Eros Descending: Book 3 of Tales of the Velvet Comet (7 page)

Corinne Gold was fifty-four years old, and the gravity that her husband had complained about was more apparent on her. Gold thought of her as sturdy, but in truth she was fat. A number of crooked teeth which had gone uncorrected during her youth gave her lips a pursed, thoughtful look.

She wore no jewelry, as befitted the wife of the leader of the Jesus Pures, and no attempt had been made to fight back the rush of gray that had spread through her hair. But she was friendly, and pious, and devoted to her husband and his work. And, for the moment, she was
very
nervous.

Gold stared at her for a long moment, trying to get used to the wave in the front.

“Well?” said Corinne anxiously. “What do you think?”

“It's very becoming,” he lied.

“Then you're not upset?”

“Of course not. But it will take me a while to get used to seeing you like this.”

“That's because you're conservative,” said Corinne, visibly relieved.

“Of course I am,” replied Gold. “The whole purpose of my life has been to conserve what is good and eradicate what isn't.”

“Well, that's
one
definition,” said Corinne. She turned to her daughter. “You know, he still gets upset whenever I rearrange the furniture. I can't even move the holos on the walls.”

“And is everybody still forbidden to straighten up the mess on his desk?” asked Christina.

“Absolutely,” answered Corinne. She smiled at Gold. “That's conservatism for you.”

Gold's grandson, freshly scrubbed, entered the room and held out his hands for Christina to inspect them.

“When's dinner?” he asked.

“As soon as your Uncle Simon arrives,” replied Corinne.

“How about Daddy?” asked Jeremy.

“He's working tonight,” said Christina.

“Again?” said Gold. “I do believe he's going to make it through the entire two weeks of your visit without once seeing Simon.”

“Just talented, I guess,” said Christina.

“It really is for the best, Thomas,” added Corinne.

“You know they'd just spend the night arguing.”

“One of these days I'm going to have to get the pair of them together and shake them each by the scruff of the neck until they agree to behave like reasonable adults.”

“The time to shake Simon by the scruff of the neck was twenty-five years ago,” said Christina dryly. “I think you might find it a bit difficult these days.”

“I think I'll go set the table,” said Corinne, who had long since realized that her children didn't like each other, but still didn't care to hear them talk about it. “Would you like to help me, Jeremy? You can tell me all about the zoo.”

The boy shook his head.

“I really think your grandmother needs your help,” suggested Gold gently.

“I'm tired,” said Jeremy, forcing himself to yawn and stretch.

“Well, if you're
that
tired, maybe we'd better stay home tomorrow instead of going to the aquarium...”

He watched while Jeremy considered this statement, and then walked over to stand beside his grandmother.

“I guess you're not as tired as you thought.”

“I guess not,” agreed Jeremy, following Corinne into the dining room.

“Last night his leg was too sore, if I recall correctly,” commented Gold with a smile. “At least he's creative.”

“You know, if Simon or I had ever pulled that routine on you, we'd have gotten a ten-minute lecture about lying, followed by a sound thrashing,” noted Christina.

“I save my lectures and my thrashings for my enemies these days,” responded Gold. “Besides, he's only five years old.”

“I don't remember that being five ever got us any special dispensation when you were raising us.”

Gold smiled. “That's because children are for raising; grandchildren are for spoiling.”

“Well, you're doing your best,” she laughed.

“Actually,” said Gold with a sigh, “when we're not looking at animals or entertainers or athletes, I seem to spend most of my time explaining why his religion forbids his eating all the things he wants me to buy for him.” He frowned. “There are more than two million Jesus Pures on Deluros; you'd think the concession stands would take that into account.”

“They will, when there's enough of a demand,” replied Christina. “Don't forget: most of your followers would sooner read the Bible than look at captive animals.”

“Most of them don't have five-year-old grandsons,” said Gold defensively. “I've never said that our lives have to be joyless, just moral.”

“Well, now that they've seen holos of you sitting next to the Iron Moth, or whatever she calls herself, maybe they'll start believing you.”

