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“I know the reference in the phrase,” the Kareenan said. “You are a cool one. To answer your question, I am Yess. But not for long.”

Carmody decided the Kareenan was no immediate threat. He continued his examination of the room by flashlight. At one end was an archway with steps leading upward. Above, projecting from the wall at a height of about forty meters, was a balcony. It was capable of holding about fifty spectators on its banked array of seats. The wall at the other end had a similar archway and balcony. That was all. The room contained only the gigantic statue of Boonta, the altar and candleholder, the chair, and the man—god? -- in it.

Yess, or a decoy?

“I am truly Yess,” the Kareenan said.

Carmody was startled.

“Can you read my mind?”

“Don’t get so panicky. No, I cannot read your mind. But I can perceive your intentions.”

Yess swallowed the bite. After sighing, he said, “The Sleep of my people is troubled. They are having a nightmare. Monsters are thrusting upward from the depths of their beings. Otherwise, you would not be here. Who knows what this night will see? Perhaps. . . the time for Algul to triumph? He is impatient with his long exile.” He made the circular sign. “If Mother so wills it.”

“My curiosity will be the death of me yet,” Carmody said. He laughed but cut the laugh off when the cachinnations were hurled back at him from the far-off walls.

“What do you mean by that?” Yess asked.

“Not much,” Carmody replied. He was thinking that he should kill this man—god while he had the chance. If Yess’ retainers appeared, they could make it unhealthy for the man who intended to assassinate their god. On the other hand, what if this Kareenan was not Yess but only a stalking-horse or bait? It would be best to wait a while to make sure. Besides, this might be his last chance to talk with a deity.

“What is it you want?” Yess said. He bit off a small piece of the candle and began chewing.

“Can you give it to me?” Carmody said. “Not that I really care. I’m accustomed to taking what I want. Charity—in giving or in receiving—is not one of my vices.”

“That’d be one of the few vices you don’t have,” Yess said. He looked calmly at the Earthman, then smiled.”What do you want?”

“That reminds me of the story of the fairy prince,” Carmody replied. “I want you.”

Yess raised his feathery eyebrows. “Not really. It is obvious you’re a disciple of Algul. It shines out from every pore of your skin, it radiates with every beat of your heart. There is evil on your breath.”

Staring, Yess cocked his head. Then he closed his eyes.

“But yet... there’s something.”

He opened his eyes. “You poor devil. You miserable suffering conceited cockroach. You’re dying at the same time you boast you’re living as no other man dares to live. You. . .”

“Shut up!” Carmody shouted. Then he smiled and softly said, “You’re very good at needling, aren’t you? But you’d never have stung me if it weren’t for what I’ve gone through, for the hellish effects of this Night. Enough to drive many men mad.”

He pointed his gun at Yess. ”You’ll not get a rise out of me again. But you can congratulate yourself on having done what few have—although those few aren’t alive to brag about it.”

He gestured with the gun at the candlestick in Yess’ hand.

“Why in the name of insanity are you eating that? Church mice may be poor. But gods that live in temples are poor also?”

“You have never eaten such rich food,” Yess replied. “This is the most expensive candle in the world. It is made from the ground-up bones of my predecessor, a flour mixed with the wax excreted by the divine trogur bird. The trogur is sacred to my Mother, as you may know. There are only twenty-one of these most beautiful of all birds living on my planet, or anywhere in the universe, and they are tended by the priestesses of the temple of the Isle of Vantrebo.

“Every seven years, just before the Night begins, a little pinch of bone dust from the Yess who died 763 years ago is worked into the trogur wax. The candle fashioned from the god’s dust and the wax is set on this table, and the taper is lit. I sit here and wait while the billionfold Sleepers turn and toss and groan in their drugged Sleep. And while the nightmares howl and rave and kill on the streets of Kareen.

“When the candle has burned a little, I snuff out the flame. And, in accordance with the eons-old ritual, I eat the candle. By doing so, I commune with the dead god—who is at the same time living—and I partake of his divinity. I refresh myself with his godhood.

“Some time, perhaps this Night, I shall die. And my flesh will be stripped from my bones. My bones will be ground into a flour, and the flour will be mixed with trogur wax and made into a candle. Septennial by septennial, a part of me will be burned as an offering to my people and my Mother. The smoke from the burning candle will arise and drift through the ventilating system and go out into the air of the Night. And I will not only be burned, I will be eaten by the god who follows me. That is, if the god is Yess.

“For an Algul does not eat a Yess, nor a Yess eat an Algul. Evil hungers for evil, and good for good.”

Carmody grinned and said, “You really believe all that nonsense?”

“I know.”

“It’s all primitive magic,” Carmody said. “And you, a so-called civilized being, are hoodwinking your disciples, the poor, blind, superstition-staggered fools.”

“Not so. If I were on Earth, your accusation might be justified. But you’ve gotten this far through the Night—an ill omen for me—and you must know by now that anything is possible.”

“I’m sure it’s all explainable by physical means as yet unknown. I just don’t care. I’ll tell you one thing. You’re going to die.”

Yess smiled and said, “Who isn’t?”

“I mean right now!” Carmody snarled.

“I’ve lived 763 years. I’m getting tired, and a tired god is not good for the people. Nor does my Mother wish a feeble son. So, whether Yess or Algul triumph tonight, I must die.

“I’m ready. If you were not the instrument of my death, another would be.”

Carmody shouted, “I’m no one’s tool! I do what I want, and any plans I carry out are mine! Mine alone, do you hear!”

Yess smiled again. “I hear. Are you trying to drive yourself into a rage which will be strong enough to allow you to kill me?”

Carmody squeezed the trigger. Yess and the chair on which he sat slid backward from the impact of the stream of exploding bullets. Flesh and blood rose in little spurts, collected into tiny balls, drifted around him, and fell down in a shower on him. His head flew apart. His arms rose upward and over, and his legs kicked up. The motion carried him over backward, and he fell with a crash.

Carmody quit firing only when the clip was empty. Then he bent down and placed the light on the floor. By its illumination, he ejected the clip and replaced it with a fresh one.

His heart was beating savagely; his hands shook. This was the culmination of his career, his masterpiece. He liked to think of himself as an artist, a great artist in crime, if not the greatest. Sometimes he would laugh at the idea and sneer at himself. But he thought of it too often, therefore he must truly believe in it. If there were artists, he was one. No one could surpass him now. Who else had murdered a god?

It was, however, a little sad. What could he do now to top this?

He would think of something. In a universe this large, something even more superb waited for him. All he had to do was get out of this situation and look for another even more challenging.