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 THE
 PLAYERS

 BY EVERETT B. COLE


  _A Playboy is someone with power, too much time
   on his hands, and too little sense of a goal
   worth achieving. And if the Playboy happens to
   belong to a highly advanced culture...._


 Illustrated by Solo


Through the narrow streets leading to the great plaza of Karth, swarmed
a colorful crowd--buyers, idlers, herdsmen, artisans, traders. From all
directions they came, some to gather around the fountain, some to
explore the wineshops, many to examine the wares, or to buy from the
merchants whose booths and tents hid the cobblestones.

A caravan wound its way through a gate and stopped, the weary beasts
standing patiently as the traders sought vacant space where they might
open business. From another gate, a herdsman guided his living wares
through the crowd, his working animals snapping at the heels of the
flock, keeping it together and in motion.

Musa, trader of Karth, sat cross-legged before his shop, watching the
scene with quiet amusement. Business was good in the city, and his was
pleasingly above the average. Western caravans had come in, exchanging
their goods for those eastern wares he had acquired. Buyers from the
city and from the surrounding hills had come to him, to exchange their
coin for his goods. He glanced back into the booth, satisfied with what
he saw, then resumed his casual watch of the plaza. No one seemed
interested in him.

There were customers in plenty. Men stopped, critically examined the
contents of the displays, then moved on, or stayed to bargain. One of
these paused before Musa, his eyes dwelling on the merchant rather than
on his wares.

[Illustration]

The shopper was a man of medium height. His rather slender, finely
featured face belied the apparent heaviness of his body, though his
appearance was not actually abnormal. Rather, he gave the impression of
being a man of powerful physique and ascetic habits. His dress was that
of a herdsman, or possibly of an owner of herds from the northern
Galankar.

Musa arose, to face him.

"Some sleeping rugs, perhaps? Or a finely worked bronze jar from the
East?"

The stranger nodded. "Possibly. But I would like to look a while if I
may."

Musa stepped aside, waving a hand. "You are more than welcome, friend,"
he assented. "Perhaps some of my poor goods may strike your fancy."

"Thank you." The stranger moved inside.

Musa stood at the entrance, watching him. As the man stepped from place
to place, Musa noted that he seemed to radiate a certain confidence.
There was a definite aura of power and ability. This man, the trader
decided, was no ordinary herdsman. He commanded more than sheep.

"You own herds to the North?" he asked.

The stranger turned, smiling. "Lanko is my name," he said. "Yes, I come
from the North." He swept a hand to indicate the merchandise on display,
and directed a questioning gaze at the merchant. "It seems strange that
your goods are all of the East. I see little of the West in all your
shop."

       *       *       *       *       *

Normally, Musa kept his own council, assuming that his affairs were not
public property, but his alone. There was something about this man,
Lanko, however, which influenced him to break his usual reticence.

"I plan a trading trip to the Eastern Sea," he confided. "Of course, to
carry eastern goods again to the East would be a waste of time, so I am
reserving my western goods for the caravan and clearing out the things
of the East."

Lanko nodded. "I see." He pointed to a small case of finely worked
jewelry. "What would be the price of those earrings?"

Musa reached into the case, taking out a cunningly worked pair of shell
and gold trinkets.

"These are from Norlar, a type of jewelry we rarely see here," he said.
"For these, I must ask twenty balata."

Lanko whistled softly. "No wonder you would make a trip East. I wager
there is profit in those." He pointed. "What of the sword up there?"

Musa laughed. "You hesitate at twenty balata, then you point out that?"

He crossed the tent, taking the sword from the wall. Drawing it from its
scabbard, he pointed to the unusually long, slender blade.

"This comes from Norlar, too. But the smith who made it is still farther
to the east, beyond the Great Sea." He gripped the blade, flexing it.

"Look you," he commanded, "how this blade has life. Here is none of your
soft bronze or rough iron from the northern hills. Here is a living
metal that will sever a hair, yet not shatter on the hardest helm."

