A Little Intelligence

Future Science Fiction - October 1958
(1958)*
Randall Garrett

	Sister Mary Magdalene felt apprehensive. She glanced worriedly at the priest facing her and said, "But—I don't understand. Why quarter the aliens here?"

	Her gesture took in her office, the monastery, the convent, the school, the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament. "Because," said Father Destry patronizingly, "there is nothing here for them to learn."

	The nun eyed Father Destry uneasily. The single votive candle flickering before the statue of the Virgin in the wall niche beside him cast odd shadows over his craggy, unhandsome face. She said, "You mean that the beings of Capella IX are so well versed in the teachings of the Church that they couldn't even learn anything here?" She added with innocent sarcasm, "My, how wonderful for them!"

	"Not quite, Sister. The Earth Government isn't worried about the chances of the Pogatha learning anything about the Church. But the Pogatha would be hard put to learn anything about Terrestrial science in a Cathedral."

	"The walls are full of gadgets," she said, keeping her voice flat. "Vestment color controls, sound suppressor fields for the confessionals, illumination—"

	"I know, I know," the priest interrupted testily. "I'm talking specifically about military information. And I don't expect them to tear down our walls to learn the secrets of the vestment color controls."

	Sister Mary Magdalene shrugged. She had been deliberately baiting Father Destry, and she realized she was taking out on him her resentment against the government for having dumped a delegation of alien beings into her otherwise peaceful life.

	"I see," she said. "While the—Pogatha?—Pogatha delegation is here, they're to be kept within the cathedral grounds. The Earth government is assuming they'll be safe here."

	"Not only that, but the Pogatha themselves will feel safer here. They know Terrestrial feelings still run high since the war, and they know there could be no violence here. The Government wanted to keep them in a big hotel somewhere—a place that would be as secure as any. But the Pogatha would have none of it."

	"And one last question, Father. Why does it fall to the Sisters of the Holy Nativity to put them up? Why can't the Holy Cross Fathers take care of them? I mean—really, I understand that they're alien beings, but they are humanoid—"

	"Quite so. They are females."

	The nun's eyebrows rose. "They are?"

	Father Destry blushed faintly. "I won't go into the biology of Capella IX, partly because I don't completely understand it myself. But they do have a matriarchal society. They are oviparous mammals, but the rearing of children is always left to the males, the physically weaker sex. The fighters and diplomats are definitely female."

	"In that case"—the nun shrugged in defeat—"if those are the Bishop's wishes, I'll see that they're carried out. I'll make the necessary arrangements." She glanced at her wrist watch and said curtly, "It's almost time for Vespers, Father."

	The priest rose. "The Government is preparing a brochure on the—ah—physical needs of the Pogatha. I'll have it sent to you as soon as it arrives."

	"Care and Feeding of Aliens, eh? Very well, Father. I'll do my best."

	"I'm sure you will, Sister." He looked down at his hands as though suddenly unsure of himself. "I know this may be a hard job, Sister, but"—he looked up, smiling suddenly—"you'll make it. The prayers of everyone here will be with you."

	"Thank you, Father."

	The priest turned and walked out. Sister Mary Magdalene, unhappily conscious that though she respected Father Destry's learning and piety she could feel no warmth toward him as a person, watched him depart. As he reached the door a lithe coal-black shape padded over to him and rubbed itself lingeringly against the priest's legs.

	Father Destry smiled at the cat, but it was a hollow, artificial smile. The priest did not enjoy the affections of Sister Mary Magdalene's pet. He closed the office door.

	The cat leaped to the top of the nun's desk.

	"Miaou," it said calmly.

	"Exactly, Felicity," said Sister Mary Magdalene.

-

	Sister Mary Magdalene spent the next two days reading the digests of the war news. She had not, she was forced to admit, kept up with the war as much as she might have. Granted, a nun was supposed to have renounced the devil, the flesh and the world, but it was sometimes a good idea to check up and see what all three were up to.

	When the Government brochure came, she studied it carefully, trying to get a complete picture of the alien race that Earth was fighting. If she was going to have to coddle them, she was going to have to know them.

	The beginning of the war was shrouded in mystery. Earth forces had landed on Capella IX 30 years before and had found a civilization two centuries behind that of Earth, technologically speaking. During the next 20 years, the Pogatha had managed to beg, borrow and steal enough technology from the Earth colonies to almost catch up. And then someone had blundered.

	There had been an "incident"—and a shooting war had begun. The Pogatha feeling, late in arising, was that Earthmen had no right settling on Capella IX; they were aliens who must be driven off. The colonists refused to abandon 20 years' effort without a fight.

	It was a queer war. The colonists, badly outnumbered, had the advantage of technological superiority. On the other hand, they were hindered by the necessity of maintaining a supply line 42 light-years long, which the Pogatha could and did disrupt. The colonists were still dependent on Earth for war material and certain supplies.

	The war had waggled back and forth for nearly ten years without any definite advantage to either side. Thermonuclear weapons had not been used, since they would leave only a shattered planet of no use to anyone.

	Both sides were weary; both sides wanted to quit, if it could be done without either side losing too much face. Human beings had an advantage in that Earth itself was still whole, but the Pogatha had an almost equal advantage in the length of the colonists' supply lines. Earth would win eventually; that seemed obvious. But at what cost? In the end, Earth would be forced to smash the entire Pogatha civilization. And they did not want to do that.

	There was an element of pride in the Pogatha viewpoint. They asked themselves: would not suicide be better than ignominious slaughter at the hands of the alien Earth-men? Unless a peace with honor could be negotiated, the Pogatha would fight to the last Pogath, and would quite likely use thermonuclear bombs in a final blaze of self-destructive glory.-

	The four Pogatha who were coming to the little convent of the Cathedral Chapter of the Sisters of the Holy Nativity were negotiators that had to be handled with the utmost care. Sister Mary Magdalene was no military expert, and she was not an interstellar diplomat, but she knew that the final disposition of a world might rest with her. It was a heavy cross to bear for a woman who had spent 20 years of her life as a nun.

-

	Sister Mary Magdalene turned her school duties over to Sister Angela. There was mild regret involved in this; one of Sister Mary Magdalene's joys had been teaching the dramatics class in the parochial high school. They had been preparing a performance of Murder in the Cathedral for the following month. Well, Sister Angela could handle it well enough.

