Finally he fixed to his lapel the silver moon decoration of his station. Brynne was a Restrainer, second class, of the Western Buddhist Congregation, and he allowed himself a carefully restrained pride over the fact. Some people thought him too young for lay-priestly duties. But they had to agree that Brynne carried the prerogatives and requirements of his office with a dignity quite beyond his years.
He locked his apartment and walked to the elevator. There was a small crowd waiting, mostly Western Buddhists, but two Lamaists as well. All made way for him when the elevator came.
“Pleasant day, Brother Brynne,” the operator said as the car started down.
Brynne inclined his head an inch in the usual modest response to a member of the flock. He was deep in thought about Ben Baxter. But at the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the occupants of the car, a slim, beautiful, blackhaired woman with a piquant golden face. Indian, Brynne thought, wondering what a woman like that was doing in his apartment building. He knew the other tenants by sight, though, of course, he would not be sufficiently immodest to recognize them.
The elevator reached the lobby and Brynne forgot about the Indian woman. He had a lot on his mind today. There were some problems connected with Ben Baxter, problems he hoped to resolve before the meeting. He stepped outside, into a dismal gray April morning, and decided to go to the Golden Lotus Coffee Shop for a late breakfast.
It was 10:25 A.M.
“I COULD stay here and breathe this air forever!” said Janna Chandragore.
Lan 11 smiled faintly. “Perhaps we can breathe it in our own age. How does he seem to you?”
“Smug and over-righteous,” she said. They were following half a block behind Brynne. There was no losing Brynne’s tall, stooped figure, even in New York’s morning rush.
“He absolutely stared at you in the elevator,” said Lan 11.
“I know.” She smiled. “He’s rather nice-looking, don’t you think?”
Lan 11 raised both eyebrows, but didn’t comment. They continued to follow, noticing how the crowds parted out of respect for Brynne’s rank. Then it happened.
Brynne, his attention turned inward, collided with a portly, florid-faced man who wore the yellow robe of a Western Buddhist priest.
“My apologies for violating your meditation, Young Brother,” said the priest.
“My fault entirely, Father,” Brynne said. “For it is written, ‘Youth should know its footsteps.’ ”
The priest shook his head. “In youth,” he said, “resides the dream of the future; and age must make way.”
“Age is our guide and signposts along the Way,” Brynne objected humbly but insistently. “The writings are clear on the point.”
“If you accept age,” said the priest, his lips tightening slightly, “then accept the dictum of age: youth must forge ahead! Kindly do not contradict me, Dear Brother.”
Brynne, his eyes carefully bland, bowed deeply. The priest bowed in return and the men continued their separate ways.
Brynne walked more quickly, his hands tight on his prayer stick. Just like a priest—using his age as a support for arguments in favor of youth. There were some strange contradictions in Western Buddhism, but Brynne did not care to think about them at the moment.
He went into the Golden Lotus Coffee Shop and sat down at a table far in the rear. He fingered the intricate carvings on his prayer stick and felt anger wash away from him. Almost immediately, he regained that serene and unruffled union of mind with emotions so vital to the Gentle Way.
Now was the time to think about Ben Baxter. After all, a man had to perform his temporal duties as well as his religious ones. Looking at his watch, he saw it was nearly eleven o’clock. In two and a half hours, he would be in Baxter’s office and—
“Your order, sir?” a waiter asked him.
“A glass of water and some dried fish, if you please,” said Brynne.
“French fries?”
“Today is Visya. It is not allowed,” Brynne murmured softly.
The waiter went pale, gulped, said, “Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” and hurried off.
I SHOULDN’T have made him feel ridiculous, thought Brynne. I should simply have refused the French fries. Should I apologize to the man?
He decided it would simply embarrass him. Resolutely Brynne put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on Ben Baxter. With Baxter’s power behind the forest area Brynne had optioned, and its potential, there was no telling—
He became conscious of a disturbance at a nearby table. He turned and saw a golden-featured woman weeping bitterly into a tiny lace handkerchief. She was the woman he had seen earlier in his apartment building. With her was a small, wizened old man, who was trying in vain to console her.
