Mondschein nibbled his lip. He was not supposed to leave the immediate vicinity of his chapel without permission from a superior, but there was no time for that now, and in any event he had no intention of bucking the bureaucracy so soon after his rebuke. He would take his chances.
The slidewalk sped him ahead.
Soon the Tarrytown station drew near. Mondschein’s stomach roiled with tension. He could smell the acrid fumes of quickboat fuel. The chill wind cut through his robes, so that his shivering was not entirely from uneasiness. He stepped from the slidewalk and entered the station, a gleaming yellowish-green dome with lambent plastic walls. It was not particularly crowded. The commuters from downtown had not yet begun to arrive, and the outward-bound rush would come later in the day, at the dinner hour.
Figures approached him. The voice coming from the device on his back said, “Don’t stare at them, but just follow behind them casually.”
Mondschein obeyed. There were three of them, two men and a slim, angular-faced woman. They led him on a sauntering stroll past the chattering newsfax booth, past the bootblack stands, past the row of storage lockers. One of the men, short and square-headed, with thick, stubby yellow hair, slapped his palm against a locker to open it. He drew out a bulky package and tucked it under one arm. As he cut diagonally across the station toward the men’s washroom, the voice said to Mondschein, “Wait thirty seconds and follow him.”
The acolyte pretended to study the newsfax ticker. He did not feel enthusiastic about his present predicament, but he sensed that it would be useless and possibly harmful to resist. When the thirty seconds were up. he moved toward the washroom. The scanner decided that he was suitably male, and the ADMIT sign flashed. Mondschein entered.
“Third booth,” the voice murmured.
The blond man was not in sight. Mondschein entered the booth and found the package from the locker propped against the seat. On an order, he picked it up and opened the clasps. The wrapper fell away. Mondschein found himself holding the green robe of a Harmonist Brother.
The heretics? What in the world—“Put it on, Mondschein.”
“I can’t. If I’m seen in it—”
“You won’t be. Put it on. We’ll guard your own robe until you get back.”
He felt like a puppet. He shrugged out of his robe, put it on a hook, and donned the unfamiliar uniform, it fitted well. There was something clipped to the inner surface: a thermoplastic mask, Mondschein realized. He was grateful for that. Unfolding it, he pressed it to his face and held it there until it took hold. The mask would disguise his features just enough so that he need not fear recognition.
Carefully Mondschein put his own robe within the wrapper and sealed it.
“Leave it on the seat,” he was told.
“I don’t dare. If it’s lost, how will I ever explain?”
“It will not be lost, Mondschein. Hurry now. The quickboat’s about to leave.”
Unhappily, Mondschein stepped from the booth. He viewed himself in the mirror. His face, normally plump, now looked gross: bulging cheeks, stubbly jowls, moist and thickened lips. Unnatural dark circles rimmed his eyes as though he had caroused for a week. The green robe was strange, too. Wearing the ouffit of heresy made him feel closer to his own organization than ever before.
The slim woman came forward as he emerged into the waiting room. Her cheekbones were like hatchet blades, and her eyelids had been surgically replaced by shutters of fine platinum foil. It was an outmoded fashion of the previous generation; Mondschein could remember his mother coming from the cosmetic surgeon’s office with her face transformed into a grotesque mask. No one did that any more. This woman had to be at least forty, Mondschein thought, though she looked much younger.
“Eternal harmony, Brother,” she said huskily.
Mondschein fumbled for the proper Harmonist response. Improvising, he said, “May the Oneness smile upon you.”
“I’m grateful for your blessing. Your ticket’s in order, Brother. Will you come with me?”
She was his guide, he realized. He had shed the Ear with his own robe. Queasily, he hoped he would get to see that garment again before long. He followed the slim woman to the loading platform. They might be taking him anywhere—Chicago, Honolulu, Montreal—
The quickboat sparkled in the floodlit station, graceful, elegant, its skin a burnished bluish-green. As they filed aboard, Mondschein asked the woman, “Where are we going?”
“Rome,” she said.
three
Mondschein’s eyes were wide as the monuments of antiquity flashed by. The Forum, the Colosseum, the Theater of Marcellus, the gaudy Victor Emmanuel Monument, the Mussolini Column—their route took them through the heart of the ancient city. He saw also the blue glow of a Vorster chapel as he whizzed down the Via dei Fori Imperiali, and that struck him as harshly incongruous here in this city of an older religion. The Brotherhood had a solid foothold here, though. When Gregory XVIII appeared in the window at his Vatican palace, he could still draw a crowd of hundreds of thousands of cheering Romans, but many of those same Romans would melt from the square after viewing the Pope and head for the nearest chapel of the Brotherhood.
Evidently the Harmonists were making headway here, too, Mondschein thought. But he kept his peace as the car sped north-ward out of the city.
“This is the Via Flaminia,” his guide announced. “The old route was followed when the electronic roadbed was installed. They have a deep sense of tradition here.”
“I’m sure they do,” said Mondschein wearily. It Was mid-evening by his time, and he had had nothing to eat but a snack aboard the quickboat. The ninety-minute journey had dumped him in Rome in the hours before dawn. A wintry mist hung over the city; spring was late. Mondschein’s face itched fiercely beneath his mask. Fear chilled his fingers.
They halted in front of a drab brick building some where a few dozen miles north of Rome. Mondschein shivered as he hurried within. The woman with platinum eyelids led him up the stairs and into a warm, brightly lit room occupied by three men in green Harmonist robes. That confirmed it, Mondschein thought: I’m in a den of heretics.
They did not offer their names. One was short and squat, with a sallow face and bulbous nose. One was tall and spectrally thin, arms and legs like spider’s limbs. The third was unremarkable, with pale skin and narrow, bland eyes. The squat one was the oldest and seemed to be in charge.
Without preamble he said, “So they turned you down, did they?”
“How—”
“Never mind how. We’ve been watching you, Mondschein. We hoped you’d make it. We want a man in Santa Fe just as much as you want to be there.”
“Are you Harmonists?”
“Yes. What about some wine, Mondschein?”
The acolyte shrugged. The tall heretic gestured, and the slim woman, who had not left the room, came forward with a flask of golden wine. Mondschein accepted a glass, thinking dourly that it was almost certainly drugged. The wine was chilled and faintly sweet, like a middling-dry Graves. The others took wine with him.
“What do you want from me?” Mondschein asked.
“Your help,” said the squat one. “There’s a war going on, and we want you to join our side.”
“I don’t know of any wars.”
“A war between darkness and light,” said the tall heretic in a mild voice. “We are the warriors of light. Don’t think we’re fanatics, Mondschein. Actually, we’re quite reasonable men.”
“Perhaps you know,” said the third of the Harmonists, “that our creed is derived from yours. We respect the teachings of Vorst, and we follow most of his ways. In fact, we regard ourselves as closer to the original teachings than the present hierarchy of the Brotherhood. We’re a purifying body. Every religion needs its reformers.”