	The supplies necessary for the well-being of the Pogatha were sent by the government, and they consisted mostly of captured goods. A cookbook translated by government experts came with the food, along with a note: "These foods are not for human consumption. Since they are canned, there is no need to season them. Under no circumstances try to mix them with Terrestrial foods. Where water is called for, use only distilled water, never tap water. For other liquids, use only those provided."

	There was also a book of etiquette and table settings for four. The Pogatha would eat alone. There would be no diplomatic banquets here. Sister Mary Magdalene found out why when she went, accompanied by Felicity, to talk to the sisters who prepared the meals for the convent.

	Sister Elizabeth was a plumpish, smiling woman who loved cooking and good food and who ruled her domain with an almost queenly air. Looking like a contented plump hausfrau in her kitchen uniform, she smiled as Sister Mary Magdalene came in. "Good morning, Sister."

	"Have you opened any of the Pogatha food cans yet?" the sister-in-charge wanted to know.

	"I didn't know whether I should," Sister Elizabeth said. Seeing Felicity prowling on the worktable in search of scraps of food, she good-naturedly waved at the cat and said, "Stay away from there, Felicity! That's lunch!"

	The cat glowered at her and leaped to the floor.

	Sister Mary Magdalene said, "I'd like to have a look at the stuff they're going to eat. Suppose you pick a can at random and we'll open it up."

	Sister Elizabeth nodded and went into the storeroom. She returned carrying an ordinary-looking can. Its label was covered with queer script, and it bore a picture of a repulsive-looking little animal. Above the label was pasted a smaller label which read, in Roman characters, VAGHA.

	Sister Mary Magdalene nipped open the translated Pogatha cookbook and ran her finger along the "V" section of the index. Finding her reference, she turned the pages and read. After a moment she announced, "It's supposed to be something like rabbit stew. Go ahead and open it."

	Sister Elizabeth put it in the opener and pressed the starter. The blade bit in. The top of the can lifted. "Whoof!" said Sister Mary Magdalene. "Ugh!" said Sister Elizabeth.

	Even Felicity, who had been so interested that she had jumped up to the table to watch the proceedings, wrinkled her bewhiskered nose in disgust and backed away.

	"It's spoiled," Sister Elizabeth said sadly.

	But .the odor was not quite that of decay. True, there was a background of Limburger cheese overlaid with musk, but this was punctuated pungently with something that smelled like a cross between butyl mercaptan and ammonia.

	"No," said Sister Mary Magdalene unhappily. "It says in the book that the foods have distinctive odors."

	"With the accent on the stinc. Do you mean I have to prepare stuff like that in my kitchen?"

	"I'm afraid so," said Sister Mary Magdalene.

	"But everything else will smell like that! It'll absolutely ruin everything!"

	"You'll just have to keep our own food covered. And remember that ours smells just as bad to them."

	Sister Elizabeth nodded, tightlipped, the joviality gone from her face. Now she, too, had her cross to bear.

-

	The appearance of the Pogatha, when they finally arrived, did not shock Sister Mary Magdalene; she had been prepared for the sight of ugly caricatures of human beings by the photographs in the brochure. Nor was she bothered by the faint aroma, not after the much stronger smell of the can of stew. But to have one of them address her in nearly perfect English almost floored her. Somehow she had simply not prepared herself for intelligent speech from alien lips.

	Father Destry had brought them in from the spaceport, along with the two Earthmen who were their honor escort. She had been watching the courtyard through the window of her office, and had thought she was quite prepared for them when Father Destry escorted them into the office.

	"Sister Mary Magdalene, permit me to introduce our guests. This is Vor Nollig, chief diplomat, and her assistants: Vor Betla, Vor Gontakel and Vor Vun."

	And Vor Nollig said, "I am honored, Sister."

	The voice was deep, like that of a man's, and there was certainly nothing effeminate about these creatures. The nun, in her surprise, could only choke out a hasty: "Thank you." Then she stood back, trying to keep a pleasant smile on her face while the others spoke their pieces.

	They were not tall—no taller than Sister Mary Magdalene's own five five—but they were massively built. Their clothing was full and bright-colored. And, in spite of their alienness, the nun could tell them apart with no difficulty. Vor Nollig and Vor Betla had skins of a vivid cobalt-blue color. Vor Gontakel was green, while Vor Vun was yellow.

	The Government brochure, Sister Mary Magdalene recalled, had remarked that the Pogatha had races that differed from each other as did the races of Earth. "The blue color was a pigment, while the yellow color was the color of their blood—thus giving the Pogatha a range of yellow-green-blue shades according to the varying amount of pigment in the skin.

	In an odd parallel to Earth history, the Blues had long been the dominant race, holding the others in subjection, it had been less than a century ago that the Yellows had been released from slavery, and the Greens were still poverty-stricken underdogs. Only the coming of the Earthmen had brought the three races together in a common cause.

	Father Destry was introducing the two Earthmen.

	"... Secretary Masterson and Secretary Bass. They will be staying at the Holy Cross Monastery during the negotiations."

	Sister Mary Magdalene had recovered her composure by now. Looking around with a sweeping gesture that took in Father Destry, the four aliens, the stocky Masterson and the elongated Bass, she said, "Won't you all sit down?"

	"You are most gracious," said Vor Nollig brusquely, "but our trip has been a long one, and we are most anxious to—ah—the word—freshen up, is it?"

	The nun nodded. "I'll show you to your rooms."

	"You are most kind."

	"I think you'll find everything prepared. If you don't, just ask for whatever you'll need."

	She left the men in her office and escorted the four Pogatha outside, across to the part of the convent where they would be staying. When the aliens were installed in their rooms, Sister Mary Magdalene returned to her office and was surprised to find Father Destry and the two U.N. Secretaries still there. She had supposed that the priest would have taken the U.N. men over to the monastery.

	"About the Pogatha," said Secretary Masterson with a nervous quirk of his fleshy lips. "Be rather careful with them, will you, Sister? They're rather—uh—prejudiced, you see."

	"So am I. Against them, that is."

	"No, no. I don't mean prejudiced against you or any other human. Naturally we don't expect much genuine warmth between peoples who are fighting. But I'm referring to the strong racial antipathy among themselves."

	"Between the Blues, the Yellows and the Greens," Secretary Bass put in. "They try to be polite to each other, but there's no socializing. It's a different kind of prejudice entirely, Sister."

