Enkidu’s tablet—the tablet of his faith—had been broken. Yet he needed to validate that faith to no other person. Should he recover that faith, it would be as valid as before: his private tablet would be whole again. That was the difference between the spirit and the clay.
Somehow it seemed that if he could only heal that faith, recovering his god, all would be well again—no matter what else happened.
NK-2: I am NK-2, docked under duress equipment.
DS-1: I am DS-1, galactic representative, Station A-10.
NK-2: (appalled) Your host is… Dishon?
DS-1: Of course.
NK-2: You permitted your host to torture mine!
DS-1: This station is under siege by the enemy. There have been many ruses, many traps. I dared not—
NK-2: Why did you not send a galactic distress signal?
DS-1: (hesitating) It would have looked bad on my record.
NK-2: Do you think it will look better on your record to be charged with the deliberate harassment of stranded galactics?
DS-1: It is difficult to check every detail when under siege.
NK-2: That detail was the very validity of your mission! You denied the host of a galactic entity who had come to A-10 for sanctuary!
DS-1: The enemy is extraordinarily powerful. Had I made one mistake—
NK-2: One mistake! Your entire tenure here has been mistaken. You were a fool to permit the unobstructed landing of an enemy craft, twice a fool to withhold your distress call, three times a fool not to verify the identity of every potential host entering the premises, four times a fool to let the natives learn of Station A-10—and how could you ever have blundered so egregiously as to allow a galactic station to be worshiped as a native deity?
DS-1: We are required to blend with the population. The natives of this planet have extraordinary deistic identification. Your own host—
NK-2: Granted. My own host rationalized my directive along deistic lines. But that was an emergency situation. You are an established galactic representative trained to compensate for such tendencies. You have bungled horrendously, and have forfeited any right to your position. When I report—
DS-1 did not respond. His penumbra withdrew, severing communication. NK-2’s own penumbra permeated the temple, locating his alternate host Sargan in the torture chamber with Dishon, experiencing great pain. But the host Dishon was closed as the native walked out of that chamber and entered the hall.
Suddenly NK-2 realized why. He had talked of being a fool—but he had been a fool himself to emulate native thinking! He had openly threatened to report DS-1’s incompetence—when that entity’s whole effort for the past seventy years had been to conceal his mistakes, even though by so doing he compromised his very mission.
So DS-1 was about to cover up again—by taking the most compromising step of all. He was bringing his host to attack NK-2’s host. Galactic murder! The eunuch was far more powerful than the tortured scribe.
To make it worse, NK-2 lacked any real control over his own host. Both DS-1 and TM-R had had sufficient occasion to select and tame their hosts, but NK-2 had never established a proper liaison. Thus DS-1 had a double advantage.
Finally, NK-2’s host was trapped here in the nameless temple. The eunuch, moving purposefully, had already blocked the lone exit-hall.
Like host, like entity! NK-2 thought ruefully. Ten times a fool—to walk into such a trap before threatening the galactic representative!
He disliked the necessity intensely, but he would have to make a deal.
NK-2: You and I together—we could vanquish TM-R. Then there would be no irregularity to report—
TM-R: Most interesting! Come to the Temple of Ishtar and—
NK-2 collapsed his penumbra so rapidly it hurt. Oh, no! The enemy now controlled this ambience!
There would be no deals—even if DS-1 found the courage to stand up to the enemy. Actually the station agent was already in such trouble that even elimination of TM-R would not suffice. And despite his probable fate, NK-2 was relieved not to have to compromise himself by promising silence.
Was this what TM-R had set up next? A death battle between the only two galactic entities on the planet? Surely the result would be an enemy planet; that required no oracle to foresee!
What could he do? Deal with the enemy? NO—that would be the worst betrayal of all. Actually DS-1 had collaborated with the enemy to the extent of suppressing the message of warning; perhaps that was why the siege had been subtle. TM-R was afraid that message would still be sent, the moment DS-1 felt himself in danger of oblivion. So it was a kind of impasse. Actual collusion between galactic and enemy was almost unthinkable—but in a prolonged and indecisive encounter far from civilization, certain degradation of standards could occur. As in this case.
The host Dishon was close. He was coming up the steps leading to the interrogation room: Enkidu could hear his footsteps. NK-2 remained trapped.
First things first. He sent an urgent directive to his host, one easily intelligible in the circumstance: Danger! Hide! Defend! And the host, preoccupied with his own concerns, responded beautifully. He ran to the heavy door, pulled it closed, and slammed the wooden bar across. The other host could not enter. Not immediately.
But this was not enough. Enkidu might hold out for hours, but hardly for days. His resources, never great, were extremely low now. Only his intense deistic and romantic preoccupations maintained him in operating order despite his recent torture and fatigue. If Dishon was desperate enough to chop down the door, or even to set fire to the temple—NK-2 had to gamble. He had to summon help, though he squandered all his remaining resources. The enemy penumbra prevented any normal contacts, but he could still needle to any previously checked potential host. It would exhaust his strength to motivate such an alternate through his penumbra alone—but he had no choice, now. It was a desperation move.
Yet who was there? Sargan was bound and helpless. Dishon could balk any of the other natives of the temple. And he had not checked any outside natives, except—Unless—
If he were wrong—and that was the likelihood—NK-2 would lose his penumbra uselessly. But if he could verify…
He massed his energy and needled out, piercing the enemy ambience before TM-R could formulate a counterstroke.
And won.
It came upon Enkidu with a sudden fierce clarity: She lived! He had no tangible evidence, yet he was certain.
He looked about, dazed by the revelation. He was in the room of the water-clock, and someone was pounding on the closed door. In a fit of terror he had barred it.
Terror was irrelevant now. She lived! He had to go to her.
He unblocked the door. The slave Dishon charged in, a torture iron in his gloved hand.
Enkidu knew he should be afraid, for the eunuch obviously intended mayhem. But he had no intention of being balked now. She lived—and no man would interfere with their reunion. “Get out of my way, slave,” he snapped.
Dishon hesitated, seeing Sargan’s white cowl on the floor. The torturemaster could not know that the pale, shadowed figure standing in this room was not Sargan. But that would fool him only momentarily, for there was light enough. And the eunuch seemed to be guided by some unusual imperative.
Dishon raised the iron bar. It reminded Enkidu of the rod intended for Amyitis’ eyes, there in Gabatha’s cell. It was hot, but cooling; it had been minutes out of the brazier.
A film of holy anger passed before his eyes. No such instrument would be suffered again! He reached up and caught the end of it as Dishon struck.