As the woman wept, she cast a despairing glance at Brynne. There was only one thing a Restrainer could do under the circumstances.
He walked over to their table. “Excuse the intrusion,” he said. “I couldn’t help notice your distress. Perhaps you are strangers in the city. Can I help?”
“We are past help!” the woman wailed.
The old man shrugged his shoulders fatalistically.
Brynne hesitated, then sat down at their table. “Tell me,” he begged. “No problem is unsolvable. It is written that there is a path through all jungles and a trail over the steepest mountains.”
“Truly spoken,” the old man assented. “But sometimes the feet of Man cannot reach the trail’s end.”
“At such times,” Brynne replied, “each helps each and the deed is done. Tell me your trouble. I will serve you in any way I can.”
In actual fact, this was more than a Restrainer was required to do. Total service was the obligation of higher-ranking priests. But Brynne was swept away by the woman’s need and beauty, and the words were out before he could consider them.
“ ‘In the heart of a young man is strength,’ ” quoted the old man, “ ‘and a staff for weary arms.’ But tell me, sir, are you a believer in religious toleration?”
“Absolutely!” said Brynne. “It is one of the essential tenets of Western Buddhism.”
“Very well. Then know, sir, that my daughter Janna and I are from Lhagrama in India, where we serve the Daritria Incarnation of the Cosmic Function. We came here to America hoping to found a small temple. Unfortunately, the schismatics of the Marii Incarnation have arrived before us. My daughter must return to her home. But our lives are threatened momentarily by these Marii fanatics, who are sworn to stamp out the Daritria faith.”
“But your lives can’t be in danger here!” Brynne exclaimed. “Not in the heart of New York.”
“Here more than anywhere else,” said Janna. “For crowds are cloak and mask to the assassin.”
“I shall not live long in any event,” the old man said with serene unconcern. “I must remain here and complete my work. It is so written. But I wish my daughter to return safely to her home.”
“I won’t go without you!” Janna cried.
“You will do as you are told!” the old man said.
JANNA looked meekly away from his steely black eyes. The old man turned to Brynne.
“Sir, this afternoon a ship sails for India. My daughter needs a man, a strong, true man, to guide and protect her, to bring her home. My fortune must go to the man who performs this sacred duty for me.”
“I can hardly believe this,” said Brynne, suddenly struck with doubt. “Are you sure—”
As if in answer, the old man pulled a small chamois bag from his pocket and spilled its contents on the tablecloth. Brynne was not an expert in gems, though he had had some dealings with them as a religious-instruction officer in the Second World Jehad. Still, he was sure he recognized the true fire of ruby, sapphire, diamond and emerald.
“They are yours,” said the old man. “Take them to a jewelry store. When their authenticity is verified, perhaps you will believe the rest of my story. Or if these are not sufficient proof—”
From another pocket, he pulle
d a thick billfold and handed it to Brynne. Opening it, Brynne saw that it was stuffed with high-denomination bills.
“Any bank will verify their authenticity,” said the old man. “No, please, I insist. Keep it all. Believe me, it is only a portion of what I would like to bestow upon you for rendering me this sacred trust.”
It was overwhelming. Brynne tried to remind himself that the gems could conceivably be clever fakes and the bills could be superb forgeries. But he knew they were not. They were real. And if this wealth, so casually given, was real, then didn’t the rest of the story have to be true?
It would not be the first time a miraculous fairy-tale adventure happened in real life. Wasn’t the Book of Golden Replies filled with similar incidents?
He looked at the beautiful, sorrowful, golden-featured woman. A great desire came over him to bring joy to those exquisite features, to make that tragic mouth smile. And in the way she looked at him, Brynne perceived more than simply the interest one gives to a protector.
