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matically. How long have his thoughts been open to the world?
He shrugs.
Gates is right, you know ... don't you?
Gates is right. He deserves better than Aurore ... if he wants it.
Martel sits down again, lets himself go limp, and extends his perceptions.
Hollie and Gates are still in the front entryway. Hollie is shifting the
console to full automatic, with the direct in-line straight to the live
studio.
Martel power-slips under her conscious thoughts, probes for the subtle
weaknesses that must exist. They do. He inserts an idea, a prohibition, a
small compulsion, and what others might call an optimistic feed loop, for want
of a better term.
The adjustments complete, he withdraws.
Unless he has miscalculated, Hollie Devero will discover over the days and
years ahead that she needs less and less cernadine, if any. Hopefully, the
gradual nature of the change will let her believe that the change is hers, not
his.
He takes a deep breath and climbs back to his feet.
Each time, such extensions of his abilities take less and
less effort. Each time, he has a better idea of what to do and how.
Some things, Martel, some things you are learning. .
He picks up the cubes he needs and heads for the vacant studio, absently
noting that Gates and Hollie have left the
CastCenter.
XVII
According to the datacenter, three main religious orders main-
tain communities and worship centers in the hills above
Pamyra the Apollonites, the Ethenes, and the Taurists. The fourth major order,
the Thoradians, has a small mission at
Pamyra, but lists no main community anywhere.
Martel frowns.
Even before getting into the fieldwork, he is digging up as many questions as
answers. And more questions are bound to follow.
He tabs the numbers into his console, switches the fax from the datalink into
the commlink, and begins his contacts.
Father Sanders G'lobo of the Apollonites says yes, pro-
vided Martel faxes only the postulants themselves and the lay community, not
the Brothers or sacred aspects.
Sister Artemis Dian agrees, if no facial close-ups or reli-
gious scenes are faxed.
Head Taurist Theseus politely explains that no internal faxshots of the
community are permitted.
The Thoradian Chief Missionary grants Martel permission to fax anything he can
except the interior of me Smithhall, the place of worship.
So when do you start? He blocks his own questions but nods to himself. Now ...
before it's too late.
Martel stands, leans over the console, and logs out. Theo-
retically, today is his "break" day, which gives him the time he will need
before he is due back on the board.
Tonight Gates will take his shift, and Hollie will probably use the time in
the spare studio to edit her slot on crafts.
Crafts? Who knows? Who knows if anyone will care about a bunch of worshipers
and their offbeat gods?
Martel represses a shiver. Maybe they'll care too much. He recalls the warning
about the logo slot by the goddess.
He pushes the uneasiness to the back of his mind and lifts the portafax unit.
It will take several trips to load the flitter.
Pamyra is two stans' flight time by the CastCenter flitter, and another
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half-stan beyond is his first stop, the Apollonite community.
From the air the sunburst pattern is clear radial lanes, yel-
low-paved, linked at the center where the temple stands, fan outward and cross
regularly spaced and circular ways. The temple rises from the absolute center
of the community to a pointed beacon fifty meters above-ground which pulses
with a golden glow.
The last circular lane marks the perimeter between the
community buildings and the supporting lands, and on it is a row of low
structures, some with pens attached.
Martel circles the entire community twice, taking his wide-
angle and pan shots, and ends them with a close-focused zoom in on the temple.
He drops the flitter on the pad midway between the agri-
cultural buildings and the temple.
Father G'lobo, clean-shaven, tanned, silver hairs streaking his golden curls,
and flowing pale yellow robes not quite cov-
ering his sandals, meets Martel as he begins to unload the portafax from the
flitter.
A sunburst, radiating a gentle light, hangs from a golden chain around the
good Father's neck.
"Greetings, in the name of Apollo," offers G'lobo.
Martel holds back a smile. Without probing, he can sense the priest's
disapproval of his black tunic, trousers, and boots.
"Greetings to you, Father, and my thanks, both for me and for those who will
have a chance to glimpse the kind of life you offer the faithful and those who
would join your Order."
Martel inclines his head in a gesture of respect.
"What exactly do you have in mind, my son?"
Mattel finishes loading the next cube into the unit and ad-
justs the harness, ready to shoulder it.
"Fairly standard approach, Father. Pan shots of the com-
munity; then a mixture of shots of the secular activities ...
what people do in the way of support activities I understand that the
postulants do some crafts for the tourie trade and perhaps a back shot or two
over the shoulders of the novices of the other ... Apollonites? Is that what
those who are ac-
cepted are called?"
G'lobo nods.
"Like a shot of them, not their faces, but from behind, as they enter the
temple, with perhaps an uptake into the bea-
con."
"Flame," corrects the priest.
"Would any of that be a problem?" asks Martel, still bal-
ancing the fax unit on his knee, his right foot resting on the landing strut
of the flitter.
"If that's all, it shouldn't be." The older man pauses, then asks, "What do
you expect to get from this? What's the real purpose of your visit?"
Martel reflects. The question seems hostile, but Father
G'lobo radiates no hostility, though he wears a mindshield.
Shields do not block emotions, just thoughts. Martel calcu-
lates whether he should attempt to break through the shield, decides against
it.
"Twofold, I guess. First, no one has ever done a story on the religious
communities. Not in any of the records. That makes it a possibility for a good
story, and I need one. Sec-
ond, I'm new. And I hope to learn something in the process."
G'lobo relaxes fractionally, though his professional smile
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has not varied an iota.
"That seems reasonable. Please do not point your unit at any of the Brothers,
the Apollonites wearing sunbursts like mine. If you feel it necessary to have
some faces, a picture of a postulant or two, the ones in the plain yellow
robes, would not be out of place."
Martel catches sight of a taller, more massively built
Apollonite approaching.
G'lobo turns toward the newcomer, his smile a shade broader. "Administrative
duties call me, but Brother Hercles will be your guide and adviser."
Martel again inclines his head and looks up at the giant, who towers a full
two meters plus.
"Brother Hercles," says G'lobo, "this is Faxer Martel from the CastCenter at
Sybernal. He knows the guidelines, and I
am sure he will do his best to follow them."
"Greetings," Martel says quietly.
"A pleasure to meet you. I've seen you on the fax."
Hercles' voice rumbles like a bass organ.
"I will return to see you off," adds Father G'lobo as he steps away toward the
temple.
"Where do you wish to start?" asks the giant.
Martel hefts the fax unit into the shoulder harness.
Be nice to have his muscles to carry this, he thinks.
"I sort of thought we'd start with the outbuildings and work in, ending up
with what shots I can take of the temple." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]