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"Oh, why not?"
Rose led him directly from the parking stall through a double door that might have served to guard a bank
vault, and up a private escalator. The door at the top was opened by a huge man, rough-looking though
well dressed, who eyed Art with suspicion. Art in turn suffered a momentary fear that this was the bishop
himself.
Rose said: "Jove, this is a friend of mine, Mr. Rodney. Daddy wanted me to bring him home so they
could get acquainted."
Jove grunted. "Have 'im wait here and I'll see. Or would you rather go in, Miss Jamison?"
"No, you go, I'll wait with Art." She took Art's arm and they stood there in the elegantly carpeted hall like
a couple waiting to be married.
"The bishop's chief bodyguard?" Art asked, when the giant was gone.
"Yes. Don't mind Jove's rough manners, he's really quite sweet." She squeezed his arm meaningfully.
"So's Daddy. Now I put all my trust in you, darling."
Jove was already coming back through the plush hallway. "The boss says you should bring him on in.
Hey, Miss Jamison, you're looking real hot. I'm off duty in a little while, could we maybe get together for
some sex?"
"All right, Jove, I'll see you in the chapel. Art, dear, let me introduce you to Daddy first."
At the end of the hall Rose tapped on an old-fashioned wood-paneled door, then pushed it open without
waiting for an answer. The room revealed was a large study, the walls lined with bookshelves and
tape-racks. A massive, brown-skinned old man rose from an armchair and favored Art with a mild smile
of greeting. The bishop wore the exaggerated white codpiece of his office, under a vaguely transparent
robe.
"Daddy, this is Art. I've been telling him how nice you are, and that he really had nothing to be afraid of,
meeting you. Now I want you to be nice to him."
"Why, I'm generally sociable, dear." The old man accepted his daughter's kiss on his worn sagging cheek.
"Dear, why don't you buzz away now for a little bit? Mr. Rodney and I are going to have a chat."
"Sure, Daddy. I expect I'll be in the chapel with Jove if you should want me." Turning toward Art with an
expression that was doubtless meant to be encouraging, Rose stepped past him and out of the study. Art,
who had reached out his arm mechanically, caught himself at the last moment and let her go without a
good-bye pinch. They were supposed to be having an affair, and possibly, just possibly, he would want
to maintain that fiction.
Bishop Jamison was still smiling. "Mr. Rodney, that sofa there is very comfortable. And how about a
drink? I have vodka and bourbon and beer and even a little sherry on hand."
"Uh, thank you, sir. Your Potency. Bourbon on the rocks would be fine." Art sank resignedly into the
sofa while his host turned away. Poison in the whiskey, maybe? He would drink it anyway.
The room might have been the study of any successful and conservative man, though, not surprisingly,
there was a somewhat heavy emphasis on religious art. Rodin's The Kiss in nearly lifesize reproduction.
Leda and the Swan, there on the wall, by one of the newer photographic masters. Painting had been
dead for a century now, along with poetry and story-telling, or so most of the critics said. And there of
course above the mantel, Love Conquers All, Caravaggio's Cupid trampling triumphantly the symbols of
the occupations by which man sometimes allowed himself to be lured temporarily away from his true
master, Lust.
The old man was back, holding out a glass, and Art half rose to take it from him. "Thank you, sir."
With a wheeze, the bishop settled his bulk in his own leather chair; his own drink he held in a tankard
around the outer surface of which some kind of Oriental orgy marched in bas relief. "Mr. Rodney, Rose
tells me that you and she have become quite good friends."
"Uh, yes sir, we have." Art's intended sip of bourbon somehow transformed itself into a gulp.
Jamison emerged from his tankard with a trace of beer foam on his dark lips. "She's a lovely girl in her
way ... her mother was a lovely piece, and I oughta know, though I was an old dog even then ... how
was it you two happened to meet? On the tube train coming in from Iowa, wasn't it?"
"That's right, sir." Art drew in a deep breath. "Bishop, I don't mean you or Rose any harm. Far from it.
So I'm just going to tell you the truth. I don't know what Rose may have told you, but the fact of the
matter is I hardly know her. If she has any, ah, involvement with any man, it's certainly not with me." So
far the news was being received with apparent calm. "I'm sorry about her problems, Your Potency, and
yours, but I have problems of my own that are just as bad. I'm sorry."
Jamison leaned forward a little. "Would you like a refill on that drink?"
"I'll get it myself, sir, thanks. Another beer? I'm telling you the truth, bishop, I never was any good at
lying."
The bishop indicated with a headshake that his tankard had no need of refilling as yet. He swiveled his
chair to keep facing Art, who was now at the bar. "Some people never realize they're not, and it gets 'em
into endless trouble. Most of the time honesty simplifies things, if it doesn't always pay. You really did
help Rose, out there in Iowa, didn't you? Her own story is a little muddled. She was coming back from
visiting some girl friend in Dubuque, I guess, when that riot broke out."
"Oh, yes sir, I had the chance to be of help to her in a small way." Back at the sofa, Art sank down with
relief and took a sip, this time truly no more than a tiny sip, of the excellent bourbon. "But believe me,
there's been nothing wrong between us. We made it all the way, right there in the park, while we were
waiting to get on the train to Chicago."
Jamison was nodding slowly. "Arthur, I find myself believing you. I know my own daughter, and she just
gave me your name too suddenly and too willingly. I don't suppose you know the name of the man she is
involved with, as you put it?" Then before Art could try to answer, the bishop scowled and waved a
white-palmed, wrinkled hand. "No, I withdraw the question. Don't want to put an honest man like
yourself on the spot."
"I really haven't the faintest idea, anyway, who it could be." Numbly relaxing, Art sipped at his icy
whisky. His head ached, but not as bad as before. It seemed that he had managed to avert any new and
disastrous trouble; and what more could a man hope for than that?
The bishop set his tankard down carefully on a small table. "Not that I care an awful lot what kind of fun
she has with men." His steady black eyes peered at Art from their time-ravaged face. "Probably that
shocks you, coming from a church-man like me. But if she wants to sit with some young fella and gaze at
the stars and forget all about sex for ten minutes, I can't see how society is harmed."
"Yes sir, I am surprised to hear you talk like that." It would really have shocked Art, too, if he hadn't
been somewhat numb with alcohol, and emotionally exhausted by still more shocking things. "If what your
statement implies is true, that society isn't harmed by repression, that it doesn't matter what people do
with sex, why do we have the Church of Eros then?"
The bishop heaved himself erect, his erotically-decorated tankard in hand, and walked over to the dark
fireplace. It looked a lot like George's, except this one was bigger. When the bishop switched it on, a
realistic imitation of burning logs, probably a hologram, appeared in the dark cave. The logs crackled
audibly and flared and seemed to send smoke up the flue.
"This thing is a fake," Jamison mused, patting the mantle with one hand. "Lots of fire and noise, but no
smell. And no real heat." He set his tankard on the mantlepiece and turned to Art, "You know why it is
good for man to Worship sex? Why it really is good? Simply because the poor fool has nothing better
before which to prostrate himself. Eros as a god is far from perfect, he's just the best of a bunch of
failures." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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