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Show Acting Alone Page 367 grease of fear. "I'm afraid of fire, Mother," she was saying. "I can't stop thinking about the martyrdom of Saint Polycarp, the patron saint of my --" Sam wondered, for a moment, if the next word Simone spoke might have been a Freudian slip. If not, perhaps it had been used figuratively. Perhaps there was some kind of special Catholic acceptation of the word. Mother Superior didn't flinch or get huffy at the word, but simply continued austerely patting her charge on the fat shoulder and murmuring, "Quiet, dear. That large gentleman you ate lunch with is standing right over there, and he is her new friend. Don't you think we should allow her every chance to succeed in secular life?" Simone looked at Sam in shock. She seemed to be wondering if she should hate him. Sam didn't have time to wonder where he might have heard that saint's weird carp-name before, or one like it, because he was looking for a place to stash his Poes for safekeeping. Out of their vacuum case, the ancient tomes were rapidly transubstantiating to beige talcum powder around the edges. He had better hurry and find someone dependable to hold these objects up off the wet floor and shield them from the incessant stalactite drip. That little dried-out mummy of a nun over there with the display cabinet in her lap and the extra wad of ancient yellowing hankies stuffed in her pocket and the waffle-imprint of Sam's basketball shoe in her hand, that old nun who had requested a recital of today's special litany, looked like a splendid guardian of holy objects. So Sam gently flapjacked them on top of her, saying, "Here, hang onto these for me, Granny. Keep 'em dry while |