Lest Darkness Fall (16 page)

            She giggled.

            "Sorry," said
Padway. "Wrong station. Off you go."

            She looked baffled. "My
— my master doesn't want me?"

            "That's right. Not for
that anyway."

            Her mouth turned down. Two
large tears appeared. "You don't like me? You don't think I'm nice?"

            "I think you're a fine
cook and a nice girl. Now out with you. Good night."

            She stood solidly and began
to sniffle. Then she sobbed. Her voice rose to a shrill wail: "Just
because I'm from the country — you never looked at me — you never asked for me
all this time — then tonight you were nice — I thought — I thought — boo-oo-oo..."

            "Now, now ... for
heaven's sake stop crying! Here, sit down. I'll get you a drink."

            She smacked her lips over
the first swallow of diluted brandy. She wiped off the remaining tears.
"Nice," she said. Everything was nice —
bonus, bona,
or
bonum
, as the case might be. "You are nice. Love is nice. Every man
should have some love. Love — ah!" She made a serpentine movement
remarkable in a person of her build.

            Padway gulped. "Give me
that drink," he said. "I need some too."

            After a while.
"Now," she said, "we make love?"

            "Well — pretty soon.
Yes, I guess we do." Padway hiccupped.

            Padway frowned at Julia's
large bare feet. "Just —
hic
— just a minute, my bounding
hamadryad. Let's see those feet." The soles were black. "That won't
do. Oh, it absolutely won't do, my lusty Amazon. The feet present an
insur-insurmountable psychological obstacle."

            "Huh?"

            "They interpose a
psychic barrier to the —
hic
— appropriately devout worship of
Ashtaroth. We must lave the pedal extremities —"

            "I don't
understand."

            "Skip it; neither do I.
What I mean is that we're going to wash your feet first."

            "Is
that a religion?"

            "You
might put it that way. Damn!" He knocked the ewer off its base,
miraculously catching it on the way down. "Here we go, my Tritoness from
the wine-dark, fish-swarming sea ..."

            She
giggled. "You are the nicest man. You are a real gentleman. No man ever
did
that
for me before ..."  

-

            Padway
blinked his eyes open. It all came back to him quickly enough. He tightened his
muscles seriatim. He felt fine. He prodded his conscience experimentally. It
reacted not at all.

            He moved carefully, for
Julia was taking up two-thirds of his none-too-wide bed. He heaved himself on
one elbow and looked at her. The movement uncovered her large breasts. Between
them was a bit of iron, tied around her neck. This, she had told him, was a
nail from the cross of St. Andrew. And she would not put it off.

            He smiled. To the list of
mechanical inventions he meant to introduce he added a couple of items. But for
the present, should he ...

            A small gray thing with six
legs, not much larger than a pin-head, emerged from the hair under her armpit.
Pale against her olive-brown skin, it crept with glacial slowness ...

            Padway shot out of bed. Face
writhing with revulsion, he pulled his clothes on without taking time to wash.
The room smelled. Rome must have blunted his sense of smell, or he'd have
noticed it before.

            Julia awoke as he was
finishing. He threw a muttered good morning at her and tramped out.

            He spent two hours in the
public baths that day. The next night Julia's knock brought a harsh order to
get away from his room and stay away. She began to wail. Padway snatched the
door open. "One more squawk and you're fired!" he snapped, and
slammed the door.

            She was obedient but sulky.
During the next few days he caught venomous glances from her; she was no
actress.

            The following Sunday he
returned from the Ulpian Library to find a small crowd of men in front of his
house. They were just standing and looking. Padway looked at the house and
could see nothing out of order.

            He asked a man: "What's
funny about my house, stranger?"

            The man looked at him
silently. They all looked at him silently. They moved off in twos and threes.
They began to walk fast, sometimes glancing back.

            Monday morning two of the
workmen failed to report. Nerva came to Padway and, after much clearing of the
throat, said: "I thought you'd like to know, lordly Martinus. I went to
mass at the Church of the Angel Gabriel yesterday as usual."

            "Yes?" That Church
was on Long Street four blocks from Padway's house.

            "Father Narcissus preached
a homily against sorcery. He talked about people who hired demons from Satanas
and work strange devices. It was a very strong sermon. He sounded as if he
might be thinking of you."

            Padway worried. It might be
coincidence, but he was pretty sure that Julia had gone to confessional and
spilled the beans about fornicating with a magician. One sermon had sent the
crowd to stare at the wizard's lair. A few more like that...

            Padway feared a mob of
religious enthusiasts more than anything on earth, no doubt because their
mental processes were so utterly alien to his own.

            He called Menandrus in and
asked for information on Father Narcissus.

            The information was
discouraging from Padway's point of view. Father Narcissus was one of the most
respected priests in Rome. He was upright, charitable, humane, and fearless, He
was in deadly earnest twenty-four hours a day. And there was no breath of
scandal about him, which fact by itself made him a distinguished cleric.

