Angado

"Some. Antibiotics and-"

"You will dispense it?" The woman's voice rose with kindled hope. "Give it free? We can't pay and my man is dying!"

"And my child!"

"My brother and…"

"Food! I'm too weak to work!"

"Give me… Give… Give…"

Brother Galpin retreated from the sudden clamor, the outstretched hands and avid faces. A man beyond his depth and almost overwhelmed. He hit one of the ropes holding the tent, tripped and would have fallen if Dumarest hadn't caught his arm.

"Back!" He confronted the mob, face framed by the thrown-back cowl of his borrowed robe, blazed with a harsh determination. "Back, all of you! Get about your business!"

"But, Brother-"

"Come back tomorrow." Dumarest glared at the speaker, a thin runt of a man with a face like a weasel. "If you want to stay you can work. Grab a shovel and start clearing away this grit. We need a trench running over there. A wall built just here. Who will volunteer?"

"I'd help but I'm sick." The weasel-faced man coughed and spat blood. "See? My lungs are gone. The mines did that. I need medicine or I'll die."

"And me! I need it more than him. He's lying, anyway, that blood came from a bitten cheek." Another man, stocky, his face bitter, thrust the other to one side. "Help those who need it most, Brother. My wife is dying. You can save her."

"Maybe." Dumarest looked at him. "Name?"

"Worsley. Carl Worsley. You want help I'll arrange it. But my wife-"

"Get the help," said Dumarest. "The quicker we get settled the sooner we can start helping." He added, "But your wife needn't wait. Bring her as soon as you can."

She was thin, emaciated, with huge, luminous eyes. Her hair, once rich and dark with the sheen of natural oil, hung dull and lank over bony shoulders and shriveled breasts. Her cheeks, hollow, held the flush of fever and when she breathed her chest echoed to a liquid gurgling.

Looking at Dumarest, Brother Kollar shook his head.

"No!" Worsley had seen the gesture. "No, she can't be beyond help! Dear God, no!"

"I'm sorry." Kollar had seen such scenes too often but always he felt the pain as much as those more personally involved. "The tissue degeneration is too far advanced for anything we can do. I can ease her pain and give her hypnotic conditioning but-"

"What's that?"

Dumarest said, "She will be in a subjective world in which there will be no pain, no fear. Suggestion will give her as much happiness as she could hope for and the trance will last until she no longer needs it."

"Until she dies, you mean?" Worsley clenched his fists as Dumarest nodded. "You thinking of passing her out?"

"No, but if she was my wife I wouldn't hesitate."

"You? A monk? Why, you bastard I-"

"I'm not a monk," said Dumarest sharply. "And watch your mouth. You came here begging, remember. Pleading for what help could be given. Well, that's it. All of it. Did you hope for a miracle?"

"I…" Worsley swallowed, his eyes filling with moisture. "I thought, I'd hoped-God! Dear God don't let her die!"

A useless prayer and he knew it. Surgery could save the woman; cryogenic storage while new lungs were grown from fragments of her own tissue. Her body laved with selected antibiotics, strengthened with intravenous feeding, bolstered with supportive mechanisms. A long and tedious process even with the aid of slow time but she would live.

All it took was money.

Money Worsley didn't have. What no one in any Lowtown had. The stench which filled the air was the reek of abject poverty.

The dust storms were intermittent and happened only when strong winds blew from the northeast after a dry period. The grit they carried was abrasive, fretting the thin coverings and opening roofs to the sky. Even as the church was being constructed men were busy patching their hovels.

Watching them Angado said, "They remind me of bees. Always working, never still, yet what they do can be wiped out in a single day. As a hive is robbed of the honey it may have taken months to store. Yet they go on doing the same old thing again and again." He glanced at the church. "Like our friends the monks. Preaching, giving aid, comfort, food when they have it. And for what?"

"Do they need a reason?"

"They claim to have one."

"A goal," said Dumarest. "They want to change the way men behave. Those who preach peace have always wanted that. And, always, they have failed."

As the monks on Yuanka would fail. As they would on all bleak and hostile worlds. Jungles in which to be tolerant was to be dead.

Dumarest narrowed his eyes as he studied the men Worsley had gathered. Volunteers all, but some had subtle differences from the majority. They worked but accomplished little and seemed too interested in the area leading toward the heart of Lowtown. Watching for something, he guessed, or waiting for someone. He had a good idea of whom it might be.

"It looks good." Angado nodded toward the church. "Big and clean and it stands out a mile. A nice position too, it can be seen both from the field and the town. Brother Dexter knows his stuff. I'll bet this isn't the first time he's set up a church. Brother Lloyd was telling me something about him. Old, stubborn, but clever."

A man shrewd enough to have selected the best spot available and surely he must know what could well happen? Dumarest turned as the monk came toward them. Dexter was genial but firm.

"It is time you returned your borrowed robes," he said. "Brother Kollar reported the incident in the infirmary. I do not blame you but your attitude is not ours. A suppliant could have gained the impression that we terminate the lives of the sick placed in our care."

"I told Worsley I wasn't a monk."

"He may not have believed you."

"It may be as well for you if others don't either." Dumarest glanced at the men who seemed to be waiting. "There could be those who don't welcome your presence here. They might hesitate to object if they think you stronger than you are."

"Eight instead of six." Dexter shook his head. "You mean well but I must insist. Our foundation here must not rest on deception. Your robe, please." The old monk turned to Angado who had stood quietly by, listening. "And yours also. We are on this world by sufferance of the authorities and dare not risk the possibility of a misunderstanding. You both lack the training necessary to follow the philosophy of the Church."

"Peace," said Dumarest. "But that's something you have to fight for."

"To achieve," corrected the monk. "The robes?"

"Are they really that important?"

"The garments, no, what virtue lies in a piece of cloth? But as a symbol of what we are and are trying to accomplish-"

"The credo," Dumarest met the old monk's eyes. "There," he said softly, "but for the grace of God, go I. The thing you want all to remember; the rich, the whole, the comfortable when they look at the sick, the poor, the deprived. But it works both ways and, at times, you could forget that. The sick and maimed and hopeless you feel so concerned about look at the spoiled and pampered, the strong, the ruthless. They can see the benefits of being cruel and arrogant, and they too could think that there, but for the grace of God, they could be. And they might want to alter things a little. Correct the balance in their favor. Could you blame them if they tried?"

"The Church can never condone violence."

"Just accept it and preach that others should do the same? To be meek? To believe that to bend the head is to avoid the kick in the rear? How much punishment do you expect people to take?"

"There are worlds even now where criminals are maimed as a punishment for their crimes," said Dexter. "Once such things were common but now are rare. Soon that barbarism will vanish. As will other things." He held out his hand. "The robes, please. A monk, above all, must practice humility."

Angado watched as the monk moved away, the robes over his arm. Beneath his own he had worn clothing similar to Dumarest's, a knife thrust into his boot, the axe dumped with them riding in his belt.