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  He would never see it. No monk now alive would ever do that. Men bred too fast and traveled too far but it was something to live for. A purpose to his existence.

  One which now could be near its end.

  "Brother!" Lloyd came toward him, face anxious, the stubbled skull framed by his thrown-back cowl. "I saw you stagger," he said. "For a moment I thought you would collapse."

  "A momentary dizziness caused by the smoke." A possibility and so not wholly a lie. And to increase the other's concern would not be kind. "The others?"

  "At their duties. Brother Kollar is with Sadoria."

  "Any improvement?"

  "None." Lloyd hesitated, scraping at the dirt with a sandal. "Kollar thinks he will die."

  And, with the engineer, would go their only hope of repairing the Guilia. Dexter looked at the ship where it had come to rest. A good landing; Ryder, though a hard captain, knew his job, but even though the vessel appeared undamaged its heart was dead. The generator which alone could free them from the prison they were in.

  Dexter added more damp leaves to the fire, stubborn in his refusal to yield to incapacity. The smoke plumed thicker, rising in a twisting column to be caught by the higher winds which shredded it and carried it toward the soaring wall of the escarpment. A cliff which alone would be an attraction for tourists if ever it could be tamed. If Velor could be tamed with it. But even if both were done, tourists were few in the Burdinnion and the chance of rescue was remote.

  Negative thoughts which dulled the day and Dexter turned from the fire, his face resolute. If they could do nothing else the monks must radiate a calm serenity and the conviction that all would be well. A duty owed to the captain, the crew, the other passengers the Guilia had carried. A hard bunch but each had their inner secrets, their private fears. All the need for consolation. To provide it the monks had set up their portable church manned now by Boyle.

  Before him, through the mesh dividing the booth, he could see the taut, strained face, the eyes wild, the brow dewed with sweat. Sforza Bux, small in more ways than one, now trembling with emotion as he eased his soul.

  The litany of sin was all too familiar; an outpouring limited by the capabilities of the human condition, but magnified by an uneasy conscience.

  "… cheated, Brother. I looked at the bottom card and knew Ranevsky couldn't have held four aces so I upped the stake and forced him to call. But I shouldn't have won and shouldn't have taken the money because it was wrong to cheat. And I found some berries yesterday which I didn't turn in. I ate them instead and that was cheating too of a kind. I wasn't even hungry."

  A man wanting to be clean and decent but trapped in the conditioning imposed by his environment. Wanting to rid himself of guilt and make a clean start and doomed to fail no matter how often he tried. But he tried-that was the important thing. And, trying, yielded himself to the power of the Church.

  "Cheating is a sin," said Boyle. "It is tantamount to lying and a partner to theft. It is dishonest and unworthy and lessens those who yield to it. In the situation we are in it is even more heinous for unless we have mutual trust we are less than beasts. Think now of the sins you have done. Assess them in your mind. Void them with words of requital."

  After a moment Boyle threw a switch.

  "Look into the light of forgiveness," he said gently. "Bathe in the flame of righteousness and be cleansed of all pain, all sin. Yield to the benediction of the Universal Brotherhood."

  The pale face of Sforza Bux shone with reflected color as he stared into the benediction light. A swirling kaleidoscope of shifting hues which gave his features an ethereal quality. The light was hypnotic, the subject subservient, the monk a trained master of his craft. Under his suggestion the suppliant relaxed to slip into a deeper trance. One in which he underwent a stringent penance; time encapsulated to provide a subjective torment of being robbed, cheated, denied and yet accepting all to find a final absolution.

  Later he would be given the bread of forgiveness and, if on too many worlds too many suppliants came to kneel before the benediction light for the sake of the food alone, it was a fair exchange. For all who so knelt were conditioned against the act of murder.

  * * *

  Captain Ryder was short, square, his face creased with a mesh of lines, the pattern marred by a deep scar running over one cheek. Surgery could have removed it but he retained it for the bonus it gave to his appearance. Dealing with the scum he met in the Burdinnion every little bit helped.

  Now he scowled at the two men standing before him. Both looked like hell, clothing worn, chafed, showing rents. Faces almost identical in their marks of privation. But, instinctively, he sensed the elder of the two was the leader.

  To Dumarest he snapped, "How the hell did you get here?"

  "We followed your smoke."

  "I don't mean that. We registered no ship since we landed. That's over two weeks ago-closer to three. If you had a camp why didn't you answer our beacon?"

  Dumarest said, "What good would it have done? Would you have come for us?"

  "No-but you could have come to us. Your ship-" Ryder broke off then said, questioningly, "You do have a ship?"

  "No."

  "Then what the hell are you doing here?"

  "We're all that's left of a survey team," said Dumarest quickly. "Five of us were dropped on the plateau together with equipment and supplies for six months. That was a month ago. The Tziak-Wenko Consortium. You may know of them."

  Ryder frowned and shook his head.

  "Based on Chalowe," said Dumarest. "A new and ambitious outfit. They send out teams to make a survey and then figure if it's worth developing the area. We picked this dump." He spat in the dirt. "For me you can keep it."

  "Trouble?"

