Preferred Risk by Lester Del Rey

Author:Lester Del Rey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: science fiction, award, winner, classic, sci-fi
ISBN: 9781479409143
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2015-02-10T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER X

Rena craned her neck around the door and peered into the nave of the church. “He’s kissing the Book,” she reported. “It will be perhaps twenty minutes yet.”

Her father said mildly, “I am in no hurry. It is good to rest here. Though truthfully, Mr. Wills, I thought I had been rested sufficiently by your Company.”

I think we were all grateful for the rest. It had been a hectic drive up from Anzio. Even though Rena’s “friends” were thoughtful people, they had not anticipated that we would have a legless man with us.

They had passports for Rena and myself and Benedetto; for Zorchi they had none. It had been necessary for him to hide under a dirty tarpaulin in the trunk of the ancient charcoal-burning car, while Rena charmed the Swiss Guards at the border. And it was risky. But the Guards charmed easily, and we got through.

Zorchi did not much appreciate it. He swore a ragged blue streak when we stopped in the shade of an olive grove and lugged him to the front seat again, and he didn’t stop swearing until we hit the Appian Way. When the old gas-generator limped up a hill, he swore at its slowness; when it whizzed along the downgrades and level stretches, he swore at the way he was being bounced around.

I didn’t regret rescuing Zorchi from the clinic—it was a matter of simple justice since I had helped trick him into it. But I did wish that it had been some more companionable personality that I had been obligated to.

Benedetto, on the other hand, shook my hand and said: “For God, I thank you,” and I felt well repaid. But he was in the back seat being brought up to date by his daughter; I had the honor of Zorchi’s company next to me…

There was a long Latin period from the church, a response from the altar boy, and then the final Ite, missa est. We heard the worshipers moving out of the church.

The priest came through the room we were waiting in, his robes swirling. He didn’t look around, or give any sign that he knew we were there, though he almost stepped on Zorchi, sitting propped against a wall.

A moment later, another man in vaguely clerical robes entered and nodded to us. “Now we go below,” he ordered.

Benedetto and I flanked Zorchi and carried him, an arm around each of our necks. We followed the sexton, or whatever he was, back into the church, before the altar—Benedetto automatically genuflected with the others, nearly making me spill Zorchi onto the floor—to a tapestry-hung door. He pushed aside the tapestry, and a cool, musty draft came up from darkness.

The sexton lit a taper with a pocket cigarette lighter and led us down winding, rickety steps. There was no one left in the church to notice us; if anyone had walked in, we were tourists, doing as countless millions of tourists had done before us over the centuries.

We were visiting the Catacombs.

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