Angado

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 examine 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