The Temple Herald printed the duty lists of both my service and hers. I was standing a watch in five; the Virgins drew lots once a week. So it was just over a month later that our watches again matched. I saw her name—and vowed that I would win the guard mount that evening and again be posted at the post of honor before the Prophet’s own apartments. I had no reason to think that Judith would seek me out on the rampart-but I was sure in my heart that she would. Never at West Point had I ever expended more spit-and-polish; I could have used my buckler for a shaving mirror.
But here it was nearly half past ten and no sign of Judith, although I had heard the Virgins gather down the corridor promptly at ten. All I had to show for my efforts was the poor privilege of standing watch at the coldest post in the Palace.
Probably, I thought glumly, she comes out to flirt with the guardsmen on watch every time she has a chance. I recalled bitterly that all women were vessels of iniquity and had always been so since the Fall of Man. Who was I to think that she had singled me out for special friendship? She had probably considered the night too cold to bother.
I heard a footstep and my heart leaped with joy. But it was only the warden making his rounds. I brought my pistol to the ready and challenged him; his voice came back, “Watchman, what of the night?”
I answered mechanically, “Peace on Earth,” and added, “It is cold, Elder Brother.”
“Autumn in the air,” he agreed. “Chilly even in the Temple.” He passed on by with his pistol and his bandolier of paralysis bombs slapping his armor to his steps. He was a nice old duffer and usually stopped for a few friendly words; tonight he was probably eager to get back to the warmth of the guardroom. I went back to my sour thoughts.
“Good evening, John Lyle.”
I almost jumped out of my boots. Standing in the darkness just inside the archway was Sister Judith. I managed to splutter, “Good evening, Sister Judith,” as she moved toward me.
“Ssh!” she cautioned me. “someone might hear us. John Lyle—it finally happened. My lot was drawn!”
I said, “Huh?” then added lamely, “Felicitations, Elder Sister. May God make his face to shine on your holy service.”
“Yes, yes, thanks,” she answered quickly, “but John . . . I had intended to steal a few moments to chat with you. Now I can’t—I must be at the robing room for indoctrination and prayer almost at once. I must run.”
“You’d better hurry,” I agreed. I was disappointed that she could not stay, happy for her that she was honored, and exultant that she had not forgotten me. “God go with you.”
“But I just had to tell you that I had been chosen.” Her eyes were shining with what I took to be holy joy; her next words startled me. “I’m scared, John Lyle.”
“Eh? Frightened?” I suddenly recalled how I had felt, how my voice had cracked, the first time I ever drilled a platoon. “do not be. You will be sustained.”
“Oh, I hope so! Pray for me, John.” And she was gone, lost in the dark corridor.
I did pray for her and I tried to imagine where she was, what she was doing. But since I knew as little about what went on inside the Prophet’s private chambers as a cow knows about courts-martial, I soon gave it up and simply thought about Judith. Later, an hour or more, my reverie was broken by a high scream inside the Palace, followed by a commotion, and running footsteps. I dashed down the inner corridor and found a knot of women gathered around the portal to the Prophet’s apartments. Two or three others were carrying someone out the portal; they stopped when the reached the corridor and eased their burden to the floor.
“What’s the trouble?” I demanded and drew my side arm clear.
An elderly Sister stepped in front of me. “It is nothing. Return to your post, legate.”
“I heard a scream.”
“No business of yours. One of the Sisters fainted when the Holy One required service of her.”
“Who was it?”
“You are rather nosy, little brother.” She shrugged. “sister Judith, if it matters.”
I did not stop to think but snapped, “Let me help her!” and started forward. She barred my way.
“Are you out of your mind? Her sisters will return her to her cell. Since when do the Angels minister to nervous Virgins?”
I could easily have pushed her aside with one finger, but she was right. I backed down and went unwillingly back to my post.
For the next few days I could not get Sister Judith out of my mind. Off watch, I prowled the parts of the Palace I was free to visit, hoping to catch sight of her. She might be ill, or she might be confined to her cell for what must certainly have been a major breach of discipline. But I never saw her.
My roommate, Zebadiah Jones, noticed my moodiness and tried to rouse me out of it. Zeb was three classes senior to me and I had been one of his plebes at the Point; now he was my closest friend and my only confidant. “Johnnie old son, you look like a corpse at your own wake. What’s eating on you?”
“Huh? Nothing at all. Touch of indigestion, maybe.”
“So? Come on, let’s go for a walk. The air will do you good.” I let him herd me outside. He said nothing but banalities until we were on the broad terrace surrounding the south turret and free of the danger of eye and ear devices. When we were well away from anyone else he said softly, “Come on. Spill it.”
“Shucks, Zeb, I can’t burden anybody else with it.”
“Why not? What’s a friend for?”
“Uh, you’d be shocked.”
“I doubt it. The last time I was shocked was when I drew four of a kind to an ace kicker. It restored my faith in miracles and I’ve been relatively immune ever since. Come on-we’ll call this a privileged communication-elder adviser and all that sort of rot.”
I let him persuade me. To my surprise Zeb was not shocked to find that I let myself become interested in a holy deaconess. So I told him the whole story and added to it my doubts and troubles, the misgivings that had been growing in me since the day I reported for duty at New Jerusalem.
He nodded casually. “I can see how it would affect you that way, knowing you. See here, you haven’t admitted any of this at confession, have you?”
“No,” I admitted with embarrassment.
“Then don’t. Nurse your own fox. Major Bagby is broadminded, you wouldn’t shock him-but he might find it necessary to pass it on to his superiors. You wouldn’t want to face Inquisition even if you were alabaster innocent. In fact, especially since you are innocent—and you are, you know; everybody has impious thoughts at times. But the Inquisitor expects to find sin; if he doesn’t find it, he keeps on digging.”
At the suggestion that I might be put to the Question my stomach almost turned over. I tried not to show it for Zeb went on calmly, “Johnnie my lad, I admire your piety and~ your innocence, but I don’t envy it. Sometimes too much piety is more of a handicap than too little. You find yourself shocked at the idea that it takes politics as well as psalm singing to run a big country. Now take me; I noticed the same things when I was new here, but I hadn’t expected anything different and wasn’t shocked.”
“But—“I shut up. His remarks sounded painfully like heresy; I changed the subject. “Zeb, what do you suppose it could have been that upset Judith so and caused her to faint the night she served the Prophet?”
“Eh? How should I know?” He glanced at me and looked away.
“Well, I just thought you might. You generally have all the gossip around the Palace.”
“Well . . . oh, forget it, old son. It’s really not important.”
“Then you do know?”
“I didn’t say that. Maybe I could make a close guess, but you don’t want guesses. So forget it.”