moment of his interrupting the singing with a sonorous declamation of passages from the
He was never sure whether one remembered moment was real or imaginary. He could taste a warm mouth and feel the tingling of his fingers at the touch of Martian-American flesh; but he was never certain whether this was true memory or part of the Ashtaroth-begotten dream that had begun to ride him.
Nor was he ever certain which of his symbols, or to whom~, was so blatantly and clumsily executed as to bring forth a gleeful shout of “God-damned Christian dog!”
He did remember marveling that those who most resolutely disbelieved in God still needed Him to blaspheme by. And then the torment began.
He never knew whether or not a mouth had touched his lips, but there was no question that many solid fists had found them. He never knew whether his fingers had touched breasts, but they had certainly been trampled by heavy heels. He remembered a face that laughed aloud while its owner swung the chair that broke two ribs. He remembered another face with red wine dripping over it from an upheld bottle, and he remembered the gleam of the candlelight on the bottle as it swung down.
The next he remembered was the ditch and the morning and the cold. It was particularly cold because all of his clothes were gone, along with much of his skin. He could not move. He could only lie there and look.
He saw them walk by, the ones he had spoken with yesterday, the ones who had been friendly. He saw them glance at him and turn their eyes quickly away. He saw the waitress pass by. She did not even glance; she knew what was in the ditch.
The robass was nowhere in sight He tried to project his thoughts, tried desperately to hope in the psi factor.
A man whom Thomas had not seen before was coming along fingering the buttons of his coat. There were ten small buttons and one large one, and the man’s lips were moving silently.
This man looked into the ditch. He paused a moment and looked around him.
There was a shout of loud laughter somewhere in the near distance.
The Christian hastily walked on down the pathway, devoutly saying his button-rosary.
Thomas closed his eyes.
He opened them on a small neat room. They moved from the rough wooden walls to the rough but clean and warm blankets that covered him. Then they moved to the lean dark face that was smiling over him.
“You feel better now?” a deep voice asked. “I know. You want to say ‘Where am I?’ and you think it will sound foolish. You are at the inn. It is the only good room.”
“I can’t afford—” Thomas started to say. Then he remembered that he could afford literally nothing. Even his few emergency credits had vanished when he was stripped.
“It’s all right. For the time being, rm paying,” said the deep voice. “You feel like maybe a little food?”
'Perhaps a little herring,” said Thomas.. . and was asleep within the next minute.
When he next awoke there was a cup of hot coffee beside him. The real thing, too, he promptly discovered. Then the deep voice said apologetically, “Sandwiches. It is all they have in the inn today.”
Only on the second sandwich did Thomas pause long enough to notice that it was smoked swamphog, one of his favorite meats. He ate the second with greater leisure, and was reaching for a third when the dark man said, “Maybe that is enough for now.
The rest later.”
Thomas gestured at the plate. “Won’t you have one?”
“No thank you. They are all swamphog,”
Confused thoughts went through Thomas’ mind. The Venusian swamphog is a ruminant. Its hoofs are not cloven. He tried to remember what he had once known of Mosaic dietary law. Someplace in Leviticus, wasn’t it?
The dark man followed his thoughts.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not kosher.”
Thomas frowned. “You admit to me that you’re an Orthodox Jew? How can you trust me? How do you know I’m not a Checker?”
“Believe me, I trust you. You were very sick when I brought you here. I sent everybody away because I did not trust them to hear things you said. . . Father,” he added lightly.
Thomas struggled with words. “I . . . I didn’t deserve you. I was drunk and disgraced myself and my office. And when I was lying there in the ditch I didn’t even think to pray. I put my trust in. . . God help me in the modified psi factor of a robass!”
“And He did help you,” the Jew reminded him. “Or He allowed me to.”
“And they all walked by,” Thomas groaned. “Even one that was saying his rosary.
He went right on by. And then you come along—the good Samaritan.”
“Believe me,” said the Jew wryly, “if there is one thing I’m not, it’s a Samaritan.
Now go to sleep again. I will try to find your robass and the other thing.”
He had left the room before Thomas could ask him what he meant.
Later that day the Jew—Abraham, his name was—reported that the robass was safely sheltered from the weather behind the inn. Apparently it had been wise enough not to startle him by engaging in conversation.
It was not until the next day that he reported on “the other thing.”
“Believe me, Father,” he said gently, “after nursing you there’s little I don’t know about who you are and why you’re here. Now there are some Christians here I know, and they know me. We trust each other. Jews may still be hated; but no longer, God be praised, by worshipers of the same Lord. So I explained about you. One of them,”
he added with a smile, “turned very red.”
“God has forgiven him,” said Thomas. “There were people near— the same people who attacked me. Could he be expected to risk his life for mine?”
“I seem to recall that that is precisely what your Messiah did expect. But who’s being particular? Now that they know who you are, they want to help you. See: they gave me this map for you. The trail is steep and tricky; it’s good you have the robass.
They ask just one favor of you: When you come back will you hear their confession and say Mass? There’s a cave near here where it’s safe.”
“Of course. These friends of yours, they’ve told you about Aquin?”
The Jew hesitated a long time before he said slowly, “Yes. . .“
“And . . . ?“
“Believe me, my friend, I don’t know. So it seems a miracle. It helps to keep their faith alive. My own faith. . .
“You don’t mind,” Thomas asked, “if I pray for you, in my faith?”
Abraham grinned. “Pray in good health, Father.”
The not-quite-healed ribs ached agonizingly as he climbed into the foam saddle.
The robass stood patiently while he fed in the coordinates from the map. Not until they were well away from the village did it speak.
“Anyway,” it said, “now you’re safe for good.”
“What do you mean?”
“As soon as we get down from the mountain you deliberately look up a Checker.
You turn in the Jew. From then on you are down in the books as a faithful servant of the Technarchy and you have not harmed a hair of the head of one of your own flock.”
Thomas snorted. “You’re slipping, Satan. That one doesn’t even remotely tempt me. It’s inconceivable.”
“I did best did not I with the breasts. Your God has said it the spirit indeed is willing but the flesh is weak.”
“And right now,” said Thomas, “the flesh is too weak for even fleshly temptations. Save your breath. . . or whatever it is you use.”
They climbed the mountain in silence. The trail indicated by the coordinates was a winding and confused one, obviously designed deliberately to baffle any possible Checkers.
