by E. C. Tubb
Montiel said, "I would say that you are a much traveled man, Earl. Certainly I would take you to be an authority on the diversity of Man. It happens to be a hobby of mine and I wonder if-"
"Zinny! Please!" The blonde lifted her hands in protest. "Not again. Not now. You'll bore Earl to death." To Dumarest she explained, "He's got this crazy idea that all men could have originated on one planet. It's obviously impossible. The very divergence of types is evidence against it; black, brown, yellow, white – all from one world? Impossible!"
"The ability to interbreed proves all belong to a common species," snapped Montiel. "But you object too quickly, Marcia. I was going to ask Earl if he has heard of the Lugange theory dealing with the composition of cultural structures. It is based on the assumption that there are five basic types of human; rulers, creators, warriors, builders, followers. Rulers must lead," he explained. "Always they must be at the top; the ones who make the decisions, give the orders, command obedience. Creators are innovators, artists, thinkers, those who plan. Warriors fight against the forces which always threaten us; death, disease, famine, drought, the environment itself. Builders construct. They are the craftsmen, the artisans, the engineers who turn dreams and plans into concrete reality. Followers serve. They lack imagination and are reluctant to change. They cling to old ways, old traditions, and resist those who threaten their established way of life."
"The majority," said Brasch. "But essential, surely?"
"Yes," agreed Montiel. "They ensure a degree of stability but the ratio has to be within certain limits. Too high and you get a static society. Too low and there is no buffer against chaos. Too many changes made too quickly can destroy the social fabric."
"Warriors would take care of that," said Marcia. "Soldiers."
"Soldiers are followers. They take orders and obey without question. A warrior will think for himself and choose his enemy. A doctor is a warrior. A nurse. A farmer. A destroyer of predators. Naturally there is overlap – a composer is a creator but not all musicians can compose. Those who simply play to order take on the attributes of a follower. The difference in the various categories is the inherent ability and drive which dictates the use of individual thought and action."
"What are we, Zinny?" Rhia smiled at Dumarest. "I know what Earl is, a warrior if there ever was one, but the rest of us? We like to give orders. We like to build fortunes and create new markets. We fight to keep what we have. What does that make us?"
"On the edge of becoming boring." Hollman Brasch smiled at the company. "Let us leave this mess and enjoy wine in another room. Earl, when you wish, a servant will guide you to your chamber."
Like the rest of the house it was a place of luxury with scented water in the shower and hot air serving as towels. As he moved towards the bed, a robe covering his nakedness, Zehava entered the room.
She too wore a robe, a thin, clinging swathe of fabric which held subdued glitters and subtle tones. The satchel she carried pulled at her shoulder and made a heavy sound as she put it down.
"Here. I thought you'd be worried about it."
An excuse to visit his room – the food and wine had induced more than fatigue.
"It was safe where it was." He added, "I though you'd be asleep by now."
"I was restless. Thinking. What did you all talk about after I left?"
"Montiel did most of the talking. He wanted to expound a theory he has -"
"I've heard it. He thinks all men originated on one world. Some mythical planet. He gets boring. He should find something new."
"He has. The Lugange theory." He told her about it as she moved restlessly about the room. "If there's anything in it Kaldar must have a high ratio of warriors."
"So?"
"Who does all the work?"
A question she ignored. "What else was said?"
"Nothing of importance. That's the reason I stayed behind," he explained. "I wanted to let them know I was a free agent and could be trusted. You must have known that." A sop to her pride, her offended dignity. "But they were wary. Just putting out hints and feelers. They're saving the real business until we're on our way."
"I can guess what it will be." Her lips thinned in anger. "I've no illusions as to what these people are. Don't think of conspiring with them against me, Earl. It wouldn't be wise."
The warning of a jealous woman and a reminder of unfinished business. He glanced at the satchel. Once on Kaldar she would be among her own kind and it was better for her to learn the truth before appearing a fool. But not yet. Not until they were safely on their way.
