goose-necked worklamp. “Oh, yes …” He nodded. “Definitely one of mine.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s a discontinued model—see the little beveling on the ends of the arms?” The bishop dangled the cross from his thumb and forefinger, as though letting McNihil admire it. “Nice touch, but the manufacturer figured the tooling was too expensive for his profit margin. I got a good deal on ’em, down at one of the big trinket liquidators over on La Cienega. I bought all they had; it was a couple gross, complete with mailing envelopes and these little holy cards of Saint Sebastian with the arrows poking out of him. The scriptures on the flip side of the cards were all in some kind of mid-West cracker pidgin—Nebraskonics, I believe—but I didn’t think anybody would mind.”
With one fingernail, McNihil tapped the cross so it swung back and forth on the chain the bishop held. “What’s it say on it?”
“
Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum
…”
“Not that. The other bit, on the back. The personal code.”
The bishop laid the crucifax in his cupped palm, running the index finger of his other hand across the scratch-blurred area. “Shut up,” he said irritably; the computer terminal had started beeping again. He reached over and three-fingered a group of keys, silencing the machine. “Excuse me,” he said to McNihil. “I haven’t done this in a while.”
“Take your time.” McNihil thrust his hands into his coat pockets. “As I said before, I’m not on the clock.”
As he waited, the bishop rummaged through the nailed-up plastic shelves above the computer terminal, finally taking down a can of WD-40. The bishop sprayed the tip of his index finger, then started to rub away the accumulated dirt and grease with a not-much-cleaner rag.
Personal hygiene held no fascination for McNihil. He looked away, over to the terminal screen. The confessional and altar-rail images had been replaced by numbers. Percentage statements, in a column headed TRAN and another headed CON; as he watched, the numbers following the decimal points shifted, TRAN going up to fifty-three, CON dropping to forty-seven.
“That’s the direct line from the College of Cardinals,” said the bishop as he scrubbed his fingertip. “Well, except that anybody reallycan log on and vote. The church has gotten very democratic that way. You have to change with the times.”
McNihil nodded toward the screen. “What’s the big debate?”
“Oh, the transubstantiation versus consubstantiation thing.” The bishop held his index finger close to his eyes, dabbing at it with the wet part of the rag. “It’s been going on for a while.”
“Yeah, I guess so. It was on the last time I was here. And that was years ago.”
The bishop shrugged. “Well, the doctrine of the E-charist is a big issue. Personally, I think the consubstantialists are coming pretty connectin’ close to being Protestants; I mean that’s essentially the Lutheran doctrine of the Real Presence. To say that the body and blood of Christ are present ‘in, with, and under’ the electrons moving down the wires …” His voice had risen in anger, before he managed to calm himself. “I suppose you can see where I stand on the issue. I mean, it
has
to be transubstantiation. The electrons are changed
into
the holy substance, and the communicant is downloading the actual body and blood of Christ.” The bishop waved the solvent-damp rag in his excitement. “If that’s not the case, then really, it’d mean we were just connecting around here.”
“That’s what it would mean, all right,” said McNihil.
A sulky cloud settled over the weighted landscape of the bishop’s face. “I can tell that these things aren’t important to you.”
“Hey.” McNihil pointed a thumb toward the computer terminal. “You were the one bitching about your job.”
The bishop scrubbed even more determinedly at his fingertip. “I can’t help it if I’ve started to believe.” A
“How can you tell?”
“It’s a discontinued model—see the little beveling on the ends of the arms?” The bishop dangled the cross from his thumb and forefinger, as though letting McNihil admire it. “Nice touch, but the manufacturer figured the tooling was too expensive for his profit margin. I got a good deal on ’em, down at one of the big trinket liquidators over on La Cienega. I bought all they had; it was a couple gross, complete with mailing envelopes and these little holy cards of Saint Sebastian with the arrows poking out of him. The scriptures on the flip side of the cards were all in some kind of mid-West cracker pidgin—Nebraskonics, I believe—but I didn’t think anybody would mind.”
With one fingernail, McNihil tapped the cross so it swung back and forth on the chain the bishop held. “What’s it say on it?”
“
Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum
…”
“Not that. The other bit, on the back. The personal code.”
The bishop laid the crucifax in his cupped palm, running the index finger of his other hand across the scratch-blurred area. “Shut up,” he said irritably; the computer terminal had started beeping again. He reached over and three-fingered a group of keys, silencing the machine. “Excuse me,” he said to McNihil. “I haven’t done this in a while.”
“Take your time.” McNihil thrust his hands into his coat pockets. “As I said before, I’m not on the clock.”
As he waited, the bishop rummaged through the nailed-up plastic shelves above the computer terminal, finally taking down a can of WD-40. The bishop sprayed the tip of his index finger, then started to rub away the accumulated dirt and grease with a not-much-cleaner rag.
Personal hygiene held no fascination for McNihil. He looked away, over to the terminal screen. The confessional and altar-rail images had been replaced by numbers. Percentage statements, in a column headed TRAN and another headed CON; as he watched, the numbers following the decimal points shifted, TRAN going up to fifty-three, CON dropping to forty-seven.
“That’s the direct line from the College of Cardinals,” said the bishop as he scrubbed his fingertip. “Well, except that anybody reallycan log on and vote. The church has gotten very democratic that way. You have to change with the times.”
McNihil nodded toward the screen. “What’s the big debate?”
“Oh, the transubstantiation versus consubstantiation thing.” The bishop held his index finger close to his eyes, dabbing at it with the wet part of the rag. “It’s been going on for a while.”
“Yeah, I guess so. It was on the last time I was here. And that was years ago.”
The bishop shrugged. “Well, the doctrine of the E-charist is a big issue. Personally, I think the consubstantialists are coming pretty connectin’ close to being Protestants; I mean that’s essentially the Lutheran doctrine of the Real Presence. To say that the body and blood of Christ are present ‘in, with, and under’ the electrons moving down the wires …” His voice had risen in anger, before he managed to calm himself. “I suppose you can see where I stand on the issue. I mean, it
has
to be transubstantiation. The electrons are changed
into
the holy substance, and the communicant is downloading the actual body and blood of Christ.” The bishop waved the solvent-damp rag in his excitement. “If that’s not the case, then really, it’d mean we were just connecting around here.”
“That’s what it would mean, all right,” said McNihil.
A sulky cloud settled over the weighted landscape of the bishop’s face. “I can tell that these things aren’t important to you.”
“Hey.” McNihil pointed a thumb toward the computer terminal. “You were the one bitching about your job.”
The bishop scrubbed even more determinedly at his fingertip. “I can’t help it if I’ve started to believe.” A
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