Free Eros Descending: Book 3 of Tales of the Velvet Comet by Mike Resnick Page A

what gives you the right to try to correct Vainmill?” said Simon.
    “Since you insist on speaking about me as if I weren't here, I'll make it easier for you,” said Corinne angrily. She took her grandson's hand. “Come along, Jeremy. You didn't come here to watch your uncle start a family fight.” She turned on her heel and left the room, half-pulling Jeremy behind her.
    “I think you owe her an apology,” said Christina.
    “I think she owes one to God,” said Simon.
    “You're both wrong,” said Gold. He waited until he had their attention. “Your mother owes no one an apology. But you, Simon, have made a very decent woman unhappy. I think it's you who owes God the apology.”
    “Do you think God wants her painting her face and wearing her hair like that?” said Simon. “If you truly do, then I'll apologize to all parties involved.”
    Gold sighed. “We lead a harsh, spare existence, Simon. I know that your mother likes music, and yet she willingly cut herself off from it when our doctrine was modified. She is a voracious reader, and yet our religion severely limits her choice of reading matter.”
    He paused. “Most men of my stature have impressive houses and a multitude of luxuries that go along with them; but because we pass most of our personal income on to the needy, we live in this apartment, we use public transportation, and when something breaks we repair it rather than replace it. Your mother has precious few frivolous pleasures in her life; why not allow her this one?”
    “You didn't answer my question,” said Simon.
    “Surely you don't equate her hairdo with Vainmill's treatment of aliens or ownership of the Velvet Comet ?” said Gold.
    “You still didn't answer me: Do you think God wants her wearing makeup and styling her hair?”
    Gold stared at his son and sighed again. “No,” he admitted at last. “No, I don't.”
    “Then I'll make no apology.”
    “And you wonder why Bob refuses to join us for dinner!” said Christina.
    “The truth makes him uncomfortable,” said Simon.
    “ You make him uncomfortable,” replied Christina. “There's not an ounce of compassion in you.”
    “Your husband and I were both raised as Jesus Pures,” said Simon. “The only difference is that I don't make any compromises with my beliefs.”
    “Neither does he!” she shot back heatedly.
    “Oh, come on,” said Simon. “He eats meat, he sings, he works on the Sabbath, he —”
    “That's not fair!” snapped Christina. “You know why he does those things. He's an exobiologist: he spends a considerable amount of his time in the field with aliens. There are some races that can only communicate musically, just as there are some that would be offended if he didn't share their food with them.”
    “That's no excuse for behaving contrary to the dictates of his religion.”
    “Why, you pompous ass!” she exploded. “You sit around beating your breast about our shabby treatment of aliens, and when somebody actually goes out and tries to do something about it, you climb into you pulpit and condemn him! I don't have to listen to this kind of drivel!”
    She walked out of the room.
    “Do you plan to drive me out of the room, too?” inquired Gold dryly. “Or do you think you might calm down a little?”
    “I'm perfectly calm,” answered Simon.
    “You seem to be in a minority,” remarked Gold.
    “I will ask you again: was anything I said false?”
    “No.
    “Well, then?”
    “Simon, I agree with you that there are no degrees of sin,” began Gold. “One either breaks God's laws or one doesn't. But there are degrees of commitment.”
    “Commitment?” asked Simon, puzzled.
    “Commitment,” repeated Gold. “None of us is perfect. We all break God's laws, even you. But there is a clearly discernible difference between a Fiona Bradley, who has made a clear commitment to perpetuating Vainmill's corporate sins, and your mother and brother-in-law, who are well-intentioned but occasionally slip