Fideles was suddenly afraid, but of what or of whom he couldn't say. And that made the fear more awful. Yet he was not the type to give way to fear or crumble beneath it. He had served as a nurse on a ship of war, served with courage and distinction, had been cited for bravery under fire. He had been forced, more than once, to make terrible decisions—decisions that meant life or death.
The archbishop, troubled and upset, prayed for guidance. Brother Penitent had done things during his life that were wrong. He had committed crimes of a most dark and fearful nature. But he had repented of these deeds and had since spent his life since in seeking God's forgiveness. And if Brother Penitent chose to be mysterious about this, then the archbishop must consider that God worked in mysterious ways.
Penitent had never before asked anything of his archbishop ... or of anyone. The lay brother knew details of the mission that no one could have possibly known unless by divine intervention. There were some—Prior John among them—who would have said that such intervention came from a dark and unholy source. But as soon as this thought crossed Fideles's mind, he knew the decision he must make. His faith in God remained steadfast.
"Of course, then, Brother, you must come with me," Archbishop Fideles said resolutely. "Are you packed? Do you need to bring anything?"
Brother Penitent did not reply. Drawing his cowl up over his head, pulling it low over his face, he indicated silently he was ready to proceed, empty-handed as he was.
Fideles left the abbey, satisfied that he had done what the Creator wanted. The two boarded the transport. At the last minute, Brother Petra arrived, apologetic, out of breath, and clutching the breviary, which he almost forgot to hand over, so astounded was he at the sight of the archbishop's strange companion.
"Tell Prior John that Brother Penitent goes with me" was all the archbishop had time to say, and he needn't have said that much, he reflected, for the news would be circulated through the small, cloistered community the moment Brother Petra had recovered breath enough to tell it.
Again Fideles reminded himself he was doing God's will.
The transport headed out into deep space. And it was here, among the stars, that the archbishop realized he was human after all, and that to be human was to continually battle against doubt.
He had his breviary, but in his distracted state of mind, he'd gone off and left his luggage sitting beside the office door.
Chapter Fourteen
Cleanliness is, indeed, next to godliness.
Charles Wesley, Sermons
Tusk—looking sharp and professional in the neatly pressed combat fatigues he wore when he was transporting clients— stood at the foot of the Scimitar's ladder, greeting his latest customers.
"Name's Tusk," he said, extending his hand.
"Don Perrin," said a man, blond, broad-shouldered, good-looking.
"Cynthia Zorn," said a woman, blond, long-legged, and good-looking.
They shook hands all around.
"Commander Link's already on board," said Tusk, "getting everything ready. We should lift off right on time. Can I give you a hand with your gear?"
The man and woman had arrived in a sleek new limo-jet. The driver had unpacked travel cases from the trunk, placed them on the ground.
"Thank you," said Don. "Oh, uh, here, Charles, let me handle that."
The driver had hold of something large and metallic, heavy and ungainly, and was attempting to wrestle it out of the backseat of the limo. He was making little progress and was obviously relieved to stand aside and let Don take over. Tusk grabbed hold of the two travel cases, which were light and small, hefted them easily, and waited to see what would eventually emerge from the limo.
"You two vacuum cleaner salesmen?" he asked when Don had the thing out and resting on the tarmac.
The woman laughed. "In a manner of speaking."
Don, flushed with his efforts, grinned. "I know she's not very pretty, but she's good at what she does."
"Uh-huh," said Tusk, eyeing a large metal canister that stood about one and a half meters tall and came complete with coiled hose, nozzle, and various appendages. "What does 'she' do?"
"Her name is Mrs. Mopup. Get it? Mop up? She's the Housewife's Dream. Or househusband's," Don added, casting an apologetic glance at his partner."
Cynthia smiled. "Haven't you seen our vid ads? Or heard our jingle? 'Let Mrs. Mopup mop up after your poppet?' It's quite catchy."
"No, sorry," said Tusk, trying to keep a straight face. They were customers, after all. "But then," he added, hurriedly, "we don't own a vid at home. The wife doesn't believe in them. Thinks the kid would spend too much time watching it instead of studying."
The vid set was, in fact, now siting in Mike's Friendly Pawnshop.
"I can't believe you haven't seen it." Cynthia seemed genuinely crushed.
Tusk made amends. "But I'll bet my wife would sure go for one of those things."