Lanko showed interest. "You say this sword was made beyond the Great
Sea? How, then, came it to Norlar and thence here?"

Musa shook his head. "I am not sure," he confessed. "It is rumored that
the priests of the sea god, Kondaro, by praying to their deity, are
guided across the sea to lands unknown."

"Taking traders with them?"

"So I have been told."

"And you plan to journey to Norlar to verify this rumor, and perhaps to
make a sea voyage?"

Musa stroked his beard, wondering if this man could actually read
thoughts.

"Yes," he admitted, "I had that in mind."

"I see." Lanko reached for the sword. As Musa handed it to him, he
extended it toward the rear of the booth, whipping it in an intricate
saber drill. Musa watched, puzzled. An experienced swordsman himself he
had thought he knew all of the sword arts. The sword flexed, singing as
it cut through the air.

"Merchant, I like this sword. What would its price be?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Musa was disappointed. Here was strange bargaining. People just didn't
walk in and announce their desire for definite articles. They feigned
indifference. They picked over the wares casually, disparagingly. They
looked at many items, asking prices. They bargained a little, perhaps,
to test the merchant. They made comments about robbery, and about the
things they had seen in other merchants' booths which were so much
better and so much cheaper.

Slowly, and with the greatest reluctance, did the normal shopper
approach the object he coveted.

Then, here was this man.

"_Well_," Musa told himself, "_make the most of it_." He shrugged.

"Nine hundred balata," he stated definitely, matching the frank
directness of this unusual shopper, and incidentally doubling his price.

Lanko was examining the hilt of the sword. He snapped a fingernail
against its blade. There was a musical _ping_.

"You must like this bit of metal far better than I," he commented
without looking up. "I only like it two hundred balata worth."

Musa felt relief at this return to familiar procedure. He held up his
hands in a horrified gesture.

"Two hundred!" he cried. "Why, that is for the craftsman's apprentices.
There is yet the master smith, and those who bring the weapon to you.
No, friend, if you want this prince of swords, you must expect to pay
for it. One does not--" He paused. Lanko was sheathing the weapon, his
whole bearing expressing unwilling relinquishment.

Musa slowed his speech. "Still," he said softly, "I am closing out my
eastern stock, after all. Suppose we make it eight hundred fifty?"

"Did you say two hundred fifty?" Lanko held the sheathed sword up,
turning to the light to inspect the leather work.

The bargaining went on. Outside, the crowds in the street thinned, as
the populace started for their evening meals. The sword was inspected
and re-inspected. It slid out of its sheath and back again. Finally,
Musa sighed.

"Well, all right. Make it five hundred, and I'll go to dinner with you."
He shook his head in a nearly perfect imitation of despair. "May the
wineshop do better than I did."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Housewife, this is Watchdog. Over."

The man at the workbench looked around. Then, he laid his tools aside,
and picked up a small microphone.

"This is Housewife," he announced.

"Coming in."

The worker clipped the microphone to his jacket, and crossed the room to
a small panel. He threw a switch, looked briefly at a viewscreen, then
snapped another switch.

"Screen's down," he reported. "Come on in, Lanko."

An opening appeared in the wall, to show a fleeting view of a bleak
landscape. Bare rocks jutted from the ice, kept clear of snow by the
shrieking wind. Extreme cold crept into the room, then a man swept in
and the wall resumed its solidity behind him.

He stood for an instant, glancing around, then shrugged off a light robe
and started shedding equipment.

"Hi, Pal," he was greeted. "How are things down Karth way?"

"Nothing exceptional." Lanko shrugged. "This area's getting so peaceful
it's monotonous." He unsnapped his accumulator and crossed to the power
generator.

"No wars, or rumors of wars," he continued. "The town's getting
moral--very moral, and it's developing into a major center of commerce
in the process." He kicked off his sandals, wriggled out of the baggy
native trousers, and tossed his shirt on top of them.

"No more shakedowns. Tax system's working the way it was originally
intended to, and the merchants are flocking in."

