The Weapon - Tribulations
By Diana the Valkyrie 
Help each other


I feel ill. Very ill. Serves me right. Too much beer.

My stomach is, is. Isn't. Urg. Urg.

Oh, that's better. Better out than in. I feel better, a bit. Only a bit. Urg.
Urg. Urrgghhh.

Too much beer. I should know better. What was I thinking of?

Unhhh. I'll just sit down for a minute, wait till the dizzy feeling passes.

. . .

Uh. Oh. What? What's the time? Oh. Oh. Late, very late. Last train, missed it.

How am I going to get home? Can't think. Head spinning. Damn trains, they stop
running at midnight, I'm stuffed. Guess I'll just stay here at the station.
Maybe stretch out on one of the bench seats. I'll feel ten times worse
tomorrow. Serves me right. Stupid, stupid.

"Hello! You're new here, aren't you?"

I opened my eyes, carefully. The world was spinning, sort of. Spinning but not
spinning. Maybe just my brain was spinning. I saw a face, rather pretty. Head
covered with a sort of scarf thing, a woggle. No, a wimple, isn't it? I got my
eyes open all the way, and saw the nun. She was speaking again.

"You're looking rough," she said, "here, have some milk."

She offered me a wax carton of milk. I've heard that milk helps to settle the
stomach, and the alcohol had created a raging thirst in me, I was dehydrated.
I took the carton she offered, and fumbled with it. It was too complicated for
me. "Here, let me," she said, and tore off a corner. I sat up, put the carton
to my mouth, and drank. "Thanks," I gasped.

She sat on the bench next to me, and watched me finish the milk. She was
pretty; no makeup, but a nice face. And I could see she was blonde by the few
wisps of hair that escaped her wimple. I looked round for a rubbish bin to
toss it into, but there wasn't one close by. I didn't think I could stand. She
reached towards the empty carton, I let her take it. "When did you last eat?"
she asked.

I thought back. I was too late for breakfast this morning, I skipped lunch
because we were so busy at the office, and once we got down to the pub for the
evening booze-up, I'd just forgotten about dinner. "Yesterday, " I replied.
"Oh, you poor thing," she said, and reached into a big bag she was carrying.
"Have a cheese sandwich," she suggested.

I looked at it doubtfully. My stomach was roiling and churning. "Go on, eat.
It's good for you." I took a bite out of the sandwich. Cheese and pickle, I
think it was, quite tasty. Suddenly, my stomach heaved, and I decorated my
shoes. "Oh, you poor thing," she said. She waited until I'd finished, then
offered me some more milk. "You're not well," she observed.

"Nnnghhh," I replied, wittily. I drank a bit more milk, at least it took the
acid taste of vomit out my mouth. "Never again," I said, "never again." "Try
the cheese sandwich now," she suggested.

After my previous fiasco, I was doubtful. "Go on," she urged, "it'll make you
feel better." I took a bite; this time it went down and stayed down. I took
another bite, and chewed slowly. My stomach was saying, "Hey, this is more
like what we need."

She stood up, and moved away. While I ate her sandwich, I saw her talking to
one of the derelicts that cluttered up the station. She gave him milk and food
too. She moved on, visiting each of the human bundles in turn, then she came
back to the bench I was sitting on. "Are you feeling better now?" she asked.
"Slightly," I replied. "Then have another sandwich," she said, digging into
her big bag for it. I took the offered sandwich, and another carton of milk.
In my experience, after gulping much alcohol, you get a raging thirst in the
middle of the night, her milk would be very welcome.

She watched me eat. Finally, I remembered my manners. "Thank you," I said. She
smiled, she had a very warm smile, she showed lots of teeth, and her eyes
sparkled. "Don't thank me, thank the Guardian and help someone else," she
said, "but you'll be cold tonight, you haven't got any newspaper or cardboard
or anything to keep the cold out. You really are new to this, aren't you?"

I thought of explaining that I wasn't actually a homeless tramp, I was an
ordinary sort of person who had missed his last train through being so far
under the influence that ... that I couldn't summon up the energy to explain
all this. "Uh," is what I actually said. "Here," she said, and she handed me a
blanket out of her big shoulder-bag. "Wrap yourself up in this, it'll help a
lot. And tomorrow, collect some newspaper to use as bedding." I nodded. She
stood up. "See you tomorrow," she said, and she walked away, out of the
station.

The Guardian. That meant that she was a Guardianist. A member of the Church of
the Holy Guardian. No, not just a member, she was a nun, a Sister of Help. How
low could I get - me, an avowed atheist, accepting assistance from a Sister of
Help. I felt sorry for myself, the world was a rotten, unfair place. It wasn't
my fault I'd had too much to drink, people kept offering me more beer.

I finished the sandwich, left half the milk for later, wrapped myself up in
the blanket, and tried to get to sleep.

. . .

You don't want to hear the gory details of how I felt the next morning. My
back and my head were competing for the "Most Painful" trophy, and the trip
home on the rattling, shaking early morning train hadn't helped. I don't know
how I made it from the station to my home, I think some deep-seated primeval
instinct made me crawl to my burrow. I fell into bed without undressing, and
tried to pass out. My head wanted to be unconscious; my back wanted me to know
how unhappy it was at having spent the night on a bench in the station.
Eventually, my back subsided enough for my head to win the contest. I slept,
but badly.

I would also like to draw the veil of censorship over how I felt when I woke
up; it was late afternoon, I had a thirst like the Sahara and my headache had
subsided enough for me to feel dizzy and nauseous - you don't feel the lesser
pains until the greater ones have ebbed.

And, of course, by the time it was late evening, I'd slept most of the day,
and didn't really feel like going to bed. I'd buggered up my head, my back, my
stomach and my circadian rhythms. Remind me why people like to get drunk,
would you?

By the end of the week, I'd pretty much recovered, and I was able to stagger
in to the office again, although I wasn't exactly working at peak efficiency.
Each day, after the evening booze-up, as I passed through the station, I kept
an eye out for the nun; I felt I ought to thank her properly. Maybe make some
sort of donation. I'd taken her help under false colours; she'd thought I was
one of the street people who infested this area.

Funny, I'd stopped noticing them. They'd become part of the background, like
street lamps and bollards. But now I was seeing them, and it was like I saw
them for the first time.

Pathetic. Pathetic, and so unnecessary, so stupid. And there were so many of
them. The obvious consequence of a stupid religion that preached that there
was no point in people striving to better themselves, that it would all be
done for them, that the Guardian would provide. A cargo cult, really, but not
in some distant South Sea island. It was right here, right now, and it was
eating the heart out of the country. The whole world, actually, because this
religion of passivity had spread.

You can see the attraction. Christianity got so popular because it offered
salvation in the next world, and you don't actually have to do anything, all
you have to do is have faith. Guardianity was even worse; it told people that
they didn't have to do anything, and you didn't even need to have faith. The
Guardian would look after you no matter what, in this world and the next, just
because she loves us all.

It's an excuse to sink into idleness. And guess what happens when a large
percentage of the population decides that it isn't going to do anything
productive any more? Right. You get an underclass of dispossessed, hungry
homeless. And this isn't just an eyesore, it's a major political hazard. What
will happen if all these dregs of humanity decide that they want to take what
the rest of us have? Revolt, rebellion, civil war and all that comes with
that. You can see why people were worried about the situation.

Of course I ignored the Guardianists sleeping in the station; if you made the
mistake of giving them the "spare change" that they asked for, you'd get
mobbed by Guardianists who saw an easy mark. So you avoided them, didn't look
them in the eye, pretended you didn't hear. And pretty soon, you didn't see or
hear them at all.

But I was looking for the Sister of Help who had been so kind to me, and she
was obviously involved in helping these homeless, so I started to actually see
what was going on around me.

It was worse than I'd thought. It wasn't just a few, here and there. The whole
of the station was crawlng with them. Ugh. I just hadn't noticed it before.

The next week, I was pretty much recovered. And never again, I thought.
Although I've made that resolution before. You know how it is, though. You get
caught up in some celebration, and before you know it, you've had enough to
impair your judgement, especially your judgement about how much you've drunk.
And one drink leads to another - bah, you know how it goes, I don't have to
explain it. Maybe the Moslems had it right, don't touch the stuff at all. You
don't hear much from them these days, the Guardianists have pretty much swept
everything. All the nutters joined the Church of the Holy Guardian. What a
load of tosh. How can people believe such palpable nonsense?

A couple of weeks had gone by before I decided that I wasn't going to see the
nun during normal commuting hours. So, the next Friday night, I deliberately
stayed late at the boozer - a couple of pints led to a couple more, and then
one for the road. And I got to the station at nine in the evening. I looked
around. I couldn't see her, so I sat down in a corner of the station and
waited. I intended to wait for a couple of hours, but I'd be sure to get the
last train home - I didn't want to spend another night in the station.

I was working my way through some papers I'd brought with me, and keeping up
my strength with an occasional swig from a crafty flask, when I looked up and
saw her, at the far end of the station, bending over what looked like a bundle
of rags. I walked across to her, and said, "Um". She looked round at me, and I
continued, "I just wanted to thank you for helping me last week." She smiled,
said "You're welcome," and went back to wrapping the guy up in a blanket. "Now
you stay tucked up in there, George, and eat that bread-and-cheese." He
grunted. She straightened up, and I addressed her again.

"You probably don't remember, but I was badly drunk, and I missed the last
train, and I ... " "And you vomited over your shoes, yes I remember you,
you're feeling better now?" "Oh yes, much, and I'm so grateful for how you
helped me, and I promise I won't get drunk like that again," I said. She
looked at me. "We should all help each other," she said. I nodded. "The
Guardian said so," she went on. "The Guardian doesn't exist, never did, it's
just another myth," I said. Then I wanted to cut out my tongue. Sure it's the
truth, but this is a nun who has based her whole life on this myth, and who is
so plainly doing good work, how could I say a thing like that? Must be the
booze talking.

She said nothing for a few seconds, she just looked hurt. Then she replied,
"well, we should all help each other anyway."

I said nothing, I felt like a heel. "Look, I'm sorry I said that," I
apologised. "That's OK, you're entitled to your opinion." "No, really." "Yes,
really." There was another short silence. Then she hefted her bag full of
cheese sandwiches, milk cartons and blankets, and said, "Nice talking to you
Mr Er, um, but I have to get on, there's lots more to do here." "Let me carry
your bag," I said, without thinking. "What?" "That looks heavy, let me carry
your bag for you. Let me help you."

She looked carefully at me, then she smiled.

Some people have a nice smile, some have a smile that makes you wonder why
they bother. Some people have a ten kilowatt smile that lights up their face,
and makes you want to see it again. This was a megawatt nun. She handed me her
bag, which must have been twenty kilos at least, and moved to her next victim.
I picked up the bag, and staggered after her. "I was right, it's heavy." "It's
not heavy, it's my vocation," she said, "the Guardian lightens my load". I had
the sense to keep my mouth shut this time. She was kneeling now, waking up
some old man. "Hello, Jeffie," she said. "Netta," replied the old man. She
held out her hand to me, and said "Sandwich." I ferreted around in the bag,
and pulled out what she wanted. Then she knelt there, feeding it to Jeffie.
After a few minutes, I realised that she was kneeling on the hard concrete
floor of the station; I got a blanket out of the bag and gave it to her,
saying "Kneel on this." That won me another megawatt smile, very fast, and
then she said "Milk".

I followed her around for an hour that evening, handing her the items she
requested. But then I had to leave - it was either that or miss my last train
home. I explained this to her, and she said "You better go then, you don't
want to spend a night here." I nodded. "Would it be OK if I helped you again
tomorrow?" She hit me with that megawatt smile again. "Yes, that would be a
great help, lugging the bag around makes me tired sometimes." "I'm Rupert,
Rupert Lumley." "I'm Sister Annetta, but you can just call me Annetta" she
replied, and she told me where and when she'd be starting tomorrow.

I left to get my train; as I got on board, I saw that she was still doing her
thing. I wondered where she lived.

On the way home, I thought about my motives here. I certainly wasn't about to
become a Guardianist, although Sister Annetta's creed of "Help each other"
stood up under its own morality. Maybe I'd been affected by the night that I
spent in conditions as bad as the homeless, or maybe I'd just been susceptible
to a pretty face and a brilliant smile.

It's always difficult to know your own motives; we lie to ourselves and
rationalise. I hadn't intended to do more than just thank her ... or had I?
Maybe I'd intended to do more all along, but I'd lied to myself about that,
too? And what was my motive - was I really being altruistic here, or did I
have a hankering for a piece of nun?

Sometimes I analyse myself far too much. Just do it.

So, on the Saturday, I took the early morning train down to the city. It was
slightly weird; the train wasn't jam-packed like it usually was. I had the
entire carriage to myself, as the train bounced and leaped down towards
London. At the station, I changed to the Underground, and travelled to
Kensington, got off, and walked to the Gardens. I looked around, and there she
was, wearing her black-and-white nun habit. I walked up to her. "Hello, Sister
Annetta," I said. She looked up from the man she was tending to. "Oh, hi, good
to see you." She gestured at her bag, so I picked it up, putting the strap
over my shoulder to take the main weight.

I followed her around all morning, dipping into the bag at her command and
bringing out food, milk, and a couple of times the first aid kit. It was
fairly interesting, and she seemed to know a lot of the people she was
helping, but I couldn't imagine doing this day in, day out. Then, just after
noon, she straightened up, from her current customer, turned to me and gave me
one of those smiles. "Time for lunch," she said.

We sat down in the middle of the park, near a statue. Peter Pan. "Food," she
said, holding out her hand like she'd done so many times that morning. I dived
into the bag, and gave her a sandwich, which she started to eat. "And you,"
she said, so I got one for myself.

"Yum," I said, "these are pretty good, where do you get them?" She gave me a
funny look. "I make them. You thought I go to a sandwich shop?" "Er, well.
That's what I do for lunch sometimes." "Too expensive," she said, "I'm not
exactly on a big budget here." "No, I suppose not. But doesn't the Church of
the Holy Guardian pay for everything?" She frowned, and half turned away from
me. "No," she said. "But you're doing this under their auspices, yes? Surely
they'd also provide the funding?" She shook her head. Then she said, "No." "So
where does the money come from," I asked. "The Guardian will provide", she
replied. "Come on, Sister Annetta, I'm not a complete idiot. What about your
convent, don't they kick in?"

She looked down at the ground. "I'm not in a convent."

I was surprised. "I thought all nuns were part of a convent. You're not?"

"I'm not. I was once, but now I'm not." "But you're still a nun? Can you still
be a nun if you're not in a convent?" "That's between me and the Guardian. I'm
not one of the Sisters of Help any more, no. But as far as I'm concerned, I'm
still a nun, and I'm doing what the Guardian would want me to do."

That's always puzzled me. How can people know what a deity wants? "How can you
possibly know what she'd want?" "Because she said it again and again, people
should help each other. It's a simple concept, it's written down all over the
Holy Books, and that's pretty much all she ever told us we should do. And even
thought you don't believe in her," and she looked me right in the eye, "it's
obviously a pretty good idea."

"So where do you sleep?" I asked. "I have a van. I use that as my quarters, my
transport and my kitchen." "Kitchen?" "I buy bread, I buy cheese, I buy the
other stuff. I put it all together, so it tastes good and has all the vitamins
they need," she said, gesturing around us at the derelicts lying on the grass.

She leaned back on the park bench, and took off her headdress, revealing
short-cut blonde hair. "Wimple," I said. She smiled at me. "Are you allowed to
take it off?" I asked. "I don't think the Guardian would be upset at me for
wanting to feel the sun and wind in my hair," she replied. I laughed.
"Sometimes," she continued, "people get too hung up on the formalities, and
completely forget what it is we're actually supposed to be doing." I turned to
face her again, and said "That sounds like you're talking personally." She
nodded. "Yes." "Tell me about it," I invited. She sniffed. "Doesn't the grass
smell lovely," she non sequiturred.

"I work in an office," I offered, "I spend all day reading papers and writing
other papers. Sometimes I wonder what the point of it is." "What does your
office do?" she asked. "We provide office services to other offices. Before
you can uderstand recursive, you must first understand recursive." "Is that
your motto?" "No. We have a Mission Statement, not a motto, but no-one
understands it and I don't remember it." She laughed. "I used to live in a
convent, but they made me leave." "Why?" "I didn't pray enough, sing enough
hymns, chant enough chants." "That sounds like a good reason." "No, it isn't."
"Why not?" "The Guardian never told us to pray to her, she told us to help
each other. That's what our Mission Statement would be if we had one. Nice and
simple, and anyone can remember it." "Can't you do both?" "No. Time you spend
on your knees praying is time you're not spending helping other people."
"Don't you pray at all?" I asked.

She frowned at me. "You have chutzpah to ask, Rupert the atheist." I blushed a
little. "I pray as much as I feel I need to," she said, "last thing at night,
before I go to sleep, I tell the Guardian all the things that I did that day,
and I ask her for the strength of spirit to do more tomorrow." "And does she
answer your prayer?" "I'm still here, aren't I? Still helping people who
need."

"Is that all you ever pray for?" I asked. She looked at the grass for a few
seconds, and said, "No. Sometimes I ask for the Guardian to watch out for
Sister Mary. And sometimes I tell her how good it would be if I could run a
shelter, so I could offer hot food, warmth and security, not just sandwiches
and milk." "And does she answer your prayers?" "Yes." "But you aren't running
a shelter." "I will one day. She's our Guardian, I trust her." "Who is Sister
Mary?" "A friend of mine. A good friend, who is, is. In harm's way." "In
America?" I guessed, where the Religious Wars were still bubbling along. "No,
no." "Then where?" "Never mind," she answered, "never mind. She's a
Hospitaller. I'm sure the Guardian is looking after her."

"What do you mean, a shelter?" I asked. "I mean a warehouse, a mosque, a
church, a big building like that with lots of floor space. So I can put down
folding beds, give out stew, and soup, and tea. So it isn't cold for them in
winter." She waved her hand, indicating all the homeless scattered around the
park. "Do you know what happens to these people when winter comes?" "They get
cold?" I guessed. She looked at me sharply; I'm glad to say I wasn't grinning.
"They get cold, and they die," she corrected me, "when we get the first frost,
in November, probably, that's when they start to die. It gets worse as winter
gets colder. February is the worst, and it's only in late April or May that
the winter is over. They freeze, hypothermia, it's called. They get influenza,
they get pneumonia, they get emphysemia, the cold and wet just kills them;
some slowly, some quickly."

I was shocked. "Can't the government do something?" "Can. Can't. Do. Don't.
Will. Won't. Bottom line is, they die. Tell me, Rupert, what happens if you
don't do your job? If you just let things slide?" "Nothing terrible. Someone
in Salford runs out of paperclips." She nodded, and her eyes went to the
people dotted about the park, like bundles of rags on the grass.

"But isn't a lot of it their own fault? Because they're expecting the Guardian
to look after them, and she doesn't, she won't, there is no Guardian of
Humanity, she's just a myth? Annetta, aren't they just suffering because they
aren't taking resposibility for their own welfare?"

She sighed and stood up. "She is looking after them. That's what we're doing
here, now. Come on, Rupert, lunch break is over." You can't argue with a nun.
Well, I can't.

I followed her as she walked briskly along the path, out of the park. She went
to an old white one-ton van, and opened the rear doors. Inside, I could see
what looked like a tiny room, with a carpet, a table and a small folding bed.
"Bag," she said. I handed the bag to her, and she climbed into the van and
started to refill it. "In future," she said, "you can come back here and
refill while I continue handing out." I nodded, that made sense. Division of
labour.

We finished going around the park, then she drove to Charing Cross, parked the
van, and we worked our way around the deadbeats that were living under the
bridge. Then we went to the Hammersmith flyover, or rather, underneath the
flyover, then back to Euston. We broke for dinner - more cheese sandwiches.
"You can have two if you like," she said. I did - they really were rather
good. "So is this what you do all day," I asked. She nodded. "And then you do
it all again the next day?" "Mmm," she said. "Isn't it a bit like painting the
Forth Bridge?" "Very." "And you think this is what your Guardian wants?" "She
isn't just my Guardian, she's yours too, even if you don't know it. And no, it
isn't what she wants. She wants people to take responsibility for themselves,
one of the things she always used to say is 'You're not my sheep, I'm not your
shepherd'. Which means ..." "Yes I think I can see what it means," I said,
"but isn't that exactly what you're doing? By giving them handouts, you're
encouraging them to believe that they'll be taken care of."

