Authors: Anne McCaffrey
Tirla edged close enough to a group of Hispanics to pick up the drift.
“He lay hands on . . .”
“Church is always
lo mismo
. . . The singing is bad.”
“My Juan now . . . when he is reminded of the purity of the Virgin, he doesn’t beat me for a day or two . . .”
“The true man of God provides food for the soul . . .”
Tirla snorted to herself. Food for the soul was not high on her priorities when her belly was empty.
“I have heard,” Consuela Laguna was saying earnestly, “that if he lays hands on the lame, he cures.” Consuela’s son was handicapped beyond remedy or repair, but she remained positive that somehow, sometime, her Manuelito would be restored to health by some new miracle treatment, and she was always asking Tirla to translate the medical bulletins for her.
So, Tirla thought, a Religious Event had been unexpectedly scheduled for Linear G. That was odd. The Public Health meeting had been only four weeks earlier. It was true that there had not been an RE in a long time, but still she was suspicious.
Two
specials within four weeks?
She moved on to the next group, all Neesters from the Levant, and they were babbling about how they could get their men to attend that night instead of adjourning to Mahmoud’s squat to see his new belly dancer. Then she slipped around to an Asian gaggle who were chattering excitedly about cures and whether the RE would be bad for business. Asians provided ancient remedies for the many minor ailments that beset those in the warreny Residentials.
“He has come as promised . . .” she heard as she slid up to Mama Bobchik. The old woman’s black eyes were wide; her cheeks a mottled glowing red of excitement. “You come, too,
dushka
,” she said, catching Tirla’s arm. “You must tell us his words, exactly. The last time I could not hear what was said, and my soul is black with sin.”
“Nakonetz,”
Tirla agreed easily. Most Religious Interpreter Groups generally said nothing, in the most ornamented phraseology. She could amuse herself by anticipating the trite phrases and flowery words. “So the Assembly extension was granted after all?” she asked, eager to maintain her reputation of knowing all that went on in the Linear.
“Da, eto tak!”
Mama Bobchik happily reassured her. “My man was sent word to prepare late last night.” Argol Bobchik was one of the Linear’s sanitary engineers. “The word is that this Religious is all-seeing,” Mama babbled on, “with an excellent backup group. They were well received at Linear P. Early as it is, already this morning many traders have booked space. It will be an occasion. We have not had religion here in G for some months. We are all in need of guidance. The souls of many are dark with sin and must be purged.”
Tirla nodded solemnly. Mama Bobchik was certainly old enough to be facing a mystic accounting of the sins on her soul. Too bad no LEO man would be there to hear it.
But how had Tirla missed such a juicy rumor? Maybe it had been decided very late the previous night. At any rate, the presence of traders would make it easier for her to wash the tied credits for the Yassim man. She shuddered at the thought of him. She did not like to hold onto his money too long. Not that he had any reason to distrust her—she just wanted to make certain he never did. Especially if he suspected she was close to salable age. She was small and thin enough to pass for the nine years she admitted to. Someday someone would count fingers on her. From time to time she thought about what she would do then—and tried to keep enough floaters stuck inside her blouse at all times so that she could flee to another Linear if she had to. She had even managed to get her hands on a highly illegal copy of the cargo-train schedules and had found her way to the nearest access points to the subterranean concourse to eyeball escape routes.
Deftly disengaging herself from Mama Bobchik’s fat fingers, she moved on to the Pakis, who were chattering about bringing in some relatives from Linear E and arguing over the advisability of such a move. Some insisted that, since the extension was legal, there would be no risk. Then Mirda Khan—a person Tirla was always careful to please—came up and quickly dismissed such stupid generosity.
“The blessings of such a Lama would be few,” Mirda muttered in an intense and angry tone just audible to those around her, “for he cannot waste his holy strength on the trivial. Such as he would be gracious enough to dispense must be for us, here, in Linear G. For us,” she said again, poking her thin breastbone with a broad flat thumb, “the true believers, his faithful in Linear G.”
“The Very Revered Ponsit Prosit has been at Linear P,” one of the other women murmured reverently. “Pandit heard of the miracles he performed.”
Tirla was skeptical of miracles for, on close inspection, there were always alternate explanations for healings and savings and revelations. But they were fun to delve.
