Текст книги "Trickster"

Автор книги: Стивен Харпер

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Delta Maura was not Silent.

Martina's head swam beneath this staggering concept. All the Deltas were supposed to be Silent, trained by Roon himself. But Delta Maura clearly wasn't. Was this true of all the Deltas?

It made a terrible sort of sense. Working Silent were rare these days. How had these people-she still didn't know what the group was called-found so many of them and re-trained them in the few months since the Despair? It was something Martina hadn't considered until now, but she had been dealing with strange food, sleep deprivation, and mind-numbing labor. Was this the reason for all that? So no one would ask too many questions?

One of the Delta's-Keith's Delta-cleared his throat pointedly and the Alphas fell silent.

"I need to announce," the Delta said, gesturing at Keith "that this Alpha has been doing exemplary work of late and is deserving of high praise. Very soon he will be promoted to Beta. All praise the Dream!"

"All praise the Dream!" everyone repeated automatically. Keith smiled, glowing at the kind words. Martina felt an unexpected wash of jealousy. Ridiculous. She squashed the feeling and filed it away as something to trot out during the Confessional.

"You may now return to your quarters for a few moments of free time," the Delta finished.

As the Alphas filed out of the sewing room, Martina managed to get next to Keith. "Congratulations," she said wryly without looking directly at him. He gave her a glance that was almost shy.

"Thanks," he said.

Now Martina did look at him. She had heard no trace of irony in his voice. Deciding on the direct approach, she said, "You like it here, don't you?"

"Of course," he said. "I don't have to worry about anything here. There are fewer N-waves in my brain, and I feel freer than ever. Didn't you hear? Pretty soon I'll be a Beta!"

Martina worked her jaw. How could he be buying into this place? Sure, she might be a slave, but she was Silent, and used to better treatment than this.

"I didn't like at first, either," said another Alpha, the plumpish man who had been the first to sit in the Confessional. "But now I'm thinking it isn't so bad. Out there-" he made a vague gesture toward the corridor walls "-we're slaves to the Dream. In here, we're free. No one can hurt us or look at us like we're freaks because we're Silent. Dreamer Roon cares about us. He's trying to help us get into the Dream without all those drugs. If putting up with some weird stuff now and then is part of the price, I'm willing to pay it."

Martina couldn't believe her ears. True, she had thought at first that the deal was pretty good-nice quarters, nice clothes, not having to put long hours in the Dream-but they didn't outweigh the other factors. Not even close. And now she had learned that at least one part of the whole place was a lie.

Martina threw a glance over her shoulder. The Deltas were following, doubtless listening in on the conversation. Best to play along. "I'm starting to think so, too," she said. "I do miss the Dream, though. Do you think they'll give us our drugs back and let us back in?"

"That will come when you are a Gamma," Delta Maura said from behind. "For now, you must concentrate on Dreamer Roon's teaching, dear."

"I'll try, Delta," Martina said with pretend disappointment.

"Do you hear the Dream whisper to you?" Delta Maura asked.

"At ni-just before I go to sleep," Martina replied, remembering at the last moment not to make references to time. "I used to hear it all the time, but ever since the Despair, I've only heard it a little bit."

"The Despair was a time of cleansing," Delta Maura said seriously. "It was a time when the unworthy were weeded out of the Dream. Those who were cast out had too much of Vik's evil taint about them, and they deserved their fate. You are all chosen by Irfan herself, and her blessings run strong within you."

Pride in herself welled up. Martina fiercely shoved it aside. The words were false praise from a fake Silent. No one knew why some Silent could still touch the Dream and others couldn't. The idea that it had anything to do with Irfan Qasad or Daniel Vik was ludicrous. But the words still made her feel special, part of an "in" crowd, maybe even a member of secret society or a cult.

Martina stopped dead in the corridor, causing the Alpha coming up behind to bump into her. She apologized and made herself keep moving, though her mind was whirling again. She entered her quarters and sat down on her bed, trying to fit her mind around another new idea.

The place was a cult.

Martina should have recognized it sooner. She had read about cults in her first owner's library, had heard about Silent who were members of such groups. Everything that had happened in this place, she realized, was part of an indoctrination process. The separation from society, the enforcement of strict rules, the sleep deprivation and low-carbohydrate diet-all designed to break down psychological barriers and force the "recruits" to embrace the cult itself. Martina was amazed that she hadn't seen it all earlier.