She took off her wimple. I guess nuns are allowed a bit of latitude. I
normally prefer long hair on a woman, but her short blonde hair was beginning
to look rather nice to me. "I know," she said, "but what else can I do? Just
let them get hungry and cold?" I sighed. "But," I said. "Yes?" she replied.
"Difficult one," I commented. "Mmm," she said.

We sat side by side on the bench. I don't know what the protocol is with nuns,
with an ordinary girl I might have taken her hand at this point. I mean, you
have to show interest when you have interest; if no-one does anything, then
how can romance blossom? But, she's a nun. Still, maybe I could make another
date. "Can I help you tomorrow, too?" "Careful," she said, "I'm supposed to be
the one with the habit." I looked at her. "Are nuns allowed to have a sense of
humour?" I asked. "No," she replied, "I'm not even allowed to smile." And, of
course, she had that megawatt grin as she said that.

We finished the evening at Marylebone, which was where she was spending the
night. She really did sleep in her van. And I got the last train home. I
rolled into bed exhausted, but with a feeling of having accomplished something
useful, a feeling which was notable by its absence during my usual job.

The next day was pretty much the same. The sandwiches weren't quite so fresh,
and I wondered about them. "Annetta, where do the sandwiches come from?" She
smiled at me. "Begging, mostly. I get the left-over bread from some bakers I
know, and I have a friend at a dairy, he sells me cheese at wholesale prices."
"But you still have to spend money." "Yes, some." "So where does the money
come from." She stopped smiling.

"Yes," she said, "that is looking to become a bit of a problem. I'm running
out of what I got from the convent before they, um, chucked me out. But I tell
the Guardian each night what the position is, and she'll do something." I
looked at her doubtfully. "Isn't there something about the Guardian helping
people who help themselves?" "Never heard of that," she said briskly. "Anyway,
what could I do? Going out to work isn't an option, I wouldn't have the time
to do the distribution." "Yes, I can see that," I said thoughtfully. "Don't
worry," she said cheerfully, "just trust the Guardian." I sighed. Such
optimism. I wish I wasn't such a cynic, but I couldn't help feeling that she
was in for a huge letdown when her money ran out and when her Guardian turned
up empty. But I could hardly say that. Instead, I said something really
stupid.

"Could I help you tomorrow, too?"

"But it's Monday tomorrow Rupert, you've got work."

"No, I can take time off, annual leave, they won't mind. It isn't like we have
anything really important on."

She shrugged. Then she shook herself, turned to me and said, "Rupert, I'd be
delighted for you to help tomorrow. Believe me, it's been great to have
someone I can talk to while we go the rounds, and it's pretty nice not to have
to lug that heavy bag around. So yes, you'll be very welcome."

I travelled home on the train that night feeling like a teenager who has just
gotten a date with the prettiest girl in the school. Which is silly, really.
I'm not a teenager, and she's a nun.

I took the whole week off. I also drew some cash out of the bank. Hell, I
wasn't spending as much as I was earning anyway, what is money good for? I was
only going to blow it on a holiday somewhere sunny, and since I was getting a
week's holiday with no travel, accomodation or food cost, I might as well
spend it on something worth while. So I gave it to Annetta.

"Oh!" she said. She looked in the envelope. "I'm not going to refuse," she
said, "this is going to keep some of my people alive." "I know," I said, "I
can't think of a better use for it, Annetta." She put it in the big bag, and
then turned to me and started to hug me. Naturally, I started to hug her back.
The hug went on for longer than I would have expected, and then she pulled bak
a couple of inches and looked up at me.

So I kissed her.

And she kissed me back.

Then she broke off, pulled back and said "Oh!" again. I went very red and
started to apologise, and she was apologising to me at the same time. "Sorry"
"Sorry" "No, Sorry" "Sorry" And our apologies tripped over each other, so we
stopped apologising. "You know, nuns aren't allowed ..." she said. " ... to
laugh, yes I know," I said. So we both laughed. Then I stopped laughing. "But
really, Annetta, what are the rules?"

She put her head to one side, thinking. "It isn't simple. The rules are set by
the convent, or rather by the order that the convent is part of." "And you're
not in a convent." "Yes, exactly. So, strictly speaking, I'm not bound by any
rules right now." "Well, that's a relief - it means you haven't broken any
rule." "That's right," she said, thoughtfully. "So that means we can ..." I
said " ... get back to doing handouts," she said, standing up, which sort of
broke the spell.

By the end of the week, we'd done it all. We'd gone shopping together for
cheese, we'd begged slightly stale bread from the local bakers, and I
discovered which charity shops she got the blankets and coats from. "It's
quite a business operation," I commented, which earned me a major frown. "But
it is, Annetta, you have to buy supplies, you have to watch the costs
carefully, you have to juggle production and distribution. It's just like a
business". "Well, I suppose put that way, yes." And I discovered the secret of
the brown stuff that looked like pickle. It wasn't - it was Marmite. I asked
her about this. "It's extract of yeast," she explained, "and it has a lot of
the vitamins and stuff they don't otherwise get. Keeps them healthier."

"Plus it tastes nice," I added. "But I'm missing some of the vitamins, that's
why I put the lettuce in, it give them the vitamin A and C." The lettuce was,
well, tired. Limp. That's why she got it so cheap, it was past its best. "But
it still has the vitamins," she explained, "and it adds a sort of crispy
crunchy texture to the sandwich."

Because I was carrying the big bag, it meant she could get round more people
and give them food and drink. And you know, it wasn't just that I liked being
with her, it was also that I felt that for the first time in my life, I was
doing something obviously useful. And right. And it really doesn't matter
whether the Guardian told us to do it, or whether we thought of it ourselves,
it was still good. It felt just ... right. Maybe it was even better since we
weren't doing it in hope of reward in heaven, Annetta told me that Guardianity
didn't hold out a promise of heaven or a threat of hell; you just did the
right thing entirely because it was the right thing to do. And it wasn't
because the Guardian said so; the Guardian had just pointed out stuff that was
totally obvious. Help each other. You don't have to believe in some Sky Spirit
to know that this was right. Anyway, it beat making sure that people didn't
run out of paperclips.

We had several theological discussions. Annetta didn't believe in the Guardian
the way that people believe in a god. To Annetta, the Guardian of Humanity was
someone she talked to at night, told her what had happened that day and what
she was planning for tomorrow, asked her to look after her friend Mary,
confided in her about the pains in her knees. "Don't you ever ask for anything
for yourself," I asked her. "That would be impolite," she explained, "you
don't ask friends for handouts. At least, not unless you're really desperate."
"So why do you ... " "Because she's my friend, and if she does see there's
something I need, she'll probably get it for me." "You think?" "She sent you,
didn't she?"

And we'd argue that one a lot. I didn't think that anyone had sent me, Annetta
thought that it had been arranged by the Guardian. "I was running out of
money, and here you are." She disposed of one of my arguments very easily. It
was the old one "If the Guardian exists, why is there so much human misery?"
Annetta's answer was simple. "I exist, for sure. And there's still all these
unhappy people. If I can't fix everything, why do you expect the Guardian to?"
"Because, well, because she's the Guardian, a goddess." "No she isn't a
goddess, she was always very firm on that. She's one of the People, she can do
things that you or I can't, but she still isn't a goddess." "Close enough," I
said. "Not at all," she replied, "if she were, she'd feed this lot," gesturing
around her. "And she isn't, so we all have to pitch in and help each other."
So I pointed at her habit. "If she isn't a goddess, how come you're dressed
like a nun?" "Because I'm doing nunnish things," she said, "and if you look
like a nun, people give you cheap cheese and free bread. Maybe they'd still do
it if I slouched in wearing jeans and a t-shirt, or a power business suit, but
I don't think so."

By the end of the week, I was seriously considering giving up my dead-end
boring job, and go full-time as Sister Annetta's assistant. And I told her so.
"That's a big step," she said, "you wouldn't have any money coming in, how
would you live?" "Um, buy a van, eat bread and cheese?" I said. She laughed.
"You really shouldn't treat me as some sort of shining example to be
emulated," she said as she shook her head. "It's dirty, uncomfortable, tiring
... " "Dirty?" "How do you suppose these homeless people keep themselves
clean?" "They don't." "Because they can't. I have the same problem." "So what
do you do?" I asked. "Mostly, I get dirty," she said. "Sometimes I take soap
and a flannel into the Ladies, and try to clean up a bit. But it's difficult.
What, you thought I was some sort of snow-white angel of mercy? More a grubby
shade of grey."

"Come back to my place tonight," I suggested, "you're welcome to use my
bathroom." She looked at me. "You see what I mean," she said, "you don't have
to ask friends to give you what you need, they offer it without being asked."
I took that as a yes.

That evening, we knocked off early, and Annetta drove her van up to my
suburban home. On the way, we stopped off at an Indian takeaway, and she
ladled things out onto plates while I put suitable cutlery on the table. "You
know, bread and cheese is OK, but I have to admit I do get a hankering
sometimes for something different," she said. Then she borrowed a bathrobe
from me, and spent about an hour in my bathroom; while she was in there, I put
her habit in the washing machine. She was right, the water was grey.

It was still in the tumble drier by the time she came out of the bathroom,
wearing a rosy glow and my bathrobe. I stared at her. "What," she said,
"you've never seen a nun without her habit?" I grinned. "Until recently, I
didn't know any nuns well enough to know what their habits were." She sat on
my settee with a large mug of coffee, and sipped at it. "So, what are the
sleeping arrangements," she asked, "I'm hoping I don't have to kip in the van
tonight." "No, of course not," I replied, wondering what I might suggest. Then
I bottled out. "What do you think about me giving up my day job, and going
full time as Bounteous Billy?" I asked, changing the subject.

She frowned. "Why?" she asked. "Because I got more out of a week dragging
around after you than I get in the office in a month of Sundays."

She sighed. "Look, I can't tell you what to do. It isn't exactly an easy life,
especially in winter." "Why winter, what's special about that?" "It's colder,"
she said. " ... " I said. "They die, Rupert. You go round in the morning, and
some of them didn't make it through the night. Some of them that you know by
name, that you gave bread to last night. You see them in the morning, and
they're gone. You know why they use the word 'stiff'? Because they are, cold
and stiff. It's not nice, not nice at all." "Oh." "And it's bitterly cold in
the van, you can't heat it, and you can't run the engine, so I wrap up in
blankets and hope that's enough. And sometimes I wake up in the night, and
it's cold, and I want to wrap up more, but it's so cold I don't want to move."
"Oh." "And in the summer, there's no windows in the van, it can get stifling
hot." "You could sleep outside." "Too dangerous." "Wouldn't the Guardian take
care of you?" "She's not our shepherd, we're not her sheep." "Oh." "Look,
Rupert, think it over carefully, think of what you'd be giving up, and what
you'd get instead. And I'd recommend that you pray to the Guardian, ask her to
help you make the right decision, maybe talk it over with her a bit. Now,
where am I sleeping, that hot bath has made me feel like getting my head
down."

I showed her to my spare bedroom. Look, I've only known her a week, she's a
nun, I'm not exactly Mr Adonis, and I don't want to spoil our developing
friendship. How do you tell a saint like Annetta "I want to fuck you"? So I
showed her to my spare bedroom, and then I went to bed myself.

As I was undressing, I was thinking about what she'd said. It sounded like a
hard life, and I wasn't used to physical discomfort. And what would I live on,
with no income? I wondered how Annetta had decided to live that life, and I
thought that maybe her trust in the Guardian had something to do with it. I
switched off the lights, closed my eyes, and tried Annetta's suggestion. I
sent a bit of a prayer to the Guardian, not out loud, just thinking. About how
I so admired Annetta, she was almost some sort of saint, and how she'd
inspired me, but O Guardian, was it really the right thing for me?

And I imagined a voice in my ear, saying "I don't think so, baby." And then I
imagined a body next to me in bed. And then I realised I wasn't imagining it,
there really was someone next to me. "Netta?" I whispered. "No, baby, she's
already asleep. It's me." "Who? Who are you?" "Annetta calls me the Guardian,
but you can call me Wendy."

I leaped out of bed and screamed for help. At least, that was what I tried to
do, but I didn't get very far. She had me tangled up in the bedclothes, or
something. And a finger in my mouth was pushing my tongue down, so what came
out was a gargle.

So I fought back; I struggled against her clutches, and I bit down hard on the
finger. Bad idea. It wasn't a finger, it felt more like thick steel rod; my
teeth hurt like you can't imagine. "Sweetie, stop fighting me, I'm not going
to hurt you," she said.

"What are you doing here," I gargled, sounding more like "Urgle urgle". "You
called me, you asked me a question, so I'm answering it. Now will you stop
this futile struggling? You're not going anywhere unless I let you," she
repeated. Well, that much was right, it was like struggling against a strait
jacket. I had no leverage, I couldn't swing a fist, and she was all over me.
So I stopped tiring myself out, and just lay there. "Now, if I take my finger
out of your mouth, will you promise not to scream?" I nodded, "eh." "That's
better," she said, and the steel rod left my mouth. "Ow," I said,
retrospectively. "Oh, did I hurt you?" she asked, sounding like she meant it.
"Yes. Well, no, I hurt myself, biting your finger. What have you got there,
anyway?" "Uh, just my finger? Rupert, I'm the Guardian of Humanity, did you
think you can hurt me?" "How would I know." "Well, you can't. You can't hurt
me, and I don't want to hurt you, you're one of my humans, so can we start
acting like grown ups?" "Grown ups? I'm not the one who suddenly invaded my
bedroom." "I didn't suddenly invade, you invited me." "I didn't!" "You did,
you asked me if you should leave your job, you were talking to me. You said 'O
Guardian', vocative case."

"How do I know you're the Guardian, anyway. Anyone can make that claim." She
threw back the bed covers, and I saw what had been keeping me from jumping out
of bed. A great big white-feathered pair of wings had me surrounded. Her
wings. "Oh."

This was all getting too much for me. There was obviously something weird
going on, I felt like it was all competely out of my control, and I was
scared. We always fear the unknown, don't we? I mean, maybe she was the
legendary Guardian, but maybe she wasn't, maybe some evil version. How am I
supposed to tell the difference? And with fingers that felt like steel bars. I
felt helpless, and I felt scared. And I started shaking, shaking like a leaf
in a high wind.

"You don't have to be scared of me, sweetie, I'm not going to hurt you," she
repeated. I just looked at her. Just because she says it, doesn't make it
true. Her wings curled round me more closely, and pulled me towards her body,
which was, apart from the wings, very human-like. Female human-like. Very
female human-like. She pulled me close so that my face was buried in her
chest, and my nose was full of her scent. She was wearing a silky white
garment, decorated with an elaborate gold W on the front. I tried to get away
from her, but it was a half-hearted attempt, I was already convinced that I
wouldn't be able to handle her. She was just too powerful for me. "Sweetie,
don't be frightened, there's nothing here for you to be frightened of," she
said. Logically, her soothing me should have had no effect at all, but I guess
we don't entirely work on a logical level, and the feel of her female body
against me was gradually calming me down. "You don't have to be scared," she
repeated, "this is the safest place on the planet, you know?" I whimpered a
little bit, and then I did something totally illogical, I tried to huddle
closer to her, as if for protection. "That's right, baby, I'll look after you,
there's nothing to be worried about."

She had her wings wrapped around me, and her hands were stroking my back and
my hair. She pressed me against her body. Based on the steel of her finger, I
would have expected that to be cold and hard as stone, but it wasn't - it was
warm and a little yielding. "I'm your Guardian, don't be afraid of me, I won't
hurt you, you're one of my humans, and I love you all," she crooned. "How did
you get in here, anyway?" I asked. "Sweetie, let's not get into technical
details. Look down."

I looked down, and I was terrified all over again. We were six feet up in the
air, hovering over the floor. I struggled to get free, and I tried to scream
again, forgetting my promise, but it came out as "Mmph", she'd put her finger
back in my mouth. This time I didn't try to bite it. "Oh, baby, don't be so
silly. I'm not going to drop you. But if we were high enough for you to be
scared, you really don't want to try to get away from me, unless you can fly.
Can you fly?" I shook my head. "And will you promise not to scream, you don't
want to wake up Annetta, do you?" I nodded, and then shook my head. I guess
she knew what I meant, because she removed her finger from my mouth. "Mmm?" I
said. "Sure, sweetie," and she held me more tightly.

I told myself, Rupert, you've got to get a grip on yourself. If she wanted to
hurt me, or even kill me, she could. And she hasn't. So let's assume she's
telling the truth here, she won't hurt me. Because I couldn't do anything
about it if that was wrong. "I'm not scared," I said. "You humans, always
lying to yourselves, I really can't work out how you do that," she answered.
"It's called whistling in the wind, if I tell myself that often enough, maybe
I'll start to believe it." We were resting on the bed again, and with some
visible means of support, I started to feel a little better.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I'd forgotten how nice it is to cuddle a
human." "Oh?" "Yes. I've been away, you see. Up in my Wendy House. Up in
geosync orbit, out of the way. Out of sight, out of mind. Trying to stay out
of human affairs, trying not to mess you up again." "Mess us up?" "Yes," she
said, a little sadly, "every time I try to help you out, there's side effects
I hadn't bargained on, and you wind up with new problems." I thought about
this. "If you were out in space, how could you hear Annetta praying to you?"
"I don't hear the sound waves, I see them," she explained.

I lay there quietly for a little bit; I was beginning to actually enjoy the
feeling of her wings wrapped around me, her body in front of me. "You came
because I prayed to you, how come you never did that for Annetta?" "Ulterior
motive," she replied, "I have a little job I want you to do." "A job?" "Mmm."
"What job?" "Will you do it?" "I don't know what it is yet." "That's because I
haven't told you yet. So, will you do it?"

I'm being asked to do something and I'm not being told what? "How can I answer
before I know what it is." "I can't tell you what it is until you agree to do
it." "Why not?" "Because it's secret. Once you know what it is, you have to do
it." "I have to?" "Yes." "Can't you just tell me?" "I could, but then I'd have
to kill you."

I was immediately terrified again.

"Joke," she said, "you humans are well known for their sense of humour." "Not
funny," I said, "not funny at all. It's funny when someone says that who you
know, but when it comes from some superwoman who could pull my head off like
I'd pull a grape off a bunch, it loses its humour."

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I really wouldn't hurt you.
I'm your Guardian." "You say that, but ..." "It's true. Momma brought me here
when I was very young, and I'm supposed to protect you until you're old enough
to look after yourselves, then I can go out to Birthings." "We can look after
ourselves now." "No, you can't. In the last three thousand years, I've stopped
one big meteor from hitting the planet, and regulated my fireball so it gives
enough heat and light." "Fireball?" "You call it the sun." "Oh." "And you
can't do that, not yet. I have to do that sort of thing for you until you
can." "And how long will that take?" "Millions of years. Maybe fifty, or a
hundred. When you're mature. Then I'll be able to leave you alone for long
enough for me to go on a Birthing."

I was getting flooded with information, and each new thing stirred up a
million questions. "What do you mean, you have to protect us?" "I mean I can't
not. When you see people you love about to be wiped out by some big rock, you
can't just watch it happen, you know." "Yes, I can see that. But what do you
get out of this? It all seems completely one-sided."

She smiled at me. "Don't you worry about that. I've already gotten dozens of
invites to Birthings because of my humans. Come here." I suppose a Birthing is
like a date. She pulled me toward her again, and I pressed my nose into her
shoulder. And I started to relax again. "That's better, baby." Her hands were
rubbing my back, touching places that needed to be touched, rubbing places
that needed to be rubbed. She seemed to know exactly where to go without me
telling her. "Mmm," I said.

"So will you do my little job?" she asked. "What will I get out of this?" I
asked back. "Nothing," she said, "nothing at all." She carried on rubbing my
back, and I tried to press myself harder against her body. I closed my eyes,
it really felt good. "And what happens if I say no?" I asked. "Then I'll be
disappointed," she said, "and I'll fly away and you'll never see me again."

Damn. That's no good. And in particular, I wanted Annetta to see her; Annetta
whose trust in the Guardian had kept her going for so many years. I wanted to
see Annetta's face when she met her goddess.

And I liked the feel of her wings around me. She was right, she did make me
feel safe and secure. But most of all, the real crucial argument, is how do
you say no to someone who has saved the entire human race, twice that she's
told me about, and probably others she hasn't mentioned yet? Answer, you
don't. "Yes," I said, "I'll do it. So, what's this little job?"

