A Thorn in the Bush by Frank Herbert Page B

blinds. The sun’s reflection lay like a molten copper puddle on the surface of the water. He squinted. A fly buzzed his head, evaded the warding hand to alight on the glossy black hair.
    It was a tragic thing, he thought. In spite of the fact that he felt he knew the real situation with this Hoblitt, Don Jaime’s Latin heart ached with the story Mrs. Ross had told.
    For her part, Mrs. Ross was reviewing the same story, wondering if she had left out some fact more apt to stir Don Jaime to action. She felt supremely sure of herself in this matter: Urgent action is required!
    ***

Chapter 2
    It had begun two days ago—on Tuesday morning. The day had started (as most San Juan days did) with a stridency of church bells. A Protestant herself, Mrs. Ross frowned on this early morning clanging as a sort of pagan rite, especially when it was mixed with firecrackers. The crackers were an Indian custom, exploded to help a baby’s soul to heaven. Sure enough, staccato explosions cut across the morning sounds. Another baby had died in the night.
    Mrs. Ross sniffed, sat up in her bed.
    Mingled odors of scorched chili peppers, charcoal, bottled gas, and coffee wafted upward to her second-floor bedroom from the kitchen. She heard a sizzle of frying—Serena with the two breakfast eggs. Presently, Serena would appear with a tray: the eggs, buttered toast, fresh orange juice, and coffee. Like much of Mrs. Ross’s life, it was an unvarying ritual.
    A burro brayed on the waterfront a block away. Answering yodels echoed from farther down the lake.
    Mrs. Ross swung her skinny legs out of the bed into the patch of sunshine on the Mitla serape she used as a rug. She was entirely nude, a habit adopted during her first week in San Juan. Sunshine poured onto her bony knees like a warm, golden liquid. This first feeling of the morning sun on her body always made Mrs. Ross think of the old days in Alaska—icy winds, blowing snow. It gave her a sense of accomplishment to feel the sun.
    So to work, she thought.
    By eight-thirty, she had breakfasted, bathed, settled the usual petitions from some of her tenants, checked the account books, and sent Serena off to market for the day’s food and gossip. The morning ritual brought her now to the red-draped French doors that opened onto her balcony. She carried a hammered brass watering can, a gift from Don Jaime. It sloshed as she put it down.
    Outside, growing in oblong pottery boxes along the rail, a green riot of herbs and spices perfumed the air. Their aroma penetrated the gap where the French doors did not quite meet. Mrs. Ross swung the doors open, inhaled, stretched.
    The hot Mexican sun made her plants thrive so much better than they had in Alaska, she thought. But the parsley and chives drooped if they missed only one watering.
    A Mexican bumblebee the size of a walnut buzzed the planters, sped off toward the copa de oro vine growing up the corner of the balcony.
    Mrs. Ross looked down through the open work of the balcony rail, saw Paulita Romera—as always at this hour—sitting at the ground floor window of the house across the cobblestone street. Paulita held a fabric frame, sewing at punto de cruz —the tiny cross-stitches—working them into a floral pattern. Sometimes she knitted or tatted or crocheted intricate Mexican lace.
    An exquisite young woman, thought Mrs. Ross: more beautiful than any hundred-dollar-a-night girl I’ve ever seen.
    Paulita’s ebon hair was braided in two strands tied by red bows. There was a touch of the Indio in her skin: tan bordering on cocoa. But when she smiled it drew planes on her face that unveiled the Spanish invaders, particularly some Hidalgo beauty in her ancestry: haughty but yet passionate.
    No doubt about it, Mrs. Ross thought, Paulita would be devastating the village males right now had not the paralysis taken away most of the use of her legs when she was ten.
    Paulita heard the balcony doors. She paused in her work, smiled up at Mrs. Ross. “Good