“The Steel Butterfly,” he said wryly. “I wish I knew how they decide upon their names up there. Do you know what the Chief of Security is named?”

“What?”

“Attila! And one of the prostitutes was named Perfumed Garden.”

“I wonder what it represents?” mused Christina.

“I hope I never find out,” answered Gold. “You know, even the computer has a name.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Cupid, of all things.”

She looked at him for a moment, as if weighing her next statement.

“What
was
it like up there on the
Velvet Comet
?” she asked at last.

He frowned. “Why?”

“Just curiosity,” she replied. “Hadn't you ever wondered before you got there?”

“Never once.”

“Well, I guess I'm just not as moral as you,” she said with a smile. “I'm absolutely fascinated.”

Gold stared at her. “Every now and then, when I least expect it, I find myself agreeing with Simon,” he said wryly. “I think Robert may be a bad influence upon you.”

She returned his stare with no trace of uneasiness or embarrassment. “I was curious about houses of ill repute long before I married Bob. It's perfectly natural. Now why don't you tell me all about it?” she coaxed him.

“There's very little to tell,” said Gold. “I imagine you've seen advertisements for it.”

“You're not getting off the hook
that
easily.” She grinned. “Come on, now—what's it
really
like?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“All right,” said Gold. “I went up there expecting to find Satan, and I did. What I had forgotten was that he is a fallen angel.”

“I don't think I follow you,” said Christina.

“I mean that everything that happens up there is moral under certain circumstances. The pleasures of the flesh are acceptable, even desirable, within the confines of marriage. And it's hardly sinful to eat or shop or be entertained or to work out in a gymnasium or to watch a sporting event. But there comes a point when eating becomes gluttony, and seeking constant entertainment becomes sloth, and spending money on expensive presents becomes excessive and wasteful. It's a blurred line, and different for every man and woman, and as a result values get very confused up there. They make sin very comfortable.”

“I suppose people wouldn't sin if it weren't comfortable, so to speak,” offered Christina.

“They make it
too
attractive,” said Gold. “You asked about their names before. I suspect they all take such names because it lends to the illusion they're trying to create.” He paused. “Don't forget: it isn't God who is known as the Prince of Liars.”

“Are half of the prostitutes really men?”

“All but two are Men.”

Christina smiled. “I meant the gender, not the species.”

“I have no idea.” He glanced sharply at her. “I trust that
you
have no idea, either.”

“What about the two aliens?” asked Christina. “Do humans actually go to bed with them?”

“So I am told,” said Gold, suddenly uneasy. “I find the subject distasteful in the extreme.”

“I saw a holo of them after your sermon last Friday,” persisted Christina. “Do they really look like that?”

“I don't know what they looked like in the holo,” answered Gold.

“Like little pixies, with pointed ears and oversized blue eyes.”

“Something like that.”

“Is that silver hair they have, or is it feathers?”

“How should I know?” he snapped. “I'm not one of their customers!”

“Don't be so touchy,” she said, ignoring his outburst. “I'm just curious about them.”

“Then tie in to the main library computer and ask for data on the Andrican race of Besmarith II. You'll find out everything you want to know.”

“I'm not
that
curious,” replied Christina. “I just thought you might give me some details.”

“The subject is closed,” he said. “I am not going to discuss or describe a pair of alien prostitutes for your amusement.”

“I resent that!”

He scrutinized her for a moment.

“Then I apologize,” he said. “It's just that I can't help feeling that I'm adding to their exploitation by talking about them in this manner.”

“Accepted, as always,” she said, walking over and kissing him on the cheek.

“Friends again?” asked Gold.

She smiled. “If I can ask another question.”

“About the
Comet
or the faeries?”

“The Steel Butterfly.”

He nodded. “Go ahead.”

“What makes her do what she does?”

“What makes any sinner sin?” responded Gold.

“But she looked so elegant and sounded so sophisticated, at least from what little they showed of her. Surely there are other things she could do for a living.”

