“This is the chaplain’s office but he’s not on duty until 2300 hours, which is; as someone even as stupid-looking as you can tell, is in fifteen minutes more.”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll come back …” Bill slid toward the door.
“You’ll stay and work.” The officer raised bloodshot eyeballs and cackled evilly. “I got you. You can sort the hanky reports. I’ve lost six hundred jockstraps, and they may be in there. You think it’s easy to be a laundry officer?” He sniveled with self-pity and pushed a tottering stack of papers over to Bill, who began to sort through them. Long before he was finished the buzzer sounded that ended the watch.
“I knew it!” the officer sobbed hopelessly, “this job will never end; instead it gets worse and worse. And you think you got problems!” He reached out an unsteady finger and flipped the sign on his desk over. It read CHAPLAIN on the other side. Then he grabbed the end of his necktie and pulled it back hard over his right shoulder. The necktie was fastened to his collar and the collar was set into ball bearings that rolled smoothly in a track fixed to his shirt. There was a slight whirring sound as the collar rotated; then the necktie was hanging out of sight down his back and his collar was now on backward, showing white and smooth and cool to thefront.
The chaplain steepled his fingers before him, lowered his eyes, and smiled sweetly. “How may I help you, my son?”
“I thought you were the laundry officer,” Bill said, taken aback.
“I am, my son, but that is just one of the burdens that must fall upon my shoulders. There is little call for a chaplain in these troubled times, but much call for a laundry officer. I do my best to serve.” He bent his head humbly.
“But-which are you? A chaplain who is a part-time laundry officer, or a laundry officer who is a part-time chaplain?”
“That is a mystery, my son. There are some things that it is best not to know. But I see you arc troubled. May I ask if you are of the faith?”
“Which faith?”
“That’s what I’m asking you!” the chaplain snapped, and for a moment the Old Laundry Officer peeped through. “How can I help you if I do not know what your religion is?”
“Fundamentalist Zoroastrian.”
The chaplain took a plastic-covered sheet from a drawer and ran his finger down it. “Z … Z … Zen … Zodomite … Zoroastrian, Reformed Fundamentalist, is that the one?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, should be no trouble with this, my son … 21-52-05 …” He quickly dialed the number on a control plate set into the desk; then, with a grand gesture and an evangelistic gleam in his eye, he swept all the laundry papers to the floor. Hidden machinery hummed briefly, a portion of the desk top dropped away and reappeared a moment later bearing a black plastic-box decorated with golden bulls, rampant. “Be with you in a second,” the chaplain said, opening the box.
First he unrolled a length of white cloth sewn with more golden bulls and draped this around his neck. He placed a thick, leather-bound book next to the box, then on the closed lid set two metal bulls with hollowed-out backs. Into one of them he poured distilled water from a plastic flask and into the other sweet oil, which he ignited. Bill watched these familiar arrangements with growing happiness.
“It’s very lucky,” Bill said, “that you are a Zoroastrian. It makes it easier to talk to you.”
“No luck involved, my son, just intelligent planning.” The chaplain dropped some powdered Haoma into the flame, and Bill’s nose twitched as the drugged incense filled the room. “By the grace of Ahura Mazdah I am an anointed priest of Zoroaster. By Allah’s will a faithful muezzin of Islam, through Yahweh’s intercession a circumcised rabbi, and so forth.” His benign face broke into a savage snarl. “And also because of an officer shortage I am the damned laundry officer.” His face cleared. “But now, you must tell me your problem …”
“Well, it’s not easy. It may be just foolish suspicion on my part, but I’m worried about one of my buddies. There is something strange about him. I’m not sure how to tell it…”