	"Yes," Masterson said. "Any one of them might be willing to sit down to talk to you, but not while one of another color was around."

	"I see," said the sister. "I'll keep that in mind. Is there anything else I should remember?"

	Secretary Masterson smiled understandingly. "It's hard to say. Handling an alien race isn't easy—but remember, they don't expect us to do everything right. They just want us to show that we're not purposely trying to offend them."

	"I'll do my best," said Sister Mary Magdalene.

-

	An hour later, Sister Mary Magdalene decided that she, in her capacity as a hostess here at the convent, had best go around to see how her guests were doing. Her robes swished softly as she went down the hallway. Behind her, Felicity padded silently along.

	Sister Mary Magdalene paused outside Vor Nollig's door and rapped. After a moment it opened a little. The alien was dimly visible just inside the doorway.

	"Yes, Sister?" said Vor Nollig.

	Sister Mary Magdalene forced herself to smile ingratiatingly. "I hope everything's satisfactory."

	"Oh, yes. Yes indeed." The door opened another few inches, far enough to let the nun see that Vor Betla stood behind Vor Nollig.

	"Please you yes come in?" asked Vor Betla diffidently. There was something in the alien's tone that indicated that the invitation had been offered in an attempt at politeness, and that the Pogatha woman was not anxious to have it actually accepted.

	Sister Mary Magdalene was still trying to decide what she should say when suddenly Vor Betla looked down and in a startled voice said, "What is?"

	The nun's glance went to the floor. Felicity was standing there, her gleaming green eyes observing the Pogath woman intently. Sister Mary Magdalene scooped the cat up affectionately and held it against her. "This is Felicity. My cat."

	"Gat?" said Vor Betla, puzzled.

	"Cat," Vor Nollig corrected her. A babble of incomprehensible syllables followed. Finally Vor Nollig turned lo the nun and said softly, "Pardon my breach of etiquette, but Vor Betla doesn't understand your language too well. She had never heard of a cat, and I was explaining that they are dumb animals kept as pets. We do not keep such animals on Pogathan."

	"I see," said Sister Mary Magdalene, trying to keep the chill out of her voice. She was not pleased by the slighting reference to the cat. "If everything is fine, I'll look after my other guests. If you need anything, just ask."

	"Of course, Sister," said Vor Nollig, closing the door.

	The nun repressed what would have been an irrational and sinful current of anger. She swept on down the hall to the next apartment and knocked. "Poor Felicity," she murmured soothingly to the cat resting on her other arm. "Don't let their insults upset you. After all, they aren't humans, you know."

	The door opened.

	"I beg pardon?" said the green-skinned Vor Gontakel. "Oh," Sister Mary Magdalene said, feeling awkward. "Sorry. I was talking to Felicity." 

	"Ah," said the green Pogatha.

	"We came to see if everything was comfortable in your room. Didn't we, Felicity?" 

	"Meerorow," Felicity said.

	"Oh, yes," said Vor Gontakel. "All is quite as should be. Quite."

	"Meerowou," Felicity said. "Mrourr."

	Vor Gontakel said, "This means what?"

	Sister Mary Magdalene smiled. "Felicity says she hopes you'll call us if anything is not to your liking."

	Vor Gontakel smiled broadly, showing her golden teeth. "I am quite comfortable, thank you, Sister. And thank you, Felicity."

	The door closed. Sister Mary Magdalene felt more cheerful. Vor Gontakel had at least been pleasant.

	One more trip to make. The last, thank Heaven. The nun rapped on the final door.

	Vor Vun slowly opened her door, peered out, stepped back in alarmed distaste. "A cat!" she exclaimed.

	"I'm sorry if I frightened you," Sister Mary Magdalene said quickly.

	"Frightened? No. I just do not like cats. When I was a prisoner aboard one of your spaceships, they had a cat." The alien woman held out a saffron-skinned arm. Three furrows of scar tissue stood out darkly. "I was scratched. Infection set in, and none of the Earthmen's medicine could be used. It is a good thing that there was an exchange of prisoners, or I might have died."

	The alien paused, as if realizing that her speech was not precisely diplomatic. "I am sorry," she said, forcing a smile. "But—you understand?"

	"Certainly," the nun said. For the third time in ten minutes she went through the necessary ritual of asking after her guest's comfort, and for the third time she was assured that all was well.

	Sister Mary Magdalene returned to her office. "Come on, Felicity," she whispered soothingly. "Can't have you worrying our star boarders."

-

	Father Destry was waiting for Sister Mary Magdalene „ when she came back from Mass the following morning. He was looking at her with a puzzled air.

	"Where is everyone?"

	Ignoring his question for the moment, Sister Mary Magdalene jabbed furiously at the air conditioner button. "Isn't this thing working?" she asked fretfully of no one in particular. "It seems as though I can still smell it." Then she realized that the priest had addressed her, and that he was still waiting with imperious patience for an answer.

	"Father Pierce kindly invited us to use the monastery chapel this morning," she said, feeling a twinge of embarrassment at her own unintentional rudeness. "Our own is too close to the kitchen."

	Father Destry's face showed his lack of comprehension. "You went over to the monastery? Kitchen?"

	Sister Mary Magdalene sighed patiently. "Father Destry, I'm morally certain that it would have been impossible for anyone to have retained a properly reverent attitude at Mass if it was held in a chapel that smelled to high Heaven of long-dead fish!"

	Her voice had risen in pitch during the last few words, and she cut off the crescendo with a sudden clamping together of her lips before her indignation distressed the priest. "The Pogatha rose early for breakfast. They wouldn't let Sister Elizabeth cook it. Vor Vun—that's the yellow one—did the honors, and each one ate in his—her—own room. That meant that those meals were carried from the kitchen to the rooms. You should have been here. We just barely made it through Lauds."

	Father Destry was obviously trying to control a smile which inwardly pleased Sister Mary Magdalene. It was encouraging to know that even Father Destry could be amused by something.

	"I imagine the air conditioners have taken care of it by now," he said carefully. "I didn't notice a thing when I came through the courtyard." He glanced at the big clock on the wall. "The first meeting between the official representatives of Pogathan and Earth begins in an hour. I want—"

	There was a rap at the door.

	"Yes?"

	Sister Martha, one of the younger nuns, entered. There was a vaguely apprehensive look on her young face. "The Pogatha are here to see you, Sister."

