Joe swung a glance around the terminal. «From the look of that truss I'd say they were pretty shaky on the slide-rule.»
The other pursued his lips in dubious agreement. «And of course the Druids are xenophobic to a high degree. A new face represents a spy.»
Joe nodded, grinned. «I've noticed that. The first Druid I see raked me over the coals. Called me a Mang spy, whatever that is.»
The plump man nodded. «It is what I am.»
«A Mang–or a spy?»
«Both. There is small attempt at stealth. It is admitted. Every Mang on Kyril is a spy. Likewise with the Druids on Mangtse. The two worlds are striving for dominance, economic at the moment, and there is a great deal of rancor between us.» He rubbed his chin further. «You want a position then, with remuneration?»
«Correct,» said Joe. «But no spying. I'm not mixing in politics. That's out. Life's too short as it is.»
The Mang made a reassuring gesture. «Of course. Now as I mentioned the Druids are an emotional race. Devious. Perhaps we can play on these qualities. Suppose you come with me to Divinal. I have an appointment with the District Thearch and if I boast to him about the efficient technician I have taken into my service...» He left the rest of the sentence floating, nodded owlishly at Joe. «This way then.»
Joe followed him through the terminal, along an arcade lined with shops to a parking area. Joe glanced down the line of air-cars. Antique design, he thought –slipshod construction.
The Mang motioned him into the largest of these cars. «To Divinal,» he told the waiting driver.
The car arose, slanted up across the gray-green landscape. For all the apparent productivity of the land the country affected Joe unpleasantly. The villages were small, cramped and the streets and alleys glistened with stagnant water. In the fields he could see teams of men-six, ten, twenty–dragging cultivators. A dreary uninspiring landscape.
«Five billion peasants,» said the Mang. «The Laity. Two million Druids. And one Tree.»
Joe made a noncommittal sound. The Mang lapsed into silence. Farms below–interminable blocks, checks, rectangles, each a different tone of green, brown or gray. A myriad conical huts leaking smoke huddled in the corners of the fields. And ahead the Tree bulked taller, blacker, more massive.
Presently ornate white stone palaces appeared, huddled among the buttressed roots, and the car slanted down over the heavy roofs. Joe glimpsed a forest of looping balustrades, intricate panels, mullioned skylights, gargoyles, columns, embellished piers.
Then the car set down on a plat in front of a long high block of a structure, reminding Joe vaguely of the Palace at Versailles. To either side were carefully tended gardens, tessellated walks, fountains, statuary. And behind rose the Tree with its foliage hanging miles overhead.
The Mang alighted, turned to Joe. «If you'll remove the side panel to the generator space of this car and act as if you are making a minor repair I believe you will shortly be offered a lucrative post.»
Joe said uncomfortably, «You're going to a great deal of effort for a stranger. Are you a– philanthropist?»
The Mang said cheerfully, «Oh no. No,
«So, in my own–ah–mission I find that many persons have special talents or knowledges which turn out to be invaluable. Therefore I cultivate as wide and amicable an acquaintanceship as possible.»
Joe smiled thinly. «Does it pay off?»
«Oh indeed. And then,» said the plump man blandly, «courtesy is a reward in itself. There is an incalculable satisfaction in helpful conduct. Please don't consider yourself under obligation of any sort.»
Jim thought, without expressing himself aloud, «I won't.»
The plump man departed, crossed the plat to a great door of carved bronze.
Joe hesitated a moment. Then, perceiving nothing to be lost by following instructions, he undamped the side panel. A band of lead held it in place like a seal. Joe hesitated another instant, then snapped the band, lifted the panel off.
He now looked into a most amazing mechanism. It had been patched together out of spare parts, bolted with lag screws into wooden blocks, bound to the frame with bits of rope. Wires lay exposed without insulation. The forcefield adjustment had been made with a wooden wedge. Joe shook his head, marveling. Then recollecting the flight from the terminal, he sweated in retrospect.
The plump yellow-skinned man had instructed him to act as if he were repairing the motor. Joe saw that pretense would be unnecessary. The powerbox was linked to the metadyne by a helter-skelter tubing. Joe reached in, pulled the mess loose, reoriented the poles, connected the units with a short straight link.
Across the plat another car landed and a girl of eighteen or nineteen jumped out. Joe caught the flash of eyes in a narrow vital face as she looked toward him. Then she had left the plat.
Joe stood looking after the sapling-slender form. He relaxed, turned back to the motor. Very nice–girls were nice things. He compressed his lips, thinking of Margaret. An entirely different kind of girl was Margaret. Blonde in the first place–easy-going, flexible, but inwardly–Joe paused in his work. What was she, in her heart of hearts, where he had never penetrated?
When he had told her of his plans she had laughed, told him he was born thousands of years too late. Two years now–was Margaret still waiting? Three months was all he had thought to be gone–and then he had been led on and on, from planet to planet, out of Earth space, out across the Unicorn Gulf, out along a thin swirl of stars, beating his way from world to world.
On Jamivetta he had farmed moss on a bleak tundra and even the third-class passage to Kyril had looked good.
A harsh voice said, «What's this you're doing–tearing apart the air-car? You'll be killed for such an act.»
It was the driver of the car the girl had landed in. He was a coarse-faced thick-bodied man with a swinish nose and jaw. Joe, from long and bitter experience on the outer worlds, held his tongue, turned back to investigate the machine further. He leaned forward in disbelief. Three condensers, hooked together in series, dangled and swung on their connectors. He reached in, yanked off the extraneous pair, wedged the remaining condenser into a notch, hooked it up again.
«Here, here,
It was too much. Joe raised his head. «Delicate bit of machinery! It's a wonder this pitiful tangle of junk can fly at all.»
The driver's face twisted in fury. He took a quick heavy step forward, then halted as a Druid came sweeping out on the plat–a big man with a flat red face and impressive eyebrows. He had a small hawk's-beak of a nose protruding like an afterthought between his cheeks, a mouth bracketed by ridges of stubborn muscle.
He wore a long vermilion robe with a cowl of rich black fur, an edging of fur along the robe to match. Over the cowl he wore a morion of black and green metal with a sunburst in red-and-yellow enamel cocked over one temple.
«Borandino!»
The driver cringed. «Worship.» «Go. Put away the Kelt.»
«Yes, Worship.»
The Druid halted before Joe. He saw the pile of discarded junk, his face became congested. «What are you doing to my finest car?»
«Removing a few encumbrances.»
«The best mechanic on Kyril services that machinery!»
Joe shrugged. «He's got a lot to learn. I'll put that stuff back if you want me to. It's not my car.»
The Druid stared fixedly at him. «Do you mean to say that the car will run after you've pulled all that metal out of it?»
«It should run better.»