“Not all sinners are inelegant and unsophisticated,” said Gold. “In fact, quite the contrary: a sophisticated man can come up with one hundred well-reasoned humanistic rationalizations for assuaging his hungers at the expense of his soul; the simple man is usually better able to differentiate right from wrong and act accordingly. As for the Steel Butterfly, she doesn't think that being the madam of a brothel is sinful. She views making money as an honorable enterprise, and doubtless views her sexual technique as an art form.

Which,” he added, “is the problem with rationalizations: they work beautifully on Men, but God is not impressed by them. Good and Evil
do
exist, and all the rationalization in the world will not turn an immoral act into a moral one.”

“You're preaching again,” said Christina, amused.

“It's what I do,” responded Gold. “It's what I am.”

The front door's computer lock clicked open, and Simon Gold entered the apartment. He was tall, even taller than Gold, and far more muscular. Everything about him seemed somehow severe: the cut of his clothes, the style of his hair, the expression on his face.

“Good afternoon, sister,” he said formally.

“Hello, Simon,” answered Christina. “We've been waiting for you.”

“Including your husband?”

“No. Bob's busy again tonight. He sends his apologies.”

He stared emotionlessly at her for a moment, then turned to Gold.

“You look tired, Father,” he said.

“I'm not as young as I used to be,” said Gold. “Or else the zoo is a lot bigger than
it
used to be. Probably both.”

“Possibly you should let the boy's father take him to the zoo while you concentrate on more important things,” suggested Simon with no show of sympathy.

“I think not,” said Gold. “Twenty-five years from now Robert can take
his
grandchild to the zoo.”

“Doubtless,” replied Simon.

“How was
your
day?” inquired Gold.

“Satisfactory.”

“Did you get any more research done on your book?”

“Some.”

“I didn't know you were writing a book,” said Christina.

“I'm not,” replied Simon. “I'm
researching
a book. I won't begin writing it until sometime next spring. I expect it to take about three years.”

“What's it about?” she asked.

He merely stared at her.

She smiled. “Silly question.”

“I think you and your husband might derive some benefit from reading it once it's completed,” said Simon. “Especially your husband.”

“His name is Bob, and I don't tell him what to read,” she said heatedly.

“Perhaps you ought to,” said Simon.

“Come on, Simon,” said Christina. “I'm only going to be here a few more days. Let's not fight.”

“As you wish,” said Simon, dismissing the subject and all else his sister might have to say with a single shrug, and turning to Gold. “I walked past the Vainmill Building this morning, Father.”

“And?” asked Gold.

“They've changed the name of the prize from the
Velvet Comet
Challenge Cup to the Thomas Gold Challenge Cup, and turned it into a rotating trophy.”

“What's a rotating trophy?” asked Gold.

“Evidently they've made a duplicate for the owner of the winning horse to keep, but the original is on display in one of their ground-floor windows, along with a life-sized holo of you, Fiona Bradley, and the madam. Evidently the cup is to be presented every year.”

“Nobody ever said they were stupid,” commented Gold.

“You should never have gone up there in the first place,” said Simon. “I warned you against it.”

“Of course I should have. We've already spent the money where it will do the most good.”

“It may have done us more than ten million credits’ worth of harm,” said Simon.

“I doubt it,” answered Gold. “Anyone who truly believes that holograph wasn't staged would believe the worst of me whether I visited the
Comet
or not.”

He paused. “Besides, every now and then you have to beard the lion in his own den.”

“It seems that there were a lot more lionesses than lions.”

“Just what is
that
supposed to mean?” demanded Gold.

“Jesus may have stopped the masses from stoning a prostitute, but he didn't feel it incumbent upon himself to visit her place of work,” said Simon. “Your very presence aboard the
Velvet Comet
, no matter how much they donated to the church, lends an air of legitimacy to it.”

“You make it sound like I'm one of their customers,” said Gold.

“You made it
look
like you were,” said his son.

“We've been through all this before,” said Gold.

“If I hadn't gone up there, I wouldn't have seen the aliens, and if I hadn't seen the aliens, I wouldn't have found a focus for my attacks on Vainmill.”