She had made a commitment.
She laughed.
“Does he speak for you, as well?” she asked Rigo.
He did not reply. His face was reply enough. He, too, flushed, livid with rage.
She rose from her chair, leaned forward. “You two …” she said calmly, “you two can go to hell.” She turned and walked away, leaving them staring after her, their faces leaking anger until nothing was left except pallid amazement.
All Rigo could think of as he watched her back as she walked away was to wonder who she was thinking of now that Sylvan was dead.
“Father?”
They looked up to see Father James standing at their sides. Father Sandoval nodded curtly.
“I’ve come to say goodbye.” said the younger priest, with only a slight tremor.
“You recollect what I told you,” Father Sandoval said through gritted teeth.
“Yes, Father. I deeply regret you cannot see my point of view. However, I feel you’re wrong and my conscience will not allow—“
“Obedience would allow!”
The younger man shook his head and went on. “My conscience will not allow me to be swayed. I came in today to hear about the cure. Before Brother Mainoa died, he said he knew we would find it. The foxen, he said. They would help us. Mainoa was almost a hundred Terran years old, did you know? Well, why would you? A wonderful old man. He would have wanted to be here himself …”
“You’re going back to the forest? Despite what I’ve told you?”
“I am, yes. I believe I must stay here, Father. I agree with Marjorie that it may be the most important work we have to do.”
Rigo’s nostril lifted. “What work is that? More charities? Resettling the homeless Grassians? More widows and orphans?”
Father James shook his head, giving Rigo a perceptive, tilt-headed look. “No widows or orphans, Uncle Rigo. No. The foxen are the only other intelligent race man has ever found. I’ve already sent an inquiry to Shame, to the Church in Exile. Despite what Father Sandoval says, I’m confident the Secretariat will think it important for us to find bonds of friendship with the foxen. Kinship, as it were. To find a way to share ourselves. Marjorie says that even small beings may be friends.” He laughed, shrugging. “But then you know—“
“I don’t know,” he replied angrily. “She talks very little to me.”
“Well,” theyoung man reflected, “that’s probably natural. You always talked very little to her, Uncle Rigo. She says she used to suffer from the Arbai disease.”
“Arbai disease?”
“Terminal conscientiousness,” he replied, his brow furrowed. “Scrupulousness of the kind that creates conditions making poverty and illness inevitable, then congratulates itself over feeding the poor and caring for the sick. Those are my words, not hers, and I may have it wrong….”
He nodded, then walked away as Marjorie had done, leaving the two to discuss threats and confrontations, knowing as they did so that anything they might propose was as useless as what they had already done. Neither Marjorie nor Father James would change minds in the time before the ship for Terra left, even though both of them were to know by then that what they were doing was a good deal more complicated than they had assumed.
20
In the Tree City of the Arbai, spring gave way to an endless summer, and summer to an endless fall. The season moved slowly toward winter, day succeeding day in a kind of tranquil haze. The inhabitants of the city knew they must go down to winter quarters soon, but they delayed. Two, or perhaps more, were waiting for a certain occasion; others waited for no occasion at all. Sun still spangled the tops of the trees. The wind was only occasionally chill. On most days, it was warm enough to sit beside an open window with a book, or with a letter….
“My dear Rigo,” Marjorie wrote.
You have written once more to ask that Tony and I return to Terra. Tony must answer for himself. I’ve written several times since you left, attempting to explain why I can’t return. It seems silly to use these same words over and over again when they meant nothing before. It is autumn here on Grass. That means years have gone by where you are. After all this time, I wonder why you even care.