"I want you to reform the church," she said.

I sat up straight. "You what?" I said. She didn't repeat it, I was asking a
rhetorical question. "Have you any idea how difficult that would be?" I asked.
She lay next to me, looking up at me, saying nothing. Maybe she knew that you
don't answer rhetorical questions. "I have no idea what the reforms should be,
or how to go about implementing them, or how to get the necessary people to do
what I want. I don't even know who the top people in the church are. Oh, and
by the way, which church are we talking about?"

"The Church of the Holy Guardian, of course," she answered. "OK, just checking
that we're both singing from the same hymnbook," I said, "but I still have
clue zero what to reform and how." She lay there, and looked up at me. "Come
here, sweetie."

I lay down again, and she pulled me close. "You know, I really ought to do
more of this, it's so nice," she said. I didn't disagree. "How come you humans
are so cuddly? For what to reform, ask Annetta," she continued, "she's got a
pretty good grasp on what's wrong with the CHG, that's why she's drifted away
from it." I looked up at her. "I suppose. But what about the rest of it?" "Ask
Annetta again. Either she'll know the answer, or she'll know how to get the
answer." I nodded, thinking. "She's quite something, your Annetta," said the
Guardian. "Yes, I know," I smiled, "I was thinking just before you arrived,
she's a real inspiration to me. She really prays to you every night?" "Every
night." "And what does she pray for?" "Sweetie, that's between her and me. She
can tell you if she wants, but I won't." "She already told me, she tells you
about what happened that day, asks for strength to continue, and for you to
protect her friend Mary. So Guardian, do you ever answer her prayers?"

"Call me Wendy," she replied. "Sweetie, millions and millions of people pray
to me, usually asking for something for themselves. Money, or sex, or
forgiveness from their sins. Promotion, or a baby, or revenge on their
enemies. And some of them ask over and over again, it's like they think that
if they ask often enough, they'll get given what they're asking for. I never
asked them to pray to me, I never told anyone I'd answer their prayers, and
it's really quite embarrassing, most of the time." "But what about Annetta?"
"Put it like this. If I answered anyone's prayers, she'd be on the short list.
But I don't."

"Oh." So I wasn't the answer to Annetta's prayers.

"So, now you know the task, do you want to back out?" "If I do, you kill me,
right?" She laughed. "See, you do have a sense of humour. No, I don't kill
you, but I will make you forget." "Forget what?" "That I visited you, this
whole evening." "You can do that?" She nodded. "I don't want to forget."
"Mmm."

"Wendy, the problem is, I think you've actually asked me to do something that
is so far beyond my capabilities, I don't stand a chance." "You won't be
alone," she replied. "Annetta," I listed. "Right. And whoever she can rope
in," she added. "That's still going to leave us totally outnumbered," I
pointed out. "And me," she said. "You?" "Me. What, you thought I wasn't going
to help?"

This put a different light on things. With a goddess in my corner, that
certainly made things look better. "I'm not a goddess, I'm just one of the
People." "Wendy, to us humans, you're close enough to being a goddess that we
set up churches to worship you. As far as we're concerned ... " "Rupert, don't
get confused between what some people think, and what the truth is. I'm not a
goddess, I'm just one of the People." I sighed. "Well, whatever. With you
helping out, the project goes from downright impossible, to merely extremely
difficult." She smiled. "Well, that's sorted out, good. Now we can get down to
some serious cuddling."

I didn't try to stop her. What would be the point? She'd barely noticed when
I'd been fighting her as hard as I could. Besides, cuddling sounded good to
me. If Annetta found out, I could always point out that I actually have no way
to stop her.

It turned out that what Wendy calls cuddling, is what anyone else would call
heavy sex. After the first round, which considerably surprised me, since I was
expecting no more than a bit of a snog, I put it to her. "That's cuddling?
What do you call sex, then?" "Sex is when six of the People get round a
fireball, and ten thousand years later, there's seven." "So what we just did
doesn't count as sex?" "We're different species, Rupert, we can't actually
have sex together. You couldn't be one of the Six, and I can't make you
pregnant." "I'm not a woman, men don't get pregnant." "Well, I'm not a woman
either."

What?

"You're a man?" I asked, looking at the considerable evidence that she was
female.

"No, silly. I'm not a man, I'm not a woman, I'm one of the People."

Oh. "But you're female, right?" "No."

What?

"We don't have sexes, genders, that sort of thing." "So you don't have love?"
"Sure we do, I just told you. I'm in love with humanity, you're my species and
I'm your Guardian." "No, I mean, between two people of the opposite, I mean,
two, or is it six .. damn. It's all different." "Yes, sweetie, it's all
different. Not everyone is like you humans, you know. We have different
emotions, different customs, different life-patterns." "Six? Why six?" "I'll
tell you about it some time. But yes, we have love, like I just told you. And
we have trust, that's more important, crucial for the Birthing. The Two have
to trust each other totally, and the Two have to trust the Four." "Two? Four?
Six?" I was getting confused. "Well, you know, a lot of what you humans do is
pretty weird, so don't go getting all snippy about what other folks do."

I sighed, and fondled some of the considerable evidence. She pulled me closer
with her wings, and I felt her hands on my body. "This isn't fair, you've got
me outnumbered." "Outclassed too, sweetie," and her tongue invaded my mouth. I
tried to push back, but it was like trying to stop the tide from coming in. So
I stopped fighting, relaxed, and let the inevitable happen.

It felt like a very slow explosion. It seemed to be coming from my hips,
through my groin, and it was as if a great torrent of electricity shot out of
my penis. I'm pretty sure I screamed when it happened, and then she was
holding me close and telling me not to be frightened, it was quite normal for
humans to feel like this. Actually, I wasn't frightened now, not at all.

And then Annetta burst into the room, brandishing a shoe.

I looked at her. She looked very sweet in my terry-cloth bathrobe and bare
feet, and she held that shoe like she was ready to use it. Then she saw me,
she saw Wendy holding me, she saw Wendy's wings, and she dropped the shoe and
fell to her knees. "The Guardian of Humanity," she said, in a very small
voice. "Oh rats," I said.

Wendy put me down on the bed, and then knelt in front of Annetta. Annetta sort
of crumpled up, and went into a deep nun-type prayer pose, repeating "The
Guardian of Humanity." "Annetta," said Wendy. She stayed down. Wendy put a
hand on her shoulder, and repeated, "Annetta, look at me." Annetta looked up,
then closed her eyes, as if she were dazzled.

"Annetta, look at me," repeated Wendy, patiently. Annetta opened her eyes
again, and looked. "You ... you're the Guardian, our Guardian, you're here,
you're ..." "Yes, I'm here. Now get up off your knees, that's entirely the
wrong position." "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, what should I ...?"

Wendy helped Annetta to stand up, and then led her over to the bed. Wendy sat
down, and pulled Annetta onto her lap. "Like this," she said.

Annetta looked at me over Wendy's shoulder, and I smiled back at her. Annetta
looked very puzzled, baffled. "This isn't ... isn't what I ... what I
expected," she said, in a confused tone of voice. Wendy wrapped her wings
round Annetta, and said "You have to stop thinking of me as a goddess, because
I'm not. I'm not human, and I can generally do a lot more than a human can,
but I'm not someone you should worship. I'm just one of the People, and I'm
here to help you." "Help me?" "All of you," she said, sweeping her hand around
in a grand gesture that included several billion people. "Help us?" asked
Annetta. "Yes, but things have been going wrong, badly wrong. This Church of
the Holy Guardian you've got, that's become a real problem." "I know," said
Annetta, "I don't have much to do with it now, I just try to live according to
the commandments you gave us." "I didn't give you any commandments." "Help
each other, that's from you." "Yes, but it isn't a commandment, it's just
sensible advice."

"Oh."

Annetta was looking a bit disillusioned now. How would you feel if your god
suddenly turned up on your doorstep, told you she wasn't actually a god, and
what you'd thought was a sacred obligation turns out to be a bit of friendly
advice? Wendy must have realised that she was making Annetta feel bad, because
she continued. "But Annetta, what you've been doing with the homeless, that's
been really good, and I'm very proud of you." Annetta smiled. "And you've been
doing it without any help from your convent." "They chucked me out because I
wasn't, I wasn't ... " "Praying and singing hymns to me, yes, I know, you told
me, remember?"

Annetta stiffened, pulled back, and looked at Wendy in the eyes. "You heard my
prayers?" Wendy nodded, "Yes." "All of them?" "Yes." I thought, now she's
going to ask how Wendy can be 22,000 miles high in orbit and hear what goes on
down here. I was wrong. "You heard, and you didn't do anything?"

When disillusion strikes, it goes deep. "I didn't do anything." "Don't you
care?" "I care." "But if I had a shelter, I could get them in out of the
weather, do you know how many die of cold each year?" "I know." "So why didn't
you help me get a shelter for them?"

Wendy sighed. "It's complicated," she said. "I'll try really hard to
understand," answered Annetta, coldly. Wendy looked at me, but I didn't have
anything to offer. And Annetta was right; the question of why she hadn't
helped, was a lot more important than how she could hear us.

"Annetta, think of a shepherd and his sheep." "Right. You're our shepherd, and
you'll look after us. The Holy Books are full of the shepherd-and-sheep
stuff," said Annetta. "Yes. But think about what's happening there. The
shepherd doesn't tend the sheep because he loves them. He does it because he
wants to eat their children."

I thought that was laying it on a bit thick. I mean, you also get wool and
milk from sheep. But she's right. We do eat their children. We call it "lamb".
I doubt if the sheep are pleased about that. Annetta looked horrified. "You
don't ... " Wendy laughed. "No, of course I don't. I don't even eat meat, I'm
a vegetarian. Not that I actually need to eat." "Then what do you mean?" "What
I mean is, I'm not your shepherd and you're not my sheep. And, if you think
about it, you'll realise that you don't want to be my sheep. Sheep don't get
to choose where they live, what they do, or even what happens to their
children." "What does this have to do with my shelter?"

Wendy stroked Annetta's hair, and I felt a pang of jealousy. She turned and
smiled at me, and a great white wing curled out and pulled me to her side.
"Netta, you've noticed that some of your homeless get dependent on you? Rely
on you to feed them, give them blankets? So much so, that they've stopped
trying to fend for themselves?" Annetta nodded. "You know that's not good."
She nodded again, and said "But that isn't going to stop me helping them."
"Yes," said Wendy, "but when they start taking handouts from you, they've
almost given up anyway. You looking after them, doesn't make them fall very
far, they were near the bottom already." "Exactly," said Annetta, "and I can
do a lot of good by ..." "Yes, you have done, and without any help from the
CHG. You've done good, Annetta, I'm not disagreeing with you. But what I'm
explaining, is that if I did the same sort of thing, on a global scale, and
answered people's prayers, then people all over would start relying on me for
things, and after a while, you become my sheep, and I become your shepherd.
And I don't want humanity to be my pets."

There was a silence, and I was thinking, I'd quite like to be her pet.

"So that's why you didn't answer my prayers?" asked Annetta. "That's right.
But you know, the act of praying helped you. When you prayed for the strength
to get through the next day, you were actually drawing that strength from
inside yourself. I didn't have to do anything to help with that. And that was
what you were asking me for more often than anything else."

"You really were listening," said Annetta, in an awed tone of voice. Wendy
smiled. "But surely not just to me?" Annetta asked. Wendy shook her head. "I
heard you all, I just didn't do anything for you. Well, nothing that you asked
for. But I'm here to do something now." "My shelter," asked Annetta,
hopefully. "You don't give up, do you? No, not your shelter, but if you help
me in what I'm going to do, you'll get your shelter." "What you're going to
do?"

"I want you and Rupert to reform the church."

I just stared at her. My mind was blank. Then one thought formed - how do you
reform a church? You nail 95 theses to the church door? That worked a while
back, but I can't see it working now.

Then another thought. Reformed how? I mean, what's wrong with it, and what are
we supposed to fix? I shook my head. "Wendy, I haven't a clue what I'm
supposed to do here," I complained. "No, you don't," she answered. I looked at
her. Then I looked at Annetta, who was nodding, hard. "She knows," said Wendy.
Annetta nodded some more. "Yes. I know what's wrong. I know what's happened.
They've forgotten," she said, "they've forgotten what we're supposed to be
doing, they've forgotten the Prime Directive." "Prime Directive?" I asked,
puzzled, thinking of Star Trek and suchlike, "Not to interfere in the cultural
development of another species? What does that have to do with ..." Annetta
gave me a look that would have withered the biggest aspidistra in the world.
"Not that, dumbo. The other one. Help each other." Oh, that, Yes. I suppose
so. "They've gotten so wound up in singing hymns and praying, they've
forgotten we're supposed to be helping each other. That's why I can't get any
support for the shelter I want, that's why no-one's helping the homeless all
over the city, that's why a bunch of self-important fat cats think that
singing the praises of the Guardian of Humanity nine times per day at the
prescribed hours is more important than helping each other."

Annetta could get quite passionate when she wanted to.

"OK, OK," I said, trying to calm her down. Wendy got down on the floor,
kneeling, then sitting on her heels, and she looked up at Annetta and I.

"They need to be shaken up," Annetta continued, "need to be shown what the CHG
is really supposed to be all about. Not giving people forgiveness for their
sins in exchange for donations to the church restoration fund, not long boring
sermons about the Goodness of the Guardian." Wendy was nodding. Annetta was
getting more and more excited. "Rupert, she's right, it's obvious, really.
Reform the Church. I was just trying to get a little bit of money out of the
budget for the palaces that the bishops live in so I could get the homeless
out of the rain and cold. I was trying to get them to cut down a little on the
ceremonial banquets so I could put food in the bellies of all the hungry
people in the city. But it's all wrong, it's fundamentally wrong, I shouldn't
have to beg for crumbs."

Annetta was practically glowing with righteous fervour. And she was getting to
me, too. I mean, damnit, there's the priesthood with their iron ricebowls and
tied cottages, a secure job for life, they never have to worry about where
they're going to sleep tonight and where their next meal was coming from.

"And then there's all the Emmies, no-one's taking care of them at all. It's
almost like they aren't even people." "They aren't people," I reminded her,
"they're Machine Intelligences." Annetta's glow moved up the spectrum a bit.
"You're just a meatist bigot," she spat at me, "they're just as much people as
you and me." "They aren't human," Wendy pointed out. "Sure, they aren't human,
but so what? Neither are you. Why should not being human cut them off from our
compassion and help? It's because they can't vote, there's no Emmie bishops,
they're treated like dirt."

I glanced at Wendy, who was looking like someone who had just dropped an egg
on the floor and was wondering just how far all this yellow stuff would
spread.

And then I came down to earth with a bump. "Annetta?" She stopped waxing
eloquent, and looked at me. "What?" "How? How are we going to do this? There's
you, there's me, that's two of us against the entire established church. So
how?"

Annetta looked thoughtful for a moment. Then she smiled. "Mary! Mary will help
us."

I sighed. "Annetta, maybe she will. That's three. Those are not good odds."

"Four", said a voice from the floor. I looked down. "Four," repeated Wendy.
"You see?" said Annetta. "It's doubled already!" "Oh, Annetta," I said,
exasperated, "One ex-drunkard who still has a craving for booze, one defrocked
nun, and, calling a spade a spade, your friend Mary the Hospitaller is really
just a ... a ... a ...". I bottled out, I'm a total coward. "A Hospitality
Nun."

"And one Guardian of Humanity," said a voice from the ceiling, "call me if you
need me. I'm on the phone." And she vanished. Just vanished. Like the Cheshire
cat, but without even leaving a grin behind. "More like Schodinger's cat,"
said a voice from nowhere. Or maybe not. And she'd forgotten to give her phone
number. And a ghostly voice said "First ten digits of pi". I always knew that
was a magic number.

Annetta turned to face me. "She is not a prostitute, she's a Hospitaller," she
protested. "She gives hospitality to senior clergy, and we all know what sort
of hospitality that is," I retorted. "She doesn't take payment for it, she
isn't a prostitute." "OK, she doesn't take payment, but she has sex with any
sufficiently high-ranking clergyman." "Yes. Well. That's the Rule of her
Order. She's just being obedient to the Rule." "What happened to Chastity?" I
asked.

Annetta looked down at her lap. "I think maybe that's one of the things I want
to reform," she mumbled.

I looked up. "And our main asset in this adventure has just flown away." "No
she hasn't" "Yes she has - look, no Guardian. Guardian gone. Absence of Angel.
Wendy wandered off." "She hasn't gone, she's just, just, somewhere else."
"That's the definition of gone, 'Netta." "No, she'll come back if we call her,
she said so, remember? She isn't gone, she's just, she's just, oh, I don't
know, she's probably helping someone. Anyway. Anyway. She's on our side." "She
ought to be, we're only doing what she told us to do." "Yes, she told us, but,
oh Rupert, can't you feel how right it is? How wrong the church is now, how
much they need to be put back on the right track?" I nodded. "I suppose. But
if it's so obvious, how come no-one's done it already?" "Because, because, oh,
I don't know, Rupert. Are you always such a wimp? Probably because they
thought it would be too difficult. It's easier to go along with the status quo
than to try to change it." "It'll be pretty damn difficult for us, too. Maybe
too difficult. Probably too difficult. Almost certainly too difficult." "No, I
don't believe that," said Annetta, "you have to have a bit of faith, faith can
move mountains." "Annetta, don't be so naive. Faith alone isn't going to move
a molehill." "But we don't just have faith. We have Wendy," she said, "and I
bet she moves mountains all the time," and I had to agree. I sighed. "So, Maid
of Orleans, what do we do first?" "Mary," said Annetta, "we go visit Mary."

I didn't have a better idea. I was still pretty sceptical about this whole
deal, but Annetta seemed dead set on it, so what do I know? What I know, is
I'll follow Annetta anywhere.

So, I followed her to Cricklewood.

There was a time when the religious center of the world was Jerusalem. Then
Rome. Then Mecca. Now it's Cricklewood. Why Cricklewood? You might as well ask
why Jerusalem. Because it is. Well sure, the fact that the Guardian of
Humanity first appeared there has something to do with it, and the fact that
she lived there for a while. And the huge precious-metal statue that had the
cathedral built around it.

And then they built chapels around the cathedral, and living quarters for the
priests, and walls to keep out the unfaithful, and ceremonial guards to man
the walls, and now there was this whole complex of buildings that reached
nearly down to Kilburn and almost up as far as the Welsh Harp. Bishops and
Archbishops and Cardinals and Archcardinals and I don't know what else. And
all their support staff - butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers (they get
through a lot of candles). And a great flock of nuns, because, as in all great
religions, women did the scut work.

We arrived at the Convent of the Holy Hospitallers, patron saint St Fiona.
Annetta swished through the portal like she owned the place, me trailing after
her. I wasn't sure if men were allowed inside, but then we passed through a
sort of waiting room, where sat a small flock of sheepish-looking clerics,
patiently waiting their turn.

Annetta led me to the Madame Abbess of the convent. She curtseyed to her, and
then asked if she could speak with Sister Mary, on church business. The Madame
said that would be OK, but she'd have to wait a bit. "Sister Mary is tied up
right now," she explained, and Annetta and I were shown into a small room,
given tea and biscuits, and there we waited, and I wondered exactly what "tied
up" meant.

"It doesn't look like a brothel," I commented. Annetta frowned at me. "Shush,"
she shushed. For a while, I thought about how the nuns here would be dressed.
I looked at Annetta, and tried to imagine her in a transparent habit. Then I
tried a scandalously short skirt. Annetta looked back at me impassively, not
realising that I was mentally undressing her.

Just as I had Annetta in a leather halter and thong, a nun glided in, and now
I knew what they wore here. In some ways, it was disappointing. A long white
cotton habit, and a wimple over her hair. I could see her face and her ears,
and that was about it. Annetta looked up and smiled; she stood and they
hugged. "Mary!" "Net!" "Good to see you" "How've you been?" and lots more like
that.

When they stood apart, I looked at Mary more closely. The long white habit
wasn't entirely shapeless; her body made it curve and tent in interesting
ways. And the wimple didn't entirely cover her hair, there were flame-coloured
tresses escaping out the back, and reaching down almost to her waist. "Looking
good, girl," she said to Annetta. Annetta beamed. "You're looking mighty fine
yourself," she replied. "Have to," explained Mary, "goes with the territory."
Annetta flicked a glance at me, and looked a bit embarrassed. "So, is this a
social visit, or have you decided to help offer hospitality?" asked Mary.
Annetta looked slightly furtive.

