“We have appearances to maintain,” the Cardinal replied. “We deal with many beings, Craftsmen not least among them, who find such surroundings preferable to black stone and stoked flames.” As he led the way through the cubicles, Abelard noted a few lamps flickering. He was tall enough to peer over the cube walls; behind one he saw a young tonsured man bent over a table of figures, and a short-haired woman beside him, their heads and shoulders identically slumped.

He followed Bede into his office, which was the kind of office a man like Cardinal Evangelist Bede should have: large and spare save for a few awards on the wall and a small ornate devotional altar that gleamed from frequent use. A monthly calendar on Bede’s desk displayed woodcuts of bulldogs.

“Are you sure this gives the right impression?” Abelard said. “Your partners are dealing with a church, I mean, not a bank.”

“But the church serves as a bank,” Bede replied. “We lend and guarantee and underwrite. A Concern halfway around the globe might borrow from Lord Kos knowing nothing of his doctrine other than that He has power He is willing to lend, for reasonable rates.”

Abelard pointed to the altar. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

He lit a stick of incense and recited a quick prayer. Bede’s voice rumbled beneath his own. When Abelard turned from the altar, the Cardinal’s head was lowered. “You’re worried,” Abelard said.

“Of course,” the Cardinal replied. “It is one thing to recognize a danger and quite another to face it.” He unlocked the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a thick black folder, which he opened, then turned so Abelard could read. “By showing you this I am, let’s say stretching, a thousand confidentiality agreements. I bind you to silence by your faith in God and your loyalty to the church.”

“I accept your charge,” Abelard said automatically. He stuck his cigarette behind his ear and ran a finger down the margin of the first page. Frowned. Turned to the second, and the third. Hesitated over a pie chart, then a bar graph, then back to the pie chart. Fanned the remaining 150 or so pages. “What is this?”

“St. Hilliard’s Grease,” Bede said. He sounded tired.

“I don’t understand. I’m pretty sure you made up most of the words here.”

“We had to. There weren’t words for what we were doing when we started doing it.” Bede unlocked the larger, second drawer of his desk. Abelard craned his neck and saw within a library of similar black folders. “This isn’t everything, of course. There are piles and piles in the church archives. I know you Technical types don’t enjoy thinking of our work this way—or of our God this way either—but we don’t have the luxury of siloed faith tonight.”

Abelard returned to the pie chart. “Does this mean what I think?”