at religion, taking part in a fad because it
is
a fad. They think it fashionable to flaunt their liberal ideas. . . .”

“Linguists are becoming
chic
, eh?”

“Yes, Father. Now that infants from outside the Lines are sharing the Interfaces. . . . You do
see
, Father.”

“I do. And it's as ugly as the prejudice was.”

“As you say, Father.”

“Your
point
, Sister!”

“My point is that the women of the Lines are something else entirely. They are a good deal more than silly ignorant women leading a fad and glorying in their chance to do something fashionable for once in their poor dreary lives. Father Dorien, the women of the Lines are dangerous.”

“Dangerous. Indeed.”

“Yes, Father. I refer to spiritual dangers only, of course—for other women. And among the dangers they represent is this one: they are
not
going to let me have a copy of that grammar.”

“Ah!” Dorien rubbed his chin, considering that. “Do you know why that should be, Sister? A polite request from a harmless nun, refused in that rude way? Did they offer you an explanation?”

“Oh, yes.”

“May we hear it?”

“They would be humiliated to have me see it in its present state,” she told him. Grimly, looking down again, and he was glad of that; her eyes distracted him. “It's no more than a rough
draft
. Much too unformed, much too embryonic, to be examined by anyone outside the family. The men of the Lines would be
extremely
angry if anything so clumsy were to be seen by a stranger. They are
working
on it—when they have a spare moment or two, which is not often—and when it is fit to be seen they will just be
delighted
to give me a copy. And so on, Father.”

“This . . . rhapsodizing. It does not represent genuine womanly modesty?”

There were those eyes again, and he very nearly looked downward
himself
to avoid them.

“I am
absolutely
certain that they are lying,” she stated. “Deliberately and willfully lying. No question about it.”

“Hmmm. You're most emphatic about it, Sister.”

“It sounds very unwholesome,” put in Father Agar. “Disgraceful. I don't like it at all.”

“Do they,” Dorien wondered aloud, “like so many Protestants, look upon you as a sort of distant relative of Satan? Lechery in the convent basements, and you its representative? Is that the reason for the lies?”

Sister Miriam looked uncomfortable, but she said only, “Perhaps that is the explanation, Father.”

“But you don't think so.”

“No.”

“What
do
you think it is, then?”

“I think they are up to something,” she said flatly. “And I say again—I think they are dangerous. I think they need curbing.”

“They are only women, Sister.”

She made no reply, but the weight of her doubts hung heavy in the room, and the four of them sat a while in silence, thinking. Until finally Father Dorien spoke, disapprovingly.

“Sister Miriam,” he said, “I will make no comment at this time on your assessment of the situation. Frankly, if it were any woman but yourself speaking, I would tell you that I considered your remarks to be symptomatic of hysteria. Since it
is
you speaking, I will reserve my judgment, but I ask that you guard your tongue in future. And of course, if you have convinced yourself that the women are a threat, it will be an additional motivation for you to carry out your assigned tasks; perhaps a touch of hysteria is not misplaced in these circumstances. But as for the grammar in that databank . . .”

“Yes, Father?”

“Don't concern yourself about it, Sister. A copy will be made available to you. What format would you prefer?”

“Could it be a paper copy?”

“Isn't that an unnecessary extravagance?”

“Forgive me, Father, but I would find it easier to plan the changes in the text if I could sit down somewhere alone with a paper copy and a pencil. I would be uneasy displaying those texts on a comscreen in the convent.”

“She has a point, Dorien,” said Father Agar. “Some of the nuns are so brainless—the chance of contamination, if they saw this stuff, or at least of unseemly gossip, would be considerable. Sister Miriam, I commend you for your scrupulous concern for your weaker sisters.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said.

“Get her her paper copy, Dorien, for goodness' sakes,” Father Claude said crossly. “We can certainly afford one.”

Father Dorien nodded. They certainly could. “All right,” he agreed. “As you wish.”

Can you really do that?
her eyes were asking him.
Can you really get into the computer databanks of the Lines?

Even from this woman, whose soul he had guided since her fourteenth year, and for whom he felt a respect he accorded few men, he would not tolerate impudence. An impudent woman, especially with this woman's gifts, was the first day of a plague. Encouraged, she would be the second and the third and the fourth. That had happened on this Earth before—it was not going to happen again. He locked glances with her, and felt something he could not have named, a kind of giving way, a joint snapping somewhere, as she looked down. He would show her who needed curbing!

“The material will be in your hands within forty-eight hours, Sister.” He kept his voice as impersonal as any robot's. “I will then expect you to move quickly, and to keep me informed at every step. Do not take it upon yourself to decide that this is too trivial to tell me and that is too obvious to tell me, and so on—
do not presume
. You will report every detail to me, and
I
will decide what is to be ignored. You will remember your station, or you will be removed from this task and replaced by someone more suitable.”

“Yes, Father,” said the nun softly. “It is my privilege to obey.”

“You will keep your absurd opinions to yourself,” he continued, angry now, and not sure why. “You will not express them in front of the impressionable sisters participating in this project with you, nor will you express them anywhere
else
. I am disappointed in you, Sister Miriam Rose.
Deeply
disappointed!”