He walked toward the wall, flicking a hand out. An opening appeared, and
he ducked through it.

"Be with you in a minute, Banasel," he called over his shoulder. "Like
to get cleaned up."

Banasel nodded and went back to the workbench. He picked up a small
part, examined it, touched it gently a few times with a soft brush, and
replaced it in the device he was working on.

He tightened it into place, and was checking another component when a
slight shuffle announced his companion's return.

"Oh, yes," said Lanko. "Met your old pal, Musa. He's doing right well
for himself."

Banasel swung around. "Haven't seen him since we joined the Corps.
What's he doing?"

"Trading." Lanko opened a locker, glancing critically at the clothing
within. "He set up shop with the load of goods we gave him long ago, and
did some pretty shrewd merchandising. Now, he's planning a trip over the
Eastern Sea. He hinted at a rumor of a civilization out past Norlar."

"Nothing out there for several thousand kilos," growled Banasel, "except
for a few little islands." He jerked a thumb toward the workbench. "I
can't show you right now, because the scanner's down for cleaning, but
there isn't even an island for the first couple thousand K's. Currents
are all wrong, too. No one could cross without navigational equipment."

"I know," Lanko assured him. "We haven't checked over that way for a
long time, but I still remember. I didn't put it exactly that way, of
course, but I did ask Musa how he planned to get over the Eastern. And,
I got an answer." He paused as he gathered up the garments he had
discarded.

"It seems there's a new priesthood at Norlar, who've got something," he
continued. "It's all wrapped up in religious symbology, and they don't
let any details get out, but they are guiding ships out to sea, and
they're bringing them back again, loaded with goods that never
originated in the Galankar, or in any place accessible to the
Galankar." He hung up the last article of clothing and turned, a
sheathed sword in his hand.

"Musa sold me this," he said, extending the hilt toward Banasel. "I
never saw anything like it on this planet. Did you?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Banasel accepted the weapon, drawing it from its scabbard. He examined
the handwork on the hilt, then snapped a fingernail against the blade.
As he listened to the musical _ping_, the technician looked at the
weapon with more interest. Gently, he flexed it, watching for signs of
strain. Lanko grinned at him.

"Go ahead," he invited, "get rough with it. That's a sword you're
holding, Chum, not one of those bronze skull busters."

Banasel extended the sword, whipping it violently. The blade bent, then
straightened, and bent again, as it slashed through the air.

"Well," he murmured. "Something new."

He put the sword on the workbench and took an instrument from a cabinet.
For a few minutes, he busied himself taking readings and tapping out
data on his computer. He sat back, looking at the sword curiously. At
last, he glanced at the computer, then put the test instrument he had
been using back in the cabinet, taking another to replace it. After
taking more readings, he looked at the computer, then shook his head,
turning to Lanko.

"This," he said slowly, "is excellent steel. Of course, it could be an
accidental alloy, but I wouldn't think anyone on this planet could have
developed the technology to get it just so." He held the sword away from
him, looking at it closely. "Assuming an accidental alloy, an accident
in getting precisely the right degree of heat before quenching, and
someone who ground and polished with such care as to leave the temper
undisturbed, while getting this finish--Oh, it's possible, all right.
But 'tain't likely. Musa told you this came from overseas?"

"To the best of his knowledge. He got it from a trader who claimed to
have been on a voyage across the Eastern Sea."

Banasel leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. "You must have
had quite a talk with Musa. Did he remember you?"

Lanko shook his head. "Don't be foolish," he grunted. "You and I were
blotted out of his memory, remember? So are quite a few of the things
that happened around Atakar, way back when. He's got a complete past, of
course, but we're not part of it.

"No, he had a booth in the Karth market. I came through, just looking
things over, and recognized him. So, I picked an acquaintance. Beat him
down to about half the asking price for this sword, still leaving him a
whopping profit. He went to dinner with me, still bewailing the rooking
I'd given him. Told you, he's a trader. We had quite a talk, certainly.
But we were strangers."