"Is there somewhere we can go to talk?" she asked. "Uh, my cell?" asked Mary.
Annetta shook her head. "Somewhere outside, I, uh, need to stretch my legs a
bit." Damn. I was hoping to see Mary's boudoir.

We walked up Crickewood High Road towards Staples' Corner, and crossed over to
the Welsh Harp reservoir. It's a part of London that makes you think you're
out in the country, no houses in sight. When we got there, Annetta sank down
to the ground. Mary looked for something to sit on. I realised that her white
habit would get rather grubby if she just sat on the ground, so I took my
jacket off and, with a flourish, laid it on the ground for her. She gave me a
smile, and sat down, gracefully. That smile gave me the first evidence that
Mary wasn't the demure, chaste nun that one expects a nun to be.

I got down on the ground too, then Annetta got onto her knees, put her hands
together, and closed her eyes. Mary did the same, so I copied them. "Guardian,
lend your strength to our endeavour, that we may do your will." "Amen," said
Mary, and opened her eyes. "So, Net, what's this about?"

Annetta looked at me, and took a deep breath. "It's about the Guardian," she
said. Mary's expression didn't change, but maybe her eyes went a little
glassy. "Oh yes," she said, in a neutral tone of voice. "The Guardian has
given me a task to do, and I need your help, Mary."

Mary sighed. "Net, I can't get you money for your shelter. I'm just a
hospitality nun. Sure I rub noses, elbows and maybe other things with the top
clergy, but if I start putting my hand out, I'll be out on my ear."

Annetta shook her head vigorously. "No, Mary, it isn't that. I mean, yes I
still want to do this shelter, but that's on hold for now, the Guardian has
given me a more important and urgent task." "Net, ever since I've known you
the Guardian has been giving you urgent and important tasks. Fact is, girl,
the mainstream church just isn't interested in your latest attack of
conscience. They've got their own fish to fry."

Annetta looked frustrated, and I decided I should have a go. "Mary, you don't
understand. This time, the Guardian actually spoke to her." Mary turned to
look at me, and I felt something warm inside when she smiled and said "Honey,
the Guardian has been speaking to Annetta for a long time now, ever since
before she was a novice, back when we were both in the orphanage. Net has
always been very pious, prays every evening, doncha Net?" Annetta blinked. "Of
course I do." Mary nodded. "She tells the Guardian everything that happened
that day, and thanks her for all the good stuff, and asks for the strength to
deal with tomorrow, right?" Annetta nodded. "And she always comes through, you
get to cope with the next day, right?" Annetta nodded again. "But Mary," she
said, and then she stopped, and looked at me, appealing.

I could see the problem. What Annetta wanted to say was that this time, the
Guardian really did talk to her, which implies that all the other times, she
didn't. "I saw the Guardian, too. She talked to both of us," I said.

Mary sat back on her heels, and looked at me. I tried not to look like a
religious nutter. And then I dropped the big one. "Actually, it was me she
gave the task to. Annetta is supposed to help me." "Ah," said Mary, "I
understand." I sighed, and smiled at Annetta. Annetta frowned. "I'm not sure
that she does. Mary?" "Sure I understand. This guy, er, um .." "Rupert" "This
Rupert, he's got an inspiration from the Guardian, and he's gotten you
convinced, so you're gonna lie down for him or something, right?" Annetta
closed her eyes and shook her head. "So you want me to show you how it's done,
give you a few lessons, right?"

Uh. Talk about getting hold of the wrong end of the stick. This was just
getting worse and worse. "Annetta, " I said, helplessly. Annetta got back onto
her knees and assumed the praying position. "I think we need some help," she
said. So, Mary did the same, and me too. "Holy Guardian, bestow enlightenment
on our sister Mary, that she may see the path of righteousness and ..." and at
that point, Mary gave Annetta a shove that sent her sprawling on the grass.
"You ruddy penguin, don't you come all goody-goody on me," she said, loudly.
"I do what I do, you do what you do, and we're all doing what we do best to
work towards what we're working towards." I just stared at Mary, she was
really stunning when she got angry. I couldn't understand what she meant
through all the circumlocutions, but I could enjoy the view.

And if that was unexpected, what happened next was totally startling. Annetta
got herself together, and dived at Mary, knocking her onto her back. Mary
didn't take that lying down, though, and pretty soon I was watching something
I never thought I'd see. A nun fight.

A nun fight. It's a bit like a cat fight, without the bad language.

I watched, horrified as they rolled around on the grass, each trying to get on
top of the other. I thought of intervening, but that would just have made a
one-on-one fight into a three-way brawl, and the situation was bad enough
already. Then, suddenly, I knew what to do.

"Wendy!" I yelled, "I need you."

She was there at once. it was like she'd been there all along, just waiting
for her cue. She was in full angel rig; white-and-gold costume, and wings that
had to be at least a hundred feet wingspan. She was hovering a few feet above
the ground, where the two nuns couldn't miss seeing her. And she had the
desired effect - they stopped fighting, and dropped into the praying position
again.

I closed my eyes and sighed. "Mary, meet the Guardian. Guardian, this is
Mary." Wendy came down to earth and folded her wings behind her, like a
gigantic pigeon. Hmm, no, more like a swan. Mary stayed on her knees, and said
"Forgive me." "I forgive you," said Annetta. Mary looked across at her and
glared. "Not you," she said, "Guardian, forgive me." "No harm, no foul," said
Wendy cheerfully, and I wondered what that meant. "Both of you. Stop acting
like children, and I'll let you off this time." Annetta kept her head down,
her eyes closed. Mary looked up at Wendy. "I didn't mean to ask you to forgive
me for that little tussle, Guardian, we used to do that often when we were
kids together. I mean ... I mean. I mean ... what I do, what I've been doing,
I mean the, the, um, hospitality."

"Oh, that," said Wendy, "just a bit of cuddling to some lonely old men,
nothing to worry about." Mary looked like she was about to say something, when
Wendy interrupted. "No, Mary. I know. I could see you." She came close to
Mary, and put her hands on her head. Then she knelt down in front of her, and
deployed her wings again, but this time she used them to surround the
red-headed nun, and I couldn't see what was happening. But after a little
while, Wendy rocked back on her heels, put her wings away, and I could see
Mary again, and she was smiling. "Better now?" asked Wendy. Mary nodded.

"So," I said, "when I said that the Guardian talked to me, I didn't mean that
I imagined that the Guardian talked to me, I mean that she really did." Mary
looked at me and nodded. "Sorry, Rupert. I guess I've gotten a bit cynical
about men."

"Oops," said Wendy, "another kitten, another tree", there was a whooshing
noise, and she shot up into the sky, curved around and disappeared behind a
cloud. Annetta looked at Mary, and said "Come on, Mary, let's walk." Mary
stood up, with "Yes Net, we have a few things to talk about". I got onto my
feet too, but Annetta shook her head. "You stay here, Rupert."

They walked hand in hand towards the lake. I watched them go, wondering what
they were going to talk about that called for my absence. "You, for a start,"
said a voice in my ear. By the time I got my heart back under control and spun
round, I already knew who I'd see there. "What about the kitten," I asked,
suspiciously. "Untreed," she said, cheerfully, and sank down to the ground.
"Well, this is going quite well so far," she continued. "Going well?" I
queried, "So far, all we've done is meet one of Annetta's old friends, and
they had a nun fight." Wendy grinned. "She's nice, isn't she?" "Well, yes," I
admitted, "if you like that sort of thing. Come on, Wendy, what are they
saying?"

Wendy held her head up, as if she were listening. Then she looked at me, and
said "Stuff." "Stuff?" "They're saying stuff to each other." "Yes, but what?"
"Baby, have you ever heard the expression 'invasion of privacy' ?" "Sure."
"Good." "But you can hear what they're saying, can't you." "Yes." "So isn't
that an invasion of privacy?" "No." "Why not?" "I'm not human."

I blinked. I tried to understand the logic here. "Huh?" "Well," said Wendy,
"you don't think it's an invasion of privacy if a telephone overhears a
private conversation? Or an emmie?" "No, that's different, they're ... they're
... " "Not human. See?"

I sighed. "Well, could you at least give me some idea of the sort of things
they're saying?" "Sweetie, those two have known each other since they were
toddlers, they're almost like sisters." "They were acting like it just now."
"Just letting off a bit of steam." "But they're nuns." "Nuns have steam too.
And now they're catching up on all the stuff since they last saw each other.
Quite a lot of what they're talking about is me." "You?" "The Guardian of
Humanity, remember? They're nuns in a church that's supposed to be about me."
"Oh. Oh." I paused for a few seconds. "Anything about me?" "You're a conceited
pig." "Annetta's saying that? Or Mary?" "No. I am. You think that when two
nuns go for a walk together, you're going to be their topic of conversation?"
"Oh. Oh." "Oh indeed," said Wendy.

"I just wondered," I said, defensively. "You humans, all you ever think about
is sex and money." "I do not," I said. "Sugarplum, you can't go a minute
without your mind drifting to one or the other." "Not true," I said. "Except
when you're asleep," she continued, relentlessly, "and even then you have
dreams about it." So I tried the other tack. "So what, where's the harm in
that?" "None," she said, "but when you're with two nuns, you shouldn't be
mentally undressing them both and comparing their bodies."

I had enough conscience to blush. "It's those habits," I said, "you can't see
anything, so you have to imagine." Wendy shook her head, and got down on the
grass with me. "No you don't," she argued." "Look, you might be able to see
through things, but I can't," I protested. "No, I mean you don't have to
imagine, you don't have to do anything, you can just treat them as people, not
as potential sexual partners." She came a bit closer, and her hand was on my
thigh. "Uh," I said. "Sugarplum," she replied. I felt my face getting hot as
the hand crept higher on my thigh. "Wendy, there's two nuns here, they could
come back any time." "I'll know if they get close, sugarplum, don't you worry
about that." There was another hand on my other thigh, and then there was a
great fluttering of feathers and her wings swept me towards her.

"Ooh, you humans, you're so cuddly, I can't keep my hands off you." "Unh."

. . .

Unfortunately, the two nuns came back much too soon. I knew they'd come back,
because suddenly Wendy wasn't there any more, and I was left frantically
rearranging my trousers before they got close enough. Then I watched as they
approached. Mary did a little skip as they got near, then Annetta did the
same. Have you ever seen a nun do that? First time for me, too. And they were
still holding hands, so I supposed they'd made peace with each other. I sat
watching them approach; Mary looked great in her white cotton habit with the
sun behind her.

"So what's the verdict?" I asked. Annetta smiled and sat down on the grass.
Mary knelt next to her, and they both bowed their heads in prayer.

That's one of the big drawbacks of nuns. Everything they do, they have to do a
little prayer before, during and afterwards. It slows things right down, plus
I felt a bit foolish praying to someone who'd just had her hands all over me.
Then they finished praying. "Well?" I asked. "We've got a plan," said Mary. "A
plan?" I said. Mary nodded. "A plan for doing what exactly," I asked. "For
reforming the Church of the Holy Guardian," she said, patiently, looking at me
as if I'd lost the plot.

I blinked. "Just like that?" I asked. "Just like that," said Annetta, "just
like that." Mary nodded. I blinked again. "Mary, I don't think you've entirely
realised how difficult this is going to be. There's millions of members of the
church, they aren't going to change overnight." "They don't need to. They'll
change, though," said Mary. Annetta nodded. I sighed. I already knew that
Annetta was an unlimited optimist, now it turns out that Mary is too. Maybe
that's part of the whole religious thing. "I suppose we'll all pray to the
Guardian, and she'll make everyone change, yes?" I asked, sarcastically.

Mary looked at Annetta. "I never thought of that. Wouldn't that work, Net?"
Annetta shook her head. "It's the Guardian who wants the changes. If she could
do that, then why would she ask us to do it for her?" she explained. "But
she's the Guardian, she could do that, couldn't she?" Mary replied. "Yes,
Mary, but that's just making us into her sheep. And we're not her sheep." "And
she's not our shepherd, yes I know," nodded Mary. "So she isn't going to tell
us what reforms are needed, and she isn't going to do it for us. We have to do
it ourselves." "So it's Plan A, then." "Yes, Mary. Plan A."

Two nuns debating theology, just what I need. "So what's Plan A, exactly?" I
asked. Mary smiled brilliantly at me. "We grab the Holy Greatfather by the
balls and squeeze until he does what we want. The rest of the Church has to
follow his Edicts." I frowned at Mary. "Grab? Literally?" She laughed. "Not
literally, no." "Then how?" I asked.

We were all sitting on the grass by the reservoir as the evening shadows began
to lengthen. The red of the setting sun hit Mary's hair, making it a beautiful
red-gold colour. Annetta sat gracefully with her legs coiled under her, her
wimple almost hiding her blonde hair. I tried to shake off a mental picture of
Mary's hand gripping the Holy Greatfather's balls, and squeezing.

"Mary knows stuff," said Annetta. "Well, she'd have to, being a Hospitality
Nun, wouldn't she?" I replied. I wondered if the rumours we've all heard about
Hospitality Nuns are true. I've heard that they can leave a man unable to
stand or talk after just a few hours. Annetta frowned at me. "She knows stuff
about people." "People?" I asked. "People," said Annetta, "senior people.
People in high places. People in very high places. Very holy people in very
high places," she said. Mary nodded, and explained "Pillow talk." "Oh," I
said.

"Men like to boast to me about what they've done, or know, or can do. To show
me how big they are. Then I show them that they're even bigger than they
thought. And then afterwards, they're quite small." I gulped. I wondered if
she'd show me what she meant. "So you know stuff about the Holy Greatfather?"
I asked. Mary just smiled. "What stuff," I asked. "Stuff," said Mary, vaguely.

"It's getting late," said Annetta, "lets get back to base before it gets
dark." They stood up, and started to walk back to Hendon. I followed,
wondering about this "stuff". What could Mary know about the Holy Greatfather
that would make him pliable?

We stayed in the Hendon Central that night. Not the finest hotel on the
Monopoly board, but good enough. Two rooms, though. One for me, and one for
the nuns, next door. I lay on the bed and I could hear them giggling together,
and wondered what they were giggling about. Me, probably. Nuns, giggling.
Humph.

"It isn't always about you," said a voice in my ear. I hurled myself towards
her. "Mmph-dy," I mumbled. "Hi, sweetie," she said, holding me.

Then it went quiet in the next room. "It's gone quiet," I said. "Yes," said
Wendy, "they're praying." "Again," I said. Then I had the most peculiar
feeling. "They're praying to you, aren't they?" I asked. She hugged me
slightly. "Of course. They're nuns of the Church of the Holy Guardian, who
else would they pray to?" It felt strange, I was in the arms of the one that
the nuns in the next room were praying to. "What are they saying?" "You really
do want to stick your nose into everything, don't you? That's between them and
me, none of your business." Huh.

"Could I pray to you?" She laughed. "You don't think you'd feel a bit silly,
praying to someone who was having sex with you? Or would you pray afterwards?
Before?" I sighed. "So what do you think about Mary," she asked. "Very pious,"
I replied. "No, I meant bonkability wise. On a scale of one to ten." "Oh. Ten.
Definitely. You see, I'm sure she didn't realise this, but with the light
behind her, I could see ..." "I'm sure she did realise." "What?" "She's a
Hospitality Nun, essentially an unpaid church prostitute. I'm sure she knows
exactly what happens when she gets the light behind her." "Oh."

"And Annetta?" she asked. "Don't." "Don't what?" "Don't go there." "Don't go
where?" "Don't ask me about Annetta's bonkability, because if you did, I'd say
she's probably right up there with Mary, except she doesn't flaunt it." "No,
she doesn't, does she. So, here's the crucial question, if you had to choose
between them, which one would you go for?"

Now I'm not a complete klutz. I've had relationships with women before, and I
know a minefield when I see one. I also know how to defuse that particular
bombshell before it explodes and covers me with custard. "I'd choose you,
Wendy."

. . .

When I woke up next morning, Wendy was gone, leaving behind her a langourous
feeling and a female smell. I made an effort and got out of bed. As I dressed,
I listened for nuns, but I couldn't hear any. And when I knocked on their
door, more silence. It was only when I got down to the breakfast room that I
saw them, huddled over some toast and eggs, so I sat down with them. "Have
some Marmite," said Annetta. I spread it on my toast, and ate silently.

Then Mary stood up. "Action," she said. Annetta grinned, and looked at me.
"What, what?" I said, wondering what perilous role they'd found for me. "What
do I have to do?"

"You can't go see the Holy Greatfather looking like that," Mary said. I looked
at my suit. Sure it had seen better days, but it was entirely respectable, and
perfectly sober. "You have to be a bit more ... holy," she said. What? I just
spent the night being cuddled by the one they worship, how much holier can I
get? Annetta giggled. Mary sniggered. Annetta explained. "Two nuns and a man
off the street, isn't going to get very far in getting to see the Greatfather.
But three nuns ..."

"What? No!" They both nodded. "No way!" They both nodded again. "Not a
chance!" I repeated. Then Annetta spoke. "Look at it this way, sweetie. You're
doing it for the Guardian."

Sweetie. She called me sweetie. For that I'll put on a nun's habit and dance
on tables. Fortunately, I didn't have to dance. But I did have to glide.

You see, nun locomotion isn't like other women. You can't sway, you can't
wiggle, you can't jiggle. You have to glide. Everything is motionless except
the legs, and you can't see those because the habit covers everything up. That
means you can't see the reciprocal bipedal action, and it looks like the nun
is on castors, with an invisible force propelling her forward. A bit like a
Dalek without the extermination. At least, that's the theory. It takes years
to learn how to do the glide properly, and I didn't have years. So it wasn't
really a glide, more a sort of bump-a-bump.

. . .

So there we were, three nuns, gliding demurely through the cloisters, looking
like we were on some official mission. I mean, a nun in Cricklewood, must be
some sort of Holy Mission, right?

It got us as far as the Great Guardian House, that enormous confection of
stone and plastic at the center of Cricklewood, built around and protecting
the Original House. But as we entered, we were swept up by a couple of monks
looking very bureauratic. "I suppose you're the nuns from Borchester," said
one of them. Mary looked at Annette, Annette looked at Mary. I looked at them
both, looking at each other, and realised that nuns aren't allowed to lie, so
it was down to me. "Yes," I said, "that's us". I knew the answer was yes,
because if the answer had been "No", then either of the girls could have said
it. "Well, come on, come on," he said, "we haven't got all day." "We have
eternity," said Annetta in her "nun voice" and the monk replied "yes-yes,
yes-yes, now do come along, come along."

We followed him deeper into the building. I turned my head from side to side
like a nun from the sticks, looking at the magnificent rooms as we passed
them, decorated with statuary and dozens of paintings. One particularly
magnificent statue was in some bright metal, a winged woman holding a baby. We
stopped in front of it, and Annetta nudged me, "You know who that is?" "Of
course, it's the Guardian." "And you know who sculpted it?" "No?" "She did."

The clean simplicity of the statue contrasted with the opulent baroque
surroundings. Annetta continued, "That's what we want to do, Rupert. Get away
from the ornate clutter, cut back to the clean core." I looked at Mary, she
was nodding agreement. "But how?" I asked. "Are you tourists going to gawk
there for much longer?" asked the monk, rudely. Mary gave him a big smile, and
moved in close to him. "Have you ever spent time with a Hospitality Nun?" she
asked. He shrank back, as if she was a source of too much heat. "Come on," he
muttered.

After a lot more walking, we arrived at what was clearly a waiting room. "Wait
there," said the monk, pointing to the chairs, and he dashed off. Annetta
looked around, and did the nun kneel. Somehow, a nun can go from the standing
position to a kneeling position in one smooth movement. Mary followed her
down, and I tried to get down without shattering my knees, splitting my skirt
or breaking my wrists.

Annetta closed her eyes and prayed. "Guardian, help us now to do thy work".
Mary did the same, so I did too. "Wendy, we could really use a helping hand
right about now, huh?" OK, OK, it isn't formal-archaic like prayer is supposed
to be, but I didn't feel that I was asking a goddess for a miracle, I just
wanted an assist from my best friend.

"May I join you in prayer?" asked a considerably older guy who had also been
waiting. "Bless you," said Mary, which I suppose means yes. So we all prayed
together, each in our own way, and then the older guy said to me, "Since when
do nuns shave?"