  "Three days after landing. A storm first then we got hit by predators. They killed two and hurt the other so bad he only lasted three days. The radio was smashed, the supplies spoiled and scattered, we were lucky to stay alive. Then we saw you land and headed toward where we figured you'd be." Dumarest held up his wrist and displayed the ruined compass. "If you hadn't made smoke we'd never have found you."

  "That was the monks." Ryder jerked his head to where they stood before the church. "God knows why they bother. There's no one around to see it. I guess they hope to keep up morale. Six months, you say?"

  "That's right."

  "So your ship won't be back for another five."

  "At least. That's why we'd like to take passage with you. How bad is the damage?" Dumarest added, "We saw you land and spotted the color of your field. Phase malfunction, right? How long will it take your engineer to effect repairs?"

  Ryder said, curtly, "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

  Sadoria lay in his cabin, a place ornamented with illustrations in vivid color depicting an age-old act in countless variations. Obscenity somehow enhanced by the presence of the monk who sat at the side of the cot. Like all monks, Brother Kollar had trained in basic medicine but he had pursued his studies further than most. Under his hands the writhing figure of the engineer eased a little but his droning babble never ceased.

  "Traumatic shock induced by drug abuse," explained the monk. "In a sense his brain has been short-circuited and the censor divorced from the speech center. At this moment he is lost in a world of violent hallucinations and, inevitably, his psychosomatic reactions will result in a total degeneration of all faculties." His hands moved a little, touching the throat, the nerves of the neck. "I am trying to induce a somnolent period so as to give him hypnotic therapy."

  "Will it cure him?"

  "No, but it will help his pain." The monk met Dumarest's eyes. "It's all I can do, brother."

  Outside the cabin Angado halted in the passage and shook his head. "That poor devil! If ever that happens to me-"

  "Forget him." Dumarest was impatient. "I want the truth now. Can you repair this ship?"

  "I could try."

  "Anyone can do that. Can you repair it?"

  "I'd have to e
xamine the generator first. I guess the captain would give permission for that."

  "We'll find out. Let me handle it. Just don't volunteer information. If I ask a question you signal an answer; one blink for yes, two for no. Got it?"

  "Yes, but-"

  "When this ship leaves we have to be on it. Making a deal may not be easy. If the captain ever finds out we were dumped and why it'll be impossible." Dumarest glanced along the passage. "Get to the engine room. I'll meet you there with Ryder."

  He was in the control room with his navigator and the steward. They, together with the engineer, formed the entire complement of the Guilia. Normal for the kind of vessel it was; a free-trader with each crew member sharing in the profits and all doing a double stint for the sake of a larger cut. The engine room reflected Sadoria's personality, a place thick with grime and plastered with lurid pictures. Only the generator looked clean.

  Ryder frowned as he saw Angado kneeling beside it. He'd already removed one cover and was at work on a second.

  Dumarest said, watching his eyes, "How does it look so far? Bad? I thought it might be. Can you do anything with it? Good." He looked at the captain. "Do you want us to go ahead or would you rather wait for rescue?"

  A loaded question. The radio beacon signaling the position of the vessel and calling for help emitted a wide-range broadcast but one now dampened and blocked by the bulk of the planet. Even if picked up there was no certainty of response. Rescue was determined by the possibility of recompense and, if too much trouble, was rarely attempted.

  Ryder said, "If you can repair it go ahead."

  "And?"

  "We'll talk about that when it's done."

  "Before it's done," said Dumarest. "Passage for the both of us to your next world of landing and-"

  "When it's done!" snarled Ryder. "What's the good of haggling over something until we've got it?"

  He stormed away, a man living on his nerves, one too close to bankruptcy to have the patience to argue. Rescue would ruin him but without it he was stuck on a hostile world. Dumarest was his only chance but he hated to admit it.

  "He'll pay." Angado looked up from the generator. "He'll have no choice."

  "There's always a choice," said Dumarest. "Promises can be broken and a fee given can always be taken back. But if I press him hard then ease off he'll be too grateful to hold a grudge. He'll give us passage and what he can afford. It won't be much but he won't resent giving it." He looked at the exposed interior of the generator. The components seemed undamaged but one unit showed a shimmering rainbow effect where it faced the others. "Is that it?"

  "If I said it wasn't?"

  "You'd be a liar. Phase malfunction is confined to the similarity units. A burn-out would have left a deposit. An overload the same but in a different sector."

  "And power-pulse feedback?"

  "The regulator takes care of that."

  "And if it doesn't?" Angado didn't wait for an answer. "You're dead, that's what. Or drifting. You know a lot about generators, Earl. Where did you study?"

  On ships and helped by a man long dead. Dumarest saw his face pictured on the shining surface of the generator units, multiplied by conduits, flat planes, distorted by convex swellings. The face of the captain of the first ship he had ever seen. One in which he had stowed away to be found, threatened with eviction, saved by an old man's kindly whim.

  "Earl?"

  "It doesn't matter." Dumarest squeezed shut his eyes and shook his head to clear it of fogging memories. "How long will you be?"

  "As long as it takes." Angado smiled as he gave a remembered answer to the question. "As you told me on the plain."

