3:13.”
Joshua stirred uneasily, swinging a leg as he shifted a little on the rickety Judgment Seat. “I say BenDurrell—and the name alone stinks in an honest man’s nose—is in league with destruction, friend Frad. And I say destruction should be his portion, as the Prophet suggests for unbelievers—Originations 4:10.”
Outside the Summer Palace, a group of celebrators began to shout songs and hymns as they wove drunkenly past. Frad felt it wise to throw a glance of irritation at the open window, and Joshua shook his head and clucked disapproval.
“Such displays should be coventried,” he said, and Frad shook his own head. It was possible, he knew, safely to disagree on such a point.
“Do not attempt to be more pious than the Prophet himself requires,” he said. “It is said that all men need at times to unbend—Discourses 2:2—and who are we to judge their lives? BenDurrell is of an unfortunate heritage, Excellency, but that is all that can reasonably be said against him.”
“We are appointed to judge,” Joshua said mildly.
“So? Who was it made the appointment, Excellency?”
Joshua smiled. “God has made it,” he said serenely. “God, through His First Prophet and through that Prophet’s successors. What would you, then?”
“I will not pick a quarrel with Him,” Frad said, “nor His First Prophet, nor that First Prophet’s successors either. But it has never been clear to me that the proof of such an assertion is beyond any cavil.”
“Then search yourself until you find that clarity,” Joshua said, and a hint of sternness came into his voice. “You sail too close to the wind of heresy, Frad Golden.”
Frad shrugged. “It’s of no importance,” he said. “But, in these difficult times, we must avoid even the appearance of injustice.”
Joshua stirred a little on the Judgment Seat. “No one will worry about appearances, Frad Golden,” he said. “BenDurrell is nothing, less than nothing. No one will bother himself over one man’s fate.”
“But BenDurrell is just that, Excellency,” Frad said, as gently as possible. Joshua might listen to reason—the possibility existed—but it would not do to anger him. Duncan would not be well served by the casting-out or imprisonment of Frad Golden.
“‘Just that’? He is nothing, and less than nothing.”
“He is one man, Excellency, as you have said,” Frad went on. “And like every man, he is the one for whom the First Prophet came, as He Himself said—Generations 7:33. He is the one for whom sacrifices were made, in the days of the beginning. We are taught that every man has such value that he, alone, might be the cause of all the work of the First Prophet, and all the mercies of God Himself. One man, Lord—as valuable as any one man in all this world. As valuable, one might say—so we are taught, an you read it aright—as the Prophet himself.”
CHAPTER NINE
When the Master’s rasp stopped, the place was very quiet. Little Robbin Tress whispered: “Wow. Gee, Master Higsbee—gee, Sir—wow, I wish it were real. I mean I wish it were a real Heinlein story.” And then, dreamily: “Maybe, someplace, it is.”
“It might be so,” the Master said. His voice sounded tired, but no more tired than usual. If asked, he’d have told you, extensively, how worn and ancient he was, and how much the recital had taken out of him. So I didn’t ask.
Robbin offered to help with cleaning up, but the Master knew how I feel about household chores generally and dishwashing in particular, and managed to persuade her that my refusal was serious, and not ill-tempered in the least. We spent a few minutes in reminiscence—Robbin had once been a help about a Fairy Godfrog, of all the damned things, and the Master remembered some odd consulting he’d done for me here and there (and all the reasons why I shouldn’t have had to consult him, but could very well have figured matters out on my own)—and then, with both parties readying graceful goodbyes, it happened again.
This time, the damn nuisance didn’t miss.
Of course, this time he wasn’t shooting at me. In fact, we none of us heard the shot, for which I was and am profoundly grateful; that one sound would have tossed Robbin back five years and more in her own progress, and, which seemed almost as important somehow, would have been the occasion for endless complaining from Master Higsbee.
Six or seven minutes later, we were finishing up goodbye-and-reply routines, of which Robbin had a full set (the Master’s version was of course short and simple) when my phone blipped, and they stood frozen at the door, the way people will, while I went and answered it.
B’russ’r B’dige’s sweet high tenor asked me if I were me, and on getting confirmation gave me the news. I said I would be right the Hell there, hung up, and began to shoo my guests out before I had a chance to think.
Then I stopped shooing them, and instead began telling them what had happened. “That was B’russ’r B’dige. Somebody has just shot Ramsay Leake and knocked him off his tenth-floor balcony. B’russ’r thinks it’s connected. I’m going down to the Leake place—want to come along?”
The Master took one quick look at Robbin Tress. “I think not, Gerald,” he said slowly. “We will have to catch up later—of course you will provide. But Robbin should be home.”
The girl was absolutely crestfallen. She was actually wringing her hands, something I don’t seem to see much. “I’m so sorry, Sir,” she told me earnestly. “But it is a strain, and they tell me I have to be careful about strain. In a little while when I’m better, I won’t have to be so careful maybe, but right now I do, Sir, and I am sorry but I think I do have to go home, if Master Higsbee will help me get there.”
She did have enough spirit left, or something, to bat her eyelids at the Master a little, and stifle a small giggle. To his credit, he let both pass as friends, not even asking for recognition codes.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll check in with one of you as soon as I can, and as soon as I know anything. But let’s shut up shop in a hurry—I’d like to get there while the scene is still a scene.”
The Master nodded. Robbin was still agreeing we should hurry when he bundled her into their waiting closed car and took off, and by that time I was flagging a passing taxi and giving him directions to VT.
Which was, of course, the name of Ramsay Leake’s modest estate—Leake being a computer-simulations expert. If you don’t recognize the allusion, that’s because it is rather a Classical tag; back before the Clean Slate War, computer people on early comm networks used to speak of RT and VT—Real Time, or life every day, everywhere, and Virtual Time, or life on the comm net. The differences were beginning to be appreciated, apparently, right from the start of comm networking, and Leake had reached back to the ancients for his estate name, as a neat enough challenge to those differences, and one I found instantly admirable. Unfortunately, I couldn’t compliment him on it, not any more.
He was right there—what was left of him. But there wasn’t enough left to compliment—after a ten-story fall, there was barely enough left to recognize. Ravenal has 0.97 Standard gravity, but the 0.03 difference didn’t seem to amount to much in practical terms just then; Leake was just as jellied by the impact as he’d have been if he’d come down somewhere in ancient Oregon, or Uta.
VT had been a ten-story
