accepted it. This, as much as his terrifying claws and dentition, told them all that they were dealing with an entirely different species.
Supaari looked to the others. 'Who then is the Elder?'
Emilio cleared his throat, as much to reassure himself that he could make a sound as to draw Supaari's attention. He turned and indicated D. W. Yarbrough.
D.W., heart hammering, had not moved or spoken since he'd made a dive for the Winchester and, priest or not, prepared to blow the alien bastard in front of him straight to hell. He had thought that he would see Emilio's severed head fall at his feet and he doubted that he'd ever forget that moment or the flood of blind rage that would have ended Supaari's life if Emilio hadn't taken care of the situation himself with such dispatch. 'This one is the Elder,' D.W. heard Emilio say, 'though not the oldest. His decisions are for all of us.'
Supaari saw only a middle-sized monster holding a rod that smelled of carbon steel, sulfur and lead. With no intermediary to speak his names, Supaari took the initiative and briefly moved his hands to his forehead. 'This one is called Supaari, third-born, of the Gaha'ana lineage, whose landname is VaGayjur.' He waited, ears cocked expectantly toward Sandoz.
Emilio realized that, as the interpreter, he was supposed to introduce Yarbrough. Winging it, he said, 'The Elder is called Dee, first-born, of the Yarbrough lineage, whose landname is VaWaco.'
A warrior, Supaari assumed, quite rightly but for the wrong reasons. Since their common language was Ruanja, he held out both hands, not knowing what else to do.
Yarbrough handed his rifle to George with a look that said, Use it if necessary. Then he stepped forward and laid his fingers in the cupped hollows of Supaari's long upturned claws.
Anne was tempted to laugh out loud but she didn't; forty-five years of dinner parties will out. Instead she stepped up to their guest and greeted him in the Runa manner without another thought. When their hands parted, she said,
He did. All in all, it was quite a day.
28
NAPLES:
AUGUST 2060
Relying on vague directions from the porter and dead reckoning, John Candotti worked his way into the bowels of the retreat house to a dimly lit cellar that had been converted to a modern laundry facility in the 1930s, updated almost a hundred years later and never again since. The Society of Jesus, John noted, was willing to commit to interstellar travel on less than two weeks' notice, but it did not rush into things like new laundry equipment. The ultrasonic washers were antiques now but still functional. In sunny weather, the wet wash was still line-dried. The whole setup reminded John of his grandmother's basement except, of course, she'd used a microwave dryer, rain or shine.
He had almost walked past the room when, listening more closely, he realized that he'd just heard Emilio Sandoz humming. Actually, he hadn't been sure it was Sandoz, since John had never before heard Emilio make any sound remotely like humming. But there he was, unshaven and comfortable-looking in somebody else's old clothes, pulling damp bed linen out of one of the washers and piling it into a rattan basket that was probably older than the Vatican.
John cleared his throat. Emilio turned at the sound and looked stern. 'I hope you don't expect to walk into my office and see me without an appointment, young man.'
John grinned and looked around. 'Brother Edward said they'd put you to work down here. Very nice. Kind of Bauhaus.'
'Form follows function. Dirty laundry requires this sort of ambience.' Emilio held up a wet pillowcase. 'Prepare to be dazzled.' He managed to fold it remarkably well before tossing it onto the pile in the basket.
'So those are the new braces!' John cried. The hearings had been canceled for a few weeks while Sandoz worked with Paola Marino, the Milanese bioengineer whom the Father General had brought in when Father Singh couldn't correct the defects in the original braces. Sandoz was reluctant to be seen by anyone new, but Giuliani insisted. Things had evidently gone well. 'I am dazzled. That's wonderful.'
'Yes. I am very flashy with towels as well, but there are limits.' Emilio turned back to the machines. 'Socks, for example. You guys send them down inside out, they go back upstairs clean but in the same condition.'
'Hey, my dad had the same rule at home.' John watched Sandoz work. His grip wasn't perfect and he still had to pay close attention to the movement, but the improvement was remarkable. 'Those are really good, aren't they.'
'They're much easier to control. Lighter. Look: the bruises are clearing up.' Emilio turned and held out his arms for John's inspection. The new braces were radically different, less a cage than a set of wrist splints with electronic pickups. The fingers were supported from below with flat bands, jointed but lying close to his hands. There were finer bands that crossed over the top of the phalanges and a set of three flat straps that held the splints to his metacarpals, wrists and forearms. John tried not to notice how atrophied the muscles were and concentrated on the machinery as Sandoz explained the mechanisms.
'My hands and arms ache, but I think it's because I'm using them more,' Emilio said, straightening. 'Here's the best part. Watch this.'
Sandoz went to a big table meant for sorting and folding the laundry and bent to lay one forearm flat against it. He rocked the arm a little to the outside to activate a small switch and the brace popped open, hinged on the side opposite the thumb. He pulled his hand out and then managed to get it back into position without assistance, although it took a certain amount of frowning effort before he toggled the switch again and the brace reclosed.
'I can do it all by myself,' Emilio said with a three-year-old's lisp. He added in his own voice, 'You cannot imagine what a difference that makes.'
John beamed, pleased to see how happy the man seemed. Everyone had underestimated how depressing the
'Very impressive,' John said. Sandoz lugged the basket to the screened door, which he pushed open with his back. John followed him out to the clothesline. 'That's got to be what? Seven or eight kilos, huh?'
'Better microgearing,' Emilio told him and began hanging out the wash. It was slow going. He did okay, but the clothespins were apt to pop sideways out of his grip. 'Miss Marino may need to add some friction pads on the thumb and forefinger,' he said a little irritably the fourth time it happened.
This was the same man who'd put up with the old braces for months without complaint! It was nice to hear him ease up. There's nothing wrong with this guy that a little honest bitching wouldn't cure, John thought. It was a cheerful oversimplification, he knew, but it was just such a pleasure to see Sandoz do well. 'This is going to sound dumb,' John warned him, 'but those're actually very good looking.'
'Italian design,' Emilio said admiringly. He held one hand out in front of himself, like a bride gazing at her new ring, and said in an airy English accent, ' 'Next year, everyone will be wearing them. »
' 'Ah, I see you're using Bonetti's defense against me, ' said Emilio, this time in a bad Spanish accent.
''Never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line! ' John declared, sitting on the low stone wall that bordered the side yard. They traded lines from the movie for a while, until John leaned back, locking his hands around one knee, and said, 'This is great, man. I never thought I'd see you doing so well.'
Emilio stopped moving, sheet in hand, realizing with some shock that he was enjoying himself. It brought him up short. He hardly knew what to do with the sensation. There was an almost automatic response: an impulse to