"Yeah." Banasel looked off into space. "Seems funny. You and I were born
on this planet. We were brought up here, and a lot of people once knew
us. But they've all forgotten, and we don't belong any more. I'm
beginning to see what they mean by 'the lonely life of a guardsman.'"

He was silent for a time, then looked at his companion.

"Do you think these priests at Norlar might be in our line of business?"

"Could be," nodded Lanko. "There's a lot of seafaring out of Konassa,
and there are several other busy seaports we know of. But no one in any
of them ever heard of navigation out of sight of land, let alone trying
it. There's nothing but pilotage, and even that's pretty sketchy. And,
there's this thing." He crossed to the workbench, picked up the sword,
and stroked its blade.

"Normally," he mused, "technical knowledge gets around. Part of it's
developed here, part there. Then someone comes along and puts it
together. And someone else adds to it. And so on.

"Then, there are other times, when there's an abnormal source, or where
there are unusual conditions, and knowledge is very closely guarded.
This might be one of those cases, and those priests might be fronting
for someone very much in our line of business." He broke off.

"Any maedli hot?"

"Sure." Banasel picked a pot from the heater and poured two cups.

"Think we should set up a base near Norlar and have a look?"

"Probably be a good idea." Lanko accepted a cup, took a sip, and shook
his head violently.

"Ouch! I said hot, not boiling." He blew on the cup and set it aside to
steam itself cool.

"These mountains were an excellent base," he continued, "but this area
seems to be developing perfectly. There's no outside interference, all
traces of former interference have been eliminated, and there's very
little excuse for us to hang around." He picked up the cup again,
cautiously sampling its contents. "And it's about time we moved around
and checked on the rest of the planet."

Banasel turned back to the workbench. "Good idea," he agreed. "I'll get
this scanner set up again, and we'll be ready to load out." He picked up
his tools. "As I remember, Norlar has a mountainous backbone where no
one ever goes. We should be able to set up right on the island."

       *       *       *       *       *

On the eastern slope of the Midra Kran, a cloud of dust paced a caravan,
which wound up the trail, through a pass. The treachery of the narrow
path was testified to by an occasional slither, followed by a startled
curse.

Musa stood in his stirrups, looking ahead at the long trail which
twisted a little farther up, then dropped to the wide Jogurthan plateau.
Far ahead, over the poorly marked way, he knew, was another range, the
Soruna Kran, which blocked his way to the Eastern Sea.

He looked back at the straggling caravan.

"Better get them to close up, Baro," he remarked. "We'd be in a lot of
trouble if a robber band caught us scattered like this."

The other trader nodded and turned his mount. Then, he paused as shouts
came from the rear of the line. Mixed with the shouting was the clatter
of weapons.

"Come on," cried Musa. "It's happened."

He kicked his mount in the ribs, and swung about, starting up the steep
bank. The bandits would have bowmen posted to deal with anyone who might
try to get back along the narrow path, and he had no desire to test the
accuracy of their aim.

As his beast scrambled up the bank, Musa saw a man standing on a
pinnacle, alertly watching the center of the caravan. His guess had been
right. The bandit leader's strategy had been to cut the caravan in two,
and to deal with the rear guard first. As the watcher started to aim at
something down on the trail, Musa quickly raised his own bow and sent an
arrow to cut the man down before he could fire.

It was a good shot. The man made no sound as the arrow struck, but
clawed for an instant at the shaft in his side, then dropped, to slide
down the face of a low cliff. Musa, followed by his guards, stormed up
the slope.

They went through a saddle in the hill, to find themselves confronted by
a half dozen men, who swung about, trying to bring their bows to bear on
the unexpected targets. Two of these went down as arrows sang through
the air, then the traders were upon the rest, swords flailing, too close
for archery.

One of the bandits swung his sword wildly at Musa, who had drawn a twin
to that blade he had sold back in Karth. The slender shaft of steel rang
against the bandit's bronze blade, deflecting it, then Musa made a quick
thrust which passed through the man's leather shield, to penetrate
flesh. The bronze weapon sagged, and its holder staggered. Musa jerked
back violently, disengaged his sword, and made a swift cut. For an
instant, the bandit sat his mount, staring at his opponent. Then, he
slumped, and rolled loosely from his saddle.

