The Celestial Blueprint and Others Stories by Philip José Farmer Read Free Book Online Page B

pretended not to know he was a fugitive from justice. They insisted on calling him by his official pseudonym.
    However, few priests were such martyrs. Generations bf Skin-wearing had sapped the ecclesiastical vigor.
    The thing that puzzled Rastignac about Father Jules was the sacrament wine. Neither he nor anybody else in L’Bawpfey, as far as he knew, had ever tasted the liquid outside of the ceremony. Indeed, except for certain of the priests, nobody even knew how to make wine.
    He shook the priest awake, said, “What’s the matter, Father?”
    Father Jules burst into tears. “Ah, my boy, you have caught me in my sin. I am a drunkard.”
    Everybody looked blank. “What does that word drunkard mean?”
    “It means a man who’s damned enough to fill his Skin with alcohol, my boy, fill it until he’s no longer a man but a bccist w
    “Alcohol? What is that?”
    “The stuff that’s in the wine, my boy. You don’t know what I’m talking about because the knowledge was long ago forbidden except to us of the cloth. Cloth, he saysl Bahl We go around like everybody, naked except for these extra-dermal monstrosities which reveal rather than conceal, which not only serve us as clothing but as mentors, parents, censors, interpreters, and, yes, even as priests. Where’s a bottle that’s not empty? I’m thirsty.”
    Rastignac stuck to the subject. “Why was the making of this alcohol forbidden?”
    “How should I know?” said Father Jules. “I’m old, but not so ancient that I came with the Six Flying Stars . . . Where is that bottle?”
    Rastignac was not offended by his crossness. Priests were notorious for being the most ill-tempered, obstreperous, and unstable of men. They were not at all like the clerics of Earth, whom everybody knew from legend had been sweet-tempered, meek, humble, and obedient to authority. But on L’Bawpfey these men of the Church had reason to be out of sorts. Everybody attended Mass, paid their tithes, went to confession, and did not fall asleep during sermons. Everybody believed what the priests told them and were as good as it was possible for human beings to be. So, the priests had no real incentive to work, no evil to fight.
    Then why the prohibition against alcohol?
    “Sacre Bleu!” groaned Father Jules. “Drink as much as I did last night, and you’ll find out. Never again, I say. Ah, there’s another bottle, hidden by a providential fate under my traveling robe. Where’s that corkscrew?”
    Father Jules swallowed half of the bottle, smacked his lips, picked up his Skin from the floor, brushed off the dirt and said, “I must be going, my sons. I’ve a noon appointment with the bishop, and I’ve a good twelve kilometers to travel. Perhaps, one of you gentlemen has a car?”
    Rastignac shook his head and said he was sorry, but their car was tired and had, besides, thrown a shoe. Father Jules shrugged philosophically, put on his Skin and reached out again for the bottle.
    Rastignac said, “Sorry, Father. I’m keeping this bottle.” “For what?” asked Father Jules.
    “Never mind. Say I’m keeping you from temptation.”
    “Bless you, my son, and may you have a big enough hangover to show you the wickedness of your ways.”
    Smiling, Rastignac watched the Father walk out. He was not disappointed. The priest had no sooner reached the huge door than his Skin fell off and lay motionless upon the stone.
    “Ah,” breathed Rastignac. “The same thing happened to Mapfabvisheen when he put his on. There must be something about the wine that deadens the Skins, makes them fall off.”
    After the padre had left, Rastignac handed the bottle to Mapfarity. “Were dedicated to breaking the law most illegally, brother. So I’m asking you to analyze this wine and find out how to make it.”
    “Why not ask Father Jules?”
    “Because priests are pledged never to reveal the secret. That was one of the original agreements whereby the Church was allowed to remain on L’Bawpfey. Or, at