“Sir!” cried the old man. “Is it possible that you might—that you might consider—”
“I’ll do it!” said Brynne.
THE old man clasped Brynne’s hand. Janna simply looked at him, but he had the sensation of being enfolded into a warm embrace.
“You must leave at once,” the old man said briskly. “Come, there’s no time to lose. Even now, the enemy lurks in the shadows.”
“But my clothes—”
“Unimportant. I will provide you with a wardrobe.”
“—and friends, business appointments. Wait! Hold on a minute!”
Brynne took a deep breath. Haroun-al-Rashid adventures were all very well, but they had to be undertaken in a reasonable fashion.
“I have a business appointment this afternoon,” Brynne said. “I must keep it. After that, I’m completely at your service.”
“The danger to Janna is too great!” cried the old man.
“You’ll both be perfectly safe, I assure you. You can even accompany me there. Or better yet, I’ve got a cousin on the police force. I’m sure I can arrange for a bodyguard—”
Janna turned her beautiful sad face away from him. The old man said, “Sir, the ship sails at one p.m.—at one precisely.”
“Those ships leave every day or so,” Brynne pointed out. “Lef s catch the next one. This appointment is very important. Crucial, you might say. I’ve worked for years to arrange it. And it’s not just me. I have a business, employees, associates. For their sake, I have to keep that appointment.”
“Business before life,” the old man said bitterly.
“You’ll be all right,” Brynne assured him. “It is written, you know, that the beast of the jungle shies from the tread—”
“I know what is written. The word of death is painted large upon my forehead, and upon my daughter’s, unless you aid us now. She will be on the Theseus in stateroom 2A. The next stateroom, 3A, will be yours. The ship sails at one this afternoon. If you value her life, sir, you will be there.”
The old man and his daughter stood up, paid and left, ignoring Brynne’s pleas for reason. As she went out the door, Janna turned for a moment and gazed at him.
“Your dried fish, sir,” said the waiter. He had been hovering near, waiting for a chance to serve it.
“To hell with it!” Brynne shouted. “Oh, sorry, sorry,” he said in dismay to the shocked waiter. “No fault of yours.”
He paid, leaving a sizable tip for the waiter, and hurried out. He had a lot of thinking to do.
“ALL the energy expended on that one scene,” Lan II complained, “has probably cost me ten years of my life.”
“You loved every minute of it,” said Janna Chandragore.
“True, true,” Lan II admitted, nodding vigorously. He sipped a glass of wine that a steward had brought to the stateroom. “The question now is—will he give up his appointment with Baxter and come?”
“He does seem to like me,” Janna said.
“Which shows his excellent taste.”
She inclined her head mockingly. “But really, that story! Was it necessary to make it so—so outrageous?”
“Absolutely necessary. Brynne is a strong and dedicated man, but he has his romantic streak. Nothing less than a fairy tale to match his gaudiest dream could pull him from duty’s path.”
“Perhaps even a fairy tale won’t,” Janna said thoughtfully.
“We’ll see,” said Lan II. “Personally, I believe he will come.”
“I don’t.”
“You underestimate your attractiveness and acting ability, my dear. Wait and see.”
“I have no choice,” said Janna, settling back in an arm chair.
The desk clock read 12:42.
* * *
Brynne decided to take a stroll along the waterfront to quiet his nerves. The sight of the great ships lying calm and steadfast in their berths never failed to soothe him. He walked steadily along, trying to reason out what had happened to him.
That magnificent sorrowful girl . . .
But what about his duty, the labor of faithful employees, to be culminated and completed this afternoon at the desk of Ben Baxter?
He stopped and looked at the bow of a great ship. The Theseus.
He thought of India, its blue skies, brilliant sunshine, wine, relaxation. Those things would never be his. Work, frantic effort, that was the life he had set for himself. Even if it meant losing the most beautiful woman in the world, he would continue to labor under the iron-gray skies of New York.