Chapter Five
Some fool had torched Gannitown and thick plumes of black smoke rose to mar the lavender clarity of the morning sky. Watching them Brak scowled; the town had no real value and its inhabitants little more, but without the ganni the irrigation canals would choke, the crops fall, dirt mount in the streets of the city. The old problems of labor-shortage now aggravated by some hothead out on a spree.
"Mel Jumay," said a voice behind him. "Yesterday he reached his majority and decided to celebrate."
Nadine who seemed at times to have the ability to read minds, but Brak knew there was nothing mysterious about her comment. Only a fool would have failed to recognize his irritation and the Jumays were notorious for undisciplined behavior.
"Three sections destroyed," she continued. "A dozen ganni burned and twice as many with superficial injuries. Cuts," she explained. "Singes. Most were asleep when it happened. The cost -"
"Will be met."
"By Mel Jumay?"
A boy, barely a man, with nothing behind him but his family's reputation. Brak smarted at the cynicism in her voice, the tone which hinted at his own weakness. One he rejected with brusque anger.
"The damage will be repaired and the expense borne by the boy and his family. Have no doubt as to that."
She made no comment and he was grateful. If nothing else the girl had a sharp wit and an acid tongue. Turning he looked at her, seeing the ghost which rested beneath the contours of her face. A harder, older visage, but one with the same dark enigma of the eyes, the generous curve of the lips, the strong jaw. The ebon mane of her hair was longer, the skin paler, but never could there be any doubt that she was his brother's child.
"Uncle?"
"Nothing." He turned from her stare, the question in her eyes. The memories were too strong and he brushed them aside as he limped to the far edge of the tower. "Why don't you go down?"
"Later."
He could have insisted and she would have obeyed, but what would have been gained by the exercise of his authority? Instead he leaned against the parapet, looking over the city, seeing other towers, the buildings which set them apart, the narrow streets which wound like serpents between high and featureless walls.
A complex of defensive structures enclosing stores, bunkers, arsenals buried deep. In the center lay the great square ringed with shops and sheds. Warehouse sprawled to the north now mostly empty. To the south lay the factories, too small and too idle. Instead of the flood of raw materials to be processed there was only a trickle of scrap, broken and obsolete parts, discarded rubbish. It had been too easy to acquire the new to replace the old. Too simple to take instead of making. Now the artisans capable of operating the machines were too few and far too expensive.
"A mistake," said Nadine. "One of timing."
Reading his mind again but his stance if not his face must have mirrored his thoughts. The factories had been established before she had been born. Greg had insisted on funds being set aside for the project. Strong in the Council his words carried weight, but interest had waned when he died.
Died. Greg dead. Why hadn't it been him?
A question asked countless times and still he had to find the answer. Instead he had only the scene repeated over and over in his mind as if it were a loop of film. The raid, the fires and smoke and stench of burning. The shouts and blasts of guns and the adrenalin running high. A neat, well-planned raid designed to achieve
the maximum of loot and the minimum of damage.
It happened when the raid was over and the recall had sounded. A man, gun in hand, rising from a mound of rubble. Opening fire without hesitation. Bullets holding explosives in shaped charges which tore through amour as if it had been paper. The first had slammed into his hip. Greg had taken the rest, flinging himself as a barrier before him. A time of noise and confusion, the gun jerking in his hand, the stranger falling back a bloody pulp above his shoulders, then pain as he fought the crippling effect of his wound. Anger as his body refused to lift the deadweight of his brother. Near-dementia as others had torn him from the body and carried him into the waiting ship.
He had lived – that had been the hard part. Medical science had replaced his hip and healed his flesh but it could do nothing to assuage his grief. Nothing for the wife of his brother who had bequeathed him her daughter before following her husband into death. An act of bravery, but those of Kaldar had never wanted for courage. Yet had she guessed her ghost would haunt him each time he looked into the girl's face?
He doubted it; Marta had never been intentionally unkind. Not even when rejecting his love when, too late, he had begged her to become his wife. Greg had won her heart. Why had the wrong man died?