“Then we save such for ourselves!” Mirda replied fiercely, defying contradiction. Suddenly she spun around, somehow aware of being the object of scrutiny—but Tirla was quicker, moving to flatten herself against the Concourse pillar. She had heard enough anyhow and left.
So this Religious Interpreter, this RIG, had a reputation? As Tirla was quite aware, it took a real clever talker to keep from violating the variety of complex doctrines in a Linear. This Ponsit Prosit might well be worth listening to—and watching closely. In her precarious situation, Tirla was always open to pointers.
If
the whole thing was legit. She mulled over the probables as she ducked into side aisles before coming out again onto the Main Concourse, far enough away from the Pakis to be screened by other groups. Then she glanced up at the nearest publi-text screen. She watched through the usual notices and announcements until it scrolled down to 2200 hours, where a legal extension for use of the Assembly was posted, with trading and drinking permitted.
The full details were being vividly proclaimed, complete with fanfares of brass instruments and snippets of the Respected Venerable Homilifier Ponsit Prosit smiling beatifically at vast audiences. A chorus was promised, and a short blast of five-part harmony and high soprano descant was presented as an enticement to attend the full show. This V R & Holy Religious Interpretation Group purportedly had only recently returned from the Eastern Cities of Faith, where Ponsit Prosit had endured “fasting meditations of great length and illumination.” Linear G was fortunate in the extreme that he was able to fit that evening’s assembly into his busy tour. So, he had not had a booking in a while, Tirla thought cynically. Well, Religious Interpretations were very popular in Linears, better than fights sometimes and often more showy. Tirla liked shows—and legal extensions.
There had been a Public Health roundup recently, so a second, covert one was unlikely in her experience. And while a Religious Event could be staged to mask more illicit operations than washing tieds in public, there still might not be any undercover LEOs. Crowd Controllers would be around, of course—that was standard procedure—but Tirla knew most of them despite the way they altered their appearances.
The important thing was that she had the Yassim tieds to change. She should never have agreed to do it, but Bulbar had been insistent and the “talker”’—a hit man whom she would not willingly offend—had told her that she was being given the opportunity in reward for services already rendered. Having consented to a professional engagement with Mama Bobchik, who was not only another person it was unwise to offend but someone who, having presided over Tirla’s birth, would always defend the girl, Tirla was committed on two counts to attend.
Prepared with several contingency plans, Tirla began her usual morning routine—bargaining for the day’s meals and getting a bath and a clean issue of clothing. But as she proceeded, she was stopped by various female clients, each wanting her company during this Religious Event because the featured Lama-shaman was reputed to speak in tongues and Tirla was absolutely the only person who would faithfully tell them everything he said. There was a limit, however, to how many people Tirla could adequately represent. Surrounded by very insistent, vocal, and physically active prospective clients, none of whom she cared to antagonize, she attempted to organize them.
“Bilala, you and Pilau must come together. Anna, you team up with Marika. Zaveta, Elpidia comes as well. Chi-shu, Lao Wang with you. Cyoto, Ari-san is your partner.” And so she grouped them. Ten pairs was as unmanageable as it was unavoidable. Before she got into any further difficulties, Tirla discreetly removed herself from public view. She still had to get the tied credits out of their hidey holes and secreted about her for easy access.
We have an Incident,” Sirikit said, her light, crisp voice carrying easily to Budworth, who was duty officer in the Parapsych Control Room.
“Who?” Budworth sent his gimballed chair spinning across the tiled floor to her station. Seeing him maneuver so rapidly around the Control Room made people forget that his spine had been crushed in an accident and that he had only minimal movement of his head and two fingers.
“Auer.” Sirikit’s surprise was reflected in her voice.
“Really!”
“And Bertha!”
“That’s an unusual combination.”
“Not if Ponsit Prosit the Great Flimflam is involved. I caught the p.a. for Linear G.”
“It is very true she would have his guts for garters,” Budworth said, grinning wryly. Bertha Zoccola was generally a relaxed and tolerant individual, but mention of that particular RIG was enough to enrage her. Budworth set himself for her fury in reporting a precog involving the man.