	She stood aside while the four aliens trooped in, led by the imposing Blue, Vor Nollig. Sister Mary Magdalene greeted them with as much heartiness as she could muster, considering the episode of breakfast.

	Vor Nollig said, "If it is at all possible, we would like to stroll around the grounds, look at your buildings. Perhap you could take us on a tour?"

	Hostess or not, the last thing Sister Mary Magdalene wanted to do now was shepherd the four aliens around the Cathedral grounds. She glanced meaningfully at Father Destry, who scowled faintly, then brightened and nodded.

	"It would be a pleasure," the priest said. "I'll be glad to show you the Cathedral grounds."

	And bless you for it, the nun thought as the little group left. After they had gone, she rubbed a finger speculatively across the tip of her nose. Was she wrong, or did there seem to be something peculiar in the actions of the aliens? They had seemed to be in a tremendous hurry to leave, and the expressions on their faces were strained. Or were they? It was hard to correlate any Pogatha expressions with their human equivalents. And, of course, Sister Mary Magdalene was no expert on extraterrestrial psychology.

	Abruptly she ceased worrying about the behavior of the Pogatha. With her finger still on her nose, she caught the aroma of the morning's coffee drifting from the kitchen, where it was being prepared. She smiled. Then she indulged in the first, deep, joyous laugh she had had in two weeks.

-

	That evening, after the Pogatha had returned to their quarters, Sister Mary Magdalene's private meditations were interrupted by a phone call from Secretary Masterson, the heavyset U.N. man. His fleshy face had a tense, worried look on it.

	"Sister, I know this might be overstepping my authority, but I have the fate of a war to deal with." 

	"Just what's the trouble, Mr. Masterson?" 

	"At the meeting today, the Pogatha seemed—I don't quite know how to put it—offended, I suppose. They were touchy and unreasonable, and they quarrelled among themselves during the conference—all in a strictly diplomatic way, of course. I'm afraid we got rather touchy ourselves."

	"How sad," the nun said. "We all have such high hopes for the success of these negotiations."

	"Was there some incident that might have irritated them, Sister? I don't mean to imply any carelessness, but was there anything that might have upset them?"

	"The only thing I can think of is the smell of the morning coffee," said the nun. "They came to me asking to be taken on a tour of the Cathedral grounds, and they seemed in an awful hurry to get out of the building. When they were gone I smelled the coffee being prepared. It must have nauseated them as much as their foods bother us."

	Masterson's face cleared a little. "That might be it. They are touchy people, and maybe they thought the coffee odor that they found so revolting had been generated for their benefit." He paused for a long moment before he said, "Well, that sort of thing is too much for you, and it's obviously too much for them. I'll speak to Bishop Courtland tonight. We'll have to make better arrangements. Meanwhile, do you think you could do something about supper tonight? Get them out of there somehow, and—"

	"That might be a little difficult," said Sister Mary Magdalene. "I think it would be better if we ate out."

	"Very well. And I'll talk to the bishop."

	She waited a moment for the screen to clear after Secretary Masterson broke contact, then dialed the number of the Holy Cross Monastery on the far side of the Cathedral. The face of a monk appeared on the screen, the cowl of his white robe lying in graceful folds around his throat.

	Sister Mary Magdalene said, "Father Pierce, you were gracious enough to ask us to your chapel this morning because of the alien aroma here. I wonder if you'd be good enough to ask us to dinner tonight? Our alien friends don't seem to like our odors any more than we like theirs, and so we can't cook here."

	Father Pierce laughed cheerfully. "We'll have to use the public dining hall, of course. But I think we can manage it."

	"It'll have to be in two shifts," the nun said. "We can't leave this place deserted, much as we'd like to while they're eating."

	"Don't worry, Sister. We'll arrange something. But what about tomorrow and the next day?"

	Sister Mary Magdalene smiled. "We'll worry about that if we have to, but I think the Pogatha are on their way out of here. Secretary Masterson is going to make different arrangements with the bishop."

	"You don't think they'll be transferred to us?"

	"Hardly, Father Pierce. They'll have to leave the Cathedral entirely."

	It was a pleasant, if ungracious thought. But Sister Mary Magdalene had taken no vows to put herself and her nuns into great inconvenience for the sake of unpleasant alien creatures. She would be glad to see them go.

-

	Morning came. Sister Mary Magdalene sat in Choir, listening to the words of the Divine Office and wondering why the Church had been chosen as a meeting place for the two so alien races. It had not been a successful meeting thus far; but, she pondered, was there some deeper reason for the coming-together than mere political negotiation?

	The soft, sweet voices of the women, singing alternately from opposite sides of the chapel in the Domine, Dominus noster, were like the ringing of crystal chimes rather than the deeper, bell-like ringing that resounded from the throats of the monks on the opposite sides of the great cathedral.

	And, like crystal, their voices seemed to shatter under the impact of the hoarse, ugly, bellowing scream that suddenly filled the air.

	A moment later, the singing resumed, uncertainly but gamely, as monks and nuns compelled themselves to continue the service regardless. Sister Mary Magdalene felt the unaccustomed tingle of fear within her. What had happened? Trouble with the aliens? Or merely an excitable visitor taken aback by a surprise encounter with one of the Pogatha?

	It might be almost anything. Tension grew within the nun. She had to know.

	She rose from her seat and slipped away down the aisle. Behind her, the singing continued with renewed vigor. But that ungodly scream still echoed in her ears. 

-

	God in Heaven, thought Sister Mary Magdalene an hour later. What are You doing to Your servants and handmaidens now? Whoever heard of a convent full of cops?

	She hadn't realized that she had spoken the last sentence half aloud until she saw Father Destry's astonished and reproachful expression. She reddened at once.

	"Please, Sister!" the priest murmured. "They're not 'cops'—they're World Bureau of Criminal Investigation officers I"

	Sister Mary Magdalene nodded contritely and glanced through the open door of her office at the trio of big, bulky men who were conferring in low tones in the corridor. The label, she thought glumly, made no difference. WBCI or not, they were still cops.

	The nun felt dazed. Too much had happened in the past hour. Sister Mary Magdalene felt as though everything were twisted and broken around her, as the body of Vor Nollig had been twisted and broken.

	Vor Nollig, the Blue; Vor Nollig, the female Pogath; Vor Nollig, the Chief Diplomat of Pogathan—dead, with a common carving knife plunged into her abdomen and her alien blood all over the floor of the room in which she had slept the night before.

