empty. He crossed to the car with a naked tingling under his skin. He stepped through the door and the car swayed under him. Hableyat bounced in beside him.
«Very well, Juliam,» said Hableyat to the driver, a very old Mang, sad-eyed, wrinkled of face, his hair gone brindle-brown with age. «We'll be off–to the Terminal. Stage Four, I believe. The
Juliam trod on the elevator pedal. The car swung up and away. The Palace dwindled below and they rose beside the dun trunk of the Tree, up under the first umbrella of fronds.
The air of Kyril was usually filled with a smoky haze but today the slanting sun shone crisply through a perfectly clear atmosphere. The city Divinal, such as it was –a heterogeneity of palaces, administrative offices, temples, a few low warehouses–huddled among the roots of the Tree and quickly gave way to a gently rolling plain thronged with farms and villages.
Roads converged in all directions toward the Tree and along these roads walked the drab men and women of the Laity–making their pilgrimage to the Tree. Joe had watched them once or twice as they entered the Ordinal Cleft, a gap between two great arched roots. Tiny figures like ants, they paused, turned to stare out across the gray land before continuing on into the Tree. Every day brought thousands from all corners of Kyril, old and young. Wan dark-eyed men, aflame for the peace of the Tree.
They crossed a flat plain covered with small black capsules. To one side a mass of naked men performed calisthenics–jumping, twisting in perfect time. Hableyat said, «There you see the Druid space-navy.» Joe looked sharply to see if he were indulging in sarcasm, but the pudgy face was immobile.
«They are well suited to the defense of Kyril, which is to say, the Tree. Naturally anyone wishing to defeat the Druids by violence would think to destroy the Tree, thus demolishing the morale of the natives. But in order to destroy the Tree a flotilla must approach relatively close to Kyril, say within a hundred thousand miles, for any accuracy of bombardment.
«The Druids maintain a screen of these little boats a million miles out. They're crude but very fast and agile. Each is equipped with a warhead–in fact they are suicide boats and to date they are admitted to be an effective defense for the Tree.»Joe sat a moment in silence. Then, «Are these boats made here? On Kyril?»
«They are quite simple,» said Hableyat with veiled contempt. «A shell, a drive, an oxygen tank. The Lay soldiers are not expected to demand or appreciate comfort. There's a vast number of these little boats. Why not? Labor is free. The idea of cost has no meaning for the Druids. I believe the control equipment is imported from Beland and likewise the firing release. Otherwise the boats are hand-made here on Kyril.»
The field full of beetle-boats slanted, faded astern. Ahead appeared the thirty-foot wall surrounding the Terminal. The long glass station stretched along one side of the rectangle. Along another was a line of palatial mansions–the consular offices of off-planets. Across the field, in the fourth of five bays, a medium-sized combination freight-passenger vessel rested and Joe saw that it was ready to take off. The cargo hatch had been battened, the loading trams swung back and only a gangplank connected the ship with the ground.
Juliam set the car down in a parking area to the side of the station. Hableyat put a restraining hand on Joe's arm.
«Perhaps–for your own safety–it might be wise if I arranged your passage. The Thearch might have planned some sort of trouble. One never knows where these unpredictable Druids are concerned.» He hopped out of the car. «If you'll remain here then–out of sight–I'll return very shortly.»
«But the money for the passage–»
«A trifle, a trifle,» said Hableyat. «My government has more money than it knows how to spend. Allow me to invest two thousand stiples toward a fund of good will with our legendary Mother Earth.»
Joe relaxed dubiously into the seat. Two thousand stiples was two thousand stiples and it would help him on his way back to Earth. If Hableyat thought to hold him under obligation Hableyat was mistaken. He stirred in his seat. Better get out while the getting was good. Things like this did not happen without some unpleasant
«No, no, sir. Lord Hableyat will be back at once and his wishes were that you remain out of sight.»
In a spasm of defiance, Joe said, «Hableyat can wait.»
He jumped from the car and, ignoring Juliam's querulous voice, strode off toward the station. His anger cooled as he walked and in his green-white-and-black livery he felt conspicuous. Hableyat had a rude habit of being consistently right.
A sign across the walk read,
Joe stepped in. Through the glass window he would be able to see Hableyat if he left the station, returning to the car. The proprietor stood quietly at his command, a tall bony man of nameless race with a wide waxy face, wide guileless eyes of pale blue.
«My Lord wishes?» he inquired in even tones which ignored the servant's livery which Joe was stripping off.
«Get rid of these. Give me something suitable for Ballenkarch.»
The shop-keeper bowed. He ran a grave eye over Joe's form, turned to a rack, brought forward a set of garments which made Joe blink–red pantaloons, a tight blue sleeveless jacket, a voluminous white blouse. Joe said doubtfully, «That's not quite–it's not subdued, is it?»
«It is a typical Ballenkarch costume, my Lord–typical, that is to say, among the more civilized clans. The savages wear skins and sacks.» He twisted the garments to display front and back. «As it is, it denotes no particular rank. A vavasour hangs a sword at his left side. A grandee of the Vail Alan Court wears a chap-band of black in addition. The Ballenkarch costumes, Lord, are marked by a rather barbaric flamboyance.»
Joe said, «Give me a plain gray traveling suit. I'll change to Ballenkarch style when I arrive.»
«As you wish, Lord.»
The traveling suit was more to his liking. With deep satisfaction Joe zipped close the seams, snugged the ankles and wrists, belted the waist.
«And what style morion, Lord?»
Joe grimaced. Morions were
The shopkeeper bent his form almost into an inverted U. «Yes, your Worship.»
Joe glanced at him sharply, then considered the morion he had selected–a glistening beautiful helmet, useful for nothing other than decorative headdress. It was rather like the one Ecclesiarch Manaolo had worn. He shrugged, jammed it on his head, transferred the contents of his pockets. Gun, money, wallet with identification papers. «How much do I owe you?»
«Two hundred stiples, your Worship.»
Joe gave him a pair of notes, stepped out on the arcade. As he walked it occurred to him that his step was firmer, that in fact he was swaggering. The change from livery into the gray suit and swashbuckling morion had altered the color of his psychology. Morale, confidence, will-to-win–they were completely intangible, yet so ultimately definite. Now to find Hableyat.
There was Hableyat ahead of him, walking arm in arm with a Mang in green-blue-and-yellow uniform, speaking very earnestly, very expressively. Joe wished he were able to read lips. The two stopped at the ramp down to the field. The Mang officer bowed curtly, turned, marched back along the arcade. Hableyat ambled down the ramp, started across the field.
It occurred to Joe that he would like to hear what Juliam said to Hableyat and Hableyat's comments on his absence. If he ran to the end of the arcade, jumped the wall, ran around behind the parking lot, he would be able to approach the car from the rear, probably unseen.
Suiting action to thought he turned, raced the length of the terrace, heedless of startled glances. Lowering himself to the blue-green turf he dodged close to the wall, kept as many of the parked cars as possible between himself and the leisurely Hableyat. He reached the car, flung himself to his hands and knees unseen by Juliam, who had his eyes on Hableyat.
Juliam slid back the door. Hableyat said cheerfully, «Now then, my friend, everything is–» He stopped. Then