Whenever precognitive Talents responded to an Incident, they would flash the Center, alerting Control to receive a verbal description of what they had previewed. Budworth positioned his chair at the fingerboard next to Sirikit and scratched his chin on the rim of his head support, feeling the surge of excited anticipation that he always experienced at such moments.
“C’mon, you net-heads, report!” he exclaimed.
Sirikit glanced away from her screen to grin at him. Then a bleep sounded, startling both of them even though they were expecting an entry.
“Auer here,” the emotionless voice announced, and the precog’s face appeared in one of the response screens. “A real messy one. High panic, screams, mob, kids trampled, the usual thing. Why don’t you grab Ponsit and space him to the shipyards? I’m tired of protecting that scuzfart.”
“You saw Flimflam himself, Auer?” Sirikit asked encouragingly. At Budworth’s nod, she took over the routine questions. She was one of the most deft at post-Incidental debriefing, and Auer always responded well to her. Budworth busied himself with tapping out a query for scheduled public events. More crowd control would have to be assigned to Linear G.
Auer shrugged with an indifference both observers knew was false. “He’s prominent. All colored lights and glittering hands. Then running away. As usual. Never stays to calm the audiences he excites to riot pitch.”
“Where?” Sirikit encouraged him.
“Your typical Residential assembly hall. Usual Ponsit backdrops. Nothing unusual . . . except—” Auer paused, frowning down at something. “Except—that’s odd!”
“What’s odd, Auer?”
“All over a scrawny girl?” When he looked up, his eyes were haunted.
“Yes?”
“I feel . . . and her danger is acute. It doesn’t end tonight. She’s Talented!” That was said in a surprised voice; then Auer passed a hand across his eyes, scrubbing downward. “It’s gone now. It’s gone.” The screen blackened.
Another screen brightened.
“You shouldn’t allow that man a
permit
at
all
!” Bertha Zoccola was bristling with indignation. “You’ve caught him dealing time and again! Those people don’t have the credits to spend on mystical cures and miracle healings. He spouts the most appalling sort of pantheist tripe.
And
in the worst language!”
“What did you see, Bertha?” Budworth asked the plump little woman, who still cherished a worn deck of Tarot cards that her great-grandmother had once read with a high enough degree of accuracy to earn a significant credit balance.
“I keep telling you that man is nothing but trouble.” Her double chin quivered, and her expression was concerned. “I don’t care if the Domestic Satisfaction Index does rise after he’s played a Residential. Why should we Talents protect a quacksalver, a faker, a pharisee, a hoaxer, a gyp! An arrant carnie!”
“We’re not protecting him! Now, what did you see, Bertha?”
“Halfway through that—that gibberous effort of his—you never can tell
what
he’s saying in that mumbo-jumble of his—there’s a movement, to the left of the platform . . .” She jingled her left hand, her many wrist bracelets clacking noisily. “Or do I mean his right?” She raised the other hand, splaying fingers crammed with rings. “There’s a commotion. It has to do with a large group of women.” She waggled her hand again, frowning. “Then everything goes wild! A name! They’re all calling a name! And I can’t hear what it is! Oh, wouldn’t that cause a saint to swear! The one vital detail! And I
thought
I heard it so clearly . . .” She pursed her lips in concentration and then slowly shook her head, sighing. “No, it’s gone. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks, Bertha dear. You’ve filled in some details.”
“Who else?” Bertha asked, as always.
“Auer.”
“Him?” Bertha was incredulous. “Well, what’d’ya know about that? Do keep me screened, Buddy.”
“You bet.” Budworth was punching Sascha’s office as her picture dissolved. “Sascha, we got an Incident.”
“There’s only one crowd controller assigned to the RIG, Budworth,” Sirikit murmured to him. “Residential Linear G is listed as blue, calm.”
“Well, it’s about to change color unless we can neutralize. Sascha, something’s going to bust wide at Ponsit’s meeting at G tonight.”
“Linear G?” The large blue eyes in Sascha’s Slavic-cast face widened with surprise. “We’d nothing planned
there
,” he murmured. “Who saw it?”
“Bertha and Auer.”
“What?” Sascha raised his eyebrows. “That’s a first. I’ll be back to you, Buddy. I’ll organize our infiltration with the Bro.”
Rhyssa, we’ve got an incipient riot.