Part 45 (2/2)
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 nouris.h.i.+ng.
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