"Yes? What about him?"
"He used to be a real estate salesman and he has a very convincing manner. The PanAsians put him out of business, of course, and he's anxious to avoid the labor camps. I've been feeling him out."
"Well, if you think he'll do, send him up. Perhaps I can look him over there."
"Huh?
"I've been thinking while I listened. Jeff, I don't know enough about the field situation; I've got to come see for myself. If I am going to direct this show, I've got to understand it. I can't do it from a hole in the ground; I'm falling out of touch."
"I thought that was settled a long time ago, boss."
"What do you mean?"
"Are you going to leave Calhoun as acting C. O. ?"
Ardmore remained silent for several moments, then said, "Damn you, jet"
"Well, are you?"
"Oh, very well! Let's drop the matter!"
"Don't get sore, boss. I've been trying to give you the whole picture; that's why I've talked so long. "
"I'm glad you did. I want you to repeat it, in much more detail. I'll put Estelle on and have her make a recording of everything you've got to say. We'll work up an instruction manual for student 'priests' from your lecture."
"O. K., but let me call you back. I've got a service in ten minutes."
"Can't Alec even run a service?" '
"He does and he's O. K. He preaches a better sermon than I do. But it's my best recruiting time, Major; I study the crowd and talk to them individually afterwards."
"OK, OK -- I'm switching off." 'Bye."
Services were crowded by now. Thomas did not fool himself that the creed of the great god Mota was the drawing card; even while the service proceeded, at the sides of the hall tables were being piled high with food, purchased with Scheer's fine gold. But Alec put on a good show. It seemed to Jeff, as. he listened to him preach, that the old mountain man had somehow reconciled his strange new job with his conscience so thoroughly that he actually believed that he was preaching his own religion, in symbols of course and with odd ritual -- but his voice carried conviction.
"If he keeps that up," Jeff told himself, "we'll have women fainting in the aisles. Maybe I should tell him to soft-pedal it."
But without untoward incident Alec reached the final hymn. The congregation sang with verve, then trooped toward the tables. Sacred music had at first been a problem until Jeff had hit on the dodge of putting new words to the commonest American patriotic music. It served a double purpose; anyone who listened closely could hear the old words, the true words, being sung by the bolder spirits present.
Jeff circulated around among his flock while they ate, patting the heads of children, pronouncing blessings -- and listening. As he passed a man got up from his place and stopped him. It was Johnson, the former real estate salesman. "A word with you, Holy One?"
"What is it, my son?"
Johnson indicated that he wanted to speak privately; they drew away from the crowd over into the shadow of the altar. "Holy One, I don't dare go back to my room tonight."
"Why not, my son?"
"I still haven't been able to get my work card validated. Today was my last day of grace. If I go home it's the camps for me."
Jeff looked grave. "You know that the servers of Mota do not preach resistance to mundane authority."
"You wouldn't turn me out to be arrested("
"We do not refuse sanctuary. Perhaps it is not as bad as you think it is, my son; perhaps if you stay here tonight, tomorrow you may find someone to hire you and validate your card."
"I can stay, then?"
"You may stay." Thomas decided that Johnson might as well stay from then on; if he measured up, he would be sent to the Citadel for final test. If not, Johnson could stay as an unenlightened helper around the temple -- the temple needed more help every day, especially in the kitchen.
When the crowd had gone Jeff locked the door, then checked through the building personally to make sure that none but the resident help and those who had been granted overnight sanctuary were still inside. There were more than a dozen of these refugees; Jeff was studying some of them as prospective recruits.
Inspection completed and the place tidied up, Jeff shooed everyone but Alec upstairs to the second-floor dormitory rooms; he locked the door to the staircase after them. This was a nightly routine; the altar with its many marvelous gadgets was safe from snoopers, as it had a shield of its own, controlled by a switch in the basement nonetheless Jeff did not want anyone attempting to get at it. The avowed reason for the nightly lock up was, of course, a piece of holy mumbo jumbo having to do with the "sacredness" of the lower floor.
Alec and Jeff went down into the basement, locking after them a heavy, steel-sheathed door. Their apartment was a large room, housing the power unit for the altar, the communicator back to the base, and the same two cots Peewee Jenkins had gotten for them on their first day in Denver. Alec undressed, went into the adjoining bath, and got ready for bed. Jeff peeled off his robes and turban, but not his beard; it was now homegrown. He put on overalls, stuck a cigar in his mouth, and called the base.
For the next three hours he dictated, over Alec's snores. Then he, too, went to bed.
Jeff woke up with a feeling of unease. The lights had not switched on; therefore it was not the morning alarm that had wakened him. He lay very still for a moment, then reached down beside him on the floor and recovered his staff.
Someone was in the room, other than Alec, still snoring on the other cot. He knew it, although at the moment he could hear no sound. Working by touch alone he carefully set his shield to cover both cots. He switched on the lights.
Johnson was standing in front of the communicator. Some sort of complicated goggles covered his eyes; in his hand was a black-light projector.
"Stand where you are," Jeff said quietly.
The man whirled around, then shoved the goggles up on his forehead. He stood for a moment, blinking at the light.
Quite suddenly a vortex pistol appeared in his other hand. "Don't make any sudden moves, Pop," he snapped. "This is no toy."
"Alec!" Jeff called out. "Alec! Wake up."
Alec sat up, at once alert. He glanced around and dived for his staff. "I've got us both screened," Jeff said rapidly. "Now you grab him but don't kill him."
"Make a move and you get it," warned Johnson.
"Don't be foolish, my son," Jeff answered. "The great god Mota protects his own. Put down that gun.
Without wasting time on speech Alec was setting the controls on his staff. It took him some time; he had had only practice drills in the use of the tractor and pressor beams. Johnson watched him fumbling, looked uncertain, then bred at him point blank.
Nothing happened; Jeff's shield soaked up the energy.
Johnson looked amazed; he looked still more amazed and rubbed his hand a moment later when Alec snatched the gun from his hand with a tractor beam. "Now," said Jeff, "tell us, my son, why you saw fit to violate the mysteries of Mota?"
Johnson looked around at him, his eyes showing apprehension but still defiant. "Stow that Mota stuff. I wasn't kidded.."
"The Lord Mota is not mocked."
"Stow it, I tell you. How do you explain that stuff?" He hooked a thumb at the communicator.
"The Lord Mota need not explain. Sit down, my son, and make your peace with him."
"Sit down, my eye. I'm walking straight out of here. If you birds don't want this place swarming with slanties, you won't try to stop me. I wouldn't turn in a white man unless he made trouble for me."