The question was, why go through all the trouble? Martina got up to pace the floor between her bed and the computer desk. She desperately wished she could go outside, get some fresh air and sunshine to clear her mind, but the closest thing to any of that was a stupid hologram on the wall.

Martina continued to pace. She was a slave, had been one for most of her life. She had been stolen away from her owners at DrimCom, but she didn't feel like a kidnap victim. From her perspective, one owner was pretty much like another, as long as she wasn't beaten or otherwise mistreated. None of her work in the Dream enriched her personally, so why did she care who paid for her services? Martina had no children, no husband, and no really close friends, so it wasn't as if she would be a prime candidate for running away after being bought-or stolen-by someone else. Why, then, go through the trouble of all this indoctrination?

The answer, when it came, seemed obvious. Loyalty. Martina-and, presumably, the others-felt no loyalty toward any owner, present or past, and would happily run to freedom, given the chance. But fully-indoctrinated members of a cult were something else. Their loyalty to the cult and its leader ran strong and fierce. They invariably resisted anyone who tried to remove them from the cult's enclave. Roon's program was designed to create a group of absolutely loyal Silent who wouldn't dream of running away and who would do their best to return if kidnapped. In a universe where Silent were rarer than free-floating plutonium, such followers were worth a hundred times more than ordinary Silent slaves. A thousand times more.

And it was starting to work. Keith, already emotionally vulnerable, was clearly ready to buy into Roon's fictional world. So was that other male Alpha. Martina herself had begun to weaken, despite the fact that she had been suspicious of late and doing her best to resist.

A feeling of hopelessness washed over her. She had to get out of this place, and fast. She also had to somehow persuade Keith to come with her. But how? Her every move was watched, even when she was alone, and she was still shackled.

No. There was no such thing as a perfect security system. Security systems were designed and used by people, and people made mistakes. Martina sat down on her bed to think. How had her kidnappers managed to deactivate her shackles at DrimCom? They must have done so-otherwise they would have shocked her the moment she crossed the building's threshold. If they could do it, she could do it. And the cameras in her quarters could be foiled. An "accident" could cover them up or knock them off-line entirely. All she had to do was find them.

Martina nodded. It was a place to start and gave her something to think about, concentrate on during the mind-numbing labor. And in the meantime, she would have to play the role of good little Alpha, persuade the Deltas she was glad to be here. If they thought she was a willing participant, they would be less likely to watch her closely.

But how would she stop them from indoctrinating Keith?

CHAPTER EIGHT

"The best way to get a child to do something is to forbid him to do it. The same goes for an adult."

Kendi looked up from the display holo as Ben entered their quarters and flopped down onto the couch with a heavy sigh. It was shift change at the Collection. The holographic screen showed the door scanning a steady stream of people-IDs and prints-in a ritual Kendi had seen dozens of times over the last few weeks. In about half an hour, another stream of people would emerge from the same door. Kendi assumed the people coming off shift had to brief the people coming on. Kendi wondered why the Collection needed all these employees, and he desperately wished they could hack the computer system to find out. The Collection's system, however, was still physically isolated from the rest of the station, and the only way to get access was from within. It was frustrating in the extreme, knowing the Collection and his family were so close, yet so untouchable.

It was also difficult because Kendi had only a vague sketch of a plan. He hadn't told anyone, not even Ben, that he had almost no idea what he was doing. Every instinct he had, however, told him that the department head keys were crucial to freeing his brother and sister. Kendi hated keeping secrets from Ben, but he didn't think Ben would react well if he knew Kendi was insisting on stealing the keys before he knew what to do with them.

And then there was the time limit. The Poltergeist had to be back on Bellerophon in eight days, no excuses or exceptions. If it came down to it, Kendi would happily end his career with the Children if it meant liberty for his brother and sister, but he didn't want to do that. For one thing, his parents were still out there somewhere, and they were next on his list.

"I take it you got nothing," Kendi said to Ben.

Ben shook his head. His red hair was dark with sweat. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear Roon was a saint. He doesn't drink, he doesn't touch recreational drugs, he doesn't visit hookers, and he doesn't gamble. He doesn't even seem to have a favorite restaurant. I thought today I might actually get something on him because he deviated from his routine and made an extra stop on his way home from work, but no dice." He ran a hand over his face and grimaced. "God, I need a shower. I'll give you the details when I'm done."