But why, he asked himself, touching the chamois bag in his pocket. He was moderately well off. His business could take care of itself. What was to stop him from boarding that ship, dropping everything, spending a year in the sun?
Excitement stirred in him as he realized that nothing was stopping him. He was his own man, a strong, determined man. If he had the faith and will to succeed in business, he also had the faith and will to leave it, drop everything, and fallow his heart.
“To hell with Baxter!” he said to himself. The girl’s safety was more important than anything. He would board that ship, and right now, wire his associates from sea, tell them—
The decision was made. He whirled and marched to the gangplank and resolutely climbed it.
An officer on the deck smiled and said, “Name, sir?”
“Ned Brynne.”
“Brynne, Brynne.” The officer checked his list. “I don’t seem to—Oh, yes, right here. Yes, Mr. Brynne. You’re on A deck, cabin 3. Let me wish you a most pleasant trip.”
“Thank you,” Brynne said, glancing at his watch. It read a quarter to one.
“By the way,” he said to the officer, “what time does the ship sail?”
“At four-thirty sharp, sir.”
“Four-thirty? Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, Mr. Brynne.”
“But I was told you sailed at one o’clock.”
“That was the original time, sir. But sailing time is often advanced a few hours. We’ll easily make it up at sea.”
Four-thirty! Yes, he had enough time! He could go back, see Ben Baxter and still return in time to catch the ship! Both problems were solved!
Murmuring a blessing to a mysterious but benevolent fate, Brynne turned and sprinted down the gangplank. He was fortunate enough to catch a taxi at once.
BEN BAXTER was short, solid, bull-chested. He was totally bald and his eyes, behind gold pince-nez, were expressionless. His business suit was severe and affixed to the lapel was the small ruby-and-pearls emblem of the Humble Servitors of Wall Street.
For half an hour, Brynne had talked, mentioned trends, predicted movements. He was perspiring anxiously now, waiting for a word out of Baxter.
“Hmm,” said Ben Baxter. Brynne waited. His pulse was pounding heavily and his empty stomach was beginning to churn. Half his mind was on the Theseus, sailing soon. He wanted to end this meeting and get aboard.
“The merger terms you request,” said Baxter, “ar
e quite satisfactory.”
“Sir?” breathed Brynne. “Satisfactory, I said. Haven’t got trouble with your hearing, have you, Brother Brynne?”
“Not for news like that,” said Brynne, grinning.
“Our affiliation,” Baxter said, smiling, “promises a great future for us both. I’m a direct man, Brynne, and I want to tell you this directly: I like the way you’ve handled the surveys and data and I like the way you’ve handled this meeting. Moreover, I like you personally. I am most happy about this and believe our association will prosper.”
“I sincerely believe so, sir.” They shook hands and both men stood up.
“My lawyers will draw up the papers,” Baxter said, “in accordance with this discussion. You should have them by the end of the week.”
“Excellent.” Brynne hesitated, wondering if he should tell Baxter he was going to India. He decided not to. It would be simple to arrange for receipt of the papers on the Theseus and he could carry out the final details by longdistance telephone. He wouldn’t be gone too long, anyhow—just long enough to see the girl safely home; then he would fly back.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries, shook hands again and Brynne turned to leave.
“That’s a fine-looking prayer stick,” Baxter said.
“Eh? Oh, yes,” said Brynne. “I got it from Sinkiang just this week. They make the finest prayer sticks there, in my unworthy opinion.”
“I know. May I look at it?”
“Of course. Please be careful, though. It opens rather fast.” Baxter took the intricately carved prayer stick and pressed the handle. A blade shot out of the other end, narrowly grazing his leg.
“It is fast!” Baxter said. “Fastest I’ve seen.”
“Did you cut yourself?”
“A mere scratch. Beautiful damascene work on that blade They talked for a few minutes about the threefold significance of the knife blade in Western Buddhism and of recent developments in the Western Buddhist spiritual center in Sinkiang. Then Baxter carefully closed the prayer stick and returned it to Brynne.
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