	She still slept there. She would sleep eternally. The WBCI men had not yet removed the body.

	Vor Betla, the other Blue, had found her, and it had been the outraged scream of Vor Betla that had broken the peace of the convent. Sister Mary Magdalene wondered bleakly if that peace would ever be whole again.

	First the scream, then the violence of the raging fight as the other two Pogatha had tried to subdue Vor Betla, who seemed to be intent on destroying the convent with her bare hands. And now, the quiet warmth of Sister Mary Magdalene's inviolate little world had suddenly and jarringly been defiled by the entrance of a dozen men, one right after another. But they had come too late. The blood had already been shed.

	"You look ill, Sister," said Father Destry, suddenly solicitous. "Wouldn't you like to lie down for a while!"

	Sister Mary Magdalene shook her head violently. "No! No, I'll be all right. It's just the—the shock."

	"The bishop gave me strict orders to make sure that none of this disturbs you."

	"I know what he said, and I appreciate it. But I'm afraid we have already been disturbed." There was a touch of acid in her voice.

	Bishop Courtland, his fine old face looking haggard and unhappy, had come and gone again. Sister Mary Magdalene wished he had not gone, but there was no help for it; the bishop had to deal with the stratoplane load of high officials who had rocketed in as soon as the news had reached the Capital.

	One of the WBCI men removed his hat in a gesture of respect and stepped into the nun's office. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that the other WBCI men, belatedly remembering where they were, were taking their hats off, too.

	"I'm Major Brock, Sister. Captain Lehmann told me that you're the sister-in-charge here."

	Sister Mary Magdalene nodded wordlessly. Captain Lehmann had been in charge of the group that had come rushing in at Father Destry's call; they had been hidden outside the cathedral grounds, ostensibly to protect the alien visitors.

	"I know this is—unpleasant," Major Brock said. He was a big man who was obviously finding it difficult to keep his voice at the soft level he believed was appropriate in here. "It's more than a matter of one life at stake, Sister. We have to find out who did this."

	Sister Mary Magdalene nodded, thinking, The sooner you find out, the sooner all of you will leave here. "I'll do all I can to help," she told him.

	"We'd like to question the sisters," he said apologetically. "We'd like to know if any of them saw or heard anything unusual during the night."

	The nun frowned. "What time was the alien killed, Major?"

	"We don't know. If she were human, we'd be able to pinpoint it within a matter of seconds. But we don't know how fast the blood—" He stopped suddenly on the "d" of "blood", as though he had realized that such gory subjects might not be proper conversation here.

	Sister Mary Magdalene was amused at the WBCI man's exaggerated tact. "How fast the blood coagulates," she completed, a bit surprised at her own calmness. "Nor, I suppose, how soon rigor mortis sets in, nor how long it takes the body to cool."

	"That's about it. We'll just have to check with everybody to see if anyone saw anything that might help us."

	"Would you tell me one thing?" Sister Mary Magdalene said, glancing hesitantly at the silent, glowering figure of Father Destry. "Can you tell me who the suspects are? And please don't say 'everybody'—I mean the immediate suspects."

	"Frankly," said Major Brock, "we think it might be one of the aliens. But I'm afraid that might just be prejudice. There are other possibilities."

	"You don't suspect one of us!"

	"Not now. But I can't overlook the possibility. If any of the sisters has a brother or a father in the Space Service—"

	"I concede the possibility," said Sister Mary Magdalene reluctantly. "And I suppose the same thing might hold true for anyone else."

	"It might, but conditions here pretty well confine the suspects to the sisters and the aliens. After all, you've been pretty closely guarded, and you're pretty secure here." The WBCI man smiled. "Except from invasion by cops." He won Sister Mary Magdalene's undying love with that last sentence.

	Father Destry swallowed hard to maintain his composure and said, "I suppose I'll have to remain if the sisters are to be questioned. The bishop—"

	"I understand, Father. I'll try not to take too long."

	Sister Mary Magdalene sighed and checked the schedule of Masses in the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament. There would be little chance of her hearing Mass in the chapel here, with all this going on.

-

	The nightmarish morning dragged slowly along. Sister Mary Magdalene phoned the Mother Superior of the order in Wisconsin to assure her that everything was under control; it was true, if not wholly accurate. Then it was the nun's task to interview each of her Sisters, one by one, to learn her story of the night before.

	They knew nothing. None of them was lying, Sister Mary Magdalene knew, and none of them was capable of murder.

	Not until the Major came to Sister Angela did anything new come up. Sister Angela was asked if she had noticed anything unusual.

	"Yes," she said flatly. "There was someone in the courtyard last night. I saw him from my window."

	"Him?" Sister Mary Magdalene repeated in astonishment, sitting bold upright in her chair. "Him?"

	Sister Angela nodded nervously. "It—it looked like a monk."

	"How do you know it was a monk?" asked the Major. 

	"Well, he was wearing a robe—with the cowl down. The moon was pretty bright. I could see him clearly." 

	"Did you recognize him?"

	"It wasn't that bright, Major. But I'm sure it was—well, a man dressed in a monk's habit."

	Major Brock frowned and chewed at the ends of his mustache. "We'll have to investigate this more fully."

	Sister Mary Magdalene rose. A quick glance at the clock told her that it was her last chance to make it to Mass. For an instant, a niggling inward voice told her that missing Mass just this once would be excusable under the circumstances, but she fought it down.

	"Would you excuse me?" she said to Brock. "I must attend Mass at this hour."

	"Of course, Sister." Brock did not seem pleased at the prospect of having to carry on without her, but, as always, he maintained careful respect for the churchly activities going on about him.

	Sister Mary Magdalene went out, headed for the cathedral. Outside, everything looked so normal that she could hardly believe anything had really happened. It was not until she reached the cathedral itself that depression again struck her.

	The vestment radiations were off.

	The vestments of the clergy were fluorescent; under the radiation from the projectors in the walls, the chasubles, tunics and dalmatics, the stoles, maniples and altar frontal, all glowed with color. The color depended on the wavelength of the radiation used. There was the somber violet of the penitential seasons of Lent and Advent, the restful green of Epiphany and the long weeks after Trinity, the joyous white of Christmas and Easter, and the blazing red of Pentecost. But without the radiations, the vestments were black—the somber black of the Requiem, the Mass of the Dead.

