A Canticle for Leibowitz - Walter M. Miller [53]
Apollo picked his way politely through the small throng of guests, his sharp eyes searching out Brother Claret and trying to attract his glance. Apollo’s tall figure in severe black cassock with a small flash of color at the waist to denote his rank stood out sharply in contrast to the kaleidoscope-whirl of color worn by others in the banquet hall, and he was not long in catching his clerk’s eye and nodding him toward the table of refreshments which was now reduced to a litter of scraps, greasy cups, and a few roast squabs that looked overcooked. Apollo dragged at the dregs of the punch bowl with the ladle, observed a dead roach floating among the spices, and thoughtfully handed the first cup to Brother Claret as the clerk approached.
“Thank you, Messér,” said Claret, not noticing the roach. “You wanted to see me?”
“As soon as the reception’s over. In my quarters. Sarkal came back alive.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve never heard a more ominous ‘oh.’ I take it you understand the interesting implications?”
“Certainly, Messér. It means the Agreement was a fraud on Hannegan’s part, and he intends to use it against-”
“Shhh. Later.” Apollo’s eyes signaled the approach of an audience, and the clerk turned to refill his cup from the punch bowl. His interest became suddenly absorbed there, and he did not look at the lean figure in watered-silk who strode toward them from the entrance. Apollo smiled formally and bowed to the man. Their hand-clasp was brief and noticeably chilly.
“Well, Thon Taddeo,” said the priest, “your presence surprises me. I thought you shunned such festive gatherings. What could be so special about this one to attract such a distinguished scholar?’ He lifted his brows in mock perplexity.
“You’re the attraction, of course,” said the newcomer, matching Apollo’s sarcasm, “and my only reason for attending.”
“I?” He feigned surprise, but the assertion was probably true. The wedding reception of a half-sister was not the sort of thing that would impel Thon Taddeo to bedeck himself in formal finery and leave the cloistered halls of the collegium.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been looking for you all day. They told me you’d be here. Otherwise-” He looked around the banquet hall and snorted irritably.
The snort cut whatever thread of fascination was tying Brother Claret’s gaze to the punch bowl, and he turned to bow to the thon. “Care for punch, thon Taddeo?” he asked, offering a full cup.
The scholar accepted it with a nod and drained it. “I wanted to ask you a little more about the Leibowitzian documents we discussed,” he said to Marcus Apollo. “I had a letter from a fellow named Kornhoer at the abbey. He assured me they have writings that date back to the last years of the European-American civilization.”
If the fact that he himself had assured the scholar of the same thing several months ago was irritating to Apollo, his expression gave no hint of it. “Yes,” he said. “They’re quite authentic, I’m told.”
“If so, it strikes me as very mysterious that nobody’s heard-but never mind that. Kornhoer listed a number of documents and texts they claim to have and described them. If they exist at all, I’ve got to see them.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. If it’s a hoax, it should be found out, and if it isn’t, the data might well be priceless.”
The monsignor frowned. “I assure you there is no hoax,” he said stiffly.
“The letter contained an invitation to visit the abbey and study the documents. They’ve evidently heard of me.
“Not necessarily,” said Apollo, unable to resist the opportunity. “They aren’t particular about who reads their books, as long as he washes his hands and doesn’t deface their property.”
The scholar glowered. The suggestion that there might exist literate persons who had never heard his name did not please him.
“But there, then!” Apollo went on affably. “You have no problem. Accept their