Masters was gushing, "You'll be most gratified to find what progress we've been making. We…" He came to a halt suddenly and blinked at Mike.
"What's the matter?" Mike scowled at him.
"Why," the other said hesitantly, "it's nonsense, of course, but if I didn't know better I would have sworn I smell, ah, the demon rum on your breath."
Mike looked at him. Sometimes he wondered if it was a good idea to keep the lower echelons in complete ignorance of their real role. This one looked as though he was going to be a lulu to have around.
He said dryly, "The stewardess gave me something for airsickness. I have little knowledge about such medication, Brother, but I am sure she would not have administered it unless it had been recommended by the airline physicians. We must attack the use of alcohol in moderation, realizing that it has various medical uses."
"Why, of course, how ridiculous of me. Thank you for pointing out the correct path, Bishop."
Mike said piously, "Verily, he who seeks evil but finds it. Blessed are the trusting. Genesis XIX. 5."
The other whipped out a notebook and quickly scribbled into it. "What a wonderful useful quotation.
Bishop Edwards," he gushed. Oh, he was a gusher, all right. It was going to be a chore getting used to having him around.
He wondered why Frank had picked this one as secretary. Probably because he wasn't very quick on the uptake and consequently would catch on that something wasn't fragrant about this whole missionary bit.
In actuality, Mike had pulled that quotation off the top of his head. He could no more have quoted chapter and verse from the Bible than he could have sprouted a halo.
He said severely, "And who is responsible for this ostentatious vehicle to pick me up at the airport?"
The Reverend David Master looked apprehensive. "Why, I rented it, Bishop Edwards."
Thank goodness you didn't, at least, buy it. Do you think it suitable for a Bishop of the gospel that teaches moderation, to ride in an aircushion limousine that would be suitable for Number One, in the Kremlin, himself?"
"I… I… It never occurred to me, Bishop Edwards. I was thinking of your comfort," Reverend Masters stuttered.
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Mike said, "Well, in the future, consider simplicity and meekness of spirit, my characteristics rather than a yearning for creature comforts."
"Yes, Bishop Edwards."
He might as well get this young jerk under his thumb as soon as possible. If he stumbled upon something by accident, it would be easier to deal with him. But Mike decided then and there that he was going to see as few as possible of his subordinates on this level.
They swept down Gorgi Street, the Broadway-Fifth Avenue of Moscow, and emerged into Red Square, bordering the Kremlin. Mike was quartered in the New Metropole on Sverdlov Square, only two or three blocks from the Kremlin. Even Mike Edwards who had spent the better part of the last year bringing himself up to date on Russkie progress was amazed by the extent to which they'd been able to automate a hotel.
There weren't even bellhops to take your bags to your suite. The luggage was inserted into a compartment in the reception desk, and whisked up to your rooms automatically. There was exactly one clerk at the desk, and his duties seemed largely to be those of pleasantly greeting new arrivals. Anyone who knew the ropes, could have-registered himself, in the desk screens. Or, if he didn't know them, could have read the instructions in a half dozen languages.
The elevator didn't need to be operated. Its identity screen picked them up and whizzed them up to the correct floor. The Reverend Masters led the way down the corridor to the Bishop's suite, evidently having regained his confidence, since he was gushing again.
"My room adjoins your suite, Bishop Edwards. We have arranged for inter-office communication, and there is a connecting door."
"Where's Frank, uh, that is the Reverend Jones, quartered?"
"He shares your suite, sir. He thought it best that he be immediately available. You could not believe how fast things are moving. Why, we could use twice the number of missionaries we have on hand."
Mike growled, "Make a note to remind me of that," as soon as I get settled in. If we can use twice the missionaries we have on hand, we'll soon have them."
The Reverend Masters blinked. "Bishop Edwards, not that I question your word, but I sometimes wonder where all the funds come from."
Oh, oh.
Mike said severely, "Well, stop wondering. The holy message is spreading. Some of our followers are extremely wealthy. They realize the need to spread the gospel. They donate very generously."
"They must," David Masters murmured. "Bless them all. Here we are."
He opened the door and stood aside for Mike to precede him.
Mike Edwards entered and did a quick tour of the apartment. It was much the same to the one he'd had in the New Greater Washington Hotel. That is, there were two bedrooms, two baths, a large living room, complete with what he assumed to be a bar, and an office, rather larger than the one he'd had in Greater Page 64
Washington. Old Frank had taste for comfort.
He returned and put himself on record. His mouth was tight.
"Is this your idea of moderation, Reverend?"
The Reverend Masters quailed. "Your Reverence, the Reverend Jones mediated at great length before coming to the conclusion that in view of the prominence of Your Reverence that it would not do to seek humble quarters. The rest of us, believe me, seek the simpler life, though it is much more difficult here in the Soviet Complex than one could dream. No one here leads what could be deemed a simple life. A hermit would be hard put to avoid champagne and caviar. It is truly most distressing. But the Reverend Jones thought it might be necessary for you to receive high officials, government authorities, for permission to continue and expand our work…" he let the sentence dribble away.
"I see," Mike said severely. "The Reverend Jones has been on the scene longer than I have.
Undoubtedly he is more knowledgeable about local needs. I trust his sagacity implicitly. However…"
Mike turned and dramatically pointed at the bar.
"… what is that?"
David Masters was in agony. "An automated bar, Your Reverence. They come in all of the suites and rooms in the New Metropole. I suggested to the Reverend Jones that we request it be removed from your quarters, but after pious deliberation he decided it was ostentatious to request alterations in our quarters. He thought, perhaps, that we could put a tapestry over it to disguise its nature."
Mike nodded curtly. "As usual, the Reverend Jones thinks out even modest problems efficiently. Now, then, Reverend, that will be all I am weary. I shall begin activities later. Please retire. I am free to no. one except the Reverend Jones."
"Yes, your Reverence, of course. I was distressed to learn that you had suffered airsickness on the way across the Atlantic. I was of the opinion that it was practically unknown on the supersonics."
Mike said grimly, "I can get airsick just looking up at the sky on dry land. See you later, Reverend."
In actuality, the trip across had been a ball. But that was another story. Right now he could use a quick one to get him over his slight hangover. Slight, hell.
He saw the Reverend Masters to the door which joined Mike's suite to the other's room, and saw that it was well secured before heading back for his own living room and making a beeline for the bar.
The damn thing was automated. Happily, there were instructions. You could dial just about any item on a rather impressive wine and spirits list. He was just beginning to get the real hang of it when the door buzzed and the identity screen revealed the dour face of Frank Jones.
Mike let him in and they sized each other up. Both, of course, wore the somber, austere black clothing of a minister of the Old Time Religion Church, complete with reversed collar.