	For a moment Sister Mary Magdalene's thoughts were as black as the hangings on the altar. And then she realized that, again, there was Reason behind whatever was going on here. There was no doubt in her own mind that the Pogatha were intelligent, reasoning beings, although the question had never been settled on a theological level by the Church. She would pray for the repose of the soul of Vor Nollig.

	Forty-five minutes later, she was walking back toward the convent, her own soul strangely at rest. For just a short time, there toward the end, she had felt oddly apprehensive about having had Vor Nollig in mind while the celebrant intoned the Agnus Dei: "O Lamb of God that takes t away the sins of the world, grant them rest eternal." But then the words of the Last Gospel had come to reassure her: "All things were made by Him, and without Him was not anything made." Surely it could not be wrong to pray for the happiness of one of God's creatures, no matter how strangely made.

	She was to think that thought again within the next five minutes.

-

	Sister Elizabeth, round and chubby and looking almost comically penguin-like, was standing at the gate, tears rolling down her plump cheeks.

	"Why, Sister Elizabeth—what's the trouble?"

	"Oh, Sister, Sister!" She burst into real sobs and buried her head miserably in Sister Mary Magdalene's shoulder. "She's dead—murdered!"

	For a wild moment, Sister Mary Magdalene thought that Sister Elizabeth was referring to the dead Pogatha, Vor Nollig, but then she knew it was not so, and her numbed mind refused to speculate any further. She could only shake Sister Elizabeth and say, "Who? Who is dead? Who?"

	"Her—her little head's all burned off!" sobbed the tearful nun. She was becoming hysterical now, shaking convulsively. Sister Mary Magdalene gripped Sister Elizabeth's shoulders firmly.

	"Who?"

	Sister Elizabeth looked up. When she spoke it was in a shocked whisper. "Felicity, Sister. Your cat! She's dead!"

	Sister Mary Magdalene remained quite still, letting the first tide of grief wash over her. A moment later she was calm again. The cat had been her beloved companion for years, but Sister Mary Magdalene felt no grief now. Merely pity for the unfortunate one who could have done such a brutal deed, and sorrow over the loss of a dear friend. A moment later the anger began, and Sister Mary Magdalene prayed for the strength to unravel the mystery of the sudden outbreak of violence in these peaceful precincts.

-

	When she returned to her office a few moments later, the three living aliens were standing grouped together near one wall of the room. Secretary Masterson and Secretary Bass were not too far away. Major Brock was seated in the guest chair, with Father Destry standing behind him. Brock was speaking.

	"... and that's about it. Someone—we don't know who—came in here last night. One of the Sisters saw him heading toward the back gate of the courtyard, and another has told us that the back gate was unlocked this morning—and it shouldn't have been, because she's positive she locked it the night before." Brock looked up at Sister Mary Magdalene and his expression changed as he saw the frozen mask of her face. The nun was filled with hot anger, burning and righteous, but under complete and icy control.

	"What is it, Sister?"

	"Would you come with me, Major Brock? I have something to show you. And Father Destry, if you would. I would prefer that the rest of you remain here." She spoke crisply. This was, after all, her domain.

	She led the two men, priest and policeman, to the courtyard and around to the rear of the convent. Then they went out to the broad park beyond. Fifteen yards from the gate lay the charred, pitiful remains of the cat.

	Major Brock knelt to look at it. "A dead cat," he said in a blank voice.

	"Felicity," said Father Destry. "I'm sorry, Sister." The nun knew the sorrow was for her; Father Destry had never felt much warmth for the little animal.

	Major Brock rose and said, softly, "I'm afraid I don't quite see what this has to do with—"

	"Look at her head," said the nun in a hot-cold voice. "Burned! That's the work of a Brymer beamgun. Close range; not more than ten feet, possibly less."

	Brock knelt again, picking up the body and studying it closely for a silent moment. When he looked up, the cat still in his hands, there was new respect in his eyes. "You're right, Sister. There's the typical hardening of the tissues around the burn. This wasn't done with a torch."

	Father Destry blinked confusedly. "Do you think the killing of Sister Mary Magdalene's pet has something to do with the—uh—murder of Vor Nollig?"

	"I don't know," Brock said slowly. "Sister? What do you think?"

	"I think it does. But I'm not sure how. I think you'll find a connection."

	"This brings something new into the picture, at least," said the Major. "Now we can look for a Brymer beamgun."

-

	Vor Betla, the second Blue, who had never been able to speak English well, had given it up completely. She was snarling and snapping at Vor Vun, who was translating as best she could. It appeared that all three of the aliens seemed to feel that they might be the next to get a carving knife in their insides.

	Vor Vun said, "We feel that you are not doing as well as you might, Major Brock. We don't blame the government of Earth directly for this insult, but obviously the precautions that were taken to protect us were insufficient."

	The Major shook his head. "The entire grounds around the Cathedral were patrolled and guarded by every detection instrument known to Earth. No one could have gotten in."

	Vor Gontakel put the palms of her green hands together, almost as if she were praying. "It makes a sense. You would not want us to get out, of course, so you would have much of safeguards around."

	"We grant that," agreed Vor Vun. "But someone nonetheless killed Vor Nollig, and her loss is great."

	Vor Betla snarled and yapped.

	Vor Vun translated: "You must turn the killer over to us. If you do not, there can be no further talk of peace."

	"How do we know it wasn't one of you three?" asked Secretary Masterson suddenly.

	Vor Betla barked something. Vor Vun said, "We would have no reason for it."

	Major Brock sighed. "I know. That's what's bothered me all along. Where's the motive?"

	Sister Mary Magdalene, watching silently, eyed the three aliens. Which one of them would have killed Vor Nollig? Which one might have killed Felicity?

	Vor Vun? She hated cats; had she also hated Vor Nollig? Or had it been Vor Gontakel, the despised Green? But why would she kill Felicity? Had Vor Betla done it so she could be head of the delegation? That made even less sense.

	Motive. What was the motive?

	Had someone else done it? One of the secretaries, perhaps? Was there a political motive behind the crime?

	And then—she had to force herself to think of it—there was the possibility that one of the monks, or, worse yet, one of her own sisters had done it.

