Angado

He said, "You were hard on him, Earl. Why? Dexter does his best and isn't a bad man."

"He's too good for this world." Dumarest gestured at the huddle comprising Lowtown. "And for any other like it. He's a fool. He's done his stint in the past and should now be taking things easy."

"Monks never do that."

"They should."

"They can't. That's what dedication is all about. It was unfair you talking to him the way you did. Brother Dexter's not stupid, he knows human nature as well as anyone, but he has to keep doing what he believes in." Angado paused then added, "As you would in his position. But then I suppose you'd run classes in unarmed combat and teach suppliants to use a knife. All in the name of peace."

"No," said Dumarest. "Survival."

"Kill or be killed." Angado shook his head. "God, but you're hard. People don't live like that, not even in this slum. They share a common misfortune and make the best of it. Brother Dexter and the other monks know that. That's why they're so against violence. Once it starts who knows where it will end?"

Dumarest shrugged, not answering. He looked at the sky then to where a knot of men had gathered to the far side of the church. Among them he noticed those he had spotted earlier. All looked toward the heart of Lowtown.

To Angado he said, "Find Worsley and bring him to me."

"Why do you-"

"Do it! And don't get involved no matter what happens. Remember that, don't get involved."

"Trouble?" The younger man looked around. The monks had gathered in front of the church, Dexter still holding the reclaimed robes. "I can't see anything."

"It hasn't happened yet. Well, I tried to warn him but he wouldn't listen."

"Who?"

"Brother Dexter," said Dumarest. "He's due a visitor."

He came as such men always did, confident, smiling, enjoying the moment, the pleasure to come. A man middle-aged, middle-sized, his face bland, his clothing good and clean but not too obviously expensive. Heavy rings glinted on his fingers and his hair, thick and dark, framed prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes.

He wasn't alone. At his side trotted a smaller version of himself, thinner, older, the sharply pointed nose and darting eyes betraying the questing, curious nature of the man. Two others, big, stocky, followed at the rear. Both carried staves a yard long and, Dumarest guessed, loaded with lead.

Worsley said, "That's Gengiz. The small one is Birkut. He keeps the accounts and tallies the score. The two big ones are his bodyguard."

"The take?"

"A zobar a person a week."

"How much is a zobar?"

"The price of half a day's work at the field-if you can get it."

"And if you don't pay?"

"You know the answer to that."

"I know," said Dumarest. "But he doesn't." He gestured toward Angado. "Tell him."

"You pay or your shack gets ruined. Your things get stolen. Your food spoiled. After that you start getting hurt." Worsley was bitter. "He calls it insurance. He'll even lend you the premiums but, after a while, if you still don't or can't pay, he collects."

"Nice," said Dumarest. "Just think of all the good things that money would have provided. Your wife's sick-she would have liked the soup and drugs you didn't get because you avoided trouble and paid."

"I paid," said Worsley tightly. "But I didn't like it. And you're wrong about one thing, mister. My wife isn't sick- she's dead. And to hell with you!"

He strode away and Dumarest looked at his companion.

"You see?"

"See what? I-"

"The reality of that garbage you were spouting. The rubbish about people sharing a common misfortune and making the best of it. You live in a jungle and you'd better realize it. You can't stop violence. All life is a continual act of violence. In order to survive you have to fight every step of the way and keep on fighting. Against disease, starvation, thirst, heat, cold, nakedness. Against the parasites wanting to feed off you. Lice and insects and ordinary predators. And against scum like Gengiz."

"He should be stopped."

"Maybe, but not by you. It's none of your business."

"But-"

"Forget it."

Dumarest held a broom, a pole tipped with a wide fan of bristles, and he used it as he followed Angado as the man moved toward the group of monks. Curious, he wanted to hear what was being said. Dumarest had already guessed.

"So you see, brothers, what the position is." Gengiz had made the preliminary spiel, his voice soft, devoid of threat, almost gentle as he urged cooperation. "In order to maintain the peace we must abide by the rules and as Mayor it is my duty to see that everyone complies. As intelligent men you can see that. As you can see that to patrol the area requires men who have to be paid. A form of tax per head of the population takes care of that. It is small, a zobar a head a week, but in your case-well, perhaps we could discuss it in private?"

Dexter shook his head. "That will not be necessary."

"It would be best."

"No. We have permission to establish our church here. That permission was granted by the authorities. The tax you mention is unlawful."

Gengiz said, softly, "Brother, answer me one thing-have you ever been in this situation before?"

"Many times."

"And must have learned from your experience. Now, if we could go somewhere to be alone?"

Seclusion where the mask could be dropped and the naked threat revealed. Pay or suffer. The structure of the church damaged, monks beaten up, suppliants threatened, stores and supplies ruined or stolen. Even a demonstration could be given-a broken arm or shattered kneecap a hint of what was to come if refusal continued.

Things Dexter knew, as he realized that to yield was to destroy the aim of the Church. To bow to the threat of violence was to condone it. To pay the levy Gengiz demanded was to buy peace at too high a price-yet to refuse was to invite harsh retribution.

Dexter looked at the sun, the sky, aware of the monks at his back, of the watching faces all around. The moment of truth he had known so often before; the hardest thing for any monk to take. Those who served the Church could not be weak in either spirit or body yet that strength had to be sublimated to the greater ideal. To be meek. To be humble. To trust that, by example, they would give rise to a protective concern.

"Well?" Gengiz was becoming impatient. "Have you nowhere we could be alone?"

"There is nothing to decide. Therefore no good purpose would be served by further conversation."

"I see. Birkut!"

The small man stepped forward as Gengiz and his bodyguard moved away. A toady, basking in the reflection of the other's power, as poisonous as a serpent. His voice held an oily note of subtle menace.

"The Mayor is being kind," he said. "He understands your problems and is eager to accommodate you. Think it over. Discuss it with the others. It could end as a matter of a percentage-a share of donations." His smirk was as oily as his tone. "You have until sunset."

Chapter Seven

Yuanka's sun was a sullen ball of smoldering ochre edged by a flickering corona of orange. Colors which combined with the murk in the atmosphere to produce a purple haze as sunset drew near. In it the perimeter fence surrounding the field showed as a misty web topped by lamps which, later, would illuminate the mesh with a vivid glow.

The fence encompassing Lowtown was less obvious but just as restricting. Dumarest looked at the cleared strip encircling the area, the deep ditch dug beyond it, the huts set at strategic points. Those controlling the planet had taken precautions against the danger residing in the hungry and desperate.

"Nice." Angado had accompanied Dumarest. "Try to break out and they'll gun down anyone reaching the ditch. I'll even bet they've got a curfew."