High-Opp

Chapter 9

It was altogether unlike what Movius had imagined his wedding ceremony would be. Navvy came for him at a quarter past seven in the cell-like room off the tunnel.

“Pastor Dillon had to wait until after his regular rounds before he could come,” said Navvy. He sat down on the cot, slapped his knee.

Movius almost told him to call it off. He felt a sudden weariness, realized he’d been working steadily since five that morning. So damned much to do, so many people to see and screen. Those tri-di recordings to make and ship off overseas and to the rest of the country.

“You ready?” asked Navvy. He looked up at Movius, an impersonal, scanning look that made Movius uncomfortable.

“Just a minute.” He went back to the washroom, washed ink stains off his hands. Again he wondered if it wouldn’t be simpler to smuggle him onto one of the skytrains. Personal appearances at the new organizations were much more effective. People liked to see a man before accepting him as a leader. The tri-di recordings were good, though, especially when magnified. Movius dried his hands, returned to Navvy.

“Let’s go,” said Navvy. He lifted himself to his feet.

Movius sought in his mind for something else to use as a delay. Nothing. “May as well,” he said.

In the boiler room the flickering orange light gave an evil cast to the walls. It was almost unbearably hot in the room. Movius felt the perspiration start under his arms, knew he would be sticky and uncomfortable before this was finished.

Pastor Dillon was a frail-bodied man with an angular head, glazed, remote eyes, sing-song voice. “And this is the bride/groom,” he said. He held a worn black book opened in his hands. The Bible. Another history book. They’d low-opp that, too, if they dared.

Grace and her father were arguing in whispers. Movius heard her say, “It’s only a temporary…” She broke off as she saw Movius.

“I understand how things are sometimes,” said Pastor Dillon, who also had overheard her. “If you’d like, I could pre-date the license and ceremony, make it appear that the little one was…”

“Not necessary!” snapped Quilliam London. He glared at the pastor, patted Grace’s shoulder. “As you will, my dear.”

Again Movius had the impulse to back out, get another woman for the role. He kept wanting to say something all the while Pastor Dillon intoned the ancient ceremony, but he couldn’t find his voice except to respond as directed.

“God bless you and this holy union,” said Pastor Dillon in his strange sing-song. “May He watch over you and ever keep you in His holy grace… Amen.”

Grace, thought Movius. Holy Grace. He felt a decidedly unholy impulse to comment on this, but the impulse was stifled when he turned and saw two tears running down her cheeks.

“Kiss her,” said Pastor Dillon.

“Wha… what?”

“Kiss her. It’s customary.”

London nodded for him. The hunter eyes had lost some of their directness. Stiffly, Movius took Grace in his arms, kissed her lips, surprised at the salt taste of tears. It was unlike any other kiss of his experience—tremulous, haunting.

Pastor Dillon gave a final blessing, turned, labored up the stairs at the end of the boiler room. They heard a door open, close.

“Well,” said Movius.

London took his daughter’s arm. “Good night.”

Grace did not look at him.

Father and daughter followed the route taken by the pastor, leaving Navvy and Movius in the baleful orange light of the boiler room. It had never more reminded him of the Biblical hell. Low-opp that, too! he thought.

Movius found himself unaccountably angry with Navvy. He said, “I can find my way back alone. Go on with them!”

Navvy looked at him, shrugged, went up the stairs.

The hidden room was a dank, cold place after the boiler room. Movius turned off the light, threw himself onto the cot. The memory of Grace’s low voice answering Pastor Dillon, the frightened look on her face, the tears, the tremulous kiss, all kept intruding on his other thoughts. He sat up, undressed in the dark, crawled between the blankets, feeling somehow cheated.

In the days that followed, Movius found himself often brought up sharp as he looked at Grace. That’s my wife! Great Gallup!

And Grace, when she saw him looking at her this way, blushed, went more quickly about her work.

There wasn’t much time for personal thoughts, though. More cells were being organized, more recorded speeches made. The local organization passed the sixteen thousand mark.

In one month, nine of Movius’ couriers were caught, but they destroyed their packages with their incendiaries, killed themselves with a quick poison in a false tooth.