The action had been fast. Only one bandit, a skilled swordsman,
remained, to keep Baro busy. Musa rode quickly behind him, thrusting as
he passed. Baro looked across the limp body.

"Now, what did you have to do that for?" he demanded. "I was having a
good time."

"Let's get down to the trail again," Musa told him. "We can have a
wonderful time there." He pointed.

The caravan's rear guard was in trouble. Several of them were in the
dust of the trail, and the survivors were being pressed by a number of
determined swordsmen.

Baro wheeled and slid down the incline, closely followed by the rest of
the group.

The surrounded bandits fought desperately, but hopelessly. The charge
from the hill had driven them off balance, and they were never given a
chance to recover. At last, Musa and Baro looked over the results of the
raid.

They had lost several guards. One trader, Klaron, had been killed by an
arrow launched early in the attack. Several of the survivors were
wounded.

"We'll have to hire some more guards and drivers in Jogurth," said Baro.
"And what are we going to do about Klaron's goods?"

"We can divide them and sell them in Jogurth," Musa told him. "Klaron
has a brother back in Karth who can use the money, and money's a lot
easier to carry than goods. You'll see him on your return trip."

Baro nodded, and started up the line, reorganizing the caravan. At last,
they got under way again, and resumed their slow way toward the plateau.

       *       *       *       *       *

The caravan went on, to enter the plateau, where the traders started
resting by day and traveling by night, to avoid exertion during the
day's heat.

They came to the city of Jogurth, which for most of them was a terminal.
From there, they would return to Karth, a few possibly going on to their
homes still farther west. Musa stayed in town for a few days, trading
his few remaining eastern goods for locally produced articles, and
helping in the sale of Klaron's goods. At last, he joined another
caravan, headed by an old trader, Kerunar, who habitually traveled
between Jogurth and Manotro, on the east coast.

The trip across the Soruna Kran was uneventful, and Musa finally saw the
glint of the Eastern Sea. He did not stay long in Manotro, for he
discovered that the small channel ships traveled frequently, and he was
able to guide his pack beasts to the wharf, where his bales were
accepted for shipment. Leaving his goods, he led his animals back to the
market.

Old Kerunar shook his head when he saw Musa. "Be careful, son," he
cautioned. "I've been coming here for twenty years. Used to trade in
Norlar, too. But you couldn't get me over there now for ten thousand
caldor."

"Oh?" Musa looked at him curiously. "What's wrong?"

Kerunar looked at his newly set up booth. Hung about it were durable
goods and trinkets from a dozen cities. There were articles even from
far-off Telon, in the Konassan gulf. He looked back at Musa.

"Norlar," he declared, "has fallen into the hands of thieves and
murderers. You can trade there, to be sure. You can even make a profit.
But you cannot be sure you will not excite the avarice of the Kondarans,
or arouse their anger. For they have a multitude of strange laws, which
they can invoke against anyone, and which they enforce with
confiscation of goods. Death or slavery await any who protest their
actions or question their rules." He paused.

[Illustration]

"Some manage to trade, and come back with profitable bales. Some leave
their goods in the hands of the priests of Kondaro. Some remain, to find
a quick death. But I stop here. I prefer to deal with honorable men.
When I face the thief or the bandit, I prefer to have a weapon in my
hand. A book of strange laws can be worse than any bandit born."

Musa looked about the market. "Here, of course," he acknowledged, "are
the goods of the Far East. But I must see them at their source." He
shook his head. "No," he decided, "I shall make one trip at least."

"I'll give you just one word of caution, then," he was told. "Whatever
you see, make little comment. Whenever you are asked for an offering,
make no objection, but give liberally. Keep your eyes open and your
opinions to yourself."

"Thanks." Musa grinned. "I'll try to remember."

