“No. I don't think he does either,” said the captain gloomily.
“Seven, and then four.”
“It'll be the Quisition for me,” said the captain.
Brutha was about to say, “Then rejoice that your soul shall be purified.” But he didn't. And he didn't know why he didn't.
“I'm sorry about that,” he said.
A veneer of surprise overlaid the captain's grief.
“You people usually say something about how the Quisition is good for the soul,” he said.
“I'm sure it is,” said Brutha.
The captain was watching his face intently.
“It's flat, you know,” he said quietly. “I've sailed out into the Rim Ocean. It's flat, and I've seen the Edge, and it moves. Not the Edge. I mean . . . what's down there. They can cut my head off but it will still move.”
“But it will stop moving for you,” said Brutha. “So I should be careful to whom you speak, captain.”
The captain leaned closer.
“The Turtle Moves!” he hissed, and darted away.
“Brutha! ”
Guilt jerked Brutha upright like a hooked fish. He turned around, and sagged with relief. It wasn't Vorbis, it was only God.
He padded over to the place in front of the mast. Om glared up at him.
“Yes?” said Brutha.
“You never come and see me,” said the tortoise. “I know you're busy,” it added sarcastically, “but a quick prayer would be nice, even.”
“I checked you first thing this morning,” said Brutha.
“And I'm hungry.”
“You had a whole melon rind last night.”
“And who had the melon, eh?”
“No, he didn't,” said Brutha. “He eats stale bread and water.”
“Why doesn't he eat fresh bread?”
“He waits for it to get stale.”
“Yes. I expect he does,” said the tortoise.
“Om?”
“What?”
“The captain just said something odd. He said the world is flat and has an edge.”
“Yes? So what?”