Michael rose also, struggling up from his knees. “Indeed? How touching! I’m not sure it proves much.”
I lurched toward the door. I was far too deeply enraged to want more conversation with this lecherous, filthy-minded old angel.
“She was very dear to me,” he said. “I never made an offer to any of the others like that.”
“Ha! And of course there were hundreds of others!”
“Yes, there were. But you’re no shy virgin yourself, are you?”
I hauled open the door without a word. My head was still ringing.
Now he was shouting. “She wanted to come with me! She said so! It was just that she was frightened of…ah, her owner. That was the only reason! And why would your mother have lied to me?”
I stopped, halfway through. “Well, perhaps…just for argument…you might consider the possibility that she loved him?” Him—my father, whatever his name had been. I turned, gripping the jamb fiercely. “He was three times the man you ever were, midget. She may not have found you so great a lover as you believed. Maybe she was being polite to the runt she had to serve so demeaningly? She may have expected to be beaten if she displeased you. She may just possibly have resented having to bear your child. It hurts them, you know.”
As I rolled off down the corridor, I heard Michael shouting, “Come back here! Knobil! It wasn’t your fault!”
He often babbled nonsense about guilt, did Michael. He was obsessed by guilt. From then on, I just refused to listen.
Time slipped by unseen. Heaven continued its unending journey, following the setting sun. Angels departed on their missions, singly or in groups. They returned, or they vanished into the unknown. Older men said their farewells and departed. Pilgrims arrived and became cherubim. Cherubim became angels—or not, as the case might be.
Promotion was an ordeal. A senior cherub could usually be recognized by a distinctive jumpiness as his time of decision approached. Uriel kept track of every man’s progress, and he reported to Michael. Any cherub who was an obvious misfit would be weeded out early in training, but there were few of those, for the wilds of Vernier are an exacting test. Incompetent pilgrims do not arrive.
No one ever told a cherub that he was ready for his wheels. The decision was his alone, the final test of his judgment. If he waited too long, he was assumed to be lacking in nerve or in ambition, and eventually he would be summoned to Michael’s presence to be offered a lesser position, as saint or seraph. The only alternative then was a knapsack of food and a good pair of boots.
That was humiliation, and few waited for the dreaded call. Instead, a cherub would request an audience and go to ask for his wheels. He might be offered one of the lesser posts instead. Rarely he would be told to return later and try again. But if he had judged himself correctly, he would emerge from the ordeal with a shining face and three colored ribbons, heading for Cloud Nine and a celebration that usually waxed near to riot.
Snake-who-had-been-Quetti was a determined young man. Older than most recruits when we arrived, he made up for that with very fast progress. He told no one he was going to visit Michael, and the first we knew of it was when he walked in with three blue stripes already sewn on his sleeve. Three of one color was a very unusual honor, perhaps given in his case to show that he bore no stain of suspicion over Red-yellow’s death. Cloud Nine was almost demolished by that party, and my hangover afterward was barely less bearable than the torments of slavery.
So Snake became Three-blue, and almost at once he departed for late Friday to warn some seafolk who were in danger of being trapped by advancing ice. We had not been close friends, but his absence was a warning that my time might be running out, if I was ever to make anything of my life.
I was not a cherub nor a seraph nor a saint, but I played all of those roles at times. My relationship to Michael must have been well known, but it was never mentioned. He seemed to make no secret of it, and he came more and more to use me as a confidant.
Thus I learned about his petty political struggles and how he handled them. Those became easier as Uriel’s loyalty steadied. Later Raphael headed home to the tundra; his successor was more cooperative. I thought the changes that Michael was trying to make were all very trivial, but after nearly a thousand generations, Heaven is grimly resistant to any change at all.
Time slipped by and I did not leave. I might be there yet, had I not fallen off a ladder.
—12—
THREE-RED
WHEN I WAS TOLD THAT THREE-BLUE HAD RETURNED from yet another mission, I was disgusted to realize that it must have been his fifth, while I was still just frittering my life away in Heaven, achieving nothing. I found him in the scriptorium, in bright sunlight and the usual clutter, with Gabriel and half a dozen worried saints.
Quetti was one of the senior angels now. His dimple had become a cleft and scalp showed through the golden hair, but otherwise he was little changed. His grin of welcome was broad enough, but brief. I envied him his tan. Sunshine was one thing I missed badly. In Heaven, the sky is not only often cloudy and dull, but actually dark about half of the time, an unnatural and unwholesome condition that always reminded me of mine tunnels.
“Roo?” Kettle’s voice boomed across the big room as I entered. “Now I know we have a problem—Roo’s here!”
“Always glad to help out,” I agreed. They knew why I always turned up when there was a problem.
Quetti had been dispatched far to the northwest, to where the Alps were emerging from Dawn’s ice sheets. As the sun crosses March in every cycle, meltwater builds up north of the range in a gigantic lake. The tundra drainage freezes off at just about the time the icecap clears the western end of the barrier. The result is the Great Flood, a catastrophe in the wetlands. It had been the height of the lake that Quetti had been sent to inspect.
But angels’ field reports never quite agree with those from previous cycles, because the geography is always changing. The saints’ job was to turn Three-blue’s notes into maps, and maps into predictions.
Kettle was leaning over the big table again, growling. “This is impossible! Blind wetlander! Michael should have sent a seaman!”
“Three-blue’s a match for any seaman,” I said, winking at Quetti.
Kettle just muttered, attending to the task at hand.
Somewhat later—at about the time my stomach’s rumblings became louder than the snortoises—we had reached a consensus. Not only was the lake too high, but the ice was receding too fast. Moreover, the Great Flood had been coming earlier every cycle, and no one had noticed that trend. We made notes all over the current reports to warn the saints in the next cycle—but that didn’t solve the problem. The timing looked very bad.
At length, Quetti left the learned men to their disputations and took me aside. He perched one hip on the edge of a desk, blithely upsetting carefully stacked papers. “I’ll get this one?”
“You want it?”
He nodded, so I nodded. “Likely you’ll get it, then.”
He smiled briefly. “How’s the equipment situation?”
“Same as usual,” I said. “Drivers’ll be your headache. There are four ant armies on the move just now.”
Quetti made a lewd remark about ants and the impossibility of angels ever keeping them honest. “Who’s around?”