"I know she would!" Cynthia brightened. "We could make you a really good deal. Twenty-five percent off."
"Uh, sure," said Tusk. If nothing else, Nola would get a laugh out of the contraption.
"Thank you, Charles," Don said to the limo driver, who tipped his hat, shut the trunk, and drove off. Don Perrin and the woman started for the Scimitar.
"Come along, Mrs. Mopup," ordered Cynthia, and the bot trundled after them.
Tusk trailed behind, carrying the luggage and thinking what he would do to Link once he got his hands on him. Steady job! A coupla salesmen! Shit, we'll probably be lucky if they don't try to pay us in Mrs. Mopups! Still, he reflected, eyeing the two, who were walking along in front of him, there's something kinda fishy about all this. People pay us for a quiet trip and no interference from the locals. Unless they're going to a planet where vacuum cleaners are illegal, why spend the money on us? Why not just take a commercial liner? And I'll wager Cynthia didn't buy that smooth-fitting flight suit she's wearing off her commission selling Mrs. Mopups door-to-door. To say nothing of Charles and the limo.
The couple had reached the Scimitar and were frowning at the ladder that led to the hatch. Mis. Mopup rolled to a halt beside them. Tusk, thinking he understood their concern, hurried to catch up.
"Don't worry. I can stow the 'bot in a storage compartment down below." He pointed them out.
"By herself?" asked Cynthia, her eyes widening.
"Well," said Tusk, grinning, "there're some spare parts and a busted anti-grav unit in there. Maybe she could strike up a conversation with them."
"Oh, dear, no," said Cynthia, shaking her head. "Mrs. Mopup wouldn't enjoy that at all. She has to come with us, Don," she added, turning to her companion.
"Of course she does," Don said heartily, though he looked a bit daunted at the prospect of hauling Mrs. Mopup up the ladder.
He started to lift the 'bot, but Tusk stopped him.
"Wait. I got a winch. We'll hoist her up." He looked at Cynthia dubiously. "If she wouldn't mind ..."
"Heavens, no." Cynthia laughed. "She's only a robot."
"Yeah," muttered Tusk. "Well, I'll have to rig it up. It'll take a while. You two want to wait on board? The bar's well stocked...."
"No, thank, you," said Cynthia. "We'll stay with Mrs. Mopup. Won't we, Don?"
"Sure," said Don agreeably. "She might get lonely. But you can bring me a scotch on the rocks, Tusk, when you come down."
Tusk, dazed, nodded. "Sure thing. You want something to drink, ma'am?"
"No, thank you," said Cynthia, smiling.
It was on the tip of Tusk's tongue to ask if Mrs. Mopup would prefer a glass of premium or regular, but he passed up the temptation. He had the feeling the joke wouldn't be appreciated. "Wait here. I'll be back in a minute."
He ascended the ladder, carrying the luggage. "Hey, Link. Come give me a hand, will you?" Tusk hollered through the open hatch.
Link appeared below. Tusk tossed down the luggage, dropped down himself.
"Where the hell did you find these two? The nuthouse?" Tus
k demanded in a low tone. He followed after Link, who was stowing the travel cases in a compartment beneath a couch. "I gotta rig up a block and tackle, haul a goddam vacuum cleaner up the side of the plane 'cause 'she' wouldn't like being shut up by "herself' in the storage compartment!"
Link straightened, looked at Tusk. "You been on the juice?"
"No," said Tusk grimly, "but I got a feeling that I will be after spending the day with Cynthia and Mrs. Mopup."
"Mrs. Whos-it?"
"Mopup. Hey, XJ," Tusk bawled, going to open the bar, "have I got a girlfriend for you. Wait till you meet her. She's just your type. Comes with a hose and everything."
Only when Mrs. Mopup was safely hoisted into the Scimitar did Don and Cynthia agree to board themselves. Cynthia climbed nimbly up the ladder and lowered herself through the hatch as if she had been doing this sort of thing all her life. Don was a little more clumsy, but then he'd had four scotch on the rocks while waiting for the ascension of Mrs. Mopup.
Cynthia was charmed at the Scimitar's interior, was equally charmed to see Link again. Handsome and dashing as ever, the spacepilot was a born flirt and lady's man. Tusk, watching out of the corner of his eye as he fixed Don his fifth scotch on the rocks, suddenly had a pretty good idea why Cynthia had chosen to take her vacuum cleaner into space with them.
