Art Knowles was used to that, too, though less than comfortable with it.
* * *
When they’d finished, Lor Lu and his secretary walked to Lor Lu’s office. “Dove’s been changing lately,” the secretary commented. “Don’t you think?”
“Oh yes.” Lor Lu grinned. “He’s definitely changing. But wait a few more weeks.”
He said nothing more. He didn’t need to; his secretary knew exactly what he meant. She’d realized it for herself, and been fishing for confirmation.
And group healing! That was something to contemplate. The time was coming! She felt no misgivings at all, only excitement.
* * *
Wearing clerical black, Thomas Corkery entered the Spokane mayor’s office, his white collar like a flag at his throat. The receptionist looked up at him. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m Father Thomas Glynn,” he said, his Irish accent conspicuous. “I have a ten o’clock appointment with his honor.”
Her fingers moved quickly on her keyboard. “Mayor Barnes is on an important call just now. It’ll be about ten minutes, I expect.”
“Fine. I’ll wait.”
He picked up a copy of Newsweek and settled onto a chair. Almost exactly ten minutes had passed when the receptionist spoke again. “Father Glynn, the mayor will see you now.”
When Corkery stepped inside, Mayor Ted Barnes was on his feet waiting. “Good morning, Father,” Barnes said. “You wanted to talk about the Ngunda appearance next week. Exactly what did you have in mind? I had the impression the Church was not actively opposed to him.”
“Indeed it’s not. Certainly the Holy Father isn’t. He feels that Mr. Aran does far more good than harm.” Corkery chuckled. “And of course, there is Mr. Aran’s Irish surname. My interest, besides wanting to hear him speak in person, is a dissertation I’m preparing on him, part of my doctoral program at Xavier of Ohio. It has his holiness’s personal approval, incidentally. It’s nothing he needed to approve, but it was mentioned to him by Archbishop Hannery, and his holiness said he’d be interested in seeing it when it’s finished.”
He’d said the latter with a note of pride. “And what I’d like is to be part of the Spokane group who will meet Mr. Aran and share the speakers’ platform with him. Hopefully there’ll be an opportunity to actually talk with him.”
The mayor looked thoughtfully at the man seated across from him. He seemed all right; certainly he was personable enough.
Corkery held up his attaché case. “Would you care to see my work to date? It’s not fully organized yet, but . . .”
The mayor waved the offer off. “That’s not necessary. But I expect the Sheriff’s Department won’t want you to carry that briefcase in with you.”
“I certainly understand that. I’ve read of the bomb threats, and armed men infiltrating in the night. And that terrible thing a few weeks ago—the missile that destroyed Mr. Aran’s home.” He patted the case. “No, I’ll leave this at Jesuit House.”
The mayor felt somehow uncomfortable with the request, but saw no reason other than his general concern for security. “Just a moment.” He buzzed his receptionist. “Marie, I’m adding Father Glynn’s name to the list of dignitaries for the Ngunda event. Pull a form and have him fill it out . . . Fine. I’ll send him right out.”
He stood in dismissal, reaching to shake Corkery’s hand. “Millennium’s security chief asked that the party not number more than eight,” he said. “So I invited eight, but I’m afraid three of them turned me down, and another is waffling. I’m sure you understand how that might be. In spite of the public enthusiasm for Mr. Aran, there are a lot of people who find him offensive, and bring pressure to bear.
“Millennium has authority to reject anyone they don’t like, and I’ll have to fax them a copy of your form, but I don’t suppose there’ll be any difficulty there.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Corkery replied. “I visited them on the Ranch before I knew they’d be here. They let me use their library—view cubes and read transcripts. I did everything but meet himself.” He chuckled. “I may be the one person on your list they already know.”