"That's not for you to worry over," Kris said.
Quickly, he reviewed the contributions each merchant was to make. "All right," he said finally. "Is everything understood?"
"All but one point," said Kresh peBor Dmorno, a pale-skinned wine-merchant. "What of the money?"
Kris looked at him steadily for a moment, then said: "If you can't give your share, why are you here?"
Nibro peDom, the baker, glared Kresh peBor down. "We will give, Kris peKym," he said.
"Good. Don't worry about going broke; there'll be money to spare. You may not make an immediate profit, but the reward will be greater when the Earthmen are gone. Got that?"
They nodded. Kris smiled satisfiedly; he was beginning to make things fall in line. The meeting was closed with handshaking all around. The merchants filed out, while Kris remained, jotting down a few notes on what had taken place.
A good day's work, he thought. And Del dead. We're moving in the right direction at last.
He locked the door of his office, pocketed the key gayly, and trotted down the stairs, in a hurry now to return to the hotel.
It was late at night, Kris saw, when he emerged into the street. The air was filled with the falling night-rain which splattered on the pavement and dribbled from the darkened roofs of the buildings into the street below.
And for the twentieth time in as many days, Kris heard footsteps behind him.
Every damn night! he thought. Why?
It had been going on far too long, and it was irritating Kris to have a more-or-less constant shadow. So far, nothing had been attempted. Kris had managed to catch a glimpse of the man now and then, but whoever it was had never been close enough to be a danger. To make sure that no trap was being set, Kris had taken a different route home each night. He hadn't been attacked yet—but he didn't like the idea of being followed.
It would have been a waste of time to attempt to elude the pursuer; the man, whoever he was, obviously knew where Kris lived and where he worked. To waste his energy every night trying to get away from the shadowy figure would be just that— a waste of energy. So Kris had simply kept his eyes and ears ready, waiting for whatever might happen.
This night, the footsteps sounded closer than they had been. Kris kept his ears cocked. The city was dark; the wind had whipped up and blown out many of the street lamps.
He passed a darkened alleyway, and, quite suddenly, three men came charging out toward him. They said nothing, and it was obvious that they intended to kill to get the money Kris was carrying.
Kris went for his gun. He jerked it out of his belt and leveled it at the first of the oncoming attackers. There was a horrendous roar and a great belch of smoke and flame. The man paused, startled, but Kris could see that he hadn't been hit.
He came on again, as Kris thumbed back the hammer for a second shot. There was another blast, and this time the first man dropped, almost at Kris peKym's feet. The other two were still coming; Kris had to make both of his next shots count. Otherwise-—
Suddenly, a third figure appeared out of the wet gloom, coming up behind the attackers, a huge peych-knife swinging in his hand. The blade slammed home twice, and the two remaining thugs were lying dead in the street.
Kris kept his pistol leveled at the newcomer.
"Don't shoot that thing, Ancient One!" said a half-frightened, hoarse voice. "It's me; Bor pePrannt Hebylla!"
It was the scar-faced man who had attempted to hold him up when he had first come to Tammulcor. He stepped nearer, his peych-knife lowered. "Did they hurt you, Ancient one?"
"No," said Kris. "You came along just in time."
"I did my best, Ancient One."
Kris shoved his pistol back into his belt. There were noises up and down the street, now; people were peeping cautiously out of their windows, wondering what the two bursts of noise had meant.
Kris jerked his head in the direction of his hotel. "Come along; no use waiting for the Peacemen."
Bor pePrannt shoved his knife into his belt and fell into step.
"Why didn't you and your brother come back to my office that day?" Kris asked.
"Why didn't we come back? Well ... to tell the truth, Ancient One, we didn't know what to expect. We argued about it, my brother and I, until it was well after the Hour of Second Prayer. When we realized it was too late—well, it was too late.
"My brother got aboard a ship, so he gave me the money you gave him. He went to Gycor—there's work there."
"And you?"
"Oh ... well, I've been getting on. Odd jobs here and there in the daytime."
Like a handful of pyramid dice, everything suddenly fell into place. Kris stopped and looked at his rescuer. "Hoy! Is it you who's been following me around at night?"
"Why, sure, Ancient One. I wouldn't want you to get hurt just because my brother and I argued that morning."
"Great Light!" Kris said, trying to keep from grinning. "Come along, Bor pePrannt. You have a job—permanently."
They arrived at the hotel without further incident. Kris and Bor pePrannt climbed the stairway and strode down the hall to the suite which Dran and Kris occupied. Kris reached for the handle of the door and started to pull when the door swung open unexpectedly. Kris stepped back and blinked.
Marja geDel was standing there, looking almost shamefully beautiful in view of what had happened to her father. Her deep, wide eyes held a sparkle, and beneath her vest, her body seemed incredibly alive and exciting. Her long legs seemed to shine in the lamplight that poured from the room.
"Kris!" Her smile was radiant. "It's good you're here; we've been discussing everything, but we couldn't arrive at any decisions without you." Then her eyes narrowed a little as she saw the hulking figure of Bor in the dimness behind Kris. "Who's that, Kris?"
Kris stepped into the room, with Bor following him. "Bor—step out and introduce yourself."
The scarfaced man smiled hesitantly and said: "I am Bor pePrannt Hebylla, old ones."
Briefly and concisely, Kris explained to Marja, Ganz, Norvis, and Dran what had happened and how he had come to meet the broad-shouldered longshoreman.
Dran peDran, who had been sitting on a chair against the far wall, stood up with a wide smile and walked over to grasp Bor's hand. "We is needing good men with a peych-knife. How is you learn to handle one? You doesn't look like a farmer."
Bor grinned lopsidedly. "I'm not. I've been a seaman, but I couldn't keep from getting seasick; I tried being a Peaceman once, but I was let out because i didn't attend prayers at the right time. So i took up longshoring."
Kris looked at the two men. Here was his nucleus, he told himself. Here were the prototypes of the kind of men he wanted.
He turned to Norvis, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed. "Now let's get straight what happened in Vashcor. Exactly what happened to Del?"
Norvis didn't get a chance to answer. Young Ganz, standing near the bed, said: "Someone shot him while he was going into his office! Someone in the hire of the priesthood!"
Kris looked at the boy. "I didn't ask you, youngster. i asked Secretary Norvis."
Ganz subsided, and Norvis said: "It happened just about as Ganz said. Del was walking toward the office. Someone fired a rifle at him; the copper slug went right through his head."
Kris rubbed his knuckles over his jawline. "It sounds as though the priests might have been partly responsible. I doubt that an ordained Grandfather would have done or even condoned any such thing, but, considering Del's attitude, some young hotheaded acolyte might have done it. After all, Del wasn't exactly friendly toward them; the Party lost a lot of backers because of his policies. They weren't too well calculated to win the approval of the people."