“Monks,” said Gulmanan, “are not permitted to pamper themselves with special food. You shall eat the good bread of Thunsba, Brother Varris, and meditate on—”
“I’ll die!” gasped the outlaw.
“Quite probably you will depart erelong for a better world,” smiled the abbot. “But I may not set' the law aside— To be sure, I could send you on a special errand, if you are willing to go. An errand to the king of the Galactics, from whom I have requested certain books. Sir Wing Alak will gladly transport you.”
Morlach sat unstirring. Nobody dared move in all the court. Then something slumped in Varris. Mutely, he nodded. The armed brethren escorted him out toward the spacefield.
Wing Alak bade the king polite thanks for hospitality and followed them. Otherwise he spoke no word until his prisoner was safely fettered and his boat safely space-bome, with Drogs at the control panel and himself puffing on a good cigar.
Then: “Cheer up, old fellow,” he urged. “It won’t be so bad. You’ll feel a lot better once our psychiatrists have rubbed out those kill-compulsions.”
Varris gave him a bloodshot glare. “I suppose you think you’re a great hero,” he said.
“Lord deliver me, no!” Alak opened a cupboard and took forth the bottle of Scotch. “I’m quite willing to let you have that title. It was your big mistake, you realize. A hero should never tangle with an intelligent coward.”
Un-Man and Other Novellas Page 16
