“I see. Where does it come from?”
Laurel looked at Asach with that aura of incredulity reserved on any world for a rural denizen comprehending the utter stupidity of an urban gobshite. In most cases, this had the odd effect of making the rube look stupid in the city slicker’s eyes. Asach was, however, better attuned to the reality.
“Humor me.”
“Well, what do you think we’ve been walking through for—however long it’s been.”
“Grass of some kind?”
Laurel snorted. “Grass? Grass won’t grow here. Uncle Collie went broke trying.”
“So manna is—?
“Manna. It is what it is. The angels grow it. We cut it for hay when we can, but they don’t like that.”
Asach’s head reeled. Then the Introduction to the Swenson’s Ape report came into focus. Then the lower-case tone of angels registered.
“And where do—angels—come from?”
Laurel gave the I-can’t-believe-a-grown-person-is-this-ignorant look again, then shrugged. “This is the first time they’ve come back to the Outback in my lifetime. I guess from the Way Outback, but I don’t know.”
“The Way Outback.”
Laurel smiled. “Well, this all used to be the Outback, but after the rigs moved in, we had to call everything the other side of those mountains something.”
“The rigs.”
Laurel nodded. “The sand miners. Upriver. They are totally poaching, but there’s not much we can do about it.”
Asach was getting more than a little confused about this chain of revelations, and decided to return to first principles. “OK, so, the angels come from—further east, beyond those mountains, and when they come, they grow manna. Is that about right?”
She nodded. “Or south. From downriver. They didn’t manage to drain it all. There might have been some left along the coast.”
“Some of what? Angels? Manna?”
Exasperated, Laurel sighed. “Both, of course. You don’t get one without the other.”
Asach pondered this for a moment. “And, how long, would you say, the angels have been here?”
“Here? Like I said. A year—two, tops.”
“No, I mean on New Utah.”
“On Heaven? Oh, forever, I guess. Before the Founders.”
Asach had a spinning sensation in the pit of the stomach. “Before the Founders? How would you know that? How would anyone know that?”
“Well, I just know they were here when he got here. That’s what kept him alive?”
Asach was confused by the religious possibilities of this statement. “He? Do you mean he, or do you mean Him?”
Laurel rolled her eyes. “Well, of course He has been here, for all of eternity. But I meant him.”
This did not help. Asach plunged forward. “Him who? Which him?”
“Swenson. John David Swenson. Swenson’s Valley, where we are now. Swenson’s Mountain. Where you saw His Eye.”
Swenson’s Apes, thought Asach. “But before the Founders? How?”
Laurel was dressing now. “Well, duh. He was the surveyor. Came out with Murchison in 2450. I mean, how do you think Founders got here—threw a rock and got lucky? Swenson was the First Colony’s guide.”
“But I thought he was some kind of local suttler. Provisioning settlers; surveying new claims, making records of local fauna along the frontier…” Asach trailed off, as Laurel rolled her eyes again.
“Uh huh. It’s not like he came once and just died.”
Asach was dumbfounded. Days of work, and most of the answers had been sitting right here all along. Stupid, to underestimate the literalness and pragmatism of these people. Find a planet where you can escape open persecution? It’s Heaven. A rock looks like an eye and shoots radiant beams of light into the sky? It’s God’s Eye. Animals arrive and grow food in deserts where nothing can survive? They’re angels growing manna. No further supernatural explanation required.
“Why didn’t you say? Why haven’t you told me any of this before?’
Laurel shrugged again. “You didn’t ask me. And you made fun of me when I tried.”
Asach sighed. It was easy to forget how intimidating even the smallest offhand remark made—or not made—by the middle aged could be to one so young.
“Well, thank-you. For telling me now. I apologize. Please believe me. I never intended to make fun of anyone. I’m sorry for it. I actually hold you in very high regard. You are extremely capable, and you have not had an easy life.”
Laurel nodded once, and handed back the soap and comb in silence.
“So, how do you know all this?”
“Swenson? Everybody knows that. Well, everybody in Bonneville. I couldn’t say for Saint George. And anyway, he was my Great-Something-Great Grandfather. On my mother’s side. Technically, I still own all of this. All of it. Land, water, timber, fish, game, mineral, and near-space rights. Not that any of that gets recognized. Or that I’d do anything much with it if they did.”
Asach nearly choked. On any Imperial world, that big a holding meant—well, a lot. Probably a title. The questions were piling on. “But you’re a Himmist?”
Laurel looked genuinely puzzled. “Yes?”
“And so was your mother.”
“Oh, yes, definitely.”
“But Swenson—”
Laurel laughed. “What, you think no Himmist every married a Sixer? In Bonneville? You think that, you don’t know much about people, what?”
Asach remembered the ecumenical microcosm that was Michael’s household and smiled.
“Religion’s in your heart and mind, not in your genes. Otherwise, why’d a Sixer like you be here as a pilgrim?’
Asach paused. “That’s a big assumption. Is it that obvious?”
Laurel smiled. “Just a guess. It’s nothing you’ve said. But you have a way about you. The way you react to what others say sometimes. The way you put questions. Anyway, I know now.”
Asach nodded. “Fair enough. Why isn’t your claim respected?”
Laurel slumped to the couch, downcast again. “When the True Church came from Maxroy’s Purchase, early on they claimed jurisdiction over land rights administration. The first thing they did was disallow all prior claims, pending ‘review of standing.’ That didn’t mean much for a very long time, because for all their bold claims, they were only a tiny outpost colony, and Sixers still held the majority. It got worse when the True Church took over on Maxroy’s Purchase, because then they claimed control of the New Utah tithe to MP. Even so, there was nobody much out here. But when the TCM started enforcing tithe collection,” Laurel shrugged, “that’s when it got really bad. If I claim my rights, they’ll claim back tithe. Then they’ll own it all. That’s how they bankrupted Uncle Collie. ”
“But if you could enforce your claim?”
“I wouldn’t. Well, I would—enforce the rights—but I wouldn’t farm.”
“Why?
“Because that’s what Great-Whatever-Grandpa wanted. It’s written in his old Book. He said they‘d made a big mistake trying to farm this. He said that if we just left it alone, the angels would return.” She looked up beseechingly at Asach. “And he was right. They did. Just like he said.”
Asach nodded firmly. “Absolutely. Angels and manna.”
Mind reeling, Asach headed to the washbasin, but was spared disrobing decisions by Sargon’s arrival.
Once again, the Master filled the doorway. “I am informed that you are most certainly a Master.”
Dumbfounded, Asach dropped the soap but did not reply.
“Explain to me,” boomed Sargon’s voice, “the meaning of ‘Second Jackson Commission Representative of the Empire of Man.’”
Calmly, carefully, Asach crossed to the couch and donned the cloak; switched on the translator. “Excuse me, your Excellency. Could you please say that again?”
“Perhaps I was unclear? I was correctly speaking Anglic, yes?”