Tusk glanced at Don, hoping this wasn't going to create problems. But either Don and Cynthia were strictly business partners or else Don wasn't the jealous type, for he was lounging back on the couch, his drink in his hand, taking in everything with a wide smile.
Link showed the passengers how to strap themselves in and gallantly helped Cynthia with the buckles when she couldn't manage them herself. Tusk ascertained their destination, punched the coordinates into a sulking XJ.
"We have sunk low before," said the computer, "but never this low."
"Shut up," Tusk growled. "Tact and discretion, remember?"
"I am thankful," XJ added in sepulchral tones, "that none of my old comrades-in-arms can see me now. I, who was once under the command of Warlord Derek Sagan ...
"You, who were a goddam deserter" Tusk muttered.
. . reduced to dispensing scotch—good scotch—to traveling salesmen."
"Say, XJ," said Link, swinging himself down the ladder into the cockpit and flopping into the co-pilot's seat. "I think Mrs. Mopup likes you. Treat me nice and I'll fix you two kids up."
"A comedian," snapped the computer. "I'm having to put up with two traveling salesman and a comedian. We better make a bundle off this!" Lights flashing ominously, XJ turned its concentration to liftoff.
Tusk took the opportunity, over the roar of the engines, to lean over the console, nudge Link on the elbow.
"Where'd you meet her?"
"The Seldom Inn," Link answered. "Hey, it's not what you think. She's a class dame. This Mrs. Mopup contraption was all her idea. She built the prototype, started the company. She's president now. They're a multimillion-dollar outfit. Did you ever hear the jingle she wrote? It's real cute. It goes—"
Tusk snorted. "Spare me. So why's she using us? Why not her own private spaceplane?"
"This is sort of a test run, you might say. She's thinking of expanding off-world, but she's not sure whether to risk it or not. She's got a meeting with a big corporation on Akara, who may be interested in distributing Mrs. Mopup to millions of lucky housewives galaxy-wide."
"Don't forget the househusbands," Tusk said, grinning.
"Yeah," said Link. He leaned closer, winked. "To tell you the truth, I wouldn't mind being her househusband. She could support me in the style to which I've become accustomed. Plus she'd help me recover from my broken heart. I'll never forgive you for stealing Nola away from me."
"Broken heart, my ass. Nola had too much sense to marry you. Not, I recall, that you ever asked her."
"Just doing you a favor, old pal. How could she have said no to me? Say, do you think I could teach Mrs. Mopup to shoot craps?"
Tusk described in detail just what Link could teach Mrs. Mopup. By this time, the Scimitar was in space. The planet of Vangelis was nothing more than a yellow-orange globe hanging suspended against the star-studded blackness. Tusk turned over the piloting to Link, went back up to the living quarters to see if his passengers had survived liftoff. It could be pretty upsetting to those who had never flown in a spaceplane before.
He found Don sucking ice and Cynthia calmly reading a mag. Mrs. Mopup, lashed to a beam so that she wouldn't roll around and bang into something, was blinking contentedly and appeared ready to tackle the first housecleaning chore that came her way.
"Uh, everyone doin' okay?" asked Tusk, somewhat taken aback at the nonplussed attitude of his passengers. "The liftoff can be kind of rugged—"
"Quite smooth, really," said Cynthia, laying down the mag. "Is it all right if I get out of this thing now?" She undid the straps with a deft hand. "And I'll just release Mrs. Mopup. You don't mind if she walks about some, do you? It keeps her battery charged."
"Sure," said Tusk, blinking. "I mean, no. Hell, I don't mind—"
"All right if I fix myself another?" asked Don, already out of his safety harness and heading for the bar. "No offense, friend, but you go a little light on the scotch."
"Help yourself," said Tusk, ignoring an irate mechanical squawk from the vicinity of the computer.
Cynthia, on her knees, released Mrs. Mopup's bindings, freed the robot. She said something to it that Tusk couldn't hear, wasn't interested in anyway. Mrs. Mopup took a spin around the living area.
"Probably looking for dust bunnies," Tusk muttered to himself.
Cynthia rose to her feet. She and Don stood watching the robot with the fond expression of new parents seeing baby take his first steps.