	If an Earthman had done it, it was either a political motive or one of hatred; there could be nothing personal in it. Vor Nollig, if she had been killed by an Earthman,-had been killed for some deep, unknown or unknowable political machination, probably by order of the government itself, or else she had been killed because some Earthman just hated the enemy to such an extent that—

	Sister Mary Magdalene did not want to think of blind hatred such as that.

	On the other hand, if one of the three remaining Pogatha had done it, the motive could be any one of several. It could be personal, or political, or it might even have a basis in racial prejudice.

	The nun thought it over for several minutes without reaching any conclusions. Motive would have to be abandoned as a way of finding the killer. For once, motive could not enter into the solution at all.

	Method, then. What was the method?

	Major Brock was saying: "Even the best of modern aids to crime detection can't reconstruct the past for us. But we do know part of the killer's actions. He—"

	There was a rap on the door, and Captain Lehmann thrust his head inside. "Excuse me if I'm interrupting. See you a minute, Major?"

	Brock frowned, rose, and went outside, closing the door behind him. Father Destry leaned over and whispered to the nun, "They may suspect me."

	"Nonsense, Father!"

	Father Destry pursed his lips suddenly and said nothing more. Major Brock put his head in the door. "Sister, would you come here a minute?"

	She stepped into the hall to confront two very grim WBCI men. Captain Lehmann was holding a Brymer beamgun in one hand and a bundle of black cloth in the crook of his arm. A faint but decidedly foul stench was perceptible.

	"This is the gun," Lehmann said, "that killed your cat. At least, as far as we know. An energy beam has no traceable ballistics characteristics. We found it wrapped in this—" He gestured toward the black bundle. "And shoved under one of the pews in the chapel."

	With a sudden movement he flipped out the cloth so it was recognizable. Sister Mary Magdalene had no difficulties in recognizing it. It was the habit of a nun.

	"The lab men have already gone over it," Major Brock said. "We can prove who the owner is by perspiration comparison, but there also happens to be an identification strip in it. The odor is the blood of Vor Nollig. It spurted out when she was stabbed through the heart."

	Brock opened the habit so the ID tag became visible.

	It said, Sister Elizabeth, S.H.N.

	"We'll have to talk to her," said the Major.

	"Of course," said Sister Mary Magdalene calmly. "I imagine you'll find it was stolen from her room. Tell me, why should Father Destry think you suspect him?"

	The sudden, casual change of subject apparently puzzled Major Brock. He paused a moment before answering. "We don't, really. That is—" Again he paused. "He had a brother. A colonist on Pogathan. The Pogatha caught him. He died—not pleasantly, I'm afraid." He looked at the floor. "We have a similar bit of information on Sister Elizabeth. An uncle."

	"You haven't mentioned my nephew yet," said Sister Mary Magdalene.

	The Major looked surprised. "No. We hadn't."

	"It's of no importance, anyway. Let's go check with Sister Elizabeth. I can tell you now that she knows nothing about it. She probably doesn't even know her spare habit is missing yet, because it was stolen from the laundry. The laundry room is right across from the aliens' quarters."

	"Wait," Brock said. "You'd rather we didn't talk to her, don't you?"

	"It would only upset her."

	"How do you know she didn't do it?"

	"For the same reason you don't think she did, Major. This thing is beginning to make sense. I'm beginning to understand the mind that did this awful thing."

	He looked at her curiously. "You have a strange mind yourself, Sister. I didn't realize that nuns knew so much about crime."

	"Major," she said evenly, "when I took my vows, I chose the name 'Mary Magdalene'. I didn't pick it out of the hat."

	The Major nodded silently, and his gaze shifted to the closed door of the nun's office. "The thing is that the whole pattern is beginning to make sense. But I can't quite see it."

	"It was a badly fumbled job, really," said Sister Mary Magdalene. "If an Earthman had done it, you'd have spotted him immediately."

	Again the Major nodded. "I agree. That much of the picture is clear. It was one of those three. But unless we know which one, and know beyond any smidgen of doubt, we don't dare make any accusations."

	The nun turned to Captain Lehmann. "Did your lab men find out where that gun was discharged?"

	"Why, yes. We found faint burn marks on the floor near the door to Vor Nollig's room."

	"In the corridor outside, about four or five feet away?"

	"That's right."

	"Now—and this is important—where were they in relation to the door? I mean, if a person were facing the door, looking at someone inside the room, would the burn marks be behind him or in front?"

	"Well—let's see—the door opens in, so they'd have to stand at an angle—mmm. Behind."

	"I thought so!" Sister Mary Magdalene exclaimed in triumph.

	Major Brock frowned. "It almost makes sense, but I don't quite—"

	"That's because I have a vital clue that you don't have, Major." 

	"Which is?" 

	She told him.

-

	"We know what was done," said Major Brock levelly. "We know how it was done." He looked the three aliens over. "One of you will tell us why it was done."

	"If you are going to accuse one of us," said Vor Gontakel, rubbing her green hands carefully, "I'm afraid we will have to resist arrest. Is it not called a 'frame'?"

	"Is insult!" snapped Vor Betla. "Is stupid! Is lie!"

	The Major leaned back in his chair and looked at the two Terran diplomats, Bass and Masterson. "What makes this so tough," he said, "is that we don't know the motive. If the plot was hatched by all three of them, we're going to have a hell of a time—excuse me, Sister—proving it, or at least a rough time doing anything about it."

	Masterson considered. "Do you think you could prove it to the satisfaction of an Earth court?"

	"Maybe." Brock paused. "I think so. I'm a cop, not a prosecuting attorney."

	Masterson and Bass conferred a moment. "All right—go ahead," Masterson said finally, "If it's a personal motive, then the other two will be sensible enough to see that the killer has greatly endangered the peace negotiations, besides murdering their leader. And I don't think it's a political motive on the part of all three."

	"Though if it is," Bass interjected, "nothing we say will matter anyhow."

	"Okay," Brock said. "Here's what happened. Sometime early this morning, around two—if Sister Angela's testimony is accurate—the killer went into the laundry room and picked up one of the nun's habits. Then the killer went to the kitchen, got a carving knife, came back and knocked on the door of Vor Nollig's room. Vor Nollig woke and came to the door. She opened the door a crack and saw what appeared to be a nun in the dim corridor. Not suspecting anything, Vor Nollig opened the door wider and stepped into full view. The killer stabbed her in the heart with the knife."

	"Earthman," said Vor Betla positively.

	"No. Where's your heart, Vor Betla?"

