"Shocking," hissed Andy Quam. "To make the Companionship of the Star a pagan ritual!"
"Sure, preacher. Like you say. Only that's the way it is, so you better . . ."
"I understand," said Quam, and gave the flyer its directions. It raised an objection.
"Without the special permission of the robot inspector, Mr. Quamodian," it declared, "I should properly go nowhere except back to the transflex terminal."
"But it's an emergency!"
"Of course, Mr. Quamodian." It hesitated, its neural currents pondering the problem. "Since I cannot contact the robot inspector at the moment," it decided, "I will have to return to the transflex terminal . . ."
"Confound you," shouted Quamodian, "do what I tell you!"
". . . but en route I will pause briefly at the Starchurch. If you then disembark, it is not a matter under my control."
"Hah!" barked Quamodian in disgust. "Do it, then. But do it fast!"
"It is done, Mr. Quamodian," sighed the flyer, settling to the ground. "I will remain here for one minute. During that time you may do as you wish."
Quamodian wasted no more time in talk. With Rufe and the huge, slow strength of the Reefer, it was no problem to get Molly out of the flyer and settle her gently on the ground. "Are you all right, dear?" Andy Quam asked anxiously. "I'm going for help . . ."
The storm of weeping had passed. Her eyes were open and her face composed, but the weariness of ages was in her eyes. "All right, Andy," she said. "I'm all right anyway, so it doesn't matter."
"Don't talk like that!"
"All right, Andy," she repeated dully, and looked away.
"You stay here with her," he ordered the Reefer, who looked resentful but shrugged. "Rufe, let's find somebody!" And the man and the boy hurried into the Starchurch.
As they entered the great chamber under the blue dome, a gong boomed and echoed. Rufe led the way, up a helical ramp into the dim vast church. The air was alive with the throb of many chanting voices, and sweet with the odor of the fusorian Visitants. The five pointed wings of the place of worship were filled with rising tiers of seats, but every seat was empty. The people were kneeling in concentric circles on the immense floor, beneath the central dome that held the imaged suns of Almalik.
Of the robot inspector there was no sign. His errand, whatever it was, still kept him away.
"I see Molly's aunt!" cried Rufe eagerly, pointing. "Come this way!"
But Quamodian hesitated. "Pagan ritual" he called it, but something in the air held him, awed, faintly envious, half afraid. He raised his eyes to the many-colored splendor of the thirteen suns hung beneath the space-black inside of the dome: six close binaries arranged in three double doubles, one single sun.
Drinking in the blazing beauty of Almalik, breathing the sweetness of the Visitants, swaying to the melodic rhythm of the chanting worshippers, Andy Quam felt a sudden glorious dawn of utter peace and great joy. He wanted to forget himself and the waiting, weary girl outside. His only desire was to forget himself and to be one with Almalik.
"Preacher!" hissed the boy. "Aren't you coming?"
Solemn awe held Quamodian. "Are—are you sure it's all right to interrupt?"
"We won't interrupt. I've been here before for this, to watch, like. With Miss Zaldivar. They don't mind anybody."
Shivering with the strange elation, Quamodian followed the boy out across the vast floor and into the circles of communicants swaying on their knees. The sweetness of the Visitants made him drowsy; the blazing suns of Almalik bathed him in peace.
But the boy had paused before a kneeling man and woman. "Here's her folks, preacher," he said. "Mr. Juan Zaldivar. Mrs. Deirdre Zaldivar. ^His thin voice rose sharply. "This is Monitor Quamodian."
They stopped their chant. Reluctantly they withdrew their gaze from the multiple splendor of Almalik and, still swaying on their knees, looked incuriously at Andy Quam.
Both glowed with youth and health and joy. Juan was lean and tall and dark, with rich black hair. Blonde, blue-eyed and radiant, Deirdre looked even younger and more lovely than her daughter.
And both wore the mark of Almalik, where the migrating fusorian colony had entered their bodies. Deirdre's was on her blooming cheek, Juan's on his forehead. The marks were tiny irregular star shapes, their edges dissolving into fine branching lines. In the dusk of the starlit dome, the marks glowed softly, warmly golden.
"It's about Molly," Quamodian whispered, hardly daring to break the spell. "She's outside. She's hurt." Incongruous things to say in this sacred peace! He ielt more of an interloper than ever, a brute among angels.
In unison, blonde and black, they nodded their heads. Puzzled, Andy Quam started to repeat what he had said, but Deirdre breathed, "There's no hurt that matters in the bosom of the Star. She must join us, and then she will find peace."
"But she's hurt! It's—oh, it's too long to tell you, but she's in terrible danger. We all are!"
"Not here," smiled Juan Zaldivar. He groped for Deirdre's hand; she was already lifting her face to chant again. "Bring her within. The Visitants will make her whole!" And his dark eyes lifted and he joined his wife in the chant.
Rufe bit his Up. "It's no use, preacher," he said somberly. "They're too happy."
Andy Quam looked at him meditatively. It was, after all, not a bad idea to bring Molly inside, he thought. Let the Visitants enter her body with their fusorian healing. She would heal; everyone did. Not merely the scuffs and bruises of her body, but the somber agony of her mind . . .
"Preacher," whispered the boy apprehensively, staring at him.
Quamodian caught himself. "Sorry," he mumbled, and grabbed the boy's elbow, turned him around, scurried away. He felt a sudden flood of longing that almost stopped him and turned him back, but the boy was leading him now. He stumbled out of the aura of Almalik, down the hehcal ramp, out of the building as the siren chant faded behind.
Quamodian filled his lungs gratefully with cool dry air that held no lotus odor of the Visitants.
He said sadly, "I wanted to stay. I always want to stay. But it isn't for me—the peace of AlmaUk." He hurried down the ramp, leaving a vanishing vague regret.
His flyer was gone, but the huge form of the Reefer stood solidly over the reclining body of Molly Zaldivar. The night air felt suddenly chill, and Andy Quam shivered. "What can we do now?" he muttered, half to himself. "What can we do for Molly Zaldivar?"
"My house, preacher," said the boy, Rufe. "It's only down the square, over there. My folks will take her in. I think," he added, sounding worried. Andy Quam glanced at him sharply, but did not question him.
However, there was no one at home in the house to which the boy led them. The door was unlatched. Lights were on. The little cottage's autonomic living systems were purring away, a cheery fire in the hearth, a pleasantly scented breath of air carrying the gentle warmth to every room. But no one was there. "Never mind," sighed the boy, as though he had expected it. "I expect what Miss Zaldivar mostly needs is a little rest right now. Why don't you take her in that room, preacher? And I'll see if I can stir up a little food; you must be hungry."
Fed, warmed, almost relaxed, Andy Quam sat in the cheerful living room. The boy lay on the floor before the fire, his chin in his hands, stretching out now and then for another piece of fruit or a last crumb of the sandwiches he had produced for them. And the Reefer leaned at his ease against the fireplace, answering Quamodian's questions.
They had begun like a prosecuting attorney and defendant; but the Reefer would not accept the role. Defiant, uncaring, mildly contemptuous of everything around him, the Reefer rumbled, "I'll not take the responsibility, Monitor Quamodian. What happens on my land is my business, and those hills are mine."