"The trip'll last about six hours," said Tusk. "Relax, make yourselves comfortable. I'll be up front if you need—"
Turning, he almost fell over Mrs. Mopup, who had rolled up behind him. One of her nozzles was pointed directly at him.
Tusk deftly recovered his balance, stopped, stared, then laughed. "Hey, did you two know that this attachment looks exactly like a lasgun?"
"That's because it is a lasgun," said Don conversationally. He leaned on the bar, swirling the ice in his glass.
Mrs. Mopup sighted the lasgun directly on Tusk's forehead.
"She's a remarkable shot," said Cynthia, regarding the robot with maternal pride. "Never misses, in fact."
Tusk attempted another laugh, coughed when it got stuck in his throat. "The ideal baby-sitter. All right, I gotta admit that this was good for a few grins, but now—"
He attempted to sidestep Mrs. Mopup. The robot whirred, lights blinked. The lasgun followed him, never lowering its aim, locked onto his forehead.
Tusk looked from the robot to Don.
"No laughing matter, I'm afraid," said Don, taking a healthy swallow of his scotch.
Tusk switched to Cynthia.
"Indeed not," she said coolly. "You see, I've locked Mrs. Mopup on to you. If you do anything Mrs. Mopup doesn't like, she'll shoot you without hesitation. Call your co-pilot up here."
"Link, turn the plane over to XJ and come on up here a moment, will you?" Tusk called, lifting his hands slowly in the air.
He was examining the 'bot closely, trying to decide if he was being played for the galaxy's biggest idiot or if he really was being held hostage by an armed vacuum cleaner. The more he studied it, the deadlier that lasgun looked.
"Yeah, what do you want?" Link climbed up, saw Tusk and the robot, and began to chuckle. Only Tusk noticed that the pilot had slipped his hand into the pocket of his fatigues. "What are you doing with the 'bot, Tusk? Playing cowboys and aliens—"
"Shut up, you ninny!" Tusk hissed. "This gun's real. Look at it! It's locked on to me! And it's gonna shoot me if I do something it doesn't like." He glanced over at Don. "Just what's included on the list of things Mrs. Mopup doesn't like? Leaving wet towels on the deck?"
Don said, smiling, "She ta
kes offense at little things—like going for your lasgun. Or disturbing us while we're flying your plane. Or maybe trying to jump us in our sleep."
"Fly ... sleep ..." Link apparently couldn't get his brain working long enough to form a complete sentence. "What—"
"—the devil's going on up there?" XJ demanded. "Are these guys from the collection agency? I suppose you forgot to pay the light bill again, Tusk—"
The spaceplane suddenly went dark. Tusk dove for the deck, rolled. A flash of light blinded him; pain seared up his shoulder. Another flash of light, a yelp from Link and a metallic clatter of a boltgun hitting the deck told Tusk that their scheme hadn't worked. The 'bot had fired in two different directions damn near simultaneously.
"Did I fail to mention that Mrs. Mopup's locked on to both of you? And she can fire her weapons from anywhere in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree radius." That was Cynthia.
"And she can detect you quite well in the dark. Movement, body temperature, brain waves, heartbeat, that sort of thing." That was Don, crunching ice.
"Yeah, but she almost missed," said Tusk, sitting up. He was shaking and sweating and his arm hurt like hell.
"No, no." Cynthia was soothing. "I set her on incapacitate. I can switch to kill, but I'd prefer not to."
"Can we have some light?" Don asked. "I can't see to pour."
"Turn the lights on, XJ," Tusk ordered sullenly.
"I will not," snapped the computer. "And if you salesmen are thinking about hijacking this plane, you've got another think coming. I won't cooperate. After all, what can you do—kill me?"
"No, but they could kill us, XJ," called out Link.
"Oh, now, that would be a loss." The computer sneered.
"Actually, we wouldn't need to shoot anyone," said Cynthia. "Mrs. Mopup is quite adept at invading other computer systems, erasing their memories, and seizing control. All we'd have to do is plug her in . . ."
The lights came on.
Tusk leaned back against a bulkhead. Gritting his teeth against the burning pain, he examined his charred and bleeding shoulder. The wound wasn't serious; the laser beam had seared through flesh and muscle, missed the bone. He glanced across the deck at Link, who was still standing, but wringing an injured hand. The small boltgun he always carried concealed in his pocket lay on the deck beside him.
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