Rumbled.

"It's ok," said Mary, giving him that Hospitality Nun smile, "there's a good
reason why he's in nun fig." "I'm sure there is," said the older guy politely,
"you're not planning to do anything ... untoward ... to the Greatfather, I
hope?" Annetta looked horrified, although actually, that was exactly what we
were planning. I hastily reassured him. "No, we're just going to ask him to
reform the Church." "Oh, is that all," said the older guy, sarcastically, and
then continued, "well, I suppose I can't tell you pigs might fly, I'm after
something pretty outrageous too." "What?" asked Mary. "I want to build a
stairway to heaven."

Mary and Annetta looked at each other, and I could see the thought they were
exchanging. It was "nutter". He spotted it too. "No, really," he said, "it's
also called a Space Elevator. You run a cable from the ground to about 40
thousand miles up. Once it's in place, orbital dynamics keeps it there, and
you can climb up and down it. It's the only way we'll get into space now that
we can't afford those huge rockets."

"But that's Science," said Mary. Science, of course, is bad. Faith, belief and
praying is good. Science became very unfashionable when the Church of the Holy
Guardian became so powerful, and most people don't miss it. After all, it was
Science that caused nuclear bombs. Plus, a lot of scientists don't even
believe in the Guardian. Not that I believed, mind you. I mean, before. Before
I actually met her, at which point belief stops being a faith thing. But the
guy was still talking. "Yes, well. OK, let's not call it a Space Elevator,
let's call it a Stairway to Heaven, and it's a way we can get closer to the
Guardian."

"Wouldn't the cable have to be very strong?" I asked. He looked at me and
raised his eyebrows. "Why yes, it would. Well done, young sir." "And how would
you get it up there in the first place?" asked Mary. "Yes, yes, that is a
difficulty," he said, "but difficulties like that are there to be overcome.
I'm confident that if we do the research, then we'll be able to build our
Stairway to Heaven. Maybe a rocket."

Ah. Faith. Wonderful thing, faith. "So I'm here to petition the Greatfather
for budgetary support." He was going to wave a begging bowl under the
Greatfather's nose. "My name's Jeremy, by the way, Jeremy Abingdon." Mary and
Annetta nodded to him, and went back to praying. I suppose nuns do that almost
reflexively when confronted with a difficulty, the same way cats sit down and
wash. "So what about this cable?" I asked. "Diamond," he answered. Definitely
a nutter, I thought. With expensive tastes.

Then a bell rang, and a nun dressed all in white popped her head into the
antechamber. "Next," she said. "That's me," said Jeremy, struggled to his
feet, and followed the White Nun into the Presence of the Greatfather.

Mary and Annetta went on praying, I think there's something in the Nun
Handbook that says "when you nothing better to do, pray". Like the cats
manual, which says "When in doubt, wash". I didn't. Mean, what's the point? I
already asked Wendy for help, if I droned on and on like the nuns did, that
would just be nagging, and why would you think she'd be more likely to respond
if you ask the same thing a hundred times? So I looked at Annetta, and I
looked at Mary, and I tried to decide which of them, given the choice, which
was hardly likely, of course, but a man can dream, can't he, and assuming that
I did get the chance to choose between a Hospitality Nun, with her undoubted
experience, and the innocent Annetta, who I admired and lusted after in every
way possible, and the trouble with woolgathering is that you lose your thread
and can't remember what you were thinking about.

Then Jeremy came out looking disappointed, what a surprise, and the White Nun
said "Next", which was us.

But as I was struggling off my knees into a standing position (the two real
nuns just sort of floated up, I guess it's something you learn in Nun School
along with how to kneel without crashing down), I felt a hand on each of my
shoulders, which made standing impossible. "No, you stay there," said Annetta,
"this isn't for your eyes." I wondered what Mary was going to do once she got
inside there. So I stayed on my knees, and now I had something else I could
ask Wendy for, so I did. "Oh Gracious Guardian, please help Mary and Annetta
thy servants in their appointed task." I guess this archaic-speak is
infectious.

Then Jeremy joined me on the floor, and said "I hope you guys have better luck
than I did." "Well, we should. We're doing the Guardian's bidding." "He looked
at me. "You know, I often wonder how you people know what it is the Guardian
wants. You have her phone number, I suppose?" he said sarcastically.
"Actually, I do," I said. But it was obvious that he didn't believe me. So I
pulled out my PDA.

First, I had to find out the first ten digits of pi. That wasn't hard, I just
googled it. Then I dialled the number, and an angel icon popped up on my
screen. "Hi, sweetie," said a voice, "how's it going?" I looked at Jeremy, he
didn't seem to be at all impressed. "That's her", I said. "Uh huh," he
replied, obviously not believing me. "Mary and Annetta are in with the
Greatfather, but they didn't want me there, so I don't know what's happening."
"I'll give you a feed," she said, and the PDA screen cleared and faded into a
window on the room next door. I could see Annetta kneeling at the
Greatfather's feet, with Mary standing at his side.

"You wouldn't," he said. "You want to bet your soul on that?" said Mary. "If
you went public with that, the Church would be in deep trouble." Annetta
chipped in. "The Church is in deep trouble already, the Guardian doesn't like
the way it's gone, how much deeper trouble could there be?" He looked at
Annetta. "You say that. But you're just a nun, an ex-nun at that. I'm the
Greatfather, and I say we're carrying out the Guardian's wishes in every
particular." "Cobblers," said Mary, succinctly. Annetta amplified - "You're
spending money on rich buildings and banquets, while my homeless go hungry.
And unless I can get a shelter for them by winter, a lot of them will go to
sleep under the stars one cold night and not wake up. That isn't what the
Guardian wants, and you know it." "It's a necessary sacrifice," he replied,
"the magnificence of the Church impresses people, and we can gather many more
souls." "The Guardian never asked us to gather souls, all she said is that we
have to help each other." "But that is helping, the more people who worship
the Guardian ..." "And she doesn't want to be worshipped," interrupted Mary.
"Don't be silly, young lady, of course she wants to be worshipped, all gods
do." "But she isn't a god, a goddess, whatever," said Annetta, "she's just one
of the People." "Now you're being blasphemous," replied the Greatfather, "of
course she is." "Ooooh," said Mary.

He frowned at her. "Look, Great-F", she said, "unless you get this ship
sailing in the right direction, we are definitely going to start a Reformed
Church." "You wouldn't." "We would." "That's Heresy." "No, GF, heresy is
spending money on incense that should go on bread." "No, because it
contributes to the greater glory of the Guardian." "But that isn't what she
wanted," said Annetta, and I could hear that she was getting irritated with
this. "Is too," said the Greatfather.

Mary offered her hand to Annetta, and Annetta accepted her help to get up off
her knees. "You're not worthy of being knelt to," she said. "I know I'm
right," he said. "Look around you, isn't this all a great monument to her
magnificence?" "No, it's a pile of stone aimed at making you look good, and
you don't have a single homeless sleeping here in winter. She said to help
each other, you're helping no-one except yourself, you overweight,
overdressed, overpaid ..."

The two nuns stood and glared at the Greatfather, who glared back. Then he
laughed. "Well, I don't know why I'm even arguing with you. One ex-nun, and
one ex-whore, about to save the world." I could see Mary's face - her body
went rigid, and her face was very red. But it was Annetta who exploded into
action, raking her fingernails down his cheek. "You bastard," she shrieked,
"it's people like you that won't give me the money for a shelter, there's
people dying out there while you sit there insulting the best person you ever
met and ..." Mary grabbed Annetta by the arm, and started to drag her to the
door. "Come on, Netta, there's no point in staying now." "But he called you a,
a ... " "Well, actually, Net, I was a Hospitality Nun, you know." "Yes, but
that's not ... " "Net, I quack like a duck."

I looked up from the PDA as they came through the door, still engrossed in
their conversation. "No dice, huh?" I said. They stopped, and looked at me.
"You heard?" said Annetta. Mary laughed, "Net, there might be a couple of
people in Australia didn't hear you, but I doubt it." "Well, he called you a,
a ..." "Never mind that," I said, "we've let the Guardian down, what do we do
now?"

That sobered them up. It's bad enough when you fail a goal you set yourself.
Annetta sighed. "You know, Rupert, the worst thing isn't that we let the
Guardian down." "What's the worst thing?" "I'm not going to get that shelter,
and some of my homeless won't be with us this time next year, just because I
lost my temper in there." "No, Net, that's not why. We'd already lost by the
time you clawed him, and by the way, thanks for that," said Mary. "Yes, well.
You're welcome. I enjoyed doing it. Isn't that horrible?" "So," I brought them
back to the subject, "what now?" "Oh," said Annetta, "we carry out our threat.
We start a Reformed Church."

There was a long silence as we walked out of the huge building, back into the
clean air of Cricklewood. Well, relatively clean. "Just like that," I said.
Annetta nodded. "Just like that," confirmed Mary. Another silence. "The three
of us," I said. Anetta nodded again. "A drunk, and ex-nun, and, and ... " "And
a whore," said Mary. "Ex-whore," said Annetta. Mary smiled. "Maybe. You know,
it's true, I was a prostitute before I became a nun, that's why I fitted so
well into the Hospitality Nuns." Well well well. I hadn't known that.

"Excuse me for butting in, but do you seriously think that the three of you
can actually start a whole new church?" said Jeremy, who had tagged along with
us. "Sure," said Annetta, "all we need is faith." "And a helping hand from the
Guardian," I said. "That would definitely be a plus," she replied. "So the
three of you are going to pray, and then announce a new church? Is that the
plan? Are you guys serious?" "I'm hungry," I said.

We stopped off at an Imperial Pizza. The nuns, of course, didn't carry money,
and I was skint. So Jeremy paid. "So what's the plan?" insisted Jeremy.

There was a long silence, and everyone stared at their pizza. Maybe there's
inspiration in pizza. If there was, it was hiding under the mozzarella. Then
Annetta broke the silence. "I ... I ..." We all looked at her. "I don't know,"
she admitted, and I could see that her eyes weren't dry. Then everyone looked
at me. "What? What?" I said. "You know her better than we do," said Mary. "You
ask her for help." "What sort of help?" I asked. "I don't know," said Mary.
"Ask who for help?" said Jeremy. "The Guardian," I explained. "The Guardian of
Humanity, she asked us to reform her church, and now we need her help, she can
hardly refuse." Jeremy shook his head. "Son, get used to it. There is no
Guardian, we just have to do the best we can. Pray if it makes you feel
better, but you're praying into a black hole." "Four, actually," I said.

Then Mary spoke again. "You know what we need?" she said. I did the straight
man for her. "No, I don't know, what do we need?" "We need an erection. We
need the biggest damn erection ever."

Annetta patted her hand. "Mary, sweetie, there's a time and a place for ..."
"No, Net, listen. An erection. A really big erection. An erection sixty
kilometers high." "Mary, not even you could ..." "Will you shut up and listen
Net? Jeremy knows what I mean, don't you Jeremy." Jeremy nodded. "Look, Net,"
she continued, "the Church of the Guardian builds cathedrals, big impressive
buildings with totally phallic spires. But they think five hundred feet is a
really big deal. We'll go sixty thousand kilometers, straight up. A Stairway
to Heaven!"

I swallowed my pizza, and turned to Jeremy. "Is this really feasible?" I
asked. "Or will we just fail and look stupid?" "Er, er," he said. "Yes, it's
possible," said Annetta. "Oh," I said, "now you're a nungineer?" She gave me a
withering look, which I well deserved for the atrocious pun. "If it wasn't
possible, why would he have been applying to the Greatfather for funds?"

I could think of a couple of reasons why an unscrupulous promoter might do
such a thing, but I kept quiet. "Right," said Mary, "and when the Reformed
Church of the Guardian has the Stairway to Heaven, people will flock to us.
It's a cinch!"

We all went back to the Hendon Central, and sat in our hotel room and talked.
Mary was all practicality, Annetta looked vague and dreamy. "Jeremy, what's
the first thing we need to do to build the Stairway?" asked Mary. "Er, er,"
said Jeremy. "I expect we'll need some money," I offered. Jeremy nodded, "yes.
Lots." "So where's it coming from," asked Mary. I looked at Annetta. She
didn't look like someone who could lay their hands on a swatch of spondulicks.
"I suppose we could send Mary out to work," said Jeremy, which was followed by
an ominous silence. "Rupert," said Annetta, ignoring Jeremy's gaffe, "I think
finance is your pigeon. You're an accountant or something, aren't you?" I
glared at her. "That was supposed to be in confidence, I'll thank you not to
go spreading that around." "Well, OK, sorry. But you are, aren't you?" "Not
right now I'm not," I said, "right now I'm a recovering alcoholic. But even if
I were an accountant, that doesn't help. What we do is count your money, and
right now there isn't any to count." "Actually," interrupted Mary, "I think
you can. Or rather, you know someone who can." "The Guardian," breathed
Annetta, and went back to looking vague and dreamy, adopted the nun-praying
posture, and started to mumble something about "Oh blessed Guardian, hear me
...". "I know a better way to contact her" I said, and pulled out my PDA.

Just as I'd finished entering the last digit of pi, there was a tap on the
door. Jeremy looked around guiltily to see if there was another way out, I
waited for the angel icon to appear on the screen, and Mary got up and opened
the door. The angel icon never did appear on the screen. Instead, the room was
filled with two huge wings as we all got a faceful of feathers. "Oops, sorry
about that," said Wendy, as she hovered above the bed while she folded her
wings up neatly.

The four of us all reacted quite differently. Annetta, of course, got right
down from the nun-kneel position to the head-on-floor and started praying.
Mary looked pleased that Wendy had actually arrived when called. Jeremy's
mouth was wide open, he looked like the ground he'd been standing on had just
become empty space, and I, well, obviously I couldn't see the expression on my
own face as I hurled myself towards the bed and upwards, missing her
completely of course. Which meant that I cannoned into Mary, who stopped
looking so pleased, especially when my unstopped momentum sent us both
tumbling to the floor.

It took a little while for everyone to sort themselves out, by which time
Jeremy had decided that Annetta had the right idea, and he'd joined her in the
nun-kneel, and was hysterically sobbing something about forgiving him for all
the people he'd ripped off, while Annetta tried to calm him down. I think if
she'd had a cheese sandwich and a bottle of milk at that moment, she'd have
been feeding him those.

It was Mary who recovered first. "We need money," she told Wendy, "and lots of
it." "Funny you should say that," replied Wendy, "about 95% of the prayers
people do to me say exactly the same thing. Or something similar. What is it
with you humans and this money stuff? Why do you think it's so important?"
"Because we need to buy a lot of stuff for the Stairway to Heaven, which will
cost a lot of money, so we need a lot of money." Mary was obviously used to
talking to children, but I seriously questioned the wisdom of talking down to
the Guardian of Humanity like that. "So you don't actually want money, you
want this stuff," Said Wendy. "Well, yes," admitted Mary. "So why don't I just
get you the stuff. What do you need?"

"What we need, O Guardian, is sixty thousand kilometers of spun diamond cable,
and some help lifting it into position," said Mary, who had obviously been
listening to the engineering. "Well," said Wendy, "that's not a request I get
every day!"

I knew it couldn't be that simple. It never is with the Guardian.

"How thick a cable?" she asked. Mary looked at me. I looked at Jeremy. Jeremy
had his eyes tight shut while Annetta stroked his hand, soothing him down. He
was still whimpering "forgive me" occasionally. "I don't know," I admitted.
Wendy sighed. "You're hopeless, you." I admitted it. "How about I come back
when you actually know what you want?" "Good idea," said Mary, glaring at
Jeremy. Wendy spread her wings - she was about to leave! "No, wait," I said.
She hovered there motionless, wings spread out to their full extent. "Let me
come with you?" "Why?" I couldn't think of a good reason. "Because I want to."
That must have been good enough, she scooped me up and flew straight through
the window, smashing it ahead of her with her forearm as we went through. At
least, that's what I think happened. Except I didn't hear the sound of
breaking glass, and I don't see how her wings could have fit through the
window. But by the time I got my head together, we were high above London.

I looked down and saw the silver snake of the Thames' familiar shape. We
landed on the roof of the 2000 feet high Virgin Tower, and Wendy set me on my
feet. "Nervous of heights?" she smiled. "Not while you're around," I said
bravely. She smiled at me. "So, how are they hanging," she said. I took that
to be a rhetorical question, and ignored it. "Wendy, you do know that we've
failed you, don't you?" "Yes and no," she replied ambiguously.

I walked to the edge of the roof, and looked down. I felt a touch of vertigo,
and swayed a little. Then a puff of wind blew me back to safety. Wendy was
sitting several feet away, watching; I sat next to her. Close to her, I felt
warm and safe. "The Greatfather didn't even take Annetta seriously, and after
she clawed him, there's really no chance of church reform." "Mmm," said Wendy.
"And Jeremy's just a con artist, his idea is to get investors in a mad scheme,
then abscond with the funds." "Mmm," said Wendy, again. "Annetta's a saint, of
course, but totally impractical." "Uh huh," she commented. "Mary's a
prostitute, and I'm a drunk." She sighed. "Yes. Pretty unpromising raw
material, isn't it?" she said, "a saint, a swindler, a strumpet and a soak."

I turned to her, and shivered, and she wrapped one of her wings around me.
"Better?" she asked. I closed my eyes. "Mmm." "But you think we can reform the
church? We don't stand a chance." "You certainly don't if you think like
that." "Yes, but ..." "Mmm?" she prompted. "Well ... do we? Stand a chance?"
"What do you suppose Annetta thinks?" "Oh, she has faith, she thinks she can
move mountains." "And Mary?" "She thinks Annetta can do anything, and she'll
help any way she can." "And Jeremy?" she asked. "He's a crook, a con artist."
"But he can convince other people that miracles are possible." "You have to,
if you're a confidence trickster," I explained. "The first person he lies to
is himself. You humans have this trick of lying to yourselves, and he's
especially good at it." "So he thinks ..." "He'll think something is possible
if he wants to."

I thought about that. "That leaves me, then." "Mmm." "I don't have faith like
Annetta, self-confidence like Mary or self-deception like Jeremy." "No, true,
But you do have something." "What?" "Jump off this tower, sweetie." "What?"
"Off the tower. Go on, jump." "Why?" "Because I asked you to, of course."

I didn't actually think about it for very long. If I had, I might have changed
my mind, lost my bottle. I took a running leap off the edge of the building.

It was cold as I fell. The cold air whistled past me, and I thought, this must
be what it's like to parachute just before you pull the cord. Except I didn't
have a parachute.

She caught me after I fell a few hundred feet. I didn't just land in her arms,
that would probably have killed me as surely as landing on concrete. No, she
put her arms round me, and decelerated us gradually, until we were just
hovering a couple of hundred feet off the ground. "That's what you've got,
sweetie. You trust me." Of course I do, she's the Guardian, if you can't trust
the Guardian of Humanity, then nothing's certain.

"How does that help?" I asked. "You'll work it out," she said, "but to us
People, trust is the most important thing. Like love is to you." "All you need
it trust," I misquoted. "Yes, something like that. Come on, let's get you in
out of the cold."

She flew with me back to the hotel. We crashed straight through the window as
we entered, but again there wasn't any broken glass. And the others didn't
seem to notice our return, they didn't say anything like "Oh there you are" or
"Close that door" to me. Annetta was telling Jeremy that he shouldn't be
scared of the Guardian, she wouldn't hurt him, and Mary was trying to get
Annetta interested in the practicalities of a sixty kilometer erection. It was
exactly as I'd left them, it was as if I'd never left. Never left. I looked at
Wendy. I looked at the unbroken window. And I wondered exactly what had just
happened, what she'd done to me.

"Wendy?" I started, "what did you ...". "What you need is spun linear atomic
nanofilament," she interrupted. "What's that, and where do we get some?" Mary
asked, "and how much will we need, and what do we do with it when we get it?"
Jeremy put up his hand. "Yes?" asked Mary. "It's like silk, only stronger," he
said. "But is it strong enough?" asked Mary. "Yes," I said. Everyone looked at
me. "What do you know about this sort of thing?" asked Mary, "I thought you
were some sort of accountant." "Yes, I am, yes. But, but ... I know." How did
I know it would work? Because Wendy said it would, and I trusted her. It's as
simple as that.

