Lee dismissed Goffism as lunacy and Reparism as stifling. Sherret felt his hackles rise at the mere mention of the word “stifling.”
He objected, “I’ve never thought of Reparism as—” He hedged at the word, and substituted another. “Never thought of it as frustrating. I’ve always pictured it as an open road, leading on and up. And you know where you stand on that road, and everyone recognizes your right to stand there. I don’t say there’s not the odd ease of nepotism but, by and large, promotion depends upon fair and just examinations, merit, length of service, credits awarded for courage and so forth. Not upon chance, right of birth, intrigue, the fantasies of crackpots. Your self- respect, and the respect of others, rests solidly on what you’ve achieved. You know what you can become. So you have a goal in life, a purpose—”
“Horrible!” Lee exclaimed. “Unnatural. Life isn’t like that.”
“No. But it ought to be. Who wants to be natural? Nature is merely doodling around pointlessly. It’s a man’s job to give it an intelligent working plan, a design with significance.”
“Damnation, Earthman, I don’t
Sherret jumped to his feet, flushed and angry.
“If that’s what you think of me, I’ll show you. I’m going along that pass right now—alone.”
He turned and made to go, but a steely grip fastened on his biceps and pinned him to the spot.
“We made a pact to go together, Earthman,” said Lee quietly. “Are you going to walk out on me, too?”
Sherret was silent.
“Sometimes I think politics are more dangerous than the Three-people,” Lee went on. “Let us go together now— while we’re still friends.”
He relaxed his grip. Sherret turned, a little shamefacedly. They looked each other in the eyes seriously. It was a small moment of truth. They knew, and admitted wordlessly, that they had both been postponing the big, vital moment, that the long discussion was largely an excuse for delay.
“Okay,” said Sherret. “I’m ready. Really.”
CHAPTER SIX
« ^ »
THEY WALKED along the valley side by side. The blue had passed into the purple time again, and the place looked unutterably gloomy. Sherret wished the phrase “the valley of the shadow of death” would cease recurring in his mind. He said, “I don’t like the violet hour. Everything bad seems to happen to me then.”
“I rather like it,” said Lee. “It creates a mood of mystery and poetry. See, the lights are on in the village.”
The little houses in the distance had lighted windows.
The two men walked on in preoccupied silence. The mountain walls on either side had become topless in the purple obscurity. Lee was weaponless, but carried the shield. He knew it was probably useless, but he had made a vow. Sherret had brought all his traveling gear. He had private doubts that he would ever see Na-Abiza now, but he had made a promise.
He felt empty inside as they reached the outskirts of the village. It had only the single street, and that was completely deserted. To him it appeared pretty much like a village one could find in the southern Highlands of Scotland. Some neat houses on two floors, some bungalows, a few cottages and shacks. All were detached. Each had its small cultivated garden. There were trees planted at regular intervals to form an avenue.
It was very quiet—but so were Scottish villages. Lights glowed behind window drapes, but some houses were dark and seemed empty.
It was the most ordinary-looking place he’d seen on Amara. The purple was too intense, but apart from that it could be an autumn evening in the purple mists of the Trossachs.
Familiar, harmless.
Nevertheless, he found himself fingering the handle of the machete depending from his belt.
Lee noticed. “Getting edgy, friend?”
