He turned as a man came stamping through the mist.
"Factor?"
"What is it, Langel?"
"I'm short of men. If you want the area sprayed as you said, I've got to have more help." Langel, like Sergi, was on the resident maintenance staff.
"You've got all I can give you," snapped Meoud. He glared at Sergi, forgetting the other couldn't see his eyes. "How about your men? You aren't using them, are you?"
"I need them to adjust the blowers. Anyway, you can't spray until they're working, not unless you want the stuff to go all to hell."
That was true. Meoud scowled as he reviewed the problem. The trouble with Scar was that everything had to be done in so much of a hurry once spring had arrived. The rains stopped, the sun began to climb over the horizon and, immediately, the air was loaded with fog as the heat from the red giant drew up the water soaking the ground.
These were not the best of conditions in which to ready the dwellings on Hightown for their rich occupants, rig the protective blowers, spray the area with strong fungicides, clear the landing field, sterilize the warehouses and do all the necessary things to make the station both attractive and safe.
"We'll have to get extra labor," he decided, "more men from Lowtown. We can issue them with the necessary clothing and they'll be glad to earn the money." He looked at the two men. "I don't suppose either of you would like to arrange it?"
"I'm busy," said Langel quickly, "too busy to go into that stinking heap of filth."
"Sergi?"
"The same." The big engineer turned his head, concentrating on something to one side. "Trouble," he said. "I'll be seeing you, Factor."
Fuming, Meoud walked away, fighting his rage, and the mist, the mud, the very elements of Scar. The men hadn't really refused and, if they had, he lacked the power to make them venture into Lowtown in the spring. It was obvious that neither intended to leave the safety of the station area.
Ahead, hugging the edge of the landing field, he saw the outlines of a small, portable church. Despite the streaming fog a line of men waited before the entrance. Cynically he watched them, knowing they queued less for spiritual balm than for the wafer of concentrates given as the bread of forgiveness after they had done subjective penance beneath the benediction light.
"You need help, brother?"
Meoud turned and stared at a figure in a rough, homespun robe. The cowl was rimmed with beads of water, the bare feet in their sandals coated with grime, but there was nothing pitiful about the figure. Brother Glee, while not a big man in the physical sense, was spiritually a giant. He stood, patiently waiting, the chipped bowl of crude plastic empty in his hand.
Meoud glanced at it. "No luck today, Brother?"
"None has as yet given charity," corrected the monk quietly. "Spring, on Scar, is a time of labor and, in such times, men tend to forget their less fortunate brethren."
"And at other times, too," said Meoud flatly. He raised his eye screen and squinted at the indistinct shape standing before him. "Why?" he said. "I've offered to let you eat at the canteen at my expense, and you could use one of the prefabricated huts as a church. Is it essential for you to live as animals in the mud?"
"Yes," said Brother Glee simply. "You are a kindly man, Factor Meoud, but in many ways you lack understanding. How could we dare preach to the unfortunate if we did not share their misery? How could they trust us, believe in the message we carry?"
"All men are brothers," said Meoud. "I don't wish to mock you, Brother, but there are many who would not agree with your teaching."
"That is not our teaching," said the monk patiently. "It is 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you': the golden rule and the logical one of any thinking, feeling man. Look at them," he said, turning to gesture to the patiently waiting line. "Think of one thing, Factor Meoud. There, but for the grace of God, go I! Remember that and all else will fall into place."
He did not gesture with his bowl. The factor was primed and in a condition to give, but to force him to donate would be the result of pride, pride in the successful arrangement of an emotionally-loaded argument There was another reason; Brother Glee was too good a psychologist to press his advantage. A donation now could have a later backlash. No man likes to think that he has been used or maneuvered.
"I need men," said Meoud suddenly, "strong men who are willing to work under orders. They will receive full rations for each day they work."
"And pay?"
"Equal to double rations," said Meoud. It was no time to haggle. "Treble rations for each man for eight days." He looked at the eyes shadowed by the cowl. "It is enough?"
"Would you work for such a sum after being starved all winter?"
"Yes," said Meoud firmly, and believed it. "If I were starving I would work for food alone."
"So you say, brother; but have you ever starved?"
"No," admitted the factor. "Food while they work and pay enough to buy food for three days more each day they work. I can do no more, Brother; you must believe that."
"I believe it," said the monk. "And, brother, we thank you."
* * *
The man was small and round, with a sweating face and an anxious expression. He wore a pointed cap and his wrists and ankles showed ruffs of yellow. His pants and blouse were of cerise striped with emerald. "Sir!" he called. "A moment, sir! Your attention, if you please."
Dumarest paused, casually interested. Farther down the line, a man lowered his hand, his face bleak as he turned to his wares.
"You are a man of discernment," babbled the vendor. "I could spot that in a moment, the way you entered, the way you walk. You are no stranger to this world, sir."
His voice was shrill with a peculiar penetrating quality which demanded attention. He stood before his wares, which were spread on one of the display stands in the station building. Both bar and canteen were fully operational now and the tables and chairs were fully occupied. Spring was leading to summer and a feverish excitement tinged the air.
Dumarest straightened and caught sight of Ewan busy with his shells. Men freshly awakened from deep sleep clustered around him and the air was full of the low buzz of conversation.
"Sir!" The vendor plucked at his arm. "Your attention for but a moment." His other hand picked up a shimmering heap of plastic. "Look at this suit, sir. Have you ever seen anything as light? Completely acid-proof, and that is only the start. Acid, fire, rot, spore, mold and fungus: nothing can penetrate this special material. Feel it, sir, handle it. I would appreciate your opinion."
Thoughtfully Dumarest examined the suit. It was light and flexible, a shimmering glory in his hands. Ignoring the actual material, he tested the seals and looked at the compact mechanism between the shoulders.
"The seals are guaranteed to withstand fifty atmospheres of pressure either way and yet can be opened with a touch. The filters are of triple construction and set in three distinct places. The absorption material can contain sixty times its own weight of perspiration. Dressed in one of these suits, sir, you could penetrate deep into the most parasitical growth of fungi on the planet."
"Have you tried it?" asked Dumarest.
The vendor frowned. "How do you mean, sir?"
"Have you tested it personally?"
The man smiled. "But, naturally, sir. How else could I offer it for sale with a genuine assurance that it will do everything I claim? I have worn it for five days under facsimile conditions and-"
"But not on Scar," interrupted Dumarest. "You haven't actually used it on a field expedition?"
"On this world, sir, no," admitted the vendor. "But the suit is fully guaranteed. You have absolutely nothing to fear."
"I see," said Dumarest. He frowned at the mechanism riding between the shoulders. "What would happen if I fell and buried my shoulders deep in mud?"