He got up and headed for the bedroom, shedding clothes as he went. Kendi watched the muscles of Ben's back bunch and move beneath smooth skin as he pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the floor. Trousers, underwear, and socks followed. Kendi continued to watch Ben's naked form until it disappeared into the bedroom and, presumably, headed toward the bathroom. A few moments later, he heard the hiss of running water. Kendi drummed his fingers on the desk. He should watch the displays. He should look for an anomaly among the workers that he could exploit. He should look for subtle clues about what was really going on inside the Collection. He should– "The hell with this," he muttered.

Less than a minute later, he drew aside the back corner of the shower screen and stepped into the shower behind Ben, whose face was upturned under a luxurious spray. Water had drenched and darkened his hair and ran in rivulets down his back. Kendi felt an aching, heavy need to be close to Ben, become so close that their bodies would melt and run together like drops of water. He put both his hands on Ben's shoulders. Ben jumped and turned partway around.

"Need someone to wash your back?" Kendi asked, moving his hands lower.

"That's not my back," Ben pointed out with a grin and turned back to the shower.

"How about this?"

"Nope." Ben closed his eyes with a sigh. "You'll have to keep trying."

What started in the shower finished in the bedroom. Ben, still slightly damp, sprawled on his stomach next to Kendi, who was lying on his back but still pressed close to Ben. Kendi's skin was warm on Ben's. The soft light and lack of angles in the room were soothing and restful. The window showed gleaming stars against an utterly black background, and Ben could pretend there was no Collection, no SA Station-just a universe that was completely empty except for him and Kendi.

Ben shifted and winced beneath a slight twinge. Kendi's lovemaking had been intense, even a little rough, and Ben was sure he'd have a few bruises in the morning. He didn't care. Everything about Kendi had lately been more intense-and just plain tense-and Ben was glad to offer him some relief. Ben was just drifting off to sleep when Kendi spoke.

"So what happened today? You said Roon deviated from his routine."

"Hm?" Ben roused himself. "Deviated. Yeah, he did. It wasn't anything big. He gets off work every day at the same time-not during the shift change for the rest of the workers-and then he goes home. He takes the same route every single day, and once he gets home, he stays there. Except today."

"What did he do today?"

"He went to an art gallery."

"Art gallery?" Kendi rolled over and propped his head up on one hand. "Did you follow him inside?"

Ben shrugged. "Of course. I swear he looked at everything. Paintings, sculptures, holograms, sensories-you name it. There was a special exhibit on. He wandered around for more than two hours. Finally he bought a painting. He ordered it delivered and walked out. I followed him home, but nothing else happened."

"What was the painting about?" Kendi asked intently.

"Does it matter?" Ben said, surprised.

"It might. No detail is too small, you know that."

Ben closed his eyes and cast his mind back. Kendi, he knew, had the flawless short-term memory required for Dream communication work, and could faultlessly remember pages and pages of text for short periods of time. All Children were trained this way so that written communication could be transmitted word-for-word to other Silent through the Dream. But Ben hadn't gone through the mnemonic training, and he hadn't paid too much attention to the specifics of Roon's purchase. He hadn't though it would matter, though now he realized his mistake. He closed his eyes and thought.

"It was an exhibit of circus art," he said after a while. "And Roon bought a painting of a circus animal. An elephant? Yeah, an elephant."

Ben felt the bed move and heard the rustle of sheets. He opened his eyes. Kendi had gotten up and was yanking open the closet door.

"What's up?" Ben asked.

"I have to go talk to him." Kendi pulled out an outfit he rarely wore because it was so dressy-an electric blue silk tunic with matching trousers that set off his dark skin and eyes.

"Talk to who?"

"The art gallery owner." He pulled a long length of red cloth from the closet and expertly wound it into a turban. A purple amethyst lapel pin completed the ensemble. Ben gnawed his lower lip, feeling like he had let Kendi down. If he had done a proper job shadowing Roon, Kendi wouldn't have to go back to the gallery. Ben felt had somehow blown it, but he didn't know what he had done wrong. Kendi didn't seem upset, but still.

"How do I look?" Kendi asked.

"What look are you going for?" Ben countered, sitting up.

"Wealthy collector."

