Robert A Heinlein - If this goes on

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‚If This Goes On-‚

It was cold on the rampart. I slapped my numbed hands together, then

stopped hastily for fear of disturbing the Prophet. My post that night was just

outside his personal apartments-a post that I had won by taking more than

usual care to be neat and smart at guard mount...but I had no wish to call

attention to myself now.

I was young then and not too bright-a legate fresh out of West Point, and a

guardsman in the Angels of the Lord, the personal guard of the Prophet

Incarnate. At birth my mother had consecrated me to the Church and at

eighteen my Uncle Absolom, a senior lay censor, had prayed an appointment

to the Military Academy for me from the Council of Elders.

West Point had suited me. Oh, I had joined in the usual griping among

classmates, the almost ritualistic complaining common to all military life, but

truthfully I enjoyed the monastic routine-up at five, two hours of prayers and

meditation, then classes and lectures in the endless subjects of a military

education, strategy and tactics, theology, mob psychology, basic miracles. In.

the afternoons we practiced with vortex guns and blasters, drilled with tanks,

and hardened our bodies with exercise.

I did not stand very high on graduation and had not really expected to be

assigned to the Angels of the Lord, even though I had put in for it. But I had

always gotten top marks in piety and stood well enough in most of the

practical subjects; I was chosen. It made me almost sinfully proud-the holiest

regiment of the Prophet’s hosts, even the privates of which were

commissioned officers and whose Colonel-in-Chief was the Prophet’s Sword

Triumphant, marshal of all the hosts. The day I was invested in the shining

buckler and spear worn only by the Angels I vowed to petition to study for the

priesthood as soon as promotion to captain made me eligible.

But this night, months later, though my buckler was still shining bright, there

was a spot of tarnish in my heart. Somehow, life at New Jerusalem was not

as I had imagined it while at West Point. The Palace and Temple were shot

through with intrigue and politics; priests and deacons, ministers of state, and

Palace functionaries all seemed engaged in a scramble for power and favor

at the hand of the Prophet. Even the officers of my own corps seemed

corrupted by it. Our proud motto ‚Non Sihi, Sed Dei’ now had a wry flavor in

my mouth.

Not that I was without sin myself. While I had not joined in the struggle for

worldly preference, I had done something which I knew in my heart to be

worse: 1 had looked with longing on a consecrated female.

Please understand me better than I understood myself. I was a grown man in

body, an infant in experience. My own mother was the only woman I had ever

known well. As a kid in junior seminary before going to the Point I was almost

afraid of girls; my interests were divided between my lessons, my mother,

and our parish’s troop of Cherubim, in which I was a patrol leader and an

assiduous winner of merit badges in everything from woodcraft to

memorizing scripture. If there had been a merit badge to be won in the

subject of girls-but of course there was not.

At the Military Academy 1 simply saw no females, nor did I have much to

confess in the way of evil thoughts. My human feelings were pretty much still

in freeze, and my occasional uneasy dreams I regarded as temptations sent

by Old Nick. But New Jerusalem is not West Point and the Angels were

neither forbidden to marry nor were we forbidden proper and sedate

association with women. True, most of my fellows did not ask permission to

marry, as it would have meant transferring to one of the regular regiments

and many of them cherished ambitions for the military priesthood-but it was

not forbidden.

Nor were the lay deaconesses who kept house around the Temple and the

Palace forbidden to marry. But most of them were dowdy old creatures who

reminded me of my aunts, hardly subjects for romantic thoughts. I used to

chat with them occasionally around the corridors, no harm in that. Nor was I

attracted especially by any of the few younger sisters-until I met Sister Judith.

I had been on watch in this very spot more than a month earlier. It was the

first time I had stood guard outside the Prophet’s apartments and, while I was

nervous when first posted, at that moment I had been no more than alert

against the possibility of the warden-of-the-watch making his rounds.

That night a light had shone brightly far down the inner corridor opposite my

post and I had heard a sound of people moving; I had glanced at my wrist

chrono-yes, that would be the Virgins ministering to the Prophet... - no

business of mine. Each night at ten o’clock their watch changed-their ‚guard

mount’ I called it, though I had never seen the ceremony and never would. All

that I actually knew about it was that those coming on duty for the next

twenty-four hours drew lots at that time for the privilege of personal

attendance in the sacred presence of the Prophet Incarnate.

