without humanity, without humility, without sorrow, without pain, without happiness, and without life. Amen." * * * * * The sad susurrus of the worms crept softly back into the room. With a start, Drake realized that he had bowed his head. He raised it abruptly. Saint Andrew was regarding him with puzzled eyes. "Have you notified her family, Mr. Drake?" "No," Drake said. "I mentioned the matter to no one." "I'll radio them at once then, and tell them everything." Saint Andrew rewound the tape, removed it from the recorder, and started to slip it into his pocket. "Wait," Drake said, getting to his feet. Again, the puzzled regard. "Yes?" "I'd like to buy it," Drake said. "I'll pay you whatever you think it's worth." Saint Andrew stepped down from the pulpit and handed him the tape. "Please accept it as a gift. I'm sure she would have wanted you to have it." There was a pause. Then, "Are you a believer, Mr. Drake?" Drake pocketed the tape. "No. Oh, I believe that the War of Nineteen Ninety-nine came to a halt on the very day it began all right. What I don't believe is that the nuclei of the enemy warheads were negated by the 'terrible gaze' of a second Christ. I've always gone along with the theory that they were negated by the bombardment of a Lambda-Xi field that 'slipped its moorings' and wandered into the area--the same kind of a bombardment that nearly negated me." "And a commendable theory it is too--but basically isn't it as dependent upon divine intervention as the Potomac Peregrination?" "Not necessarily. Such concurrences seem providential merely because we try to interpret the macrocosm on a microcosmic scale. Well, I have to be on my way, Saint Andrew. The powers-that-be at Pastelsilks should have come to some decision concerning my transparent cargo by this time. Thank you for the tape, and for your trouble." "Thank _you_ for bringing me news of Saint Annabelle, Mr. Drake. Even though it was bad. Goodbye." "Goodbye," Drake said, and left. * * * * * The offices of Pastelsilks, Inc. were as many as they were magnificent, and the building that houses them pre-empted almost an entire acre. The whispering of the worms was absent here, shut out by sound-proof construction or devoured by the sterile humming of air-conditioning units. "Right this way, Mr. Drake," a frightened office girl said. "Mr. Pompton is waiting for you." The vice president of Pastelsilks, Inc. gave a start when Drake entered, but Drake was accustomed by this time to the reactions his appearance gave rise to and no longer paid them any heed. "Good news or bad news, Mr. Pompton?" he said. "Bad news, I'm afraid. Please sit down, Mr. Drake." Drake did so. "But surely my cargo must be worth something."