"I'd like to buy it," Drake said. "I'll pay you whatever you think it's
worth."
Saint Andrew stepped down from the pulpit and handed him the tape.
"Please accept it as a gift. I'm sure she would have wanted you to have
it." There was a pause. Then, "Are you a believer, Mr. Drake?"
Drake pocketed the tape. "No. Oh, I believe that the War of Nineteen
Ninety-nine came to a halt on the very day it began all right. What I
don't believe is that the nuclei of the enemy warheads were negated by
the 'terrible gaze' of a second Christ. I've always gone along with the
theory that they were negated by the bombardment of a Lambda-Xi field
that 'slipped its moorings' and wandered into the area--the same kind
of a bombardment that nearly negated me."
"And a commendable theory it is too--but basically isn't it as
dependent upon divine intervention as the Potomac Peregrination?"
"Not necessarily. Such concurrences seem providential merely because we
try to interpret the macrocosm on a microcosmic scale. Well, I have to
be on my way, Saint Andrew. The powers-that-be at Pastelsilks should
have come to some decision concerning my transparent cargo by this
time. Thank you for the tape, and for your trouble."
"Thank _you_ for bringing me news of Saint Annabelle, Mr. Drake. Even
though it was bad. Goodbye."
"Goodbye," Drake said, and left.
* * * * *
The offices of Pastelsilks, Inc. were as many as they were magnificent,
and the building that houses them pre-empted almost an entire acre.
The whispering of the worms was absent here, shut out by sound-proof
construction or devoured by the sterile humming of air-conditioning
units. "Right this way, Mr. Drake," a frightened office girl said. "Mr.
Pompton is waiting for you."
The vice president of Pastelsilks, Inc. gave a start when Drake
entered, but Drake was accustomed by this time to the reactions his
appearance gave rise to and no longer paid them any heed. "Good news or
bad news, Mr. Pompton?" he said.
"Bad news, I'm afraid. Please sit down, Mr. Drake."