I had listened briefly and had turned away. Perhaps a quarter of an hour later

a slight form engulfed in a dark cloak had slipped past me to the parapet,

there to stand and look at the stars. I had had my blaster out at once, then

had returned it sheepishly, seeing that it was a deaconess.

I had assumed that she was a lay deaconess; I swear that it did not occur to

me that she might be a holy deaconess. There was no rule in my order book

telling me to forbid them to come outside, but I had never heard of one doing

so.

I do not think that she had seen me before I spoke to her. ‚Peace be unto

you, sister.’

She had jumped and suppressed a squeal, then had gathered her dignity to

answer, „And to you, little brother.’

It was then that I had seen on her forehead the Seal of Solomon, the mark of

the personal family of the Prophet. ‚Your pardon, Elder Sister. I did not see.’

‚I am not annoyed.’ It had seemed to me that she invited conversation. I knew

that it was not proper for us to converse privately; her mortal being was

dedicated to the Prophet just as her soul was the Lord’s, but I was young and

lonely-and she was young and very pretty.

‚Do you attend the Holy One this night, Elder Sister?’

She had shaken her head at that. ‚No, the honor passed me by. My lot

was not drawn.’

‚It must be a great and wonderful privilege to serve him directly.’

‚No doubt, though I cannot say of my own knowledge. My lot has never yet

been drawn.’ She had added impulsively, ‚I’m a little nervous about it. You

see, I haven’t been here long.’

Even though she .was my senior in rank, her display of feminine weakness

had touched me. ‚I am sure that you will deport yourself with credit.’

‚Thank you.’

We had gone on chatting. She had been in New Jerusalem, it developed,

even less time than had I. She had been reared on a farm in upper New York

State and there she had been sealed to the Prophet at the Albany Seminary.

In turn I had told her that 1 had been born in the middle west, not fifty miles

from the Well of Truth, where the First Prophet was incarnated. I then told her

that my name was John Lyle and she had answered that she was called

Sister Judith.

I had forgotten all about the warden-of-the-watch and his pesky rounds and

was ready to chat all night, when my chrono had chimed the quarter hour.

‚Oh, dear!’ Sister Judith had exclaimed. ‚I should have gone straight back to

my cell.’ She had started to hurry away, then had checked herself. ‚You

wouldn’t tell on me, John Lyle?’

‚Me? Oh, never!’

I had continued to think about her the rest of the watch. When the warden did

make rounds I was a shade less than alert.

A mighty little on which to found a course of folly, eh? A single drink is a great

amount to a teetotaler; I was not able to get Sister Judith out of my mind. In

the month that followed I saw her half a dozen times. Once I passed her on

an escalator; she was going down as I was going up. We did not even speak,

but she had recognized me and smiled. I rode that escalator all night that

night in my dreams, hut I could never get off and speak to her. The other

encounters were just as trivial. Another time I heard her voice call out to me

quietly, ‚Hello, John Lyle,’ and I turned just in time to see a hooded figure go

past my elbow through a door. Once I watched her feeding the swans in the

moat; I did not dare approach her but I think that she saw me.

The Temple Herald printed the duty lists of both my service and hers. I was

standing a watch in five; the Virgins drew lots once a week. So it was just

over a month later that our watches again matched. I saw her name-and

vowed that I would win the guard mount that evening and again be posted at

the post of honor before the Prophet’s own apartments. I had no reason to

think that Judith would seek me out on the rampart-but I was sure in my heart

that she would. Never at West Point had I ever expended more spit-and-

polish; I could have used my buckler for a shaving mirror.

But here it was nearly half past ten and no sign of Judith, although I had

heard the Virgins gather down the corridor promptly at ten. All I had to show

for my efforts was the poor privilege of standing watch at the coldest post in

the Palace.

Probably, I thought glumly, she comes out to flirt with the guardsmen on

watch every time she has a chance. I recalled bitterly that all women were

vessels of iniquity and had always been so since the Fall of Man. Who was I

to think that she had singled me out for special friendship? She had probably

considered the night too cold to bother.

I heard a footstep and my heart leaped with joy. But it was only the warden

making his rounds. I brought my pistol to the ready and challenged him; his

voice came back, ‚Watchman, what of the night?’

