Angado

'Like hell he does. He didn't even wait for passengers or cargo.'

An assumption which displayed Angado's ignorance of free-trader operations. Ryder was impatient but neither crazy nor a fool. He would have contacted the field-agent by radio, have learned there were no passengers or cargo bound for his next world of call, and have decided not to waste time. A gambler risking that the generator would hold and that he could get profitable commissions if he beat other vessels.

Things Dumarest didn't bother to explain; the problem at hand was enough.

To Dexter he said, 'Where is this stuff to be taken? Where is the church?'

'We have it with us.' Brother Dexter gestured at the bales. 'We have none established here on Yuanka as yet but the authorities have given us permission to stay.'

'And build?'

'Yes. Beyond the field. In sector nine.' The monk pointed to where the wind fluttered a tangle of pennants; strips and fragments of cloth and plastic adorning a sleazy collection of hovels. 'Over there, I think. In Lowtown.'

On every world they were the same; the repositories of the stranded, the deprived, the desperate. Dumping grounds for the unwanted and differing only in the degree of filth, stench and squalor they displayed. Shacks made of rubbish; mounds of dirt roofed with discarded sheets of plastic, hammered tin, cartons, the remains of packing cases. Huts fashioned of any scrap material to hand. The home of vice and crime, of degeneracy and poverty.

The monks' new home.

Brother Dexter set to work as soon as the wind eased and by the time it had died the church had taken shape. A tent firmly held by stakes, ropes and pegs. One containing space for a communal kitchen, a dispensary, accommodation for the monks and the all-important cubicle containing the benediction light. The portable church now incorporated into the main structure but with its entrance outside. Even before it was finished the line had begun to form.

'Patience.' Brother Galpin, young, trying hard to practice the virtue he preached, held up an admonishing hand. 'Give us time to get established.'

'You have food?' The woman was in her thirties and looked twice as old. A shawl was draped over rounded shoulders and hugged to her hollow chest. 'Please, Brother, you have food?'

'And medicine?' Another woman, almost a twin of the first, thrust forward, her face anxious. 'My man is sick, dying, medicine could save him. You have medicine?'

'Some. Antibiotics and-'

'You will dispense it?' The woman's voice rose with kindled hope. 'Give it free? We can't pay and my man is dying!'

'And my child!'

'My brother and…'

'Food! I'm too weak to work!'

'Give me… Give… Give…'

Brother Galpin retreated from the sudden clamor, the outstretched hands and avid faces. A man beyond his depth and almost overwhelmed. He hit one of the ropes holding the tent, tripped and would have fallen if Dumarest hadn't caught his arm.

'Back!' He confronted the mob, face framed by the thrown-back cowl of his borrowed robe, blazed with a harsh determination. 'Back, all of you! Get about your business!'

'But, Brother-'

'Come back tomorrow.' Dumarest glared at the speaker, a thin runt of a man with a face like a weasel. 'If you want to stay you can work. Grab a shovel and start clearing away this grit. We need a trench running over there. A wall built just here. Who will volunteer?'

'I'd help but I'm sick.' The weasel-faced man coughed and spat blood. 'See? My lungs are gone. The mines did that. I need medicine or I'll die.'

'And me! I need it more than him. He's lying, anyway, that blood came from a bitten cheek.' Another man, stocky, his face bitter, thrust the other to one side. 'Help those who need it most, Brother. My wife is dying. You can save her.'

'Maybe.' Dumarest looked at him. 'Name?'

'Worsley. Carl Worsley. You want help I'll arrange it. But my wife-'

'Get the help,' said Dumarest. 'The quicker we get settled the sooner we can start helping.' He added, 'But your wife needn't wait. Bring her as soon as you can.'

She was thin, emaciated, with huge, luminous eyes. Her hair, once rich and dark with the sheen of natural oil, hung dull and lank over bony shoulders and shriveled breasts. Her cheeks, hollow, held the flush of fever and when she breathed her chest echoed to a liquid gurgling.

Looking at Dumarest, Brother Kollar shook his head.

'No!' Worsley had seen the gesture. 'No, she can't be beyond help! Dear God, no!'

'I'm sorry.' Kollar had seen such scenes too often but always he felt the pain as much as those more personally involved. 'The tissue degeneration is too far advanced for anything we can do. I can ease her pain and give her hypnotic conditioning but-'

'What's that?'

Dumarest said, 'She will be in a subjective world in which there will be no pain, no fear. Suggestion will give her as much happiness as she could hope for and the trance will last until she no longer needs it.'

'Until she dies, you mean?' Worsley clenched his fists as Dumarest nodded. 'You thinking of passing her out?'

'No, but if she was my wife I wouldn't hesitate.'

'You? A monk? Why, you bastard I-'

'I'm not a monk,' said Dumarest sharply. 'And watch your mouth. You came here begging, remember. Pleading for what help could be given. Well, that's it. All of it. Did you hope for a miracle?'

'I…' Worsley swallowed, his eyes filling with moisture. 'I thought, I'd hoped-God! Dear God don't let her die!'

A useless prayer and he knew it. Surgery could save the woman; cryogenic storage while new lungs were grown from fragments of her own tissue. Her body laved with selected antibiotics, strengthened with intravenous feeding, bolstered with supportive mechanisms. A long and tedious process even with the aid of slow time but she would live.

All it took was money.

Money Worsley didn't have. What no one in any Lowtown had. The stench which filled the air was the reek of abject poverty.

* * *

The dust storms were intermittent and happened only when strong winds blew from the northeast after a dry period. The grit they carried was abrasive, fretting the thin coverings and opening roofs to the sky. Even as the church was being constructed men were busy patching their hovels.

Watching them Angado said, 'They remind me of bees. Always working, never still, yet what they do can be wiped out in a single day. As a hive is robbed of the honey it may have taken months to store. Yet they go on doing the same old thing again and again.' He glanced at the church. 'Like our friends the monks. Preaching, giving aid, comfort, food when they have it. And for what?'

'Do they need a reason?'

'They claim to have one.'

'A goal,' said Dumarest. 'They want to change the way men behave. Those who preach peace have always wanted that. And, always, they have failed.'

As the monks on Yuanka would fail. As they would on all bleak and hostile worlds. Jungles in which to be tolerant was to be dead.

Dumarest narrowed his eyes as he studied the men Worsley had gathered. Volunteers all, but some had subtle differences from the majority. They worked but accomplished little and seemed too interested in the area leading toward the heart of Lowtown. Watching for something, he guessed, or waiting for someone. He had a