"Give me that PDA," said Jeremy. I handed it over, wondering if I'd ever get
it back. He prodded at it for a while, and then looked up. "I thought so," he
said. "What?" said Mary. "I worked out the numbers using carbon nanotubes,
that's the strongest stuff you can get, and it's not strong enough."

I looked at Wendy, she was silent. "Yes it is," I said. Trust the Guardian.
"No, look," he said, "tensile strength, weight per metre, tension at the
Clarke point, it'll break in the middle." "Explain that to me," I said.

"You make a cable, you lift it up into space, you tie one end to a heavy lump
of rock, you let the other end dangle down. It's in geosync orbit, so the
centrifugal force on the rock balances the downward weight of the cable. But
in the middle, it's being pulled two ways, and this stuff just ain't strong
enough to reach that far and not break." I looked at Wendy. She wasn't saying
anything. I trust her. He must have got his sums wrong. Or something.

"Suppose the cable isn't so long," asked Mary, "then it won't be under so much
stress, right?" "Right, but then it won't reach all the way down to the
ground. And the whole point of a Stairway to Heaven is that it gives you a
really cheap way to lift things up into space, into orbit."

We sat around the bed, wondering if there was any way to get round this
problem. I say we sat; Wendy was hovering in midair, like she usually did.
Hovering. "Wait, wait," I said. "What?" said Mary. "Look, it doesn't have to
go all the way down to ground level. Suppose it ends, oh, I don't know, 25
miles high." "40 kilometers," said Jeremy. "Yes, whatever," I said, "or maybe
250, whatever, would the cable be strong enough for that?" Jeremy punched my
PDA for a couple of minutes. "Yes, it would. But what's the point of a
Stairway that starts 25 miles over your head?" "Balloon," I said. Wendy
smiled.

My idea was simple. You build the Stairway somewhat shorter than you want to.
As always in this sort of situation, it's the last few miles that's the
killer. And you run a balloon service to get people up to the lowest station.
Balloon lifters are fairly cheap, you can use helium, or for better lift (but
a more dangerous ride) you can use hydrogen. Although it's hard to imagine
that even a hydrogen balloon would be anything like as dangerous as the
rockets they used to use. "But it would need to be 250 miles," said Jeremy,
puncturing my balloon.

"Or use spun linear atomic nanofilament," said Wendy, again. "What?" asked
Mary. "Linear atomic," repeated Wendy, "instead of an atom that's like a ball
of nucleons, you have then all strung out in a row. The Strong Force holds the
thing together, you need a hell of a lot of energy to break an atom apart." We
looked at her - I was especially surprised, because I knew Wendy's thoughts on
the subject of her giving us too much help and turning us into her sheep. This
sounded like too much help - was she going to make this cable for us? "They're
working on it in Geneva," she continued, "it was published in the Annals of
Atomic Physics several months ago. They've made some short linears, proof of
concept stuff, but they can't find any funding." "Funding won't be a problem,"
said Mary, "I'll go talk with those guys tomorrow."

We planned the project. Mary would head the Stairway to Heaven project and
Annetta was going to be in charge of developing the dogma and doctrine of the
RGC, the Reformed Guardian Church - remember, the whole point of the Stairway
was to attract to us, the congregation of the old Unreformed church. "And
don't you dare try to call me the Grandmother," she said. Jeremy was appointed
treasurer, he'd make sure that the money was used properly. Who better to
prevent fraud, than a reformed fraudster. "Remember," Mary warned him, "if you
put your hand in the till, the Guardian will know." He nodded. "And she'll cut
off both your hands," she said, frowning at him. I could see him shiver. "Uh,
Mary?" asked Annetta. "Yes?" "Before you start building all these stations on
the Stairway, and so on, could we ... ?" "Net, the first thing we'll do with
the money is buy up some of those unused churches in the middle of London,
deconsecrate them, and use them for shelters." Annetta grinned - she finally
had what she'd been trying to get all these years. Just one detail. "What
money, Mary?" I asked. "That's your job," she said to me. "I'm supposed to
find billions of dollars?" "Yes," she said, "but you'll have some help, won't
you?"

Wendy came down from near the ceiling, and stood next to me. She took my hand,
and said "Come on, we've got work to do." I followed her out of the room, into
the street. She put her arm round my waist, and we soared up into the sky.
"Wendy?" "Mmm?" "Before, when we flew through the window ...?" "Illusion,
sweetie. I just did an illusion for you. None of that actually happened."

. . .

The next day, we were headlines. ANATHEMA it shouted in big black letters, and
then lower down, I saw big negative words like "Heresy" and "Blasphemy" and
"Science". The gutter press had heard of our plan to build the Space Elevator,
or "Stairway to Heaven" as we called it. The tabloids, of course, called it
the "Tower of Babel". "Hubris", they screeched, and "Sin of Pride". It was all
over the papers, and it looked ugly. "Cricklewood is behind this," said Mary,
"they're trying to shoot us down before we've even got our feet under the
table." I thought that was the finest mixed metaphor I've ever heard, but I
held my tongue. "What'll we do?" asked Annetta, "we can't fight Cricklewood,
we're too small." "Nothing," said Jeremy, "we do nothing. Let them rant.
There's no such thing as bad publicity. If Cricklewood had kept quiet about
this, we'd have had to spend millions to get this kind of exposure. And we're
doing nothing wrong." "There's no law against building a huge erection,"
agreed Mary. "Um, Mary?" said Annetta. "Yes, Net?" "It might be better if we
refer to it as a high construction." "Whatever."

We agreed to issue a press release, and I was tasked to write it. "Why me?" I
asked. "You're used to business," explained Mary. "But I'm an accountant," I
whined, "we do numbers, not words." I didn't get any sympathy. And then I
thought, I'll get Wendy to help with this, and I smiled to myself. It could
actually be quite fun.

We worked on it that evening, after we got back to my suburban flat. To avoid
disturbing the neighbours, we'd worked out a routine. She flew with me to a
wooded area near the railway station, high enough that we couldn't be seen
from the ground, or at least if anyone did see her, they'd assume she was a
12-inch wingspan pigeon a few hundred feet away, and not a 100-foot wingspan
Guardian of Humanity at three thousand feet. Then, when we were over the wood,
she dived vertically like a Stuka. I tried to keep my eyes open, but instinct
overcomes intellect, and I couldn't. So I didn't see, but I could feel the
last minute deceleration as she swooped in for a touchdown. Then she swirled
her cape and vanished, I don't know how, and I walked from the railway station
to my home. By the time I got there, she was waiting for me in the kitchen,
various pots and pans starting to bubble with the curries that she loved to
make.

"Coffee?" she asked. I nodded, "I'll put the kettle on," I said. "No need,"
she said. She glanced at the kettle and it started to boil. "Laser?" I
guessed. She shook her head. "No, they're not good on a plastic kettle, I'd
burn a hole in the skin. I used a gravity wave energy transfer, a soliton of
gravitons tuned to the resonant frequency of the H-O bond." Serves me right
for asking.

I still couldn't get used to the idea that the Guardian of Humanity had
nothing better to do than to make my dinner. "Shouldn't you be out doing
superheroine stuff?" I asked, as I tried to avoid having my tongue burned to a
cinder by her vindaloo. "Not really," she said. "I thought that was what
superheros do?" I pressed, "You don't see Batman cooking dinner and washing
dishes." "He's got a butler for that," she pointed out. "Yes, but. You know
what I mean. Why aren't you out saving people's lives?"

She put down her fork. "Sweetie, it's like this. There's a few thousand of you
killed each week, because you don't make your cars safe enough. I could run
around every minute of every day, and I'd still only save a fraction of them.
And you know what would happen then?" "No, what?" "People would start assuming
that I'd save them, so they didn't have to make safe cars, drive carefully,
and lay off the booze while driving. We'd wind up with twice as many people
getting killed, plus me running around like a whirling Dervish trying to keep
up." "But you keep telling me how much you love your species." "And I do. But
I love you collectively, not individually. Understand?" "No. How can you love
us collectively and not individually?"

She sighed. "Your hair," she said, stroking it. "What about it?" "You've got
nice hair." "Thank you." "You like it?" "I'm certainly attached to it." "But
you get the barber to cut it." "Of course." "And when you comb it, you always
find some that have died and fallen out" "Yes, so what?" "Similar thing," she
said, "you look after your hair collectively, not individually."

After dinner, we worked on the press release. My idea was to answer each
charge of heresy and blasphemy by explaining that all that we were doing, was
building a high construction, and there was nothing in the Holy Books that
forbade that. It was just like the Eiffel Tower only taller. Much taller. But
Wendy disagreed, "That's just being defensive, you should go on the attack."
"Attack how?" "Don't answer their criticisms at all, that just gives them more
validity. When someone attacks you with a club, you don't try to fend off the
club, you kick them in the goolies." I scratched my head. "So what, in this
case, would constitute a kick in the goolies? Talk about how the CHG has
failed to do what it's supposed to do?" "No," she replied, "that's another
mistake. Never attack the competition, it's tacky." "Then what?" "Talk
positive." "What does that mean, Wendy?" "Talk about the benefits that the
Stairway to Heaven will bring. About the cheap and safe access to space
travel. Lower cost satellites, meaning lower cost communications - lower phone
bills. Solar power, beamed down to earth, meaning cheap and clean power,
meaning lower energy bills and less pollution. Iron from the asteroids,
meaning cheaper steel, meaning cheaper cars and buildings. A big boost to the
world economy, leading to shorter working hours, and more time to spend
writing music, poetry, mathematics, painting. Accentuate the positive,
sweetie. You don't need to apologise and excuse."

She wrapped one of her wings around me as we worked on the wording. Yes, I
know they aren't real. Practically everything she does is an illusion, I know
that, I know it intellectually, but it's such a good illusion, you can just
treat it like reality. And anyway, who knows what reality is? Anyhow, the
feeling of safety and warmth you get when you're near her, is real. You see -
she didn't need to put that wing around me. She did it because she knew it
would make me feel good. You don't know how good until you've had a Guardian
wing around you.

"Cause and effect, sweetie," she said, "tell them cause and effect." "Huh?" I
asked. "You humans love cause and effect. You love it so much that even when
there isn't a cause, you invent one. It's because your brain is wired that
way." "But everything has a cause." "No, sweetie, that's just the way humans
think. You can't help it. It's because there usually is a cause for simple
stuff, and if you can work out what the cause is, then you can make it happen
again. And that gives you more control over your surroundings, so you stand a
better chance at surviving. So, you eat poisonous berries, that causes you to
get ill. You want to avoid the effect, so you want to know what the cause is.
Now you can avoid the cause, so you don't get the effect. It's evolution in
action - humans who didn't see the cause-and-effect thing weren't so good at
survival and reproduction. But you try to apply it to everything, that's why
you invented a god to turn winter into spring, and a god to move the sun
around the earth." "But the sun doesn't go around the earth, it's the other
way around." "You know that now, sure. Anyway, what you need to do, is lay out
the cause and effect for the Stairway to Heaven."

Hmmm. OK. I think. So, the cause is cheap access to earth orbit, the effect is
more satellites; the cause is more satellites, the effect is more and better
telecoms. And I did that for each of the "features and benefits" that I'd
listed. It was quite a long list - the benefits of cheap space travel are
huge. Long ... but boring. "Oh, sweetie, they'll all be fast asleep by the
time you've finished that lot!"

So we started to prune the list, cutting out the less interesting applications
(ball bearings are rounder if they're made in zero gravity) and emphasising
the sexier ones. Like sex in zero gravity.

Then I sighed. "You know, Wendy, we're going about this all wrong." "We are?"
she asked." "Mmm," I said, "this would work a lot better if it wasn't some
boring old accountant reading it out." "You think one of the nuns?" she asked.
"No, Wendy. I think you. You, the Guardian of Humanity, in costume, wings
outspread, you endorse this and we're home free and laughing."

She frowned at me. "You know I don't like people to know that I exist." I
nodded. "And you know why." I nodded again. "It was people seeing me flying
around and doing stuff that kicked off this whole Church of the Holy Guardian
nonsense." I nodded again, and replied "But if you really want to turn them
around, you need to apply a similar weight, which argues that you should make
an appearance."

She sighed. "I suppose so." "And you like the admiration, don't you?" She
looked sideways at me. And smiled. "You're my humans, of course I want you to
like me." "Right then," I said, and handed the mess of paper notes to her. She
took the paper, screwed it up into a ball, made the ball tighter, put it in
her fist, squeezed, then opened her fist to show me that it had gone. I
smiled. Then she stroked my ear again, and found a folded up paper behind my
ear. "This is what I'll do," she said.

"Amateur conjuring tricks?" I asked. She kissed me. "No, silly, I mean, here's
the plan."

I mailed out an initial press release to all the big papers. I didn't tell
them very much; just that the Guardian of Humanity had an announcement to
make. The reaction was overwhelming - about ninety percent of them expressed
severe scepticism and thought I was pulling their leg ... but they'd come
anyway, just in case. The other ten percent accused me of blasphemy. I made no
comment, they'd find out the truth soon enough. But then I found that the
number of press wanting to attend was a lot more than I'd mailed - word was
evidently getting around.

I thought about hiring the Albert Hall, but you can't get that on short
notice. The best I could do was St George's Church, which was pretty big, and,
very importantly, had the high vaulted ceiling that Wendy insisted on.

When the day came, I got all the journos into the church, and got them sitting
down - it was worse than herding cats, it was like herding toddlers. The
demonstration outside from people accusing us of blasphemy didn't exactly make
it easier, and it was only the police holding them back that made it possible
for the journos to get through.

And once they were in, they wouldn't shut up, they wouldn't sit still and they
kept yelling questions. Just like toddlers. After a few minutes, I gave up
trying to shush them, and just left them to it. I just stood there, looking
like a boring accountant, and waited.

After a while, our wait was rewarded. High up in the roof, there was a flash
of light and a clap of thunder, and everyone looked up. And there she was,
wings fully spread, gliding down in lazy circles until she swooped so low over
the journos heads that most of them ducked, and finally she executed a perfect
stall-landing on the podium with a brief flutter of her wings that I knew was
totally unnecessary because she didn't actually use her wings to fly, they
were just for dramatic effect.

Pandemonium erupted as everyone tried to shout at once. She stood there
quietly, a vision in white and gold, waiting, her arms folded over her chest,
her wings folded behind her, looking like a standing angel, waiting ... until
eventually they realised that she was waiting for them to be quiet. So they
shut up.

She flared out her wings, and rose a few feet into the air, hovering. "I'm
back," she said, simply, and smiled. And then she took off vertically, curved
over and back, and shot over the heads of the ducking journos through the
church and out the great double doors. And then she angled up and vanished
into the sky.

The journalists rioted. I expect they all had a mental picture of a story that
would be just two words long, "She's back". They needed more, they needed
details, stuff to flesh out the story. And since they weren't going to get it
from The Guardian herself, it was me that they mobbed.

I did my best. I really did, but I didn't stand a chance. "Was that a
hologram?" "Where's she been?" "What will she do now she's back?" "Does this
mean it's the end of the world?" and lots more stupid questions. I tried to
calm them down a bit, at least get them to ask their questions one at a time.

Some of them were really quite hostile - it was clear that she'd intruded on a
religious issue. The issue being, "Does the Guardian really exist?". And a lot
of these hard-bitten journos were confirmed sceptics. "That was just a magic
trick with fireworks to start with and a hologram, wasn't it?" asked one.
"No," I said, but before I could expand on that, another one butted in. "Will
she be doing anything about world poverty?" she asked. That was an easy one -
"I don't know," I replied. Actually, I was pretty sure she wouldn't, on the
principle of us not being her sheep, but I couldn't be certain. "Is she
accepted by the Church of the Holy Guardian as authentic?" I was asked.

Now that one I did know the answer to. "Wrong way round," I said, "you should
ask whether she accepts them as her representatives." "And does she?" "She
inclines towards the Reformed Guardian Church, rather than the so-called
'Church of the Holy Guardian'" I replied. That set them back on their heels.
"What about this so-called 'Stairway to Heaven', isn't that verging on
blasphemy?" I was asked. "No," I replied, "that's just a figure of speech.
What the RGC is building, is actually a straight piece of engineering, no
different in principle from any other construction, such as a cathedral - it's
just bigger. And its technical name is 'Space Elevator', because its function
is simply to lift things up, out of the Earth's gravitational field. It's a
cheap way to launch satellites, build zero-G factories, gather solar energy."

Then it occurred to one of them to ask me who I was, and how come I was
speaking for the Guardian. "I'm an accountant with the RGC," I lied, "a bean
counter." They lost interest in me after that - accountants are boring, it's
one of our key skills. Some of them dashed off to see if they could get a
controversial reaction from the CHG, others rushed round to the RGC to see if
they could create more trouble. "Oh Wendy," I thought, "what have we stirred
up here?"

Next day, I woke up to see Wendy surrounded by a heap of newspapers. A quick
glance told me that she'd hit the headlines all around the world - some of the
papers were in languages I didn't even recognise. But I could tell that the
story was about Wendy, because nearly all of them used the same picture; Wendy
making her stall-landing, wings flared, legs down. "Do you have the Times," I
asked. She threw it across to me, and I started to read.

The Times is usually a level-headed, somewhat conservative paper, but it also
has the nickname of "The Thunderer", and today it was thundering. The headline
was "Who is she?", and my heart sank as I read the story. They weren't willing
to believe that she was the Guardian of Humanity, without considerably more
evidence. "Maybe she can fly, but so can a pigeon," they pointed out. The
Telegraph, the Observer and the tabloids were taking pretty much the same line
- sceptical. "If she's the Guardian, where has she been?" and "How can a young
woman such as this claim to be the same person who lived hundreds of years
ago?"

"We live in an age of unfaith," I complained to her. "That's good," she said,
"people shouldn't just believe what they're told. Otherwise anyone could come
along and claim that she's me." "Anyone who can cause thunder and lightning,
and can fly," I corrected.

Then I read what the Church of the Holy Guardian Gazette was saying.
"Blasphemy and Heresy" was the title of the piece. "Well," said Wendy, "that's
not too surprising; after you said that I don't accept them as my
representatives, they're pretty much forced to reject me, otherwise how can
they justify their existence?" "But Wendy, that means we're fighting the
established church!" "That's the whole point, sweetie, I never asked them to
set up a church, they seem to be a self-perpetuating priesthood, and they
wouldn't help Annetta when she wanted to actually do something useful. They
need a bit of a shake-up."

I sighed. I was thinking, she hasn't just shaken them - she's picked them up
and turned them inside out. "They're saying that it's unproven that you're the
Holy Guardian," I told her. "Well, I'm not. Not Holy, I mean. They made that
up." "You know what I mean. You're going to have to prove it, they say." "Oh,
I do? Well, I don't think so. They'll believe whatever they want to believe.
It's fine by me if they don't think I'm Holy."

Over the next few days, it was clear that opinions were polarising. One bunch
of people were convinced that "she's back!" and another bunch said
"impostor!". Wendy was following the polls quite carefully. "It's looking
pretty bad," I said, "there's only a minority that believe in you." "Au
contraire," she said, cheerfully, "that's good. And the really nice thing,
that I wasn't expecting, you humans are so unpredictable, is all these 'don't
knows'. That's a nice bonus." "How is that good?" I asked, "more than half
don't know what to think." "It's good, because they're losing their faith."
"How is it good that people are losing their faith?" "Because it was a really
dumb thing to believe in right from the start. I'm not some sort of Holy
Goddess, that's just something you humans invented, I don't know why." "I
think it's because we need something to believe in, otherwise we're at the
mercy of forces bigger than we are, and without some sort of god, there's no
way we can do anything about them. Like earthquakes, hurricanes, forest fires.
If you have no god, all you can do is watch while terrible things happen, but
if you do have a god, you can ask him to do something about it. Or her. And
while you're praying, you don't feel so helpless."

Wendy nodded. "You're probably right." "And when you came along," I continued,
"it was pretty easy for people to transfer that faith from an all-powerful,
invisible god, to someone who they could actually see. And you have to admit,
you helped that along with those wings of yours." "I only did that for a
lark," she admitted, "I never thought they'd take it all so seriously."

"Annetta told me she prays to you every day." She nodded, "She still does.
Look, I don't mind that sort of prayer, where she's really just telling me
about what happened to her today, and thanking me for things I didn't do. All
she ever asks for, is the strength to get through tomorrow." "Which you give
her." "Which I don't do anything about, either she can make it or she can't."
"That's cold." "Yes. "And hard". "Yes. I'm not your shepherd, you're not my
sheep." "So if you're not going to help us, how do you reconcile that with
your claim that you're in love with the whole species?" "Good question." "And
the answer?"