  "Days? Weeks?"

  "It's a matter of synchronization. That and balance of similarity. Nine nines is as good as we're ever going to get and we can't reach that without specialized equipment, which isn't here. Seven nines is good. Five nines is the least we can get away with. I'll have to use a mirror-reflection phaseometer and I'll need help to compute the trial-and-error readings. The first I can rig from what's available. The second?"

  "I can manage that."

  "Good," said Angado. "Let's get to it."

  * * *

  It had been raining and the streets of Anfisa held an unaccustomed shine. A gleam in which the drooping pennants showed like smeared patches of oily hues and the rounded domes with their spike ornamentations were reflected in a profusion of altered shapes so that the town seemed to be haunted by bizarre creatures of some undersea forest.

  An association Avro didn't make as he stood at the window looking toward the distant field, the spot where his ship was resting. Where it had rested for days now after a journey in which three of the crew had died and two others had suffered irreparable damage to hearts and kidneys.

  That sacrifice had been unnecessary and stood as a silent accusation.

  What had gone wrong?

  The Thorn was behind schedule and no message had been received to give the reason. Accident? Damage? A burst engine causing the vessel to drift helplessly in space between the stars?

  Madness?

  The possibilities were endless and to speculate a waste of mental energy. It was time to search out facts and to be more determined than before. The factor could have been careless or hiding the truth for reasons of his own. The Thorn, on a regular route, would have gained friends and backers who needed to protect their investment.

  Avro saw a touch of scarlet in the street below. The flash of color vanishing as it was spotted. Minutes later Byrne knocked and entered the chamber.

  "Master!" The acolyte bowed. "I have-"

  "News? What of the Thorn?"

  Impatience displayed with an interruption; behavior so alien to normal procedure as to cause the acolyte to stand mute. A silent reproof Avro recognized as he knew the reason. Time had been wasted-Byrne could have been about to tell him what he had demanded to know. The interruption was a blatant display of inefficient conduct.

  He said evenly, "You may report."

  "Yes, Master." This time there was no bow. "I have gathered all available information from the field as you ordered. Nothing new has been gained but Cyber Ishaq arrived on the Panoyan as I was questioning Amontabo, the Hausi agent. Cyber Ishaq waits outside."

  He was too young, too ambitious, too eager to make his mark. Avro studied him as he walked forward to make his greeting, the bow almost perfunctory as if he resented the older man's superior rank. Yet, superficially, he was deferential.

  "I was ordered to report to you and place myself at your disposal," he said. "It meant terminating my association with the Matriarch of Lunt. However, as I assured her, a replacement will be provided. I understand you are here to meet the Thorn."

  "That is so." The information would have been relayed to Ishaq from Central Intelligence-but why hadn't he been told of the man's coming? Avro added, "The ship is behind schedule. No reason has yet been given to account for the delay."

  "I can provide it. The vessel is under quarantine."

  "Quarantine?"

  "It is now in closed orbit around this planet." If Ishaq took a mental delight in displaying his superior knowledge he didn't show it. "The information has been kept secret for obvious reasons. The suspicion of plague would create a panic and affect the financial welfare of this world."

  "How do you know this?"

  "A radio message was picked up by one of our monitoring stations. A monk of the Church, Brother Jofre, was informing his superior of an incident that happened during flight. A sudden illness followed by the forced abandonment of two passengers. The superior must have informed the appropriate authorities." Ishaq paused then added, "It was something they dared not ignore."

  The Church had friends in high places and the Cyclan had long known of the net of communication built on the super-radios incorporated into every benediction light. A system not to be compared to the efficient working of Central Intelligence but good enough for the activities of the monks.

  Why had Jofre r
adioed ahead?

  Had it been an act of revenge against Krogstad for his high-handed action or a genuine concern for the people of Anfisa? A question now without relevance; the Thorn was in quarantine. The ship and all it held isolated and beyond reach.

  Avro said, "The passengers who were evicted. Was Dumarest one of them?"

  "That has not been determined. Nor has his presence on the vessel."

  "You doubt the probability?"

  "The fact. It has yet to be verified."

  The truth as Avro knew; no probability could be regarded as certain and his own convictions were not enough. If Dumarest was on the Thorn he was safely held. The ship was now a prison. But if he hadn't been on it or was no longer on it-what then?

  Wait?

  If Dumarest was free then delay increased the risk of losing him. Yet to contact the Thorn direct would be to reveal an interest it was better to keep hidden.

  Amontabo solved the problem.

  The Hausi was thick-set, strongly built, his dark cheeks slashed with the livid scars which were the castemark of his Guild. A man who never lied, but that was not to say he always told all of the truth. A dealer, go-between, agent, proxy-the Hausi performed a variety of needed roles. And Amontabo knew of the power of the Cyclan.

  He bowed as he entered the chamber, first to Avro then to Ishaq. No accident, he had taken the trouble to discover who was senior. His words, when he spoke, were carefully aimed between the two.

  "My lords, it has been an honor to have served you. I only trust the information I was able to gain will be of value. Of course, there were difficulties, a matter of certain arrangements which had to be made-closed beam radio with double scrambler is not something used every day."