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Chapter 48

 

Conference on Hadocentrism Convenes
Chapel Hill—Raleigh News & Courier

 
The first annual conference on Hadocentrism convened at the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill yesterday. The scholarly movement, which holds that Hell has been unfairly maligned during centuries of Celestiocentrism, and that the most successful early societies were Hadocentric, is especially strong in North Carolina academic circles. The weekend conference is chaired by Dr. Charles Blassius, the first Unchained to gain full professorship and tenure in the UNC system. In his opening remarks, Dr. Blassius stated his gratitude to the participants, and the belief that the conference would "usher in a new age free of the hegemony of Heaven, and the oppression of Heaven-mandated forms of conduct."

The conference is not universally popular with UNC faculty, although one prominent opponent of Hadocentrism welcomed the gathering. "This is great," said Dr. William Poundstone. "Now they can get their own building, and the rest of us can get back to work bringing new currents into the mainstream, not forming separate puddles."

* * *

"Dear Rhea," the note had read, "meet me at my place 6 a.m. tomorrow. It's time for a road trip!"

She thought about it as she showered. She'd seen all the Earth's wonders at one time or another, so as far as she was concerned, the best kind of trips Jack could take her on involved movement in small distances only—generally in an up and down direction. Still, he couldn't know that, and it was sweet of him to try to surprise her. Things were going well at work: The ship was nearly done, and they had two MULEs off the line already. Nobody was likely to need her presence on a Saturday.

She dried herself, savoring the big fluffy towel, another one of life's little pleasures that humans took for granted. There were so many.

She didn't know what to wear. It depended on where they ended up. Jeans and a blouse should be sufficient for anything Jack was likely to throw at her, unless they ended up at the beach, then she would want shorts. She considered a moment; she knew white shorts were a special weakness of his, and it wasn't like the cold would affect her, even if they ended up on top of a mountain—she took a pair and wriggled into them. She contemplated and rejected a bra—she didn't have to be Ms. Responsible Corporate Citizen today—and picked a red blouse which she tied at the bottom, leaving her midriff bare. If they were going sightseeing then she wanted to be the best sight Jack saw. She slipped a bathing suit into her purse and grabbed a pair of sandals. She was ready for whatever he could throw at her.

Her nose twitched as she approached the kitchen. She distinctly smelled maple syrup over hot pecan waffles. "Good morning, Remmy," she called as she stepped through the arch from the hallway.

The big angel stopped with the fork halfway to his mouth. "Oh, hi, Av-er . . . Rhea," he said. Across the table from him, Miramuel put down the morning paper and grinned sourly. A pot of grits bubbled on the stove.

"Remmy," Rhea said, "do you know how much real maple syrup costs?"

Remufel considered. "Not much, on your salary," he said.

And that was true enough, she had to admit. "And y'all have made a habit of breakfast now?" she asked.

"Well, perhaps Remmy has," Miramuel answered. "I stay abreast of the world's happenings, and work at this puzzle of word crosses."

"That's not true, Rhea," Remmy said, "she always has a glass of grapefruit juice, too."

"And if I do?" Miramuel retorted, "At least I don't stuff myself like you." She turned to Rhea. "You're here so seldom lately, Rhea. The newspaper is a poor replacement for talking with you."

Rhea raised her hands. "I know, I know," she said. "We've been over that, and I still won't be spending much time here until you can promise you won't meddle with my love life. Besides, I read the paper too, when I have time. I don't think you're spending the whole day vegetating in my kitchen; there's been too much good news."

Both angels looked positively guilty. They gave each other fascinating furtive glances. Rhea looked away, not wanting her face to tip them off to her sudden suspicion: Remufel and Miramuel weren't supposed to be parked in her kitchen. They weren't supposed to be running around doing good deeds. In fact, she wondered if they were supposed to be in contact with her at all.

Their presence didn't fit with anything The Hallowed Busybody had done since the day He turned the Hellraised loose in North Carolina, and if she'd been thinking more clearly, she would have realized that a lot earlier. Devils, demons, imps, gargoyles, gremlins, leccubi and fallen angels . . . the state was up to its armpits in them. But actual archangels from Upstairs . . . nope. As far as she had been able to tell—and she had plenty of experience with spotting the forces from the other side—not a single angel had manifested as a physical presence in the state in the entire time she'd been on Earth. Not one.

Until Remmy and Mir showed up in her kitchen.

She turned back to her guests and said, "Folks, I've got to be going. I'll see you when I see you."

"Rhea," Remmy called after her as she went out the door, "what do I do with these grits?"

"You eat them with milk and sugar," she yelled back, "just like cream of wheat."

She spent her entire trip to Jack's trying to figure out what angle Mir and Remmy were working. What in Heaven was going on? Or more to the point, what was going on in Heaven?

 

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Framed