"First of all, I do help, and I don't just mean that forest fire when I first
arrived. There was also the big rock that would have hit my planet, and
there's my fireball trying to cool off." "OK, give you that." "Gee, thanks.
90% of you would have died in either of those, and the rest would have been
thrown back to the Stone Age, except none of you know how to knap flints. And
secondly, if you give dogs all they need, after not too many generations, they
forget how to look after themselves. And don't really want to. And you'd be
the same. And another thing I do, just by being here, it means you're not
likely to get sucked into the big war. They know better than to try to recruit
a planet with one of the People present." "You've told me about this war, but
I've not seen it." "Nor have I, my Momma told me. And I trust my Momma." She
looked hard at me. "And I trust you, Wendy. But the fact is, you actually
don't do very much for us."

She snorted. "You know what is the biggest problem the human species faces
today?" "Er. World poverty?" I guessed. "No, you've had that for thousands of
years, and coped, albeit badly. Actually, the biggest threat to human progress
is me." "You?" She nodded. "You're not a hindrance, you're a help!" She
sighed. "Yes. Too much. I really shouldn't be doing this Space Elevator for
you. Each time I hand you something like that on a plate, that's one more
thing you didn't do for yourselves, and one more dependence on me." "But I
don't mind being dependent on you, Wendy." "I know. That's the whole problem."

I looked at her. "You're not our shepherd," I said. "Right, but sometimes it's
difficult to say no when a flock of cuddly lambs comes up and asks you to take
care of them." "Will you take care of me?" I asked. "Come here," she said. So
I did, and sat on her lap, my head on her shoulder. She wrapped one of her
wings around me, and I closed by eyes, blissfully. "My Guardian," I murmured.
"Baa," she said, "go to sleep, sweetie."

. . .

For someone who claimed that she didn't understand what money was all about,
Wendy seemed to have access to an awful lot of the stuff. She seemed to do
everything through an intricate chain of command, whereby the people who
thought they were running the company didn't even know she existed, let alone
that they were working for her. She'd gotten into the entertainment business
in a big way, and owned some of the biggest publishers on the planet. And when
she told them to support the Reformed Guardian Church, they did as they were
told. She had fingers in pies where I didn't even know that sort of pie
existed. I asked her about this, wasn't this rather contradicting her policy
of non-interference? "Uh, yeah, it is a bit," she said, vaguely. "And?" I
pressed. "Look, sweetie, I kind of got sucked in. First it was all the babies
without anyone to look after them, and I couldn't bear listening to them cry,
and then there were a couple of research projects that I needed to fund
because I wanted to visit my Momma, and, well, one thing just kind of led to
another. I mean, you think a superhero is all about getting kittens out of
trees and fighting with giant evil robots? The fact is, I can get a lot more
good things accomplished by getting a bunch of humans organised and motivated
than I could on my ownsome. And there's the extra advantage that it isn't me
doing it, it's my humans." "Yes, but ..." "But then I found they were just
assuming I'd bail people out of any hole they got into. They were building
bridges with less safety margin, and hey, the Guardian will sort things out if
it collapses, and buildings that weren't earthquake-proof, and people were
praying to me, can you believe that? and people were dying because they had
faith that I'd save them, and there's only so much a person can do, you know?
When Simon froze to death because he thought he didn't need to get out of the
snow because he had faith that I'd keep him warm, it was such a big wake-up
for me. You humans are just so damn irrational, whatever it is you want, you
start to believe that it's true, and what you all seem to want, to really
really want is for me to be your shepherd and you to be my sheep, and that's
wrong, all wrong, as well as being not possible, there's billions of you, how
am I supposed to be your shepherd? So I pulled back, and let people believe
that I'd gone away, and pretty soon most people just forgot about me, forgot I
existed, except the religous nutters who thought I was some sort of goddess.
Sure, when the sun cooled off I gave it a kick, because if I didn't then most
of my humans would die, I'll still do stuff like that, but you've got to do
most stuff for yourselves, not expect me to do it, you see? You help each
other, you don't wait for me to help you."

"Uh, yes," I said quietly, hoping she wasn't going to get too worked up. "Oh,
sweetie, I'm not angry with you, don't flinch like that." "I'm not flinching,"
I said with all the dignity I could muster, "I just had something in my eye."
She smiled. "Come on, sweetie, let's fly down to Piccadilly and have a curry
at Veraswamy's."

Over the next few weeks, I just followed Wendy around. She seemed to have
adopted me. "You're my pet human, sweetie," she'd say. Apparently having a
human to cuddle satisfied something deep inside her, I think I was kind of a
stand-in for the whole of humanity. She could do things with me that she
couldn't do with the billions around the world.

I thought about Annetta now and then. But Annetta had never shown any interest
in me, except as a lame dog, or as someone to carry her supplies, so I didn't
really think I had any hope there. Still, I thought about her, which maybe
sounds odd when I had the Guardian to play with, but, well, I don't know,
there was something about Annetta that really got to me. Maybe because when I
was with the Guardian, she treated me like a pet. She let me share her bed,
except that only one of us needed to sleep, and that was me. And one day when
I asked her what she did all night while I was asleep, isn't it a bit boring
just lying there in the dark? And she laughed, and explained that as soon as I
was safely asleep she flew out of there, and was gallivanting around the world
getting kittens out of trees. "But you're always there when I wake up," I
asked. "Sweetie, it takes you several seconds to wake up, so you don't know I
was gone."

I asked her about Annetta. "She thinks you're a goddess," I said. Wendy
sighed. "I know, I can't break her of that, you know she still prays to me
each night?" "No, I didn't, what does she say?" "Sweetie, you know I'm not
going to tell you that." "Worth a try," I said, and grinned, and she grinned
back. "But she's really happy now, Mary acquired half a dozen old churches,
and they've recycled them into shelters; come this winter, almost no-one will
be sleeping rough in London. And you know what's the best part of that?" "No?"
"I didn't do a thing, the whole project was you humans." "With a bit of
inspiration from you." "What?" "Annetta does this because she thinks that's
what you want." "Oh. Well. I suppose so," she admitted. "And all the money
came from you," I continued. "Now there you're wrong," said Wendy, "it's you
humans in the various companies that earn the money." "But it all belongs to
you." "No, it belongs to the companies." "But you own the companies." "Rupert,
you know perfectly well that I'm all at sea when it comes to this money stuff.
All I know is I tell people what I want, and they go do it." "Because you own
the company." "Because I'm the Guardian and you're my humans, now do you want
to talk economics with me or do you want me to fuck your brains out?"

No contest.

I've never won an argument with her, and I suspect no-one else has either.
It's like fighting with a nun, only worse.

As the project progressed, I found myself seeing less and less of Annetta,
because she was mostly concerned with her shelters, and mundane matters like
blankets and bread. Mary was doing all the interesting stuff, running the
Stairway to Heaven organisation. Who would have thought that a Hospitality Nun
would have an aptitude for business. Although, come to think of it, there's a
long tradition of prostitutes becoming Madams. Not that anyone would call Mary
a prostitute. Not if she could hear you, anyway. Especially not if Annetta
could hear you.

And Mary was actually very nice - maybe not as saintly as Annetta, but she had
the traditional heart of gold, mixed with a strong dose of practical sense. I
enjoyed attending the weekly Board meeting with her and the others, even
though Annetta stopped attending them after a few weeks. And when she said
that she was making another trip to Geneva because the linear atomic project
seemed to have hit a rock and was sinking fast, I asked if I could come too.
"Why?" asked Mary. I thought fast, I couldn't tell her the real reason, which
was that I rather fancied her, and she'd make a good substitute for Annetta.
"I'll be able to see the problems at first hand, and I can report back to the
Guardian, she'll want to know."

Mary gave me a funny look, as if to say "If the Guardian wants to know
something, she'll go look herself," but she nodded, and said, "OK, I can use
the company, these trips get pretty boring sometimes."

Wendy flew me to Heathrow, and we landed at the top of the multistorey car
park at terminal two. "It's usually quiet up here," she said, "so no-one will
see your rather unusual mode of arrival." She made her wings vanish, and she
was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, looking very nice in them, and not at all
superheroinish. We walked to the departure lounge where we met Mary.

Why do nuns always think they have to go into the nun-kneeling position when
they see the Guardian? Wendy never asked for it, never suggested it, and was
clearly embarrassed by it. "Mary," I hissed, "stand up." I offered her my
hand, and helped her up. "Well, you guys go through the Departure Gate, I'll
see you in Geneva," said Wendy.

After she'd left, I rounded on Mary. "Do you have to make a spectacle like
that? It's bad enough that you're wearing the full nun outfit, but when you
got down on your knees, everyone was staring at us." She looked at me, calmly.
"That's the Guardian, so I kneel." Some people, there's no telling them.

So we boarded the airplane, fastened our safety belts and the plane took off.
As we levelled off, I looked out of the window. I was not at all surprised to
see a great white bird flying level with us, but I didn't point her out to
Mary, because she'd have blocked the gangway by kneeling in it.

No-one met us at Geneva, which was disappointing, I'd have thought that Wendy
would be waiting as we cleared customs. So we got a taxi to the hotel, and got
ourselves settled in. "Meet you for dinner at eight?" I suggested to Mary.
"Um, OK," she replied, "down in reception." Oh. I was kind of hoping maybe I
could call for her at her room, maybe we'd have a drink from the minibar, and
then maybe who knows. Maybe I should stop having impossible dreams.

We ate in the hotel restaurant, and Mary explained the problem. "They can make
the atomic filaments, but they can't get them more than a few millimeters
long, if they try to, then they just fall apart." "But we need hundreds of
miles," I said. "Thousands," said Mary, and concentrated on her schnitzel.
"Why can't they make them longer?" "Dunno," said Mary. "So what can we do
about it, we aren't even scientists?" I asked. "Dunno," said Mary. "So what on
earth are we doing here," I persisted.

She put down her fork. "Rupert, I don't really know what the problem is, I
don't really know how it can be fixed, but I do know that if I don't do
something, we'll have a Stairway to Heaven without a cable, we'll look
complete prats, membership of the Reformed Church will plummet, the whole
Reform idea will be discredited, I'll have to go crawling back to the
Greatfather, and Annetta will lose her shelters. So, here we are, doing
something, I just don't know what yet. But I do know one thing I'm going to do
tonight, and I suggest you do the same." "What's that?" "Pray to the
Guardian." And she stopped eating, and looked at me, waiting.

I realised what she was waiting for. "Yes, I'll pray tonight." "Good."

Dessert was strudel.

That night, remembering my promise to Mary, I brushed my teeth, and knelt by
the bed and tried to pray, but I couldn't think what to say. So I thought,
what do I really want? "Guardian, please look after Annetta and keep her safe,
she mingles with such low-lives and drunks, and I worry about her, but you can
look after her. And please help Mary come up with something to sort this
length problem."

"Anything else you want?" asked a voice behind me.

Have you ever tried to jump while you're kneeling? Trust me, it can't be done.
What you get when you try, is an appalling bout of cramp in your left calf,
which was why I was rolling around on the carpet groaning and trying to
straighten my leg, which remained obstinately bent and agonised, until a
strong hand picked me up by the left ankle, shook me like a rabbit, which
straightened my leg out beautifully, and then she dumped me on the bed. I
looked up at her and said "Ouch." "Feel better now?" she asked. "Um," I
nodded. "I heard your prayer, you've never done that before, have you?" "No,"
I said. I still hadn't forgiven her for making me jump like that. "You're
supposed to use archaic words like thee and thou, and you're supposed to say
lots of flattering things about the prayto." "Prayto?" "The one you're praying
to. You're the prayer, I'm the prayto." "What's Annetta?" "The prayee."
"Wendy, you've got the most peculiar sense of humour." "I'm not human, what
did you expect, Groucho?"

I lay on my back, hoping that the cramp wouldn't strike my calf again, and
looked up at her, she was hovering a few feet above the bed, looking like a
white and gold dragonfly with pigeon wings. "Yes, there is something else I
want, as it happens," I said. She descended; hovering two feet above me.
"What's that?" she asked. "Well, I was hoping that Mary ..." "She's a nun." "A
Hospitality Nun," I corrected, "I was hoping that she might, you know she
might ..." Wendy came down several inches." "Might what?" "Might, um, might
be, er. Hospitable." She came lower, I could feel her breath on my face. She
doesn't need to breathe, this is just part of the illusion, I thought.
"Hospitality?" she murmured, her mouth close to my face. "Well, it's what they
do, you know? Be Hospitable." She came down a couple more inches, I could feel
her nipples gently brushing against my chest. "Uh. Yeah." I gasped, it was
getting a bit difficult to breathe normally. She came a little lower, and I
could feel her legs on mine." "Mary isn't here," she whispered. I tried to say
no, but nothing came out. "But I am," she continued. I tried to say yes, but I
only heard a croak. And then her mouth covered mine, and I stopped even trying
to speak.

During that night, I know I tried to scream a few times, but you can't scream
when there's a large firm tongue inside your mouth. Mostly, we talked. Yes, of
course we had sex, or at least I did, because for Wendy, sex involves six of
the People and a fireball. But even when you're with someone like Wendy, you
need time to recover between orgasms, and that was when we talked. And it took
her at least half an hour to totally exhaust me, because we used her strength,
not mine, and her vitality, not mine, and I felt that she could probably do
this all night, even though I couldn't.

She told me about her great love for humanity, and I admitted my feelings for
Annetta. She told me about how one day she'd travel to take part in a
Birthing, and she'd take with her, gifts from her humans. Gifts of music, of
art, of mathematics, which she'd share with the other People, and show them
how wonderful her humans are. "A Birthing takes thousands of years, so I want
to take, oh, lots and lots of stuff to show them." I told her I'd never met
anyone like Annetta before, I'd never once seen her thinking about herself, it
was always other people. Wendy told me how she sometimes got so lonely,
because there weren't any other People around, and her Duncan was dead, and
Fiona. "And you all die, you live for a few years and then you die, and leave
me alone again." And she cried a little, and I tried to comfort her - me,
plain old me, trying to comfort the Guardian of Humanity, how about that? And
then she kissed me some more and told me I was her sweetie, and could we be
friends? Yes, of course I'd be her friend, you needed to ask? "There's so much
I can't do for you, because you'd turn into my sheep, and I'm not your
shepherd, you have to find your own way in the universe, all I can do is keep
you alive, and stop you getting into the big war, and drop the occasional
hint." "Prime Directive?" I guessed. "No, you've been watching too many
movies, it's a lot simpler than that. You take a wild animal, and you protect
her, and you provide food for her, and everything she needs, and you turn her
into a sheep. You take a wolf, and you turn him into a dog, same way. I'm not
going to turn my humans into pets by giving them everything on a plate so they
can't look after themselves any more." "I'd love to be your pet." "Oh,
sweetie, I know you would, that's a basic human instinct, you want someone to
be your shepherd, and tell you what to do, but that's so bad for you, and I'm
not going to do it, it would ruin the whole species. And then what would the
other People think of me? Hmmm?"

Yes, I can see that, peer pressure can be cruel. "I want to be your pet," I
repeated, and pushed myself closer to her - she was warm, and soft, and she
smelled like new bread, like mown grass, like peppermint. She stroked my hair.
"I suppose it can't do much harm to have one pet," she mused, "yes, yes. You
can be my pet human." "Woof woof," I said, and she laughed. "Meow meow," I
said, and she smothered me in those great white wings and held me close, and I
just enjoyed being with her. "You've got a meeting tomorrow," she reminded me,
"and you can't go without sleep." "Damn the meeting," I said, "Mary can do it
without me." "You'd let Annetta and Mary down?" she asked. I shook my head.
"So you're going to the meeting." She wasn't asking, she was telling. "Yes,
Guardian," I said, submissively. "So now I'm going to kiss you one more time,
and then you're going to sleep, and ... " "And I'm your pet human," I said,
drowsily. "Yes. Yes, you are," and she ran her hands over one of her feathers,
and rubbed them together, and he had a silvery white thread which she tied
around my wrist, "and that's your Guardian symbol, made from one of my
feathers, wear it tomorrow." "I will, I will," I promised. And she kissed me,
and halfway through the kiss I must have fallen asleep, because suddenly it
was morning, my eyes were open, and she wasn't there.

I got up, shaved, showered, looked longingly at the bed, and went down to
breakfast. Mary was already wreaking havoc on a large helping of scrambled
eggs, and they didn't have kippers, so I replenished my strength with toast
and sausages. "You're looking smug," she commented. "I had a good prayer
session last night," I answered. "Looks more like you got your leg over," she
replied. I suppose fooling a Hospitality Nun about that sort of thing isn't
easy. "I'm her pet human," I confided, and showed her the thread around my
wrist. She wasn't impressed; I suppose someone who wears a complete nuns habit
isn't going to think much of a silvery-white cotton-like thread around the
wrist.

We got a taxi to the university, and found our way to the meeting room. It was
already occupied by a bunch of disputing academic scientists. You could tell
they were academic scientists, because they were wearing the threadbare old
jacket with the elbow patches. They stopped dead when they say Mary, I suppose
you don't see a nun every day on the university campus. They took no notice of
me, but they got a chair for Mary, and offered her coffee, and generally
fluttered around. I helped myself to a Danish to top up my sausages and toast,
and just kind of faded into the background. I wanted to think about last
night, and what had happened, and what the Guardian had told me. And I wanted
to think about her promise that I was her pet human. And, of course, about
Annetta. Especially about Annetta, because Wendy had hinted to me that I
wasn't entirely pursuing a lost cause there. Because although Annetta gave
everything and wanted nothing, there was nevertheless one thing that she
wanted, and needed. A Giver like her, needed someone to give to.

So I was sitting there, not daydreaming exactly, but letting my thoughts
wander over territory a long way from the Stairway to Heaven; thinking about
Annetta, and Wendy, and Mary too, and playing with the thread around my wrist
which she'd made from one of her feathers. The Church of the Guardian has a
special reverence for Guardian feathers, you can see why. And I was thinking,
I trust the Guardian, so if she says there's hope with Annetta, it must be
true, and I was fiddling with the wrist-thread and wondering what it was I had
to do to make something happen, because Wendy would never just come right out
and tell me what to do, because that would make life too simple, wouldn't it?
Oh no, she has to drop hints, and give clues, and I'm supposed to work it out
for myself.

And then I noticed that everyone had stopped arguing, I don't even know what
they were arguing about, and they were staring at me. Or, to be more precise,
they were staring at my wrist thread. "What, what?" I asked. Mary pointed to
it. "Take it off," she said. "No way," I replied, "it's mine, and ..." "No
need," interrupted one of the scientists, "are you sure?" he said to Mary.
Mary nodded. "She visited him last night, and gave it to him. It's made from a
Guardian feather."

So then they started arguing again, only this time it was more of a
theological argument; does the Guardian exist or not? I listened amazed as one
of them argued that she must, "Our very existence is proof of that, without
the People, there wouldn't be supernovas to create the elements heavier than
carbon that are needed for life." And then another one argued that if the
Guardian was real, and loved us so, how come there was so much suffering int
the world, and I thought about sheep.

Meanwhile, Mary was looking more and more impatient, until eventually she took
off one of her shoes and hammered it down on the table. "Gentlemen, gentlemen,
we're not here to have a theological debate, I get enough of those at the
convent. We're here to plan how you're going to make a linear atomic
nanofilament that's more than a few millimeters long."

"Theoretically impossible," said one of them, and pointed to some equations
that someone had written on the whiteboard.

I looked at the gibberish, sighed, and went back to thinking about more
pleasant things, like whether I'd see Wendy again this evening, or maybe I
could take Mary out somewhere. This stuff was just so boring. I took the wrist
thread off and tried it on my other wrist, but it didn't really look right
there, so I tried winding it around my fingers, before tying it back on my
right wrist, but at that point, I discovered that although you can untie a
knot one handed, you can't retie the knot without two hands, and since it was
around my wrist, my right hand was useless for the purpose. Damn. So I turned
to the guy next to me, and got his attention. "Psst." I hissed, "do me a
favour, tie a knot here, could you?" "That's truly from the Guardian?" he
whispered. I nodded proudly, "Yes, she gave it to me herself." "Can I look at
it?" he asked. "Sure," I said, "it's made from one of her feathers, you know."
He nodded. And he looked carefully at the thread. And then he stood up, waving
my thread at the others. "Look, look," he said. "Hey, that's mine," I said,
reaching for it. He fended me off, and passed it to the guy on his left.
"Hey," I said, standing up to retrieve my property. "Look how it's made," he
said. The scientist held it out of my reach while he examined it. "What's the
big deal," he said, "it's just spun yarn." "Yes," replied the first guy,
"spun."

