and two other women must bow to me and do my bidding.”
She nodded to her right and left, at the women with her, whose eyes were downturned.
The meal went painfully slowly, because Dixie Lou was so anxious to find out more about the computer capabilities of these people. After the meat course, a bowl containing figs and dates was placed in front of each diner, and more coffee was poured.
“I don’t know much about computers myself,” Dixie Lou admitted, trying to get away from the endless anecdotes Malia had been telling. “But yours looks promising.” She nibbled on a date, found the sweetness and flavor pleasing.
With a smile Malia said, “I have noted your interest in it, and if I am correct in my guess, you have a microcylinder or two in a pocket of your robe? Is that a tiny bulge I see there?”
The comment irritated Dixie Lou, for she didn’t like having a stranger examine her so closely and read her so well, perhaps even her body movements, the expressions on her face, the tone of her voice, and more. . . She found it irritating, and unnerving.
“Thank you for eating our food with such grace,” Malia said. “It must be difficult for you.”
“Oh no—” Dixie Lou cut herself short, remembering the observational abilities of this woman. She reached in her bowl and selected a fig.
“I have tried to eat western foods, and I must confess that I would not have been nearly as gracious. To me your food cannot be swallowed. My throat constricts and won’t accept it.”
“What did you attempt to eat?” Nancy Winters asked. She took a sip of coffee.
“A very large hamburger and extremely greasy little fried potatoes.”
Dixie Lou and her councilwomen laughed.
“Rashid had heard so much about the American fast food restaurants that he took all of his wives out to dinner in Cairo one evening. We had intended to visit three American fast food restaurants, sampling the fare of each. After the first stop, though, none of us could go on. The food was so alien to us that we were sick for hours. I feel queasy even to this day, just thinking about it.”
As I will feel remembering this meal , Dixie Lou thought, staring at the blackened, empty meat pot in the center of the circle. No vegetables had been served with the meal.
“Shall we see what’s in your pocket?” Malia inquired, looking at Dixie Lou.
The Chairwoman brought out the microcylinder and held it in the palm of her hand. She felt her pulse quicken, but tried to conceal her anxiety.
* * *
Not far away, Lori wore a robe that she had found in one of the helicopter’s storage lockers, and she had the hood pulled up over her head. She stood in filtered light beneath an electronic camouflage cover, watching as the female pilot leaned into the engine compartment, working on it. Not certain who, if anyone, she could trust, Lori kept a handgun at the ready, in a pocket of her robe.
A short distance away, also beneath the camouflage, Fujiko sat on the sand with the four she-apostles in their custody, rolling a small ball back and forth, a toy that the translator had brought for them. The toddlers, all of whom wore dark scarves over their heads, participated, but looked as if they were only tolerating the game, as if they were the adults and Fujiko was the child who needed entertaining.
To Lori they seemed like “old souls,” the phrase that Dixie Lou had used about her when they met at the goddess circle, and when she later described the she-apostle Veronica. Of all the things that the loathsome Chairwoman had said to her, Lori had to admit to herself that this one actually made some sense, though she was not exactly sure why.
“Hey, let me out of here!” Wendy Zepeda shouted in a voice muted by the passenger compartment of the helicopter, where Fujiko had handcuffed her to a seat back. No one answered her, but every few hours Fujiko had been escorting her to the restroom, and brought food to her at mealtimes.
The two youthful guards were
She nodded to her right and left, at the women with her, whose eyes were downturned.
The meal went painfully slowly, because Dixie Lou was so anxious to find out more about the computer capabilities of these people. After the meat course, a bowl containing figs and dates was placed in front of each diner, and more coffee was poured.
“I don’t know much about computers myself,” Dixie Lou admitted, trying to get away from the endless anecdotes Malia had been telling. “But yours looks promising.” She nibbled on a date, found the sweetness and flavor pleasing.
With a smile Malia said, “I have noted your interest in it, and if I am correct in my guess, you have a microcylinder or two in a pocket of your robe? Is that a tiny bulge I see there?”
The comment irritated Dixie Lou, for she didn’t like having a stranger examine her so closely and read her so well, perhaps even her body movements, the expressions on her face, the tone of her voice, and more. . . She found it irritating, and unnerving.
“Thank you for eating our food with such grace,” Malia said. “It must be difficult for you.”
“Oh no—” Dixie Lou cut herself short, remembering the observational abilities of this woman. She reached in her bowl and selected a fig.
“I have tried to eat western foods, and I must confess that I would not have been nearly as gracious. To me your food cannot be swallowed. My throat constricts and won’t accept it.”
“What did you attempt to eat?” Nancy Winters asked. She took a sip of coffee.
“A very large hamburger and extremely greasy little fried potatoes.”
Dixie Lou and her councilwomen laughed.
“Rashid had heard so much about the American fast food restaurants that he took all of his wives out to dinner in Cairo one evening. We had intended to visit three American fast food restaurants, sampling the fare of each. After the first stop, though, none of us could go on. The food was so alien to us that we were sick for hours. I feel queasy even to this day, just thinking about it.”
As I will feel remembering this meal , Dixie Lou thought, staring at the blackened, empty meat pot in the center of the circle. No vegetables had been served with the meal.
“Shall we see what’s in your pocket?” Malia inquired, looking at Dixie Lou.
The Chairwoman brought out the microcylinder and held it in the palm of her hand. She felt her pulse quicken, but tried to conceal her anxiety.
* * *
Not far away, Lori wore a robe that she had found in one of the helicopter’s storage lockers, and she had the hood pulled up over her head. She stood in filtered light beneath an electronic camouflage cover, watching as the female pilot leaned into the engine compartment, working on it. Not certain who, if anyone, she could trust, Lori kept a handgun at the ready, in a pocket of her robe.
A short distance away, also beneath the camouflage, Fujiko sat on the sand with the four she-apostles in their custody, rolling a small ball back and forth, a toy that the translator had brought for them. The toddlers, all of whom wore dark scarves over their heads, participated, but looked as if they were only tolerating the game, as if they were the adults and Fujiko was the child who needed entertaining.
To Lori they seemed like “old souls,” the phrase that Dixie Lou had used about her when they met at the goddess circle, and when she later described the she-apostle Veronica. Of all the things that the loathsome Chairwoman had said to her, Lori had to admit to herself that this one actually made some sense, though she was not exactly sure why.
“Hey, let me out of here!” Wendy Zepeda shouted in a voice muted by the passenger compartment of the helicopter, where Fujiko had handcuffed her to a seat back. No one answered her, but every few hours Fujiko had been escorting her to the restroom, and brought food to her at mealtimes.
The two youthful guards were
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