"Works for me. Um… do you want me to go with you? Back you up?"

"No, I'll be better off alone. Send out the troops if you don't hear from me in two hours."

And then he was gone, leaving Ben alone on the bed.

Bedj-ka ghosted along the walkway, staying close to the shadows. Insects chirped among the talltree leaves, and his feet made only a tiny whisper of sound on the wooden path. The forest was almost completely dark beneath the talltree canopy, though enough silvery moonlight filtered through the leaves to let him see where he was going. The house, built into the branches of the talltree, lay about ten meters ahead of him. Like most Bellerophon treehouses, it sported a wide balcony that went all the around it. Golden light shone from the house windows, and a pair of enormous, shaggy humans guarded the front door. Bedj-ka halted where he was. He knew from experience that if he got much closer, the two men would spot him, no matter how many points he put into his stealth skill. This time, however, he had a different idea.

Just before reaching the discovery point, Bedj-ka oozed carefully over the rail of the walkway. The forest floor was shrouded in shadow, and Bedj-ka was grateful for that-he didn't have to look at the hundred meter drop. Beneath the walkway was a fine polymer netting made to catch objects or people that slipped over the edge. Bedj-ka dropped fearlessly onto the netting and scuttled along the stretchy strands like a spider until he had made his way to the rear of the house, opposite the side with the guards. The men didn't stir. Bedj-ka reached up, got a hand on the walkway, and hoisted himself back onto it. This brought him almost directly under a rear window of the house-and got him past the guards unnoticed.

Voices filtered out of the open window.

"Where would she run to?" demanded a husky male voice. "Where's she hiding?"

"I don't know," replied a woman in shaky tones. "How would I know?"

The sound of a slap, a grunt of pain. Bedj-ka's throat tickled. He swallowed hard to suppress a cough and slowly raised himself up until he could peer through the window. A big, shaggy man in black was glowering down at a woman who was holding her cheek and trying to look defiant. Three other men in the room held energy pistols on a small crowd of scared-looking humans of varying ages. Some were younger than Bedj-ka.

"Maybe I should kill one of the others," the shaggy man snarled. "Maybe then you'll be more forthcoming." He gestured at one of his men, who leveled a pistol at a boy Bedj-ka's age. "Tell me where Irfan Qasad is hiding, or the boy dies."

"I can't tell you what I don't know," the woman cried. "Please, Mr. Clearwater. I really don't know where she is. None of us do."

"Max," Clearwater said. Max tightened his finger around the pistol. Bedj-ka made an odd gesture, and the scene instantly froze. He stared through the window, trying to think. Bedj-ka had already died seven times, and he didn't want to make a mistake that handed him death number eight.

Okay. The shaggy man was Ormand Clearwater, leader of the pirates. That he already knew. Irfan Qasad was hiding in the woods less than a kilometer away from Treetown, but she had no idea what the pirates were doing or why they had invaded Treetown. All she and the other escapees knew was that the pirates had slipships and a lot of weapons. Bedj-ka had volunteered to go spy on them to learn more, and Irfan had flashed him a grateful look before nodding and sending him off. She hadn't actually said whether or not he should rescue anyone, and the only weapon Bedj-ka had was a knife.

A sudden cough exploded from Bedj-ka's throat. He put a fist to his mouth and coughed several more times, then swallowed. Was he getting sick? He hoped not. Good thing he had paused the game.

Bedj-ka stared at the frozen scene for a long moment. Maybe Clearwater was bluffing, or maybe the woman did know something and would reveal it now. Regardless, Bedj-ka was sure that if he charged through the window, he would die.

Or would he just be captured?

Bedj-ka suddenly wished he had read more about Bellerophon's history. The sim was supposed to be historically accurate, and he had the feeling he was playing the part of a real person. If he knew what that person had done, Bedj-ka might know what to do now.

Clearwater continued to train his pistol on the cowering woman. Bedj-ka did know that Clearwater was actually a minor player in all this. The real villain was Daniel Vik, who was even now amassing an army to attack Treetown and the new Silent who lived there. Irfan – and Bedj-ka – had to find a way to stop Clearwater and rid Treetown of the pirates before Vik got wind of their presence. If he knew how vulnerable Treetown currently was, he would almost certainly invade in force and the Silent would be wiped from the face of the planet.