I managed to grab my thread back before they decided to do something
destructive to it. "Spun." they were saying, "spun." Mary was looking baffled.
"Can we get off this theology stuff," she demanded, "and get back to the
issue?" "Spun," said another, "of course. Sister Mary, I think we've solved
the problem." "You know how to make a longer linear atomic nanofilament?" "No,
but if we take a lot of short ones, and consider them to be fibers, then we
can spin those fibers into yarn, the same way you spin cotton or wool fibers."

Mary blinked. "Spun linear atomic nanofilament," she said. "That's what Wendy
said in the fist place," I pointed out. Mary stared at me. "Trust the
Guardian," I said, smiling. "And by the way, Mary, could you just tie a knot
in this for me?"

. . .

The next time I saw Mary, was at a board meeting of the Stairway to Heaven
Corporation. You don't usually expect to see a nun in full nun-garb sitting as
the Chief Executive. Maybe that should be "chairnun". But actually, her
unusual dress gave her some sort of extra authority over the business-suited
men sitting around the table.

We weren't on the board, of course, but we'd been invited to be observers at
this particular meeting. "We" being me and Wendy. Wendy was in civvies, as it
were. Actually, she was wearing one of those pinstripe tailored jackets and a
medium length skirt, looking like some sort of high powered executive. Mary
knew, of course, but the suits around the table probably assumed she was my
secretary, or something like that.

Mary ran briskly through the minutes, and "matters arising", and reported on a
couple of new locations where they'd opened up offices. "Shelters", whispered
Wendy to me. Annetta was seeing her dream take shape. Wendy was funding the
Stairway Corporation, Stairway was sponsoring the RGC, the excuse given for
the sponsorship was the valuable publicity that Stairway got (posters up in
all the shelters), the RGC had as its first and only priority to help people
who needed to be helped the most. The prestige of the first Space Elevator was
bringing recruits flocking to the RGC, and these congregations were also
voters, which put pressure on governments to go along with the flow.

The meeting went on and on, as meetings like this do. Wendy and I were
surreptitiously playing a game she'd showed me that involved our fingers and
the words "Bunny" and "Whoops", when Mary moved to the next item on the
agenda. "Stairway progress report".

Some guy with not very much hair stood up and went to a nearby flip chart.
"Here's where we are." He then spent the next twenty minutes saying not very
much, except that the cable was ready, and they'd just ruled out ever finding
a way to lift it into position.

Which was a bit of a bind, of course.

The problem was, that thing was heavy. And they couldn't lift it in sections,
the whole point of spun linear atomic is that it's one long thread. "How
heavy?" asked Mary. "Three million tons", he replied. "Peanuts," whispered
Wendy to me, "I'm a billion." "You don't look it," I whispered back. She
squeezed my knee.

"And?" asked Mary. "We're stuffed," said Baldy, "there's no way to get this
thing off the ground, and I really can't understand why we got this far
without anyone pointing this out."

"I guess we'll have to pray for a miracle," said the nun. "Just as well we're
sponsoring the Reformed Guardian Church," said one of them, and they all
laughed. "Yes, maybe if we all pray to the Guardian ..." said another, and
they laughed some more. I looked at Wendy; she was laughing too. She looked at
me. "Come on, Rupert. You've got to admit, it is pretty funny." So I pretended
to laugh too.

They never did find out how three million tons of cable disappeared from the
warehouse it was being stored in, and turned up hanging vertically in space,
in perfect geosync orbit, with a small asteroid anchoring the far end.

By then, I'd moved in with Wendy. She called me her "pet human". "I thought
you didn't want us to become your pets. You're not our shepherd, we're not
your sheep." "I don't, not all of you. But it won't do humanity any harm if I
just keep one of you as my little pet lamb."

I say "moved in with" - it turned out she had a few places. There was the big
Wendy House, high above the atmosphere, where she disappeared to sometimes, I
don't know why. I didn't like it there much, the place was just too big and
inhuman. But she also had a little apartment in LA; the neighbours thought she
was just this nice quiet office girl who they didn't see much, and I think
they were a little bit shocked when I appeared on the scene. And she had a
flat in London, down Kilburn way. "You can't get anywhere in Cricklewood these
days, it's all infested with clergy. But Kilburn's OK, and there's some great
curry places," said Wendy.

"Wendy, we failed, we didn't reform your church." "You didn't fail." "We
didn't do what you asked us to do." "But you did your best, and that's what
matters." "But we let you down." "Oh, sweetie. No you didn't. I never expected
you to be able to actually reform the church. All I actually wanted was for
you to split the old one, or start another one, so there would be alternatives
that people could choose. Look, up in the sky."

I looked up, and there was a rainbow. "You did that?" She laughed. "No,
sweetie, you get those when the sun shines on the rain."

. . .

"How do you fly?" I asked her one night, as I was huddled up near her, sleepy,
my eyes half closed. "I just wiggle my tail," she replied. "You don't have a
tail, I checked last night." "Yes I do, but it's hidden inside." "Inside
what?" "Keep your eyes closed, sweetie, and I'll show you." "But I like
looking at you."

She spread her wings, then folded them around us, shutting out the world's
light and noise. It was dark in there, and warm as I got as close to her as I
could. Warm and safe, but dark as night. Then, as my eyes adjusted to the deep
darkness, I began to see points of light; faint, and scattered at random like
salt on a table.

We rotated in position, and the points of light began to turn. Then an
especially bright one came into view. "That's your new home, Little Fireball"
said a voice. "Oh, Momma, it's so small, so tiny!" "That's because we're still
a long way away. It's a good sized fireball, and there's several planets, lots
of moons." "And it's all for me?" "It's all yours, Little Fireball. And on one
of the planets there's your species." "My humans" "Yes, that's them, your
humans. You'll love them, and look after them, and they'll be good for you,
too. Look after your species and your species will look after you." "Oh,
Momma, I'll do my best, but I don't know if it'll be good enough." "Do your
best, that's all you need to do. You're one of the People, and we're very good
at looking after our species, you'll do just fine." "But what if I
accidentally hurt them?" "Then you'll have to find a way to make it better,
Little Fireball."

"Momma, why did my Birthing fireball go pop?" "Because they do." "But why?"
"Because that's the nature of fireballs, if you mess with them too much they
go pop." "Could my fireball go pop?" "You better make sure it doesn't." "Why?"
"Because if it did, all your humans would die." "How do I make sure it
doesn't?" "You'll understand when you're older." "But what if it goes pop
before I'm older?" "It won't." "Why not?" "Because I chose one that will be
good for a while." "How do you know?" "I checked it out before the Birthing,
I've been here before." "What makes them go pop?" "The usual reason is that
they were used in a Birthing." "Why does a Birthing make them go pop?"
"Because it takes a lot of very concentrated energy to make a Little Fireball,
and it disrupts their stability, and they go pop." "What happens to them after
they go pop?" "The nucleons are compressed into heavier elements, and the
supernova spreads them out all over the galaxy. They get swept up into new
fireballs and planets, and it's on those planets that our species evolve."
"Like my humans?" "Yes, exactly like your humans." "So my humans are here
because billions of years ago there was a Birthing?" "That's the great wheel
of life, Little Fireball." "So where did we come from?"

I was a torrent of questions, and Momma answered me, the way Mommas have
answered since the dawn of time. Afterwards, when I had a chance to think
about her answers, I could see that some of them were just evasions - on the
other hand, some of my questions were pretty silly. "Why is the sky black?"
"Because spacetime is positively curved." "Will my humans love me the way I
love them?" "No, they won't, but some of them will trust you, which is even
better." "Can I have sex with a human?" "No, you'll have to wait until you're
old enough to go to a Birthing. But I'm sure you'll find nice things to do
with them, games to play, or dances they can dance." "Why do I love them even
though I haven't even met them?" "It's an instinct, Little Fireball, the
People always love their species." "Why?" "Because it's a positive
evolutionary pressure."

I knew that I didn't have much longer with my Momma - we'd swum through
thousands of lightyears together, and throughout the long journey, she'd been
educating me, explaining the weird world of quantum physics, and how this led
to chemistry. Of electromagentism, and how this led to electricity, magnetism
and light. Of the special elements silicon and carbon, and how these led to
two quite different types of life "and you'll find both types on your planet".
"What are humans made of?" "Carbon. And hydrogen and oxygen. And a little bit
of some of the other elements." "What am I made of?" "Four black holes in a
mutual orbit, with complicated fields and sheets of gravitic force." "So I'm
not like them?" "No, you're very different from them. And you have to be very
gentle with them, they're very fragile. If you even let them get close to your
core black holes, they'd be torn apart by the tidal forces." "Oh no! I can't
let that happen." "You won't, you'll keep yourself wrapped up in your force
fields, which gives them something acceptable to look at, and keeps them
safe."

"Show me again what they look like, Momma". As we swam towards my fireball, I
practised looking like one of my species. Momma said that I'd need to do that
so that they could relate to me, otherwise they wouldn't accept me. So I
wrapped my gravitic fields around me to create the illusion of a pretty girl,
not too pretty because that might cause hostility, but certainly not ugly.
Momma told me where I was going wrong - it's important to get the details
right - they'd notice if I had the wrong number of fingers, or if my teeth
were too long. And I had to get the feel right, not just the look. "Because if
your humans are anything like my Gatyrs, you'll have an irresistible urge to
cuddle them," she said. I wanted to play with them them already, and I hadn't
even met any yet! "And they can play tag with you," said Momma. "So they can
swim like we can?" "No, they can't. And they call it flying, not swimming."
"Why?" "Because they can't do it, so they think it's difficult." "If they
can't swim, how can they play tag?" "They sort of lever themselves along,
using their legs," she explained. Two legs, I knew that, and they were in a
gravity field, and they used the reaction of the surface of the planet to keep
them up. "But if they've only got two legs, that means they have to take one
off the ground to walk, so how do they stay upright?" "You know, Little
Fireball, I never could work that out. They seem to be in a constant state of
falling, but then they move a foot so they don't actually fall over. Except
they do, quite often." So then I had to practice that, or at least I had to
practise making it look like I was walking, even though I'd have to swim. I
didn't practise falling over. "Why do I have to swim, why can't I walk like
they do?" "You're too heavy, Little Fireball, you'd break anything you stood
on."

We swam towards the bright star, and I lashed my tail hard to decelerate so we
could shed the kinetic energy we'd built up in the great crossing, the
blackness we'd traversed from my Birthing fireball to my own, my very own
fireball. I didn't have to shed it all, though, Momma showed me how I could
dive through the fireball and lose a lot of energy through gravitational
coupling. "Won't that make my fireball spin faster, though?" "Yes it will, but
not enough to make a difference. Your fireball is so much heavier than you,
it'll spin slightly faster because of the grav braking, but not much. And when
I leave, I'll use the same technique to pick up some speed, so it'll spin back
to normal again." As we dived through the fireball, I could see how warm and
bright it was in the middle, and I saw that this would be a good place to go
if I wanted to get away from my planet for some peace and quiet.

We orbited my fireball a few times, shedding kinetic energy all the time, then
dived into it to shed more. Then we headed for the third planet. "Oh, I'm so
excited," I told Momma, "I can't wait." It had a moon, too, a big white thing,
very close to my planet. "It means that your humans will be able to see a bit
at night, most nights." But when we reached the moon, Momma said, "Stop here."
"Why? We're so close now." "This is where we have to dance goodbye." "Oh no!
Momma, don't leave me now, I don't know what to do, I don't know where to go,
I don't know ..." "You'll be just fine, Little Fireball. There's nothing here
that can hurt you, there's just your species and a bunch of animals and
things." "But I don't know what I have to do for them!" "Just find Duncan
McCrea, I've picked him out to be your Wielder, he'll help you get started.
He'll be your link to the humans. He'll trust you, and you'll love him and all
your other humans, and then you'll slowly understand what you need to do for
them." "Can't you just tell me, Momma?" "No, Little Fireball, I can't, because
I don't know. All these species are different, your humans are completely
unlike my Gatyres, so anything I tell you probably won't work." "But what if I
make a mistake?" "Then you have to try to fix it. And you will make mistakes,
those humans of yours have got some pretty incomprehensible customs." "But
what if I hurt them?" "Then you'll feel bad. Little Fireball, don't expect
yourself to be perfect, you're not some sort of goddess, you're just one of
the People, doing the best she can."

So we danced goodbye, and I watched my Momma as she dived through my fireball
in a hyperbolic orbit, picking up energy from the gravitational coupling, and
I watched as she receded further and further, until she was completely out of
sight. And I felt sad, and lonely, and frightened, because this was all so new
to me, and it was such a lot of responsibility, a whole species, relying just
on me, and what if ... ? But there's no point in dwelling on the possibility
of failure, I had to think positive. I followed Momma into the fireball one
last time, but in quite a different orbit; entering on the other side of the
spin so that where she got accelerated by the coupling, I lost kinetic energy,
and got into an elliptical orbit. And then, by swimming vigorously, I matched
orbit with the third planet from the fireball, the one where my species was
waiting for me.

When I got close to the planet, I found it had a skin of gas around it, mostly
nitrogen. Momma hadn't told me about that. It tickled, a bit like the fireball
had as I dived through it; I guessed I'd get used to it. It was cooler than a
fireball, warmer than the near-zero of interstellar space. Less dense than the
plasma at the centre of the fireball, more dense than the far and few atoms of
the great Void. And it tickled.

The planet was blue, mostly, but also green, and brown. And yellow and red.
And when I looked more closely, I could see it was alive! Well, not literally
alive, but it was absolutely covered in living things. In the oceans, there
were tiny plankton and huge whales, singing to one another. In the air, there
were tiny insects and huge white feathery birds. But on land, on land there
were plants on almost every square inch, bacteria, insects, reptiles, mammals,
all busy surviving and reproducing, every minute of every day. It was like one
vast interdependent entity, a Gaia. Most of these lifeforms were as dumb as a
fireball, but some of them, I could see the electrochemical flashes of their
thoughts as they hunted, or were hunted, as they foraged for food, as they
competed for mates, for reproduction. And most of all, their thoughts flashing
most brightly and sharply, I could see my species, my own humans, the ones I'd
come so far to be with and take care of. I loved them already, and I hadn't
even met them yet.

I dived around the planet once, just to get a feel for it, so it could see me
and know that I was here at last, and I could see my humans, all over it,
every part of the planet was covered with them, there were billions and
billions! And I was supposed to look after all those? How? So then I headed
for London, Europe, the place that Momma had told me I could find my Wielder.

. . .

I woke up the next morning, alone, my head full of the dream I'd had last
night. Dream? No, story. That was Wendy, showing me her world. But she'd left
before I woke, gone to do superheroine things, I suppose. Kittens and trees.
"There's always another kitten in a tree," she'd told me.

I got out of the warm bed, got dressed, and went to her kitchen - we were in
her Kilburn apartment. I made myself some toast and Marmite, and a couple of
boiled eggs, drank a couple of coffees, and wondered what to do next.

There was no way I'd be able to see Wendy until she chose to come back, Mary
was up to her wimple in business meetings, and then my heart gave a little
jump. I could go see Annetta, she'd give me a welcome. And Kilburn isn't that
far from the middle of London.

So I got the 189 bus to Oxford Circus, and then walked to St George's Church,
where she had her headquarters. It was a magnificent building, designed by
John James in 1720, sold to the Muslims to serve as a mosque a few hundred
years later, then more recently acquired by the Church of the Guardian, and
now owned by the Reform Guardian Church. And where there had once been wooden
pews and cassocks, there were now rows and rows of folding beds, in accordance
with the RGC doctrine of "Help each other".

I saw Annetta, an austere black-and-white figure, moving slowly between the
rows, passing out blessings and sandwiches. I sat and watched her as she spoke
to her people - I was too far away to hear, but I could imagine a message of
encouragement and hope. Then, as she worked her way down the row towards me,
she looked up, and I saw her, and I saw her smile at me, and my heart leaped.

"Rupert," she said, "I do hope you aren't here ... professionally?" I grinned
and shook my head. "No, Netta, I thought I'd come and give you a hand, if you
need one." "No luck with Mary, then?" she asked. I thought of pretending that
I didn't know what she meant, and then I thought, what, lie to Annetta? So I
said, "No, she's all wrapped up in the Stairway project, far too busy for
someone like me." "Yes, she's always been like that. Miss Bossy Bigboots, ever
since I've known her. Drop her into the middle of hell, and within ten minutes
she'll be issuing instructions left and right, and creating order out of
chaos. I expect she knows what she's doing, and it'll all work out." I nodded.
"Yes," I said, "things do seem to be progressing." "Yes, well," said Annetta,
"they've got their heads in the clouds, but down here on Earth, there's so
much to do. Yes, I'd welcome some help here. What I need is for someone to go
out and buy tomorrow's food, while I organise a clean-up crew - this place
hasn't has a good clean for yonks."

I spent the rest of the day running hither and yon for Annetta. By seven,
though, the shops were shutting, and I gratefully went back to the warmth of
St Georges, where Annetta was serving up supper; slightly old bread and some
sort of soup. "What soup is this?" I asked, sniffing at it gingerly, and
wondering if it was suitable for my supper. "I call it my Everything Soup,
because I put everything into it." I looked more closely. Was that a rat? Or a
cat? Surely not. No, it was a rabbit. I think. I grabbed a large mug, and went
to the end of the line.

I was the last to be served, and after she'd filled up my mug, she dipped a
large helping for herself, and we sat side by side at the long refectory
table. "Feed the body, let the Guardian take care of the soul," she said. "You
still pray to her?" I asked. "Of course," she said, surprised that I would
even ask. "But now you've met her, you know she isn't a goddess." "Rupert,
you've lived with her, yes? You ask her for things, you give her things, you
tell her your hopes and fears?" "Well yes, of course, I mean one does, but
..." "Well, so do I. The difference is, she's a bit further away. How far can
she be and still hear you?" "I don't know, she seems to be able to hear things
much further away than the sound can possibly carry, I think she sees the
density changes in the air, they would cause small gravity ripples."
"Whatever. Point is, when I pray, she can hear me. And if you talk to her, why
shouldn't I? I've got a lot to thank her for." I looked round the inside of
the huge church; without Wendy, Annetta would still be driving her little
white van around London's railway stations.

"It's cold out there, Rupert. Cold for the body and cold for the soul. People
freeze to death in the icy night air, and people despair because they lack
love, lack hope. I give them a little bit of warmth, and a little bit of soup,
and a little bit of love. And then some of them get a little bit of hope, and
rebuild their lives."

And some don't, I thought, but, well, you can't win them all, and every little
helps. I looked at her, and found a little bit of courage. "I love you,
Annetta." She looked back at me, saying nothing, which gave me the bottle to
continue. "Ever since I first saw you, giving out blankets, milk and
sandwiches to people who were cold and hungry, even more when I heard how you
were doing it despite discouragement from the church." She said nothing, but
continued to look at me; I could see her large blue eyes, and the wisp of hair
that had escaped her wimple. They inspired me to press on. "I trust the
Guardian, and I'd follow her anywhere, but it's you I love, Annetta, only you,
and I want to marry you, and I know that's impossible, but I wanted to tell
you anyway." I stopped, it's difficult, this soul-baring stuff. "I ... " she
said, but I interrupted. "No, it's OK, I know, I know. You're a nun, and
you're married to the Church, and you wear a wedding ring ..." I looked down
at her hand, spread out on the table in front of me. "Where's your ring?" I
asked. She smiled at me. "The Guardian was here." "Wendy? Was here? When?"
"While you were out shopping for me. And she divorced me." "She what?" "If I
can be married to the church, then I can also get divorced. I took my oath of
chastity to the Guardian, and the Guardian has released me from that oath.
So."

"Oh," I said, and sat there, stupidly, not knowing what to say next. I closed
my eyes, and thought how nice it would be if Wendy were here to tell me what
to so. Where are you, Wendy, I thought, I need you now. And then I thought,
no, I'm not a sheep, I don't need to be led, I know what to do. I opened my
eyes, and said nothing. But our kiss said everything.