The captain agreed to hold the ship until Elfane returned from the hospital. She ran to the elevator with Joe at her heels. In the hospital she was led to a lank Beland nurse with white hair wound into a severe bun.
«Are you his wife?» asked the nurse. «If so will you please make the arrangements for the body.»
«I'm not his wife. I don't care what you do with the body. Tell me, what became of the parcel he brought in here with him?»
«There's no parcel in his room. I remember he brought one in with him–but it's not there now.» Joe asked, «What visitors did he have?»
«I'm not sure. I could find out, I suppose.» Manaolo's last visitors were three Mangs, who had signed unfamiliar names to the register. The corridor attendant had noticed that one of them, an elderly man with a rigid military posture, had emerged from the room carrying a parcel.
Elfane leaned against Joe's shoulder. «That was the pot with the plant in it.» He put his arms around her, patted her dark head. «And now the Mangs have it,» she said hopelessly.
«Excuse me if I'm excessively curious,» said Joe. «But what is there in that pot which makes it so important?»
She looked at him tearfully, finally said, «The second most important living thing in the universe. The only living shoot from the Tree of Life.»
They slowly returned along the blue-tiled corridor toward the ship. Joe said, «I'm not only curious but I'm stupid as well. Why bother to carry a shoot from the Tree of Life all over creation? Unless, of course–»
She nodded. «As I told you we wished to form a bond with the Ballenkarts–a religious bond. This shoot, the Son of the Tree, would be the vital symbol.»
«Then,» said Joe, «the Druids would gradually infiltrate, gradually dominate, until Ballenkarch was another Kyril. Five billion miserable serfs, a million or two high-living Druids, one Tree.» He examined her critically.
«Aren't there any on Kyril who consider the system–well, unbalanced?»
She burnt him with an indignant look. «You're a complete Materialist. On Kyril Materialism is an offense punishable by death.»
« 'Materialism' meaning 'distribution of the profits,' « suggested Joe, «Or maybe 'incitement to rebellion.' «
«Life is a threshold to glory,» said Elfane. «Life is the effort which determines one's place on the Tree. The industrious workers become leaves high in the Scintillance. The sluggard must grope forever through dark slime as a rootlet.»
If Materialism is the sin you seem to believe it is– why do the Druids eat so high off the hog? Which means, live in such pampered luxury? Doesn't it seem strange to you that those who stand to lose the most by 'Materialism' are those most opposed to it?»
«Who are you to criticize?» she cried angrily. «A barbarian as savage as the Ballenkarts! If you were on Kyril your wild talk would quickly be shut off!»
«Still the tin goddess, aren't you?» said Joe contemptuously.
In outraged silence she stalked ahead. Joe grinned to himself, followed her back to the ship.
The lock into the ship opened. Elfane stopped short. «The Son is lost–probably destroyed.» She looked sidewise at Joe. «There is no reason why I should continue to Ballenkarch. My duty is to return home, report to the College of Thearchs.»
Joe rubbed his chin ruefully. He had been hoping that this aspect to the matter would not occur to her. He said tentatively, not quite sure how much anger she felt toward him, «But you left Kyril with Manaolo to escape the life of the palace. The Thearchs will learn every detail of Manaolo's death through their spies.»
She inspected him with an expression unreadable to his Earthly perceptions. «You want me to continue with you?»
«Yes, I do.» «Why?»
«I'm afraid,» said Joe with a sad droop to his mouth, «that you affect me very intensely, very pleasantly. This in spite of your warped philosophy.»
«That was the right answer,» announced Elfane. «Very well, I will continue. Perhaps,» she said importantly, «perhaps I'll be able to persuade the Ballenkarts to worship the Tree on Kyril.»
Joe held his breath for fear of laughing and so offending her once more. She looked at him somberly. «I realize you find me amusing.»
Hableyat stood by the purser's desk. «Ah–back, I see. And Manaolo's assassins have escaped with the Son of the Tree?»
Elfane froze in her tracks. «How did you know?»
«My dear Priestess,» said Hableyat, «the smallest pebble dropped in the pond sends its ripples to the far shore. Indeed, I see that I am perhaps even closer to the true state of affairs than you are.»
«What do you mean by that?»
The port clanged, the steward politely said, «We take off in ten minutes. Priestess, my Lords, may I web you into your berths against the climb into speed?»
Joe awoke from his trance. Remembering the last awakening he jerked up in his web, searched the cabin. But he was alone and the door was locked, bolted, barred as he had arranged it before taking the pill and turning hypnotic patterns on the screen.
Joe jumped out of the hammock, bathed, shaved, climbed into the new suit of blue gabardine he had bought at Junction. Stepping out on the balcony, he found the saloon almost dark. Evidently he had awakened early.
He stopped by the door to Cabin 13, thought of Elfane lying warm and limp within, her dark hair tumbled on the pillow, her face, smoothed of doubts and prideful mannerisms. He put his hand to the door. It was as if something dragged it there. By an effort of will he pulled the arm back, turned, moved along the balcony. He stopped short. Someone sat in the big lounge by the observation port. Joe leaned forward, squinted into the gloom. Hableyat.
Joe continued along the balcony, down the steps. Hableyat made a courtly gesture of greeting. «Sit down, my friend, and join me in my pre-prandial contemplations.»
Joe took a seat. «You awoke early.»
«To the contrary,» said Hableyat. «I did not submit to slumber. I have been sitting here in this lounge six hours and you are the first person I have seen.»
«Whom were you expecting?»
Hableyat allowed a wise expression to form on his yellow face. «I expected no one
Joe said with a sigh, «After all, it's none of
Hableyat waggled his plump forefinger. «No, no, my friend. You are modest. You dissemble. I fear that you have become very much engrossed in the fortunes of the lovely young Priestess and so cannot be considered dispassionate.»
«Put it this way. I don't care whether or not the Druids get their plant life to Ballenkarch. And I don't quite understand why you are so cooperative toward their efforts.» He glanced at Hableyat appraisingly. «If I were the Druids I'd reconsider the whole idea.»
«Ah, my dear fellow,» beamed Hableyat, «you compliment me. But I work in the dark. I grope. There are subtleties I have not yet fathomed. It would surprise you to learn the duplicity of some of our acquaintances.»
«Well, I'm willing to be surprised.»
«For instance–that bald old woman in the black dress, who sits and stares into space like one already dead,
