He left the house and stepped out into the bright morning.
Bright it was. Yet, thought Andy Quam, there was something strange about it, and in a moment he realized what it was. The colors were wrong. There was no cloud in the sky, but the air had a lowering quality, as of storm clouds. He squinted up at the sun and perceived the reason.
Red, sullen, blotched, the disk of the sun still had not recovered from whatever had roiled it yesterday. It was not the familiar sun of Earth, as men had portrayed it in a thousand books and songs. It was somehow like the snake-haired sun of that far world where he had left Clothilde Kwai Kwich.
He limped across a wide square, reviving somewhat as he moved. It had been a strenuous day. And a worrisome one, he thought, remembering with wrinkled brow all the unanswered problems and unmet challenges it had offered.
Perhaps this new day would clear some of them up, he thought—but without much confidence.
He gave the Starchurch a wide berth, hailed a passing citizen and found himself directed to the home of Molly Zaldivar's parents. It was past the Central Municipal Plexus, he discovered, which fit in well enough with his plans; he could use more information if he could get it.
But the Central Municipal Plexus did not turn out to be the combination library-town hall he had expected.
He walked across a queerly perfect circle of stained and blackened cement. It was puzzling, it seemed to have no place in this countrified idyll of a town. Immediately a recorded voice spoke to him:
"Welcome, guest! You have landed at Wisdom Creek Historical Monument. It is a section of the original village of Wisdom Creek, reconstructed exactly as it was on the winter day, many years ago, when the Visitants first arrived."
Andy Quam spoke up, addressing his remarks to thin air, for there was no speaker in sight. "I don't want a historical tour," he snapped. "I want some information."
But there was no response. This was a low-grade programmed instructor, he realized with irritation. Not even homeostatic, merely programmed to respond to his mass-sensed presence with a recorded lecture. He walked through a thick gate. . .
And found himself in something that, for a startled moment, made him think he was in Hell. The air stung his eyes. It choked him, with a reek of industrial fumes and imperfectly oxidized mineral fuels. Blinking and squinting, he made out that he was surrounded by grimy rows of hideous little brick and wooden huts.
Far down a street was a human figure, faced away from him and motionless. Vexed, Andy Quam stamped toward it, ignoring the revolting spectacle around him.
He approached a squat gray pile of concrete on which was etched the legend, Plan of Man. A voice from the air cried brightly: "Welcome guest! This structure, a part of the Central Municipal Plexus Exhibit, represents a primitive Tax Office. Here each citizen reported to the Plan of Man the number of tokens he had received for his work in the previous sidereal year, whereupon he was forced to give up a share of them. Here too was the ration office, where he received permission to barter what tokens he had left for articles of clothing and other necessities.
Here too was the draft office, where young men and women were impressed for training in the use of crude but adequate weapons of the time. Here too was that most central and fundamental institution, the Planning Office, where every action of every citizen was dictated and reviewed and corrected by a primitive central computer. Here, guest, was the very nerve center of the fundamental coercive apparatus of the state!"
Andy Quam trudged grimly on, ignoring the senseless prattle. There was entirely too much realism in this exhibit for his comfort, he thought with distaste. The very air was polluted with the hydrocarbons and fly-ash and photochemicals of primitive combustion products. And the man he was approaching was oddly dressed in what must have been the costume of the*time: a thick fiber uniform, a brutally chopped haircut, something about his neck which looked like a massive metal collar, certainly too heavy and too tight to be comfortable. He stood stark still facing the entrance of the building, his right arm raised in a motionless salute.
"Excuse me," called Andy Quam. "Can you help me find the home of Juan Zaldivar?"
He caught himself, realizing at once that it was only a lifelike dummy. Another recording explained cheerfully:
"The human form you see, guest, is the replica of a Risk. So self-directed men and women were designated. The iron collar worn by each Risk contained an explosive decapitation charge, which could be detonated instantly by the Planning Machine in the event of any suspect action."
Soberly, stiffly, the figure dropped its salute, turned until its mass-sensors located Andy Quam and haltingly bowed. "Oh, great Almalik!" cried Quamodian, exasperated. "All I want is directions! How can I reach the home of Mr. and Mrs. Zaldivar?"
Silence, except for the questioning hum of a carrier signal.
"Isn't anybody listening?" he shouted.
Silence again, then, doubtfully, "Guest, you are invited to return to the Wisdom Creek Historical Monument, which has been restored and maintained by the Companions of the Star for public information."
"I am a Companion of the Star! I am Monitor Andreas Quamodian, and I insist on your answering my question!"
Silence once more. "We hope you found the exhibits instructive," sighed the recorded voice at last. Its programming clearly was not up to any question not pertaining to the exhibits themselves. Angrily Quam turned away and retraced his steps.
Half an hour and many moments of lost temper later, he finally found Juan Zaldivar at the edge of a field, busy adjusting a green-cased farm machine. A relaxed and handsome athlete, now alert and free from the hypnosis of the Starchurch reverie, he flashed his white teeth at Quamodian with an inquiring smile.
"I'm concerned about Molly," Quamodian began.
"So am I," Zaldivar nodded quickly. "Her course is dangerous and evil. Yet Almalik forbids any compulsion toward salvation. She must make her own mind up to accept the Visitants . . ."
"No, not that!" cried Andy Quam. "Do you realize she has been very nearly killed by what I suspect is a rogue star?"
Juan Zaldivar looked genuinely shocked. "How terrible!" he cried. "We must do something at once! You must tell her that her one protection is in Almalik. She can delay no longer!"
"No, no," groaned Quamodian. "Listen to me, Zaldivar! It's no longer a matter of just Molly, it's the whole Companionship of the Stars, the universe itself that's threatened. Have you any notion of what a rogue star can do? Look at the sun!"
He gestured at the red and swollen disk, high in the heavens but looking like a stormy dusk. Zaldivar glanced at it through squinted eyes, with an expression of mild inquiry. "Curious," he said, nodding.
"More than curious! Deadly! Dangerous!"
"To Molly?" asked Zaldivar, politely perplexed. "I do not entirely follow you, Monitor Quamodian. But if you are saying now, as you seemed to be denying a moment ago, that Molly is in danger, why, yes, I agree. She is. So are you. So are all who have not accepted the Star, as signified by receiving the Visitants into their bodies."
Andy Quam took a deep breath and controlled himself. The Peace of Almalik, he reminded himself, was a great gift to mankind. Unfortunately those who accepted it—though of course blessed beyond all other men in their health, their joy, their star-given peace—were sometimes hard to deal with, hard to arouse to needed action. But that, of course, was why those like himself, the Monitors and the other free-acting agents of the Star, could not accept the Visitants. He should have known all that; he should have learned to accept it. . .