"Uncle, there are things to be done." Nadine appeared at his side. If she knew of the agony which tore at his heart it remained her secret. "Shall we go down?"
Below waited tedium. A host of tiresome details, decisions, judgments, unpleasant facts. Here, on the summit of the tower, he was free to dream and remember and, if some of the memories gave rise to pain, yet they still held the life he had once known.
"I won't go down without you."
He flared with sudden anger. "You talk as if I was stupid! Senile! A dotard! If I want to stay up here I will!"
"Of course."
"It gives me time to think. To plan." He saw her face, the set of her mouth, her chin. Hardness which matched and eliminated the thirty-year old ghost. She was reading him again and his anger vanished as quickly as it had come. What use to deny the truth? "Child, you should be roving or wed."
"Have I no choice?" Amusement lightened her features. "Does your assistant have no standing?"
Too much and they both knew it. As the Council knew it and others who fretted at her summations and proposals. Married she would have the protection of a husband and his family. Now she had only herself and the fading glory of his name.
"Don't worry about it," she said. "Things will work out." Pausing, she added, "Mel Jumay was more than careless during his celebration. He fired the church."
When an adolescent Brother Weyer had seen a man flogged almost to death for having stolen food. A common crime and a common punishment on Delt where starvation was a constant threat. The monk who had gone to his aid had been old, stooped, gaunt with privation. Unable to lift the moaning wretch he had appealed for help. Shamed, Weyer had supplied it, carrying the torn body to the flimsy shelter of the church.
Fifty years ago now and each had been spent following the path he had chosen to take. First at the great seminary on Hope where he had been taught, trained and tested. Then to be one of the great band of monks carrying help and hope to all who were in need. To teach the basic creed of the Church to all so that even the strong, the rich and powerful, when looked at those less fortunate than themselves would say, 'There, but for the grace of God, go I'
When all lived by that creed the millennium would have arrived.
"Brother!" Nealon came towards him, his face hard against the thrown-back cowl. Ash coated his robe and his feet, naked in their sandals, were thick with grime. "Two more ganni have just died. That makes five to date. Nothing seems to help. If only the city would send us doctors-"
"They would be just as helpless." Nealon had much to learn. "They are dying because they have lost the will to live. I have seen it often before. You are wrong to blame yourself."
"Who else?"
"Did you cause the fire? Spread it? Burn the victims?" Weyer masked his impatience. "You are not a judge to determine guilt or to apportion blame. You are a monk of the Church of Universal Brotherhood. Your task is to care for the afflicted. We can best do that in the infirmary."
It was a crude shelter built of scraps which shielded the interior from the sun and the infrequent rains. The air held the taint of sickness. On cots the ganni lay like creatures already dead. Weyer halted besides one, looking down at the round, blank face, the staring, empty eyes. A creature with the size and shape of a man, the features of an idiotic child, the hands of a laborer. The product of a world circling a violent sun, brought to Kaldar to tend and serve, to work at tasks too demeaning for those who ruled.
"Why do they die?" Nealon touched the fine down which covered the ganni like fur. "I know what you said but I don't understand. They are not that badly injured. A man would easily survive. Why don't they?"
Weyer shrugged. The universe was full of questions and, as fast as answers were found, more questions rose to make fresh demands. It was enough to know that, if hurt too badly or shocked too deeply, the ganni died. The ultimate defiance of a slave.
When he finally left the infirmary a thin wind from the distant hills was dispersing the last of the smoke and Weyer breathed gratefully at the air. The city had sent help. Overseers directed ganni to clear the charred wreckage. They were slow to obey. From a group gathered to one side rose a keening dirge spreading as others joined in. A death chant the monk had heard before and now, as then, it caused a sudden depression. A mood he fought as he made his way to where Mukerjee and the other two monks were hard at work.
Already they had cleared the site and were assembling struts which would be covered with plastic to form a small, enclosed chamber. A tent barely large enough to hold a monk and a suppliant, but it would serve.
