A man wanting to be clean and decent but trapped in the conditioning imposed by his environment. Wanting to rid himself of guilt and make a clean start and doomed to fail no matter how often he tried. But he tried-that was the important thing. And, trying, yielded himself to the power of the Church.
"Cheating is a sin," said Boyle. "It is tantamount to lying and a partner to theft. It is dishonest and unworthy and lessens those who yield to it. In the situation we are in it is even more heinous for unless we have mutual trust we are less than beasts. Think now of the sins you have done. Assess them in your mind. Void them with words of requital."
After a moment Boyle threw a switch.
"Look into the light of forgiveness," he said gently. "Bathe in the flame of righteousness and be cleansed of all pain, all sin. Yield to the benediction of the Universal Brotherhood."
The pale face of Sforza Bux shone with reflected color as he stared into the benediction light. A swirling kaleidoscope of shifting hues which gave his features an ethereal quality. The light was hypnotic, the subject subservient, the monk a trained master of his craft. Under his suggestion the suppliant relaxed to slip into a deeper trance. One in which he underwent a stringent penance; time encapsulated to provide a subjective torment of being robbed, cheated, denied and yet accepting all to find a final absolution.
Later he would be given the bread of forgiveness and, if on too many worlds too many suppliants came to kneel before the benediction light for the sake of the food alone, it was a fair exchange. For all who so knelt were conditioned against the act of murder.
Captain Ryder was short, square, his face creased with a mesh of lines, the pattern marred by a deep scar running over one cheek. Surgery could have removed it but he retained it for the bonus it gave to his appearance. Dealing with the scum he met in the Burdinnion every little bit helped.
Now he scowled at the two men standing before him. Both looked like hell, clothing worn, chafed, showing rents. Faces almost identical in their marks of privation. But, instinctively, he sensed the elder of the two was the leader.
To Dumarest he snapped, "How the hell did you get here?"
"We followed your smoke."
"I don't mean that. We registered no ship since we landed. That's over two weeks ago-closer to three. If you had a camp why didn't you answer our beacon?"
Dumarest said, "What good would it have done? Would you have come for us?"
"No-but you could have come to us. Your ship-" Ryder broke off then said, questioningly, "You do have a ship?"
"No."
"Then what the hell are you doing here?"
"We're all that's left of a survey team," said Dumarest quickly. "Five of us were dropped on the plateau together with equipment and supplies for six months. That was a month ago. The Tziak-Wenko Consortium. You may know of them."
Ryder frowned and shook his head.
"Based on Chalowe," said Dumarest. "A new and ambitious outfit. They send out teams to make a survey and then figure if it's worth developing the area. We picked this dump." He spat in the dirt. "For me you can keep it."
"Trouble?"
"Three days after landing. A storm first then we got hit by predators. They killed two and hurt the other so bad he only lasted three days. The radio was smashed, the supplies spoiled and scattered, we were lucky to stay alive. Then we saw you land and headed toward where we figured you'd be." Dumarest held up his wrist and displayed the ruined compass. "If you hadn't made smoke we'd never have found you."
"That was the monks." Ryder jerked his head to where they stood before the church. "God knows why they bother. There's no one around to see it. I guess they hope to keep up morale. Six months, you say?"
"That's right."
"So your ship won't be back for another five."
"At least. That's why we'd like to take passage with you. How bad is the damage?" Dumarest added, "We saw you land and spotted the color of your field. Phase malfunction, right? How long will it take your engineer to effect repairs?"
Ryder said, curtly, "Why don't you ask him yourself?"
Sadoria lay in his cabin, a place ornamented with illustrations in vivid color depicting an age-old act in countless variations. Obscenity somehow enhanced by the presence of the monk who sat at the side of the cot. Like all monks, Brother Kollar had trained in basic medicine but he had pursued his studies further than most. Under his hands the writhing figure of the engineer eased a little but his droning babble never ceased.
"Traumatic shock induced by drug abuse," explained the monk. "In a sense his brain has been short-circuited and the censor divorced from the speech center. At this moment he is lost in a world of violent hallucinations and, inevitably, his psychosomatic reactions will result in a total degeneration of all faculties." His hands moved a little, touching the throat, the nerves of the neck. "I am trying to induce a somnolent period so as to give him hypnotic therapy."
"Will it cure him?"
"No, but it will help his pain." The monk met Dumarest's eyes. "It's all I can do, brother."
Outside the cabin Angado halted in the passage and shook his head. "That poor devil! If ever that happens to me-"
"Forget him." Dumarest was impatient. "I want the truth now. Can you repair this ship?"
"I could try."
"Anyone can do that. Can you repair it?"
"I'd have to examine the generator first. I guess the captain would give permission for that."
"We'll find out. Let me handle it. Just don't volunteer information. If I ask a question you signal an answer; one blink for yes, two for no. Got it?"
"Yes, but-"
"When this ship leaves we have to be on it. Making a deal may not be easy. If the captain ever finds out we were dumped and why it'll be impossible." Dumarest glanced along the passage. "Get to the engine room. I'll meet you there with Ryder."
He was in the control room with his navigator and the steward. They, together with the engineer, formed the entire complement of the Guilia. Normal for the kind of vessel it was; a free-trader with each crew member sharing in the profits and all doing a double stint for the sake of a larger cut. The engine room reflected Sadoria's personality, a place thick with grime and plastered with lurid pictures. Only the generator looked clean.
Ryder frowned as he saw Angado kneeling beside it. He'd already removed one cover and was at work on a second.
Dumarest said, watching his eyes, "How does it look so far? Bad? I thought it might be. Can you do anything with it? Good." He looked at the captain. "Do you want us to go ahead or would you rather wait for rescue?"
A loaded question. The radio beacon signaling the position of the vessel and calling for help emitted a wide-range broadcast but one now dampened and blocked by the bulk of the planet. Even if picked up there was no certainty of response. Rescue was determined by the possibility of recompense and, if too much trouble, was rarely attempted.
Ryder said, "If you can repair it go ahead."
"And?"
"We'll talk about that when it's done."
"Before it's done," said Dumarest. "Passage for the both of us to your next world of landing and-"
"When it's done!" snarled Ryder. "What's the good of haggling over something until we've got it?"
He stormed away, a man living on his nerves, one too close to bankruptcy to have the patience to argue. Rescue would ruin him but without it he was stuck on a hostile world. Dumarest was his only chance but he hated to admit it.
"He'll pay." Angado looked up from the generator. "He'll have no choice."
"There's always a choice," said Dumarest. "Promises can be broken and a fee given can always be taken back. But if I press him hard then ease off he'll be too grateful to hold a grudge. He'll give us passage and what he can afford. It won't be much but he won't resent giving it." He looked at the exposed interior of the generator. The components seemed undamaged but one unit showed a shimmering rainbow effect where it faced the others. "Is that it?"