No one remembered, offhand, when the OA had last met, though virtually everyone knew that the reason for the meeting had been a discussion of the Voorstod problem. The site of that meeting had been the Great Library of the Advisory, where, it was presumed, any future meetings would also occur. On ordinary occasions, the library was empty or scantily occupied by research fellows or, very rarely, visited by scholars.
Which explained the dogged and martyred attitude of the messenger who did, at last, find Member of Authority, Member of the Advisory, and Notable Scholar, Notadamdirabong Cringh, at one of the long, silent tables in said library. Cringh was deeply involved with a dusty, huge, and very old real book, over which the information stage scanner was laboring with difficulty, and he did not at first see the messenger standing before him with flushed cheeks and an air of frayed annoyance.
“Aaah, yes,” he said at last, when the messenger’s active fidgeting drew the attention of his aide, who nudged him. “Aaah, yes.”
“Message, Notable Scholar. For the Scholar’s eyes only.” The messenger held out his skin snip, and Cringh allowed a few dermal cells to be dragged from a finger in return for a square, metallic object, which he recognized, after regarding it thoughtfully for a few moments, as an envelope. It probably contained real paper with words on it. He could not recall having seen an envelope actually in use before, though he had, of course, seen them in museums and read of their being used.
How very interesting, he told himself, squinching his eyelids into a net of tiny wrinkles, pursing his lips into another such net. Notadamdirabong Cringh was an old, extremely wrinkled man. He liked to think his interior was younger than his exterior by a number of decades, despite the illogicality of that wish. He rubbed his hand across his totally bald and equally wrinkled head and asked himself why anyone would go to the trouble of sending a written message in a tamper proof envelope, when one might equally well place a personal message into the Archives directed to Scholar Cringh’s identity and personal attention.
How intriguing! He could think of several possible answers.
Perhaps because it was known that other persons might see, either by intention or accident, messages placed in the Archives for private viewing only. It wasn’t supposed to be possible, but it was possible, everyone knew that. Some people were unbelievably nosy and would actually go out of their way to see messages directed to other people!
Perhaps because the person sending the message did not have access to Scholar Cringh’s identity number. Though that seemed unlikely. The identity number was right there in the roster for all System to see.
Perhaps because the person sending the message was a decorative hobbyist, a what-you-call-it, calligrapher, someone who enjoyed making words on paper.
Perhaps because the delivery of an actual message carried more psychic weight than the delivery of a mere Archives message.
Perhaps because the writing of the message had some spiritual significance of which Cringh had been heretofore unaware.
Perhaps …
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Cringh’s favorite aide asked, from behind his left shoulder.
“You spoil all the fun,” grunted Cringh. “I was going to figure it out, first.”
“It might be urgent,” the aide said, purring. Her name was Lurilile. She was willowlike in her grace and ferretlike in her abilities. She had a face like a corrupted angel. She was from Ahabar, though no one knew that but herself and those who had sent her. Queen Wilhulmia knew her, of course, and was deeply concerned about her presence upon Authority.
“Urgent, maybe …,” Lurilile suggested again. “… what’s inside?”
Cringh nodded, slowly. The one thing he hadn’t thought of was that it might be urgent.
He touched the envelope, which recognized his cellular structure as being compatible with the delivery instructions, and opened along a seam, emitting a tiny hiss of damp air and a small unpleasant smell.
“Ninfadel?” shuddered Lurilile, in the tone of one detecting a fart.
Cringh shook his head as he examined the contents. “Chowdari,” he said. “From Reticingh, who was in his bath at the time. Or so he says. Though why he should think I care where he was at the time rather escapes me.”
“So?”
“So, there’s a copy of a report in here that somebody named Shanrandinore Damzel gave to the Circle of Scrutators, plus a set of questions Reticingh came up with. Reticingh wants to know what I think of them. We. What we think of them. Unofficially.”
“We, the six High Baidee members of the Religion Advisory? Or we, the three Baidee members of the Theology Panel? Or we, the whole panel?”
“We, the whole OA. However, Reticingh stresses that it is an unofficial request.”
“How can anyone ask something of the Official Advisory unofficially?”
“One wants to say it would make no difference. Nothing ever happens when they’re asked officially, anyhow.”
“Shit,” sneered Lurilile, puckering her lips and making kisses at him. “Everyone knows that.”
“Might be kind of fun to find out if the OA can think.”
“Might be kind of fun to find out if the OA is alive.”
“That, too.”
“Though, if taking bribes is evidence of life, we know parts of it are burgeoning.”
Cringh smiled sweetly. His colleagues from Phansure were not serious enough about religion to feel guilty about buying and selling it. On the other hand, his colleague the Bishop Absolute from Ahabar certainly was. As were some of the xeno-theo-whats-its. Lurilile had been trying for almost a year to find out who, and Notadamdirabong wasn’t going to tell her. He liked having her around too much to give her what she wanted.
“Be interesting to find out,” he said again, pulling himself out of the chair he’d been sitting in for several hours.
“Not going to read it here?”
“In my suite, I think. Besides, it’s nearly dinner time.”
“Wouldn’t want to