Bedj-ka drew an "S" in mid-air. The letter glowed briefly, then flashed and vanished, indicating the game had been saved. If he blew it, he could just restart from this point and try again. Bedj-ka drew his knife and made the gesture that would re-start the scene.

"Hold it!" he shouted, and dove through the window. Everyone turned in surprise. Clearwater's face shifted into a mask of rage – and then froze again.

"Time expired," said a dry computer voice. "Do you wish to save the game before exiting?"

Bedj-ka sighed. "No." The scene vanished, replaced by the blank inside of sim goggles. Bedj-ka pulled them off, removed gloves, boots, and earpieces, and stepped off the little trampoline which could become rigid or soft, depending on what sort of surface the sim called for. He considered calling Mom to ask for more sim time, but ultimately decided against it. She always said no, and he didn't feel like arguing with her right now.

A coughing fit seized him, followed by a hefty sneeze. Definitely a cold. He grimaced. Getting sick meant you had sinned and were being punished. It also meant being confined to bed, having to drink horrible-tasting medicine several times a day, and having the other children pray over you. He didn't want to go through that here.

What had he done? Bedj-ka tried to think. He hadn't disobeyed Mom that he remembered, though maybe he hadn't obeyed her as fast as he could have. He didn't like Sister Gretchen very much. Did that count? He didn't know.

Bedj-ka put the sim equipment on the shelf in the living room of the quarters he and Mom shared. They were nice, a lot nicer than the Enclave had ever been. Everything was done in soft blue, and several windows looked out into space. There was a big living room, a bathroom with both a shower and a tub, and two bedrooms. The rooms were also quiet, with no gongs to mark meditation time and no bells to mark learning time, eating time, and play time, no shouts and yells of other kids. The only sound was the soft rush of the ventilation system. Bedj-ka liked that. He could be alone whenever he wanted.

In this place, Bedj-ka had his own room. It was small, but it had a door he could close and a bed that stood by itself instead of in a long row of other beds. It also had a window. Bedj-ka had his own closet with seven whole outfits Mom had bought for him on Drim and on SA Station. He had unlimited access to the galley and could get something to eat whenever he liked, as long as it wasn't too close to a meal time. He had bookdisks and sim games and other toys, all things Mom had bought for him. She limited the amount of time he could play sim games, but he could read all he wanted. Bedj-ka liked reading. The Enclave had taught him how, but Matron and Patron had made it clear a lot of stuff was forbidden to the Silent. Silent were weaker than other humans, more prone to corruption, and they had to be sheltered. When Bedj-ka had brought this fact up with Mom, however, her face had gotten all tight. The next day, he had found a small library of bookdisks in his room, ones filled with histories and fairy tales and stories of adventure the Enclave had forbidden. Bedj-ka had devoured most of them. At first he had felt guilty and wondered whether he would get corrupted, but nothing had happened, and then Mom had asked him about some of the books at supper. That had been a surprise. He hadn't known she'd read them too. Mom wasn't corrupt. She had gotten him away from the chocolate farm.

Except now he was getting sick. Was reading the books was a sin after all? How could it be, if Mom did it? Mater always said Silent children sinned more than the non-Silent. Maybe it was a sin for him but not for Mom.

He coughed again, hard. After the spasm passed, he got a glass of water from the bathroom. At this rate, the whole ship would know he was getting sick. He groaned inwardly at the thought. Then it occurred to him that if Mom was nice about the books, maybe she would be nice about him getting sick, whether he had sinned or not. Maybe he should tell her. She was a nurse, after all.

Bedj-ka checked the computer. It said Mom was working down among the engines. He hesitated for a moment, then told the intercom system to page her.

"I'm off the sims," he said.

" 'Course I did. The computer won't let me play until I'm done." He paused, suddenly uncertain again. The cough came back, and he suppressed it.

"No," Bedj-ka said. "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to see what you were doing."

He didn't like, though he only said, "Okay. Myra, close channel."

Bedj-ka coughed again, then wandered aimlessly around the quarters for a while, not quite sure what he wanted to do. He didn't really feel sick-he was just coughing-and he wasn't tired enough to lay down. If Mom treated him like Mater and Pater had done at the Enclave, he'd be stuck in bed soon enough, so he decided to wander around and enjoy a little freedom.

