Islands in the Net

Laura took people from whom she expected the squeeze. The place looked suitably modest and penurious. David had dec- orated it from his wrecking expeditions: antique vinyl car seats and a modular desk in aged beige plastic. The ceiling light shone through a perforated hubcap.

"Coffee?" Laura said.

"No, thank you. I never take caffeine."

"I see." Laura put the pot aside. "What can we do for you, Reverend?"

"You and I have much in common," Reverend Morgan said. "We share a confidence in Galveston's future. And we both have a stake in the tourist industry." She paused. "I understand your husband designed this building."

"Yes, he did."

"It's `Organic Baroque,' isn't it? A style that respects

Mother Earth. That shows a broad-minded approach on your part. Forward-looking and progressive."

"Thank you very much." Here it comes, Laura thought.

"Our Church would like to help you expand services to your corporate guests. Do you know the Church of Ishtar?"

"I'm not sure I follow you," Laura said carefully. "We at

Rizome consider religion a private matter."

"We Temple women believe in the divinity of the sexual act." Reverend Morgan leaned back in her bucket seat, strok- ing her hair with both hands. "The erotic power of the

Goddess can destroy evil."

The slogan found a niche in Laura's memory. "I see,"

Laura said politely. "The Church of Ishtar. I know your movement, but I hadn't recognized the name."

"It's a new name-old principles. You're too young to remember the Cold War." Like many of her generation, the reverend seemed to have a positive nostalgia for it the good old bilateral days. When things were simpler and every morn- ing might be your last. "Because we put an end to it. We invoked the Goddess to take the war out of men. We melted the cold war with divine body heat. " The reverend sniffed.

"Male power mongers claimed the credit, of course. But the triumph belonged to our Goddess. She saved Mother Earth from the nuclear madness. And She continues to heal society today."

Laura nodded helpfully.

"Galveston lives by tourism, Mrs. Webster. And tourists expect certain amenities. Our Church has come to an arrange- ment with the city and the police. We'd like an understanding with your group as well."

Laura rubbed her chin. "I think I can follow your reason- ing, Reverend."

"No civilization has ever existed without us," the reverend said coolly. "The Holy Prostitute is an ancient, universal figure. The Patriarchy degraded and oppressed her. But we restore her ancient role as comforter and healer."

"I was about to mention the medical angle," Laura said.

"Oh, yes," said the reverend. "We take the full range of precautions. Clients are tested for syphilis, gonorrhea, chlamydia, and herpes, as well as the retroviruses. All our temples have fully equipped clinics. Sexual disease rates drop dramatically wherever we practice our art-I can show you statistics. We also offer health insurance. And we guarantee confidentiality, of course."

"It's a very interesting proposal," Laura said, tapping her desk with a pencil. "But it's not a decision I can make on my own. I'll be happy to take your ideas to our Central Commit- tee." She took a breath. The air in the tiny room held the smoky reek of the reverend's patchouli. The smell of mad- ness, Laura thought suddenly. "You have to understand that

Rizome may have some difficulties with this. Rizome favors strong social ties in its associates. It's part of our corporate philosophy. Some of us might consider prostitution a sign of social breakdown."

The reverend spread her hands and smiled. "I've heard about Rizome's policies. You're economic democrats-I ad- mire that. As a church, a business, and a political movement, we're a new-mille

She shrugged. "Why risk their health with amateur or criminal groups? We Temple women are safe, dependable, and eco- nomically sensible. The Church stands ready to do business."

Laura dug into her desk. "Let me give you one of our brochures. "

The reverend opened her purse. "Have a few of ours. I have some campaign pamphlets-I'm ru

Council."

Laura looked the pamphlets over. They were slickly printed.

The margins were dotted with ankh symbols, yin-yangs, and chalices. Laura sca

"Victimless crimes are tools of Patriarchal oppression."

The reverend dug in her purse and produced an enameled pillbox. "A few of these will argue the case better than I can." She dropped three red capsules on the desktop. "Try them, Mrs. Webster. As a gift from the Church. Astonish your husband."

"I beg your pardon?" Laura said.

"Remember the giddiness of first love? The sense that the whole world had new meaning, because of him? Wouldn't you like to recapture that? Most women would. It's an intoxi- cating feeling, isn't it? And these are the intoxicants."

Laura stared at the pills. "Are you telling me these are love potions?"

The reverend shifted uncomfortably, with a whisper of black silk against vinyl. "Mrs. Webster, please don't mistake me for a witch. The Church of Wicca are reactionaries. And no, these aren't love potions, not in the folklore sense. They only stir that rush of emotion-they can't direct it at anyone.

You do that for yourself."

"It sounds hazardous," Laura said.

"Then it's the sort of danger women were born for!" the reverend said. "Do you ever read romance novels? Millions do, for this same thrill. _ Or eat chocolate? Chocolate is a lover's gift, and there's reason behind the tradition. Ask a chemist about chocolate and serotonin precursors sometime."

The reverend touched her forehead. "It all comes to the same, up here. Neurochemistry." She pointed to the table.

"Chemistry in those pills. They're natural substances, cre- ations of the Goddess. Part of the feminine soul."

Somewhere along the line, Laura thought, the conversation had gently peeled loose from sanity. It was like falling asleep on an air raft and waking up far out to sea. The important thing was not to panic. "Are they legal?" Laura said.

Reverend Morgan picked up a pill with her lacquered nails and ate it. "No blood test would show a thing. You can't be prosecuted for the natural contents of your own brain. And no, they're not illegal. Yet. Praise the Goddess, the Patriar- chy's laws still lag behind advances in chemistry."

"I can't accept these," Laura said. "They must be valu- able. It's conflict of interest." Laura picked them up and stood, reaching over the desk.

"This is the modern age, Mrs. Webster. Gene-spliced bacte- ria can make drugs by the ton. Friends of ours can make them for thirty cents each." Reverend Morgan rose to her feet.

"You're sure?" She slipped the pills back in her purse.

"Come and see us if you change your mind. Life with one man can go stale very easily. Believe me, we know. And if that happens, we can help you." She paused meditatively.

"In any of several different ways."

Laura smiled tightly. "Good luck with your campaign,

Reverend."

"Thank you. I appreciate your good wishes. As our mayor always says, Galveston is Fun City. It's up to all of us to see it stays that way."

Laura ushered her outside. She watched from the walkway as the reverend slipped into a self-driven van. The van whirred off. A flock of brown pelicans crossed the island, headed for

Karankawa Bay. The autumn sun shone brightly. It was still the same sun and the same clouds. The sun didn't care about the landscape inside people's heads.

She went back in. Mrs. Rodriguez looked up from behind the front desk, blinking. "I'm glad my old man is no young- er, " she said. "La puta, eh? A whore. She's no friend to us married women, Laurita."