	The Pogath patted the base of her throat.

	"Ours is here," Brock said. "An Earthman would have instinctively stabbed much lower, you see."

	Sister Mary Magdalene repressed a smile. The Major was bluffing there. Plenty of human beings had been stabbed in the throat by other human beings.

	Brock said, "But now comes the puzzling part. You do not like cats, Vor Vun. What would you do if one came near you? Are you afraid of them?"

	Vor Vun sniffed. "Afraid? No. They are harmless. They can be frightened easily. I would not pick one up, or allow it too close, but I am not afraid."

	"How about you, Vor Betla?"

	"Do? Don't know. Know nothing of cats, but that they harmless dumb animals. Maybe kick if came too close." 

	"Vor Gontakel?"

	"I too know nothing of cats. I only saw one once."

	"One of you," said the Major judiciously, "is telling an untruth. Let's go on with the story."

	Sister Mary Magdalene watched their faces, trying to read emotion in those alien visages as the Major spoke.

	"The killer did a strange thing. She turned around and saw Felicity, the cat. Possibly it had meowed from behind her and attracted her attention. And what does the killer do? She draws a Brymer beamgun and kills the cat! Why?"

	The Pogatha looked at each other and then back at the Major. Their faces, thought Sister Mary Magdalene, were utterly unreadable.

	"Then the killer picked up the cat, walked outdoors through the rear gate and threw it into the meadow. It was the killer that Sister Angela saw last night, but the killer had pushed the cowl back, so she didn't recognize the fact that it was a nun's habit, not a monk's. When the killer had disposed of the cat, she removed the habit, wrapped the beamgun in it and went into the chapel and put it under one of the pews."

	"Very plausible," said Vor Vun. "But not proof that one of us did it."

	"Not so far. But let's keep plugging. Why did the killer wear the nun's habit?"

	"Because was nun!" said Vor Betla. She pointed an accusing blue finger at Sister Mary Magdalene.

	"No," Brock said. "Because she wanted Vor Nollig to let her get close enough to stab her. You see, we've eliminated you, Vor Betla. You shared the room; you would have been allowed in without question. But Vor Nollig would never have allowed a Green or a Yellow into her room, would she?"

	"No," admitted the Blue, looking troubledly at Vor Vun and Vor Gontakel.

	"Another point in your favor is the fact that the killer looked like a monk to Sister Angela. There are no dark-skinned monks at this cathedral, and Sister Angela would have commented on it if the skin had looked as dark as your does. But colors are almost impossible to see in moonlight. A yellow or light green would have looked pretty much like human skin, and the features at a distance would be hard to recognize as belonging to a Pogath."

	"You are playing on prejudices," said Vor Vun angrily. "This is an inexpensive trick!"

	"A cheap trick," corrected Major Brock. "Except that it isn't. However, we must now prove that it was a Pogath. We've smelled each others' food, haven't we? Now, a burnt cat would smell no differently than, say, a broiled steak—except maybe a little more so. Why would the killer take the trouble to remove the cat from the building? Why not leave it where it was? If she expected to get away with one killing, she could have expected to get away with two. She took the cat out simply because she couldn't stand the overpowering odor! There was no other possible reason to expose herself that way to the possible spying eyes of Sister Angela or any other nun who happened to be looking out the window. It was clever of the killer to think of dropping the wimple back and disposing of the white part of the headdress so that she would appear to be a monk. I imagine it also took a lot of breath-holding to stand to carry that burnt cat that far."

	The Pogatha were definitely eyeing each other now, but the final wedge remained to be driven.

	"Vor Gontakel!" the Major said sharply. "What would you say if I told you that another cat at the far end of the corridor saw you stab Vor Nollig and burn down Felicity?"

	Vor Gontakel looked perfectly unruffled and unperturbed. No Earthman's bluff was going to get by her! "I would say the cat was lying," she said.

-

	"The other two Pogatha got a confession out of her," said Major Brock that evening. "They'll take her back to Pogathan to stand trial."

	Father Destry folded his hands and smiled. "Sister, you seem to have all the makings of a first-class detective. How did you figure out that it was Vor Gontakel? I mean, what started you on that train of thought?"

	"Sister Elizabeth," the nun said. "She told me that Felicity had been murdered. And she had been—murdered, I mean, not just 'killed'. Vor Gontakel saw me talking to the cat, and Felicity meowed back. How was she to know that the cat wasn't intelligent? She knew nothing about Terrestrial life. The other two did. Felicity was murdered because Vor Gontakel thought she was a witness. It was the only possible motive for Felicity's murder."

	"What about the motive for Vor Nollig's murder?" Father Destry said to the Major.

	"Political. There's a group of Greens, it seems, that has the idea the war should go on. Most of the war is being fought by Blues, and if they're wiped out the so-called minority groups could take over. I doubt if it would work that way, but that's what this bunch thinks. Vor Gontakel simply wanted to kill a Blue and have it blamed on the Earthmen in order to stop the peace talks. But there's one thing I think we left untied here, Sister. Have you stopped to wonder why she used a knife on Vor Nollig instead of the beam gun she was carrying?"

	Sister Mary Magdalene nodded. "She didn't want every sister in the place coming out to catch her before she had a chance to cover up. She knew that burnt Pogatha would smell as bad to us as burnt cat did to her. But she didn't have a chance to use a knife on Felicity; the cat would have run away."

	Major Brock nodded in appreciation. "A very neat summation, Sister. I bow to your fine deductive abilities. And now, I imagine, we can get our staff off the cathedral premises and leave you people to your devotions."

	"It's unfortunate we had to meet under such unhappy circumstances, Major," the nun said.

	"But you were marvelously helpful, Sister."

	The Major smiled at the nun, shook Father Destry's hand tentatively, as if uncertain that such a gesture was appropriate, and left. Sister Mary Magdalene sighed gently in relief.

	Police and aliens and all were leaving. The Cathedral was returning to its normal quietude. In the distance the big bell was tolling, and it was time for prayer. She was no longer a detective; she was simply Sister Mary Magdalene of the Sisters of the Holy Nativity.

	It would be good to have peace here again. But, she admitted wryly to herself, the excitement had been a not altogether unwelcome change from normal routine. The thought brought up old memories of a life long buried and sealed away with vows. Sister Mary Magdalene frowned gently, dispelling the thoughts, and quietly began to pray.

The End