I answered mechanically, ‚Peace on Earth,’ and added, ‚It is cold, Elder

Brother.’

‚Autumn in the air,’ he agreed. ‚Chilly even in the Temple.’ He passed on by

with his pistol and his bandolier of paralysis bombs slapping his armor to his

steps. He was a nice old duffer and usually stopped for a few friendly words;

tonight he was probably eager to get back to the warmth of the guardroom. I

went back to my sour thoughts.

‚Good evening, John Lyle.’

I almost jumped out of my boots. Standing in the darkness just inside the

archway was Sister Judith. I managed to splutter, ‚Good evening, Sister

Judith,’ as she moved toward me.

‚Ssh!’ she cautioned me. ‚Someone might hear us. John Lyle-it finally

happened. My lot was drawn!’

I said, ‚Huh?’ then added lamely, ‚Felicitations, Elder Sister. May God make

his face to shine on your holy service.’

‚Yes, yes, thanks,’ she answered quickly, ‚but John . . . I had intended to

steal a few moments to chat with you. Now I can’t-I must be at the robing

room for indoctrination and prayer almost at once. I must run.’

‚You’d better hurry,’ I agreed. I was disappointed that she could not stay,

happy for her that she was honored, and exultant that she had not forgotten

me. ‚God go with you.’

‚But I just had to tell you that I had been chosen.’ Her eyes were shining with

what I took to be holy joy; her next words startled me. ‚I’m scared, John Lyle.’

‚Eh? Frightened?’ .1 suddenly recalled how I had felt, how my voice had

cracked, the first time I ever drilled a platoon. ‚Do not be. You will be

sustained.’

‚Oh, I hope so! Pray for me, John.’ And she was gone, lost in the dark

corridor.

I did pray for her and I tried to imagine where she was, what she was doing.

But since I knew as little about what went on inside the Prophet’s private

chambers as a cow knows about courts-martial, I soon gave it up and simply

thought about Judith. Later, an hour or more, my reverie was broken by a

high scream inside the Palace, followed by a commotion, and running

footsteps. I dashed down the inner corridor and found a knot of women

gathered around the portal to the Prophet’s apartments. Two or three others

were carrying someone out the portal; they stopped when the reached the

corridor and eased their burden to the floor.

‚What’s the trouble?’ I demanded and drew my side arm clear.

An elderly Sister stepped in front of me. ‚It is nothing. Return to your

post, legate.’

‚I heard a scream.’

‚No business of yours. One of the Sisters fainted when the Holy One

required service of her.’

‚Who was it?’

‚You are rather nosy, little brother.’ She shrugged. ‚Sister Judith, if it

matters.’

I did not stop to think but snapped, ‚Let me help her!’ and started forward.

She barred my way.

‚Are you out of your mind? Her sisters will return her to her cell. Since when

do the Angels minister to nervous Virgins?’

I could easily have pushed her aside with one finger, but she was right. I

backed down and went unwillingly back to my post.

For the next few days I could not get Sister Judith out of my mind. Off watch,

I prowled the parts of the Palace I was free to visit, hoping to catch sight of

her. She might be ill, or she might be confined to her cell for what must

certainly have been a major breach of discipline. But I never saw her.

My roommate, Zebadiah Jones, noticed my moodiness and tried to rouse me

out of it. Zeb was three classes senior to me and I had been one of his

plebes at the Point; now he was my closest friend and my only confidant.

‚Johnnie old son, you look like a corpse at your own wake. What’s eating on

you?’

‚Huh? Nothing at all. Touch of indigestion, maybe.’

‚So? Come on, let’s go for a walk. The air will do you good.’ I let him herd me

outside. He said nothing but banalities until we were on the broad terrace

surrounding the south turret and free of the danger of eye and ear devices.

When we were well away from anyone else he said softly, ‚Come on. Spill it.’

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摘要：

‚IfThisGoesOn-‚Itwascoldontherampart.Islappedmynumbedhandstogether,thenstoppedhastilyforfearofdisturbingtheProphet.Mypostthatnightwasjustoutsidehispersonalapartments-apostthatIhadwonbytakingmoretha usualcaretobeneatandsmartatguardmount...butIhadnowishtocallattentiontomyselfnow.Iwasyoungthenandnot...

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Robert A Heinlein - If this goes on

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