“The society calls itself the Society of the Orderly Plan, a name whose meaning may become clearer to you later on. Normally what I have told you is a closely guarded secret, but because I believe our interests are identical, and because of the present situation, I feel it is only right that you should be brought into the know. I have already contacted the society and suggested that they collaborate with us.”
Furiously Rodrone stormed to his feet. “Do you realize what you’ve done? By now the Streall navy will be on its way to annihilate us!”
“Please, you still do not understand. There is no danger. No word will pass outside the society. I know you find this hard to believe, because in the normal way every individual Streall has a common accord with the interests of the race as a whole. But what we have here is not normal. Seffatt is quite isolated because he is a fugitive, a criminal.”
“I certainly never heard of that before,” Rodrone muttered. “What did he do?”
“He is branded as a thief.”
“Thief?” He was puzzled.
“Yes, I know. Streall civilization is totally communist. There is no property and no crime as we understand it. Exactly what Seffatt did I don’t know, but it was serious enough for him to be a hunted outcast. It may have been more in the nature of an error, or a serious dereliction of duty.”
“Could it have been a doctrinal error?” Rodrone wondered, remembering his reading of the intellectual tyrannies existing in early times in human communist and religious societies.
“No, it was a definite act on his part. But it must have been a long time ago. The Streall have a long life span, you know. Seffatt is several thousand years old. But he’s senile now.”
Rodrone had a sudden insight. “You’re a member of this society, aren’t you?”
“Not now, but I was once. I left because the thinking of the other members does not meet my vigorous standards.”
“But you are asking them for help now.”
“Seffatt’s help.”
Rodrone felt his dislike of the Streall bubbling up. “Tell me,” he said nastily, “what did it feel like to be part of something inimical to all humanity?”
“Persons and feelings are not relevant to knowledge. Truth is relevant.”
They must certainly have got to you, Rodrone thought. He knew now what was so odd about Sinnt. His inhuman streak came from his being tainted with Streall thought.
Sinnt coughed, glanced at a clock on the wall. A high-pitched whistle sounded from a tiny speaker, and he manipulated levers.
“That’s the society now. Right on time.”
Into the room came five men, dressed identically in sober charcoal-colored garments that followed the contours of the body elegantly but unobtrusively. They all wore matching hats with stiff curly brims.
“Hello, Sinnt,” said the leader in lisping, prissy tones. “You’re not as much of a renegade as you thought, then.”
Sinnt introduced them to Rodrone, then led the way to the laboratory and showed them the lens. “Well,” he said gruffly, “there it is.”
“Very pretty, too. Seffatt says we are to take it to the temple.”
“Is that necessary?” Sinnt said uneasily. “I was hoping he would inspect it remotely and… make suggestions.”
“Hopes do not make intentions, Sinnt,” the other said, in a voice which led Rodrone to believe he was quoting a litany.
“I’m sorry,” the scientist said more firmly, “but I do not intend that the lens should leave this building.”
“Please be advised not to obstruct the plan,” replied the society man in the same fussy tone. “You know we always realize our plan. All right, chaps, let’s get moving.”
The other four cleared away equipment that was clustered around the lens and with surprising strength lifted it. Foyle glanced questioningly at his father. For once Sinnt’s marble face was furrowed in a torment of doubt.
“All right—all right!” he said harshly. “Agreed, Rodrone?”
Rodrone was torn between an unwillingness to risk losing control over his possession and a desire to know what the Streall would have to say about it. He nodded. “Provided we go too.”
Outside, the society men had a large vehicle. Twenty minutes’ ride brought them to a deserted street lined on one side with a palisade made of Kelever’s black wood. A section swung open to let the vehicle into an endless vacant lot tangled with weeds, stunted trees and all manner of junk.
Whining, the car crunched along a gravel track until they reached what looked like a fantastically extended and ramified shack, built of tawdry plastic and the ubiquitous black wood. From the look of it, it had reached its present size piece by piece over the years.
Rodrone was wondering just how far the society’s study of Streall beliefs went as they carried the lens into a bare anteroom and paused there. Another door opened. Into the room stepped another black-garbed man, wearing a hat similar to the others but taller. Probably hats were a badge of rank. At any rate he looked over the group commandingly.
“Glad to see you back in the fold, Sinnt.” Rodrone was fascinated to hear him speak in the same prissy voice as the others. “But there are one or two matters to be settled.”
“Yes, leader,” Sinnt muttered timidly.
“Firstly, your indiscretion in disclosing the presence of Seffatt to an outsider. You know what penalty that carries.”
“Yes, leader.”
“We will not go into your failure to tell us about the artifact at an earlier date. Being renegade, you probably did not feel yourself bound to do so. But there remains the question of future relations. The artifact is now ours, and though your services would be useful, we cannot permit permanent participation except under the conditions prescribed.”
“The lens is my property,” Rodrone exploded. “Get that straight!” The leader waved his hand unconcernedly.
Sinnt spoke in a choked voice. “I will renew my vow, leader.”
“What good is your vow? It has been broken once.” Sinnt hung his head. For some reason the leader seemed satisfied.
“Very well, you may reenter our ranks, under suspended sentence of death, in view of your infractions. And your son?”
“The boy is not old enough.”
“Nonsense, he is at a perfect age to begin training.”
“Very well, him too.”
“And what of him?” Insolently the leader flung out a finger at Rodrone.
“I think he would be unsympathetic, leader.”
“Then disarm him.”
Men closed in. Before Rodrone could move to defend himself, he was helpless. His golden gun was taken and expertly he was frisked for other weapons.
“We will not make any definite decision over him yet,” the leader pronounced. “It is surprising what happens in the minds of men when they have been shown the truth. If he remains unchanged, we will dispose of him tomorrow.
“And now, we will take the artifact before Seffatt. He is anxious to see it. You”—pointing to Rodrone—“will accompany us in case he has questions.”
Silently, with an air of ceremony, they were ushered through an assortment of chambers and then down some steps and into a large room smelling of strange perfumes. Rodrone could not avoid the impression of being in a place of worship. The walls were hung with intricate designs whose meaning totally escaped him. At one end was a plush curtain before which low tables were laid out with various unrecognizable objects like an altar.
Deferentially the lens was laid on one of the tables. The leader stood to attention, facing the curtain.
“This is the artifact, Master.”
There was a long, suspenseful silence. Then, from behind the curtain, there came a whispering cough, growing until it took on the proportions of the Streall’s gobbling man-talk. The voice was shot through with the resonant organ-tones which, in a Streall, betokened advanced age.