"Don't just remember. Follow the advice, if you wish to return."

Musa's grin widened. "I'll be back," he promised.

       *       *       *       *       *

The harbor of Tanagor, chief seaport of Norlar, was full of shipping.
Here were the ships which plied the trackless wastes of the Eastern Sea.
Huge, red-sailed, broad-beamed, they rode at anchor in the harbor,
served by small galleys from the city. Tied up at the wharves, were the
smaller, yellow and white-sailed ships which crossed the channel between
the mainland and the island empire.

Slowly, Musa's ship drew in toward the wharf, where a shouting gang of
porters and stevedores awaited her arrival. Together with other
passengers, Musa stood at the rail, watching the activity on the pier.

Four slaves, bearing a crimson curtained litter, came to the wharf and
stopped. The curtains opened, and a man stepped out. He was not large,
nor did his face or figure differ from the normal. But his elegantly
embroidered crimson and gold robes made him a colorfully outstanding
figure, even on this colorful waterfront. And the imperious assurance of
his bearing made him impossible to ignore.

He adjusted his strangely shaped, flat cap, glanced about the wharf
haughtily, and beckoned to one of the slaves, who reached inside the
litter and took from it an ornately decorated crimson chest. Another
slave joined him, and the two, carrying the chest with every evidence of
reverent care, followed their crimson-cloaked master as he strode into a
pier office.

Musa turned to one of the other merchants, his eyebrows raised
inquiringly.

"A priest of Kondaro," whispered the other. "In this land, they are
supreme. Take care never to anger one of them, or to approach too
closely to the sacred chest their slaves carry. To do so can mean prompt
execution."

As Musa started to thank the man for his friendly warning, a cry of
"Line Ho!" caused him to turn his attention to the mooring parties.
Lines had been cast aboard at bow and stern, and the ship was rapidly
being secured to stout bollards ashore.

A gang of stevedores quickly rigged a gangway amidships, and porters
commenced streaming aboard to carry the cargo ashore. Another gangway
was rigged aft for the passengers. At the foot of this, stood one of the
priest's litter bearers, a slave with a crimson loincloth. In his hands,
he held a large, red bowl, which was decorated with intricate gold
designs. Beside him, stood his companion, a sturdy, frowning fellow, who
held a large, strangely shaped sword in his hand. Musa's previous mentor
leaned toward him nodding to the group.

"Don't forget or fail to put a coin in that bowl," he cautioned.
"Otherwise, you'll never get passage on one of the sacred ships."

"How much?" queried Musa.

"The more, the better. If you want quick passage across the Great Sea,
better make it at least ten caldor."

Musa shrugged, reaching into his purse for a gold coin.

"Maybe I should be in the priesthood myself, instead of the trading
business," he told himself silently.

As he passed the bowl, he noted that the other trader dropped only a
silver piece. On the wharf, the incoming passengers were being guided
into groups. Musa noted that his group was the smallest, and that his
previous friend had gone to another, larger group. An official, tablet
in hand, approached.

"Your name, Traveler?"

"Musa, trader, of Karth."

"You have goods?"

"I brought twelve bales. They are marked with my name."

"Very good, sir. We will hold them for your disposal. You may claim them
at any time after mid-day." The man wrote rapidly on his tablet.

Musa thanked him, then turned to see how his shipboard acquaintance was
progressing. He had questions to ask about gold and silver coins.

He watched the older merchant complete his conversation with an
official, and, as he started to leave the wharf, quickly caught up with
him. At Musa's approach, the other held up a hand.

"I know," he said. "Why did I tell you to make a generous offering, then
put a smaller coin in the bowl myself? That is what you want to know?"

"Precisely," Musa replied. "I'm not a poor man, but I'm not a wealthy
holiday seeker, either. This voyage has to pay."

The other smiled. "Exactly why I advised you as I did. Come into this
wineshop, and I'll tell you the story."

       *       *       *       *       *

Over the drinks, the older man explained himself. An experienced trader,
he had been operating between the mainland and