The Fourth Profession

“But the ship!” he whispered. “What of the ship?” His agony was mine; for the ship must be protected…

At one fifteen the Monk had progressed halfway across the bottom row of bottles. He slid from the stool, paid for his drinks in one-dollar bills, and drifted to the door and out.

All he needed was a scythe and hour glass, I thought, watching him go. And what I needed was a long morning’s sleep. And I wasn’t going to get it.

“Be sure nobody stops him,” I told Morris.

“Nobody will. But he’ll be followed.”

“No point. The Garment to Wear Among Strangers is a lot of things. It’s bracing; it helps the Monk hold human shape. It’s a shield and an air filter. And it’s a cloak of invisibility.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll tell you about it if I have time. That’s how he got out here, probably. One of the crewmen divided, and then one stayed and one walked. He had two weeks.”

Morris stood up and tore off his sport jacket. His shirt was wet through. He said, “What about a stomach pump for you?”

“No good. Most of the RNA-enzyme must be in my blood by now. You’ll be better off if you spend your time getting down everything I can remember about Monks, while I can remember anything at all. It’ll be nine or ten hours before everything goes.” Which was a flat-out lie, of course.

“Okay. Let me get the dictaphone going again.”

“It’ll cost you money.”

Morris suddenly had a hard look. “Oh? How much?”

I’d thought about that most carefully. “One hundred thousand dollars. And if you’re thinking of arguing me down, remember whose time we’re wasting.”

“I wasn’t.” He was, but he’d changed his mind.

“Good. We’ll transfer the money now, while I can still read your mind.”

“All right.”

He offered to make room for me in the booth, but I declined. The glass wouldn’t stop me from reading Morris’s soul.

He came out silent; for there was something he was afraid to know. Then: “What about the Monks? What about our sun?”

“I talked that one around. That’s why I don’t want him molested. He’ll convince others.”

“Talked him around? How?”

“It wasn’t easy.” And suddenly I would have given my soul to sleep. “The profession pill put it in his genes; he must protect the ship. It’s in me too. I know how strong it is.”

“Then…”

“Don’t be an ass, Morris. The ship’s perfectly safe where it is, in orbit around the Moon. A sailship’s only in danger when it’s between stars, far from help.”

“Oh.”

“Not that that convinced him. It only let him consider the ethics of the situation rationally.”

“Suppose someone else unconvinces him?”

“It could happen. That’s why we’d better build the launching laser.”

* * *

The next twelve hours were rough.

In the first four hours I gave them everything I could remember about the Monk teleport system, Monk technology, Monk family life, Monk ethics, relations between Monks and aliens, details on aliens, directions of various inhabited and uninhabited worlds—everything. Morris and the Secret Service men who had been posing as customers sat around me like boys around a campfire, listening to stories. But Louise made us fresh coffee, then went to sleep in one of the booths.

Then I let myself slack off.

By nine in the morning I was flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, dictating a random useless bit of information every thirty seconds or so. By eleven there was a great black pool of lukewarm coffee inside me, my eyes ached marginally more than the rest of me, and I was producing nothing.

I was convincing, and I knew it.

But Morris wouldn’t let it go at that. He believed me. I felt him believing me. But he was going through the routine anyway, because it couldn’t hurt. If I was useless to him, if I knew nothing, there was no point in playing soft. What could he lose?

He accused me of making everything up. He accused me of faking the pills. He made me sit up, and damn near caught me that way. He used obscure words and phrases from mathematics and Latin and fan vocabulary. He got nowhere. There wasn’t any way to trick me.

At two in the afternoon he had someone drive me home.

Every muscle in me ached; but I had to fight to maintain my exhausted slump. Else my hindbrain would have lifted me onto my toes and poised me against a possible shift in artificial gravity. The strain was double, and it hurt. It had hurt for hours, sitting with my shoulders hunched and my head hanging. But now—if Morris saw me walking like a trampoline performer…

Morris’s man got me to my room and left me.

* * *

I woke in darkness and sensed someone in my room. Someone who meant me no harm. In fact, Louise. I went back to sleep.

I woke again at dawn. Louise was in my easy chair, her feet propped on a corner of the bed. Her eyes were open. She said, “Breakfast?”

I said, “Yah. There isn’t much in the fridge.”

“I brought things.”

“All right.” I closed my eyes.

Five minutes later I decided I was all slept out. I got up and went to see how she was doing.

There was bacon frying, there was bread already buttered for toasting in the Toast-R-Oven, there was a pan hot for eggs, and the eggs scrambled in a bowl. Louise was filling the percolator.

“Give that here a minute,” I said. It only had water in it. I held the pot in my hands, closed my eyes and tried to remember…

Ah.

I knew I’d done it right even before the heat touched my hands. The pot held hot, fragrant coffee.

“We were wrong about the first pill,” I told Louise. She was looking at me very curiously. “What happened that second night was this. The Monk had a translator gadget, but he wasn’t too happy with it. It kept screaming in his ear. Screaming English, too loud, for my benefit.

“He could turn off the part that was shouting English at me, and it would still whisper a Monk translation of what I was saying. But first he had to teach me the Monk language. He didn’t have a pill to do that. He didn’t have a generalized language-learning course either, if there is one, which I doubt.

“He was pretty drunk, but he found something that would serve. The profession it taught me was an old one, and it doesn’t have a one-or-two-word name. But if it did, the word would be prophet!”

“Prophet,” said Louise. “Prophet?” She was doing a remarkable thing. She was listening with all her concentration, and scrambling eggs at the same time.

“Or disciple. Maybe apostle comes closer. Anyway, it included the Gift of Tongues, which was what the Monk was after. But it included other talents too.”

“Like turning cold water into hot coffee?”

“Miracles, right. I used the same talent to make the little pink amnesia pills disappear before they hit my stomach. But an apostle’s major talent is persuasion.