Infinity One by Robert Hoskins (Ed.) Page B

it; but even in the murmuring stillness, with the effect given by the one candle on the shelves above him, it wouldn’t quite take.
    It occurred to Hawkins for the first time that he had absolutely nothing to say to God, and for some reason this cheered him; if that were the case, then God probably had nothing to say to him in return. And he would undoubtedly not be in the kind of trouble he had been fearing. There was no question of interference from forces or people with whom you had no communication.
    He thought about the dead nun then, and for the moment it was without horror; perhaps the calm of her features had been an utter resignation rather than a lapsed attention caught by the fumes. It was possible, in fact, that she had died in knowledge, and if that were so it made this more the bearable—although not entirely so, of course.
    After a while the curtains parted again and the old nun came out. She was dressed in what Hawkins took to be a Mother Superior’s outfit and she looked very well indeed. He was not surprised in the least; he had expected it from the start.
    “So, then,” she said. “Now I am Mother Florence and I am prepared to properly sit by you. That was a very fine thing you did for us, and you are blessed for it.”
    “But why did you come out here?” Hawkins said. He was being matter-of-fact about the identity question because it was, of course, the Mother Superior’s business, and not his.
    “We in this order believe that the revelations of St. John are most fully realized, or to be realized in the events of these particular days. We wish to hold out, for you, against the Apocalypse.”
    “There are no revelations of St. John,” said Hawkins, the refutation holding only a private meaning for himself. “There is no Apocalypse, either.”
    “We feel otherwise,” she stated, calmly.
    “What about your Teresa? Does she choose to believe? Dead nuns are deader than dead men. I’m sorry; there was no need for that.”
    The nun touched his shoulder. “We have borne worse. We come, and we observe; we hold, and we pray. And we give what comfort we are able.”
    Later, away from the hut, Hawkins wandered toward the center of the encampment. Drifting around him were strange night odors and within him his rage, and he guessed, as he picked up his pace, that when the two of them combined—the outside and the inside—they might make a kind of sense; there might be something to his feelings, his being. And in that hope he burst free, still moving, through the area itself and out to the other end, to the fields. Unswerving, poised with the grace of insistence, he plunged toward the wooden block in the distance. When he got there he caved it over with a sigh, feeling its edges rolling against him; he pivoted on his back to look at the sky, wondering from where and from when his brothers the aliens would place their special silver stake in his heart.

    To combat his loneliness, God invented religion.

Rumor has it that 1.1 out of every 256 individuals in this country cannot appreciate a Ron Goulart story. These hapless souls are to be pitied ...

KEEPING AN EYE ON JANEY
Ron Goulart

    The small blond man looked across the desk at him and said, "The Shadow Bride of Ledgemere .”
    Barry Rhymer poured himself more coffee from the gourd shaped karafe his wife had given him and said, “What?”
    Shrugging with one shoulder, Bernard Hunzler repeated, "The Shadow Bride of Ledgemere .”
    Barry turned to watch the smudged brick walls outside his office window. “Excuse me, Bernard, I was thinking about something else. Yes, I like the title. Did I mention Flash Books has a new policy about our gothics? Now all we editors have to have an outline before we can request an advance. Just a couple of pages I can show to our business people here.”
    Hunzler asked, “Why? Look, I’m Bernadette Austen, the queen of gothic terror. I told you the title. Now give me the $1500 advance and I’ll go home and