Part 89 (2/2)
”Poppyc.o.c.k!” She jabbed at the fabric with the big needle and narrowly missed impaling her finger. ”You might as well talk of reconciling Adolf Hitler or some other infamous monster.”
”Look who strains the quality of mercy-Miss Scrupulosity, who wore out Amerie's ears and patience, the one who's afraid to trust anybody but herself!” Anatoly popped a handful of crisp pea pods into his mouth and chewed ferociously.
”We're not discussing me,” she snapped, ”we're talking about a man who instigated an interplanetary war, who was responsible for the deaths of four billion people and who nearly destroyed the Milieu because of his twisted ambition. How you could even think of offering him forgiveness-”
”Nu, the Prodigal Son would get a chilly welcome at your place!”
”Don't be ridiculous.”
”What's ridiculous is a high-and-mighty pizda trying to put limits on the pity of G.o.d.”
”If you think,” she said coldly, ”that you can avoid lack of charity by calling me vulgar names in Russian, let me remind you that any metapsychic can-”
The words died in her throat. Anatoly whirled around to see an apparition forming at the far end of the garden, where there was a gravelled drying yard. Not one but two black cerametal hulks materialized, their great ma.s.s pressing down the stones with an ominous crunching sound. Behind them stood a large computer console and a collection of instrumentation cabinets that occupied most of the yard.
”Bozhye moi!” whispered the priest.
The righthand suit of armour seemed to go momentarily transparent. Then Marc was standing outside it and the cerametal was us substantial as before.
”Good morning, Elizabeth. Brother.”
The friar offered a lame grin and a wave. Elizabeth simply nodded.
Marc indicated the twin CE rigs and the auxiliaries. ”The other suit is empty. This is by way of a demonstration, to show you of my progress in teleportation. I can't quite manage the power-modules yet.”
”Is this-demonstration the only reason you asked to meet with me?” Elizabeth asked.
”Of course not.” Marc flashed his smile. ”I've brought you the adaptation of Brendan's program.”
She gave a joyous shout, dropped the scapular and sewing kit, and ran toward the black-clad figure. Then she suddenly pulled up short and her arms fell back to her sides. Marc's smile faded.
Anatoly hoisted the basket of peas, grabbed the fallen scapular in pa.s.sing, shot a disgusted ”V'yperdka!” at Elizabeth, and stomped off to the kitchen.
Elizabeth flushed. She said to Marc, ”I'm sorry if I appeared ungrateful.”
”It's quite all right. I understand. And Anatoly is a churlish old peasant, isn't he? If it's any consolation to you, he's called me much worse names. It seems to be his customary spiritual counselling technique: the tough crust over the creamed ham pie ... He worries about you, Elizabeth.”
The two of them sat down on the bench under the tree and Marc drew off his gloves. The pressure suit was completely dry and there was no trace of the usual brow wounds. His mind bore an impress of profound excitement.
Elizabeth said, ”When we didn't hear from you after a week had gone by, I a.s.sumed the solution to the redactive problem had eluded you.”
”I'm sorry it took so long. I was distracted by other matters, and the adaptation proved to be quite a challenge. I wanted to shorten the time of the operation as well as spread it among members of a manageable metaconcert. This is what I did.”
And he displayed the construct.
”But it's so simple!” she exclaimed. ”The way you've elided the tedious backtracking and shoring manoeuvres ... and incorporated the operancy resultant into the ongoing redactive trend.
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