            "George," said
Padway, "didn't you once mention a bishop with concubines?"

            Menandrus grinned slyly.
"It's the Bishop of Bologna, sir. He's one of the Pope's cronies; spends
more time at the Vatican than at his see. He has two women — at least, two that
we know of. I have their names and everything. Everybody knows that a lot of
bishops have one concubine, but two! I thought it would make a good story for
the paper."

            "It may yet. Write me
up a story, George, about the Bishop of Bologna and his loves. Make it
sensational, but accurate. Set it up and pull three or four galley proofs; then
put the type away in a safe place."

            It took Padway a week to
gain an audience with the Bishop of Bologna, who was providentially in Rome.
The bishop was a gorgeously dressed person with a beautiful, bloodless face.
Padway suspected a highly convoluted brain behind that sweet, ascetic smile.

            Padway kissed the bishop's
hand, and they murmured pleasant nothings. Padway talked of the Church's
wonderful work, and how he tried in his humble way to further it at every
opportunity.

            "For instance," he
said,"— do you know of my weekly paper, reverend sir?"

            "Yes, I read it with
pleasure."

            "Well, you know I have
to keep a close watch on my boys, who are prone to err in their enthusiasm for
news. I have tried to make the paper a clean sheet fit to enter any home,
without scandal or libel. Though that sometimes meant I had to write most of an
issue myself." He sighed. "Ah, sinful men! Would you believe it,
reverend sir, that I have had to suppress stories of foul libel against members
of the Holy Church? The most shocking of all came in recently." He took
but one of the galley proofs. "I hardly dare show it to you, sir, lest
your justified wrath at this filthy product of a disordered imagination should
damn me to eternal flames."

            The bishop squared his thin
shoulders. "Let me see it, my son. A priest sees many dreadful things in
his career. It takes a strong spirit to serve the Lord in these times."

            Padway handed over the
sheet. The bishop read it. A sad expression came over his angelic face.
"Ah, poor weak mortals! They know not that they hurt themselves far more
than the object of their calumny. It shows that we must have God's help at
every turn lest we fall into sin. If you will tell me who wrote this, I will
pray for him."

            "A man named
Marcus," said Padway. "I discharged him immediately, of course. I
want nobody who is not prepared to co-operate with the Church to the
full."

            The bishop cleared his
throat delicately. "I appreciate your righteous efforts," he said.
"If there is some favor within my power —"

            Padway told him about the
good Father Narcissus, who was showing such a lamentable misunderstanding of
Padway's enterprises ...

            Padway went to mass next
Sunday. He sat well down in front, determined to face the thing out if Father
Narcissus proved obdurate. He sang with the rest:

-

"Imminet,
imminet,

Recta
remuneret.

Aethera
donet,

Ille
supremus!"

-

            He reflected that there was
this good in Christianity: By its concepts of the Millennium and Judgment Day
it accustomed people to looking forward in a way that the older religions did
not, and so prepared their minds for the conceptions of organic evolution and
scientific progress.

            Father Narcisus began his
sermon where he had left off a week before. Sorcery was the most damnable of
crimes; they should not suffer a witch to live, etc. Padway stiffened.

            But, continued the good
priest with a sour glance at Padway, we should not in our holy enthusiasm
confuse the practitioner of black arts and the familiar of devils with the
honest artisan who by his ingenious devices ameliorates our journey through
this vale of tears. After all, Adam invented the plow and Noah the ocean-going
ship. And this new art of machine writing would make it possible to spread the
word of God among the heathen more effectively ...

            When Padway got home, he
called in Julia and told her he would not need her any more. Julia from Apulia
began to weep, softly at first, then more and more violently. "What kind
of man are you? I give you love. I give you everything. But no, you think I am
just a little country girl you can do anything you want and then you get tired
..." The patois came with such machine-gun rapidity that Padway could no
longer follow. When she began to shriek and tear her dress, Padway ungallantly
threatened to have Fritharik throw her out bodily forthwith. She quieted.

            The day after she left,
Padway gave his house a personal going-over to see whether anything had been
stolen or broken. Under his bed he found a curious object: a bundle of chicken
feathers tied with horsehair around what appeared to be a long-defunct mouse;
the whole thing stiff with dried blood. Fritharik did not know what it was. But
George Menandrus did; he turned a little pale and muttered: "A
curse!"

            He reluctantly informed
Padway that this was a bad-luck charm peddled by one of the local wizards; the
discharged housekeeper had undoubtedly left it there to bring Padway to an
early and gruesome death. Menandrus himself wasn't too sure he wanted to keep
on with his job. "Not that I really believe in curses, excellent sir, but
with my family to support I can't take chances ..."