"Brother?" Mukerjee straightened, easing his back with broad, scarred hands. Fire had seared one cheek leaving an ugly patch on his ebon skin. His robe was singed and half his hair had vanished. "How are the sick?"
"As well as can be expected. Brother Nealon is taking care of them. Now I want you to report to him so that he can take care of you." Weyer's tone precluded all argument. "He will give you an intravenous injection of saline and glucose together with antibiotics, a sedative and nutrients. You will need them under slowtime."
Mukerjee frowned, the drug was expensive. Weyer spoke before he could object.
"One hour." His smile softened the rebuke. "Pride is a sin, brother. Manga, see that he doesn't fall into it."
The old monk led Mukerjee to the infirmary, his step firmer than the younger man's. An hour of slowtime would cure that, the drug accelerating his metabolism to give him the equivalent of two days rest and normal recuperation. Time for the danger of shock and infection to be eliminated and to ease the pain of his burns.
Prinsloo joined him as Weyer turned to the carefully wrapped bundle lying to one side. It contained the benediction light which Mukerjee had saved at the cost of his injuries.
As he examined it the young monk said, "It isn't damaged. I've checked."
Good news; the instrument provided communication with the great seminaries of Hope and Pace as well as a more obvious function. Beneath the swirling light it projected in hypnotic splendor suppliants would kneel, confess their sins and suffer subjective penance. They would gain comfort and absolution – and be conditioned never to kill. The wafer of concentrate which was the bread of forgiveness was a fair exchange.
"Brother?" Prinsloo looked at his superior. "Have you decided who should be the first to serve once the church is open?"
Himself, he hoped, and Weyer could understand his yearning. To build held its own satisfaction. To ease the torment of crippled minds was something else. To watch as faces became smooth as guilt was erased and inner harmony established was reward enough for the ceaseless dedication demanded of all who wore the brown, homespun robe.
Gently he said, "First, all must be made ready. Then, brother, wh
o would you select to be the first to serve?"
Prinsloo was worthy of his calling. Without hesitation he said, "Mukerjee has earned the right."
The right, the duty and the chance to sit and rest while his body healed.
Vargas was annoyed. Nadine heard the deep rumble of his voice as she entered the workshop, a blast of anger which sent echoes from the roof.
"Fool! You've exceeded the tolerances by three hundred percent! Do it again and I'll have you flogged!"
He came into sight as she passed the bulk of a machine, big, his apron soiled, arms and torso bared. The worker standing before him was young, banded with the collar of his servitude. He sidled away as Nadine approached, cradling a piece of equipment in his arms.
As he vanished from sight she said, "I assume you've checked the instruments he's using. It's possible they could be at fault.'
"What?" Vargas snarled, still dominated by his anger. "Damn it, woman, I know my business. If the fault is his he goes, but first he'll be flogged and branded."
"That will lower his value."
"As an engineer he won't have any." His tone warned her not to argue further. "Now, aside from telling me how to run my workshops, what do you want?" He pursed his lips as she told him. "Materials for construction? Sure, I'll have them delivered. Council charge?"
"Jumay's." She added, quickly, "Mel Jumay is responsible for the damage. It includes that done to the church. He and his family should pay for it."
"Do they agree?" Vargas frowned as she made no answer. "They won't like it. Suke is touchy about such things and he has no time for the monks. I can't blame him. Always whining, begging, trying to change things. They should be kicked off the planet. They should never have been allowed to come here. They don't belong."
An opinion she had heard before. Patiently she said, "You could be right, but see the materials are delivered as soon as you can. If we don't need the monks we need the ganni."
Some worked among the machines, sweeping, dusting, stepping aside as she left the workshop busy with her thoughts. Had the young engineer been genuinely careless or had he attempted sabotage? Producing a component holding a subtle flaw which would cause it to fail at a critical time. It was possible; none forced to wear the collar could be expected to love those who had put it there, but how to prove it? A man daring enough to commit sabotage would have the intelligence to alter the calibration of his instruments so as to appear innocent.
