grimaced in admiration, exposing large, horsy teeth.
“Permit me—I—I am not disturbing you?”
“Not at all.”
“Well … you must know that the failures of the Mission are becoming so grave that—”
“You’re a missionary?” I asked. He smiled.
“I was speaking of our division, not of our dedication to the Lord.”
“Your division?”
“The Theological Division. Quite recently, Father Amnion from the Confidence Section misappropriated…”
And he went on. But I lost the thread of what he said—the dead man’s little finger, the one that refused to bend with the others, was now moving. The other fingers seemed carved from one piece, like a wax model of a shell, but this one, plumper and pinker than the rest, twitched back and forth, as if to express the slightly rakish character of the deceased. Yet there was something so incorporeal, so fantastically light in that motion, one thought less of resurrection and more of hummingbirds and the kind of tiny insects that appear only in a blur before us. The tremor became more and more pronounced. “Impossible!” I cried. The monk cringed and clutched me.
“You have my sacred word! I speak the truth!”
“What? Oh, I see… Well, tell me more,” I said, suddenly realizing I preferred his oppressive company to that of the dead man. Besides, the dead man wouldn’t dare attempt anything more in the presence of two people.
“The confession files are poorly kept, there’s no supervision. At least half of our plants have been spotted. Brother Lieutenant Gatekeeper is extremely careless about giving out passes and writing reports. The Holy Spirit Section has completely neglected provocation activities, angel-baiting…”
“You don’t say,” I muttered. The finger was still. I knew I should leave immediately, but didn’t want to be impolite.
“And how is the situation regarding the performance of religious duties?” I threw out, reluctantly playing the role of interrogator—against my better judgment, but at this point I had little choice.
The monk’s excitement mounted. The passion of informing was on him. He hissed, his watery eyes glittered, he foamed at the mouth.
“The practice of religious duties!” he said, hoarse with impatience to cast off the heavy weight of accusations he had to make. “The sermons are not effective, attendance is down, the regulations on bugging prayers are generally disregarded. This holds for all denominations, but I speak only of my own. The transgressions in the Higher Goal Section would have led to a scandal; they were hushed up only because Brother Agent Malchus was able to supply the sexton with several willing nuns. And Chaplain Major Orfini, instead of notifying the authorities, plays with mysticism and preaches retribution not of this world.”
“You mean, off-planet?”
“If only! Oh no, he—but excuse me, I don’t even know your name…”
“That’s all right.”
“Of course … now the retribution of Judgment Day, the Apocalypse, that I can understand, thanks mainly to the most efficient methods our scientific colleagues have made possible … and then, to make matters worse, Malchus goes around bragging left and right that he’s cracked the Bible code! Do you know what that means?”
“Blasphemy?” I offered.
“Blasphemy the Good Lord can take care of, that’s no problem. It’s our whole order that’s at stake, the very theological foundations for the dogma of Divine Desertion!”
“Fine, fine,” I said, impatient, “let’s skip the theories. This Brother Agent Malchus—what was that all about? Get to the point, Brother.”
“As you wish. We’ve known for a long time that Malchus was a triple agent. The way he said his psalms, you understand… Brother Almigens checked him out and we planted a few civilians. For instance, he was seen making certain signs while prostrate before the altar—that in itself constitutes an infraction of paragraph fourteen. Then in the course
“Permit me—I—I am not disturbing you?”
“Not at all.”
“Well … you must know that the failures of the Mission are becoming so grave that—”
“You’re a missionary?” I asked. He smiled.
“I was speaking of our division, not of our dedication to the Lord.”
“Your division?”
“The Theological Division. Quite recently, Father Amnion from the Confidence Section misappropriated…”
And he went on. But I lost the thread of what he said—the dead man’s little finger, the one that refused to bend with the others, was now moving. The other fingers seemed carved from one piece, like a wax model of a shell, but this one, plumper and pinker than the rest, twitched back and forth, as if to express the slightly rakish character of the deceased. Yet there was something so incorporeal, so fantastically light in that motion, one thought less of resurrection and more of hummingbirds and the kind of tiny insects that appear only in a blur before us. The tremor became more and more pronounced. “Impossible!” I cried. The monk cringed and clutched me.
“You have my sacred word! I speak the truth!”
“What? Oh, I see… Well, tell me more,” I said, suddenly realizing I preferred his oppressive company to that of the dead man. Besides, the dead man wouldn’t dare attempt anything more in the presence of two people.
“The confession files are poorly kept, there’s no supervision. At least half of our plants have been spotted. Brother Lieutenant Gatekeeper is extremely careless about giving out passes and writing reports. The Holy Spirit Section has completely neglected provocation activities, angel-baiting…”
“You don’t say,” I muttered. The finger was still. I knew I should leave immediately, but didn’t want to be impolite.
“And how is the situation regarding the performance of religious duties?” I threw out, reluctantly playing the role of interrogator—against my better judgment, but at this point I had little choice.
The monk’s excitement mounted. The passion of informing was on him. He hissed, his watery eyes glittered, he foamed at the mouth.
“The practice of religious duties!” he said, hoarse with impatience to cast off the heavy weight of accusations he had to make. “The sermons are not effective, attendance is down, the regulations on bugging prayers are generally disregarded. This holds for all denominations, but I speak only of my own. The transgressions in the Higher Goal Section would have led to a scandal; they were hushed up only because Brother Agent Malchus was able to supply the sexton with several willing nuns. And Chaplain Major Orfini, instead of notifying the authorities, plays with mysticism and preaches retribution not of this world.”
“You mean, off-planet?”
“If only! Oh no, he—but excuse me, I don’t even know your name…”
“That’s all right.”
“Of course … now the retribution of Judgment Day, the Apocalypse, that I can understand, thanks mainly to the most efficient methods our scientific colleagues have made possible … and then, to make matters worse, Malchus goes around bragging left and right that he’s cracked the Bible code! Do you know what that means?”
“Blasphemy?” I offered.
“Blasphemy the Good Lord can take care of, that’s no problem. It’s our whole order that’s at stake, the very theological foundations for the dogma of Divine Desertion!”
“Fine, fine,” I said, impatient, “let’s skip the theories. This Brother Agent Malchus—what was that all about? Get to the point, Brother.”
“As you wish. We’ve known for a long time that Malchus was a triple agent. The way he said his psalms, you understand… Brother Almigens checked him out and we planted a few civilians. For instance, he was seen making certain signs while prostrate before the altar—that in itself constitutes an infraction of paragraph fourteen. Then in the course
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