He could feel the eyes of the other two priests upon him; as they had thought him too indulgent when he ordered Miriam to sit in their presence, they now thought him far too rough, he knew that. And what they knew about controlling women would not have constrained a girl of three; he only hoped they would have sense enough to keep their unsolicited opinions to themselves, because he was in no mood to be gentle with
them
, either.

“This meeting is adjourned,” he announced brusquely, jabbing the stud for the comscreen to banish the offensive text. He stood up swiftly, gathering his belongings as he did so, forcing
the other men to follow his example or join the standing-versus-seated split in the rank of Sister Miriam. This brought them to their feet with astonishing speed, as he had intended that it should, and he led them out of the room as rapidly as was consistent with any semblance of propriety.

Sister Miriam brought up the rear, well behind the men, too far back to hear Agar's sputtering or Claude's complaining or Dorien's fierce order to them both to shut up for the sake of Christ, which he meant literally.

CHAPTER 17

“Dearest Allegra Anne,

“My poor little girl! you were
absolutely right
to contact me
at once
when you found those disgusting holograms hidden in Beverly's study-chaise! Of
course
you should have written! Of
course
you did the right thing! And of
course—
of
course,
Allegra Anne—you can trust me not to say one single word about this to anybody else! Haven't I always told you that you could come to me with anything, no matter
how dreadful?
Heavens, what an
awful
experience for you! You are Mother's brave good girl. (And no, I certainly will
not
say anything to your father!)

“I know, darling, that I can rely on you to spend as little time as possible with that awful Beverly until I can arrange to have you moved to another room. And you do remember, don't you, sweetheart, that Mother
always
told you it would be best for you to have a private room instead of sharing one? And Mother was right
, wasn't
she?

“Now, you must just put this whole nasty episode right out of your mind, darling, and concentrate on learning to be the very best wife any man could possibly want. We will never mention this again, and you are not to
think
of it ever again. Mother will take care of the whole thing, don't you worry!

“Many, many tender kisses, from . . .

Your proud and loving Mother”

“Dear Mrs. Qwydda:

“I regret to inform you that my daughter Allegra Anne—who has the misfortune to share a room at Briary Marital Academy with your daughter Beverly—has written to me in great distress to tell me that
your
child has a sizable collection of pornographic holograms hidden in their rooms. Including, my dear Mrs. Qwydda,
sets of holos depicting Terran males engaged in sexual acts with both humanoid
and
nonhumanoid alien females!

“You will of course understand the nausea I feel, as well as my concern for my daughter's welfare. I have taken immediate steps to move my daughter to a private room, and have notified the Dean of Students at Briary of the reason for that action. I have also notified the Membership Boards of the major national women's clubs and their junior auxiliaries to be alert for any membership application from your daughter. I think I can safely say that my influence is sufficient to guarantee that Beverly will have no opportunity to become a member of any club worth joining.

“I respectfully suggest, my dear Mrs. Qwydda, that you seek immediate psychiatric treatment for your unfortunate child; you have my profound sympathy.

            
“Very truly yours,

            
Evvalinda Eustace (Mrs. B. B. Eustace)”

When Jo-Bethany was paged and told that she had a visitor, she was surprised, because she had been nearly three years at Chornyak Household and had never had a visitor before, nor had she ever expected to have one. When the visitor turned out to be Ham Klander, the surprise became astonishment—and cold suspicion. If Ham had wanted to see her, he would have sent a message summoning her to appear; he would never have made the effort of traveling to Chornyak Household for that purpose. And the idea that he would do so on one of the three days of the weekend, when he was ordinarily free from the brain-curdling tedium of his job, was too implausible even to consider. That he was here, nevertheless, meant that he wanted something from her; that he wanted something from her meant trouble.

She faced him, her hands clasped behind her back, and waited. In this place, in her uniform, he did not outrank her in quite the same way that he did in his own home, where he was undisputed potentate. She saw puzzlement on his face, while his mind—slow, but full always of an animal cunning—gradually sensed that there was a difference, and then even more gradually figured out what the difference was. That face of his had always been her most dependable source of information about him; it was as easy to read as foot-high block letters in black ink. She watched the realization of his disadvantage appear on it, and the petulant displeasure, and she braced for the inevitable bluster.

He didn't let her down. “Think you're smart, don't you?”
was his opening remark, with a matching sneer. “Think you're really
some
body, don't you, Jo-baby?”

“Good morning, Ham,” said Jo, ignoring it. “What can I do for you?”

“Maybe I'm here to take you home for
good
, Scrawny . . . looks to me like you could do with a little reminding of your proper
place!
” He had his thumbs in his belt loops, and he was rocking on the balls of his feet; no doubt he was thinking of himself as the Big Bull of the Pampas. According to Melissa, that was what he fancied himself in bed; he would, she had told Jo-Bethany, stand in the doorway of their room naked, waggling his bulky erection at her, and shout, “Get ready, you lucky little bitch, here comes the Big Bull of the Pampas!” What happened after that, Jo-Bethany had carefully managed never to find out; what a pampas was she did not know, and she was very much doubted that Ham did.