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excelled in battle, if only for a brief time, but never in argument. No doubt
you know of my fate. "
Monsieur Boker looked pained. "The vagueries of the ancients! We have a skimpy
historical frame around your, ah, representation no more. We know not what
place you lived, but we do know minutiae of events after your "
"Death. You can speak of it. I am accustomed to it, as any Christian maiden
should be, upon arrival in Purgatory. I
know who you two are, as well. "
La Sorciere asked cautiously, "You... do?"
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"Angels! You manifest yourselves as ordinary folk, to calm my fears. Then you
set me a task. Even if it involves the roguish, it is a divine mission. "
Monsieur Boker nodded slowly, glancing at La Sorciere. "From the tatters of
data flapping about your Self, we gather that your reputation was restored at
hearings held twenty-six years after your death. Those involved in your
condemnation repented of their mistake. You were called, in high esteem, La
Rose de la Loire. "
She blinked back wistful tears. "Justice... Had I been skilled in argument,
I'd have convinced my inquisitors those
English-loving preachers of the University of Paris! that I am not a witch. "
Monsieur Boker seemed moved. "Even pre-antiquity knew when a holy power was
with them. "
The Maid laughed, lighthearted. "The Lord's on the side of His Son, and the
saints and martyrs, too. But that does not mean they escape failure and death.
"
"She's right, " La Sorciere said. "Even worlds and galaxies share man's fate.
"
"We of spirituality need you, " Monsieur Boker pleaded. "We have become too
much like our machines. We hold nothing sacred except the smooth functioning
of our parts. We know you will address the question with intensity, yet in
simplicity and truth. That is all we ask. "
The Maid felt fatigued. She needed solitude, time to reflect. "I must consult
with my voices. Will there be only one, or many questions that I must
address?"
"Just one. "
The inquisitors had been far more demanding. They asked many questions,
dozens, sometimes the same ones, over and over again. Right answers at
Poitiers proved wrong elsewhere. Deprived of food, drink, rest, intimidated by
the enforced journey to the cemetery, exhausted by the tedious sermon they
compelled her to hear, and wracked by terror of the fire, she could not
withstand their interrogation.
"Does the Archangel Michael have long hair?"
"Is St. Margaret stout or lean?"
"Are St. Catherine's eyes brown or blue?"
They trapped her into assigning to voices of the spirit attributions of the
flesh. Then they perversely condemned her for confounding sacred spirit with
corrupt flesh.
All had been miasma. And in Purgatory, worse trials could ensue. She could not
therefore be certain if this Boker would turn out to be friend or foe.
"What is it?" she wanted to know. "This single question you want me to answer.
"
"There is universal consensus that man-made intelligences have a kind of
brain. The question we want you to answer is whether they have a soul. "
"Only the Almighty has the power to create a soul. "
Monsieur Boker smiled. "We Preservers couldn't agree with you more. Artificial
intelligences, unlike us, their creators, have no soul. They're just machines.
Mechanical contrivances with electronically programmed brains. Only man has a
soul. "
"If you already know the answer to the question, why do you need me?"
"To persuade! First the undecided of Junin Sector, then Trantor, then the
Empire!"
The Maid reflected. Her inquisitors had known the answers to the questions
they plied her with, too. Monsieur Boker seemed sincere, but then so were
those who pronounced her a witch. Monsieur Boker had told her the answer
beforehand, one with which any sensible person would agree. Still, she could
not be sure of his intentions. Not even the crucifix she asked the priest to
hold aloft was proof against the oily smoke, the biting flames....
"Well?" asked Monsieur Boker. "Will the Sacred Rose consent to be our
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champion?"
"These people I must convince. Are they, too, descendants of Charles, the
Great and True King, of the House of
Valois?"
5.
When Marq strode into Splashes & Sniffs to meet his buddy and coworker Nim, he
was surprised to find Nim already there. To judge from Nim's dilated pupils,
he'd been there most of the afternoon.
Marq said, "Hitting it hard? Something going on?"
Nim shook his head. "Same old Marq, blunt as a fist. First, try the
Swirlsnort. Doesn't do a thing for your thirst in fact, it will dry up your
entire head but you won't care. "
Swirlsnort turned out to be a powdery concoction that tasted like nutmeg and
bit as if he had swallowed an angry insect. Marq sniffed it slowly, one
nostril at a time. He wanted to be relatively clearheaded when Nim updated him
on office politics and funding. After that, he'd allow himself to get skyed.
"You may not like this, " said Nim. "It concerns Sybyl. "
"Sybyl!" He laughed a bit uneasily. "How'd you know I "
"You told me. Last time we had a snort together, remember?"
"Oh. " The stuff made him babble. Worse, it made him forget he had.
"Not exactly a state secret. " Nim grinned.
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