The ship's corridors seemed to be empty. Where was everyone? Probably out scouting the Collection again or something. Bedj-ka only had a hazy idea of what Father Kendi, Mom, and the others were up to. Mom had told him he didn't need to worry about it, and eventually he had given up pestering her for information.

Bedj-ka continued to wander, stopping to look out the occasional window at the ships coming and going from SA Station. A few minutes later, he found himself outside the Forbidden Door. He passed it without stopping, then, when no one appeared in the corridor, reversed direction and passed it again. Stopping outside the door was disobedient, but no one had forbidden him to just walk past it.

Curiosity burned. Someone was in there, that he knew. Ms. Lucia made food for whoever it was, and Sister Gretchen delivered it. Twice Bedj-ka had arranged to be in the vicinity when Sister Gretchen opened the door, and both times she had noticed him lurking and ordered him away. When he had asked Mom about it, she had gone quiet and her mouth tightened in an expression that meant he'd get no answer.

Mom. Bedj-ka put his arms out on either side of him and pretended to tightrope-walk along a carpet seam. It still felt strange knowing he had a real mom. And not only was she a real mom, she was a totally rigid mom who traveled on a space ship and played sneaky tricks on bad people and rescued slaves. Slaves like him.

Bedj-ka wobbled a bit, then coughed and had to windmill his arms to keep his balance. The Forbidden Door remained stubbornly shut. Mom thought he didn't know she checked on him every night. Bedj-ka, however, was a light sleeper, and she always woke him up when she looked in. It made him feel secure, knowing she always checked. At first he had been afraid that she might take him back to the cacao farm, or sell him to someone else. And then he had been afraid it would all turn out to be a hallucination, or maybe that he had gotten into the Dream after all and was making it all up for himself. As a result, he had been afraid to let Mom out of his sight. By the time the Poltergeist got to Drim, however, Bedj-ka had begun to feel secure enough to let someone else watch him, and on the ship, he didn't need much direct supervision. Bedj-ka liked Ms. Lucia best. She told him stories about Irfan Qasad and her adventures back in the days before slipspace. It was because of her that Bedj-ka had tracked down the historical sim games.

But now he was lurking outside the Forbidden Door again. Bedj-ka glanced up and down the blue hallway. No one was around. He dashed up to the door and pressed an ear against the cool surface. Nothing but the faint hum of ship machinery. He concentrated, trying to tune out the noises of the ship and catch even a tiny sound from within.

"Hey, shortie," came a gruff voice. "Move it!"

Bedj-ka jumped away from the door. Sister Gretchen had moved up behind him, carrying a covered food tray. Bedj-ka blushed and tried to think of something to say. Sister Gretchen saved him the trouble.

"I told you to stay away from this door," she snapped. "You've got no business in this part of the ship. You want me to tell your mom what you're doing?"

"No," Bedj-ka said with a touch of belligerence. Sister Gretchen wasn't his mother and she couldn't tell him what to do. Besides, she was a real bitch, no matter what Mom said about her.

Sister Gretchen shifted the tray to one hip. "Listen, kid, I'm only going to tell you this one more time. There is a very dangerous man behind this door. He's a real son of bitch, and he'd happily slit your little throat if it gave him a chance to get away." She took a step toward him and he backed away. "You ever feel a knife slice through you, kid? Ever watch your own blood pour through your hands and make a puddle on the ground?"

Bedj-ka didn't answer, though his hand stole unconsciously to his neck.

"I didn't think so," Sister Gretchen said. "That's what'll happen if you ever open this door. And if I ever, ever catch you lurking around here again, I'm going to have Lucia fit you up with a pair of slave shackles that'll shock the living piss out of you if you come within ten meters of this door. You got that?"

"You can't put shackles on me," Bedj-ka said, anger rising again. "I'm free now."

"You'll be dead if you come near this door again," Sister Gretchen shot back. "Now get the hell out of here."

Bedj-ka turned and marched away with all the dignity he could muster, though his heart was pounding hard enough to make his neck muscles pulse. Yet another coughing fit struck him, and he was starting to feel warm now. He thought about telling Mom about what Sister Gretchen had said, then realized that would involve telling her why she had said it. Best to keep his mouth shut and hope Sister Gretchen did the same.

And then, sin or not, he'd have to find a way to talk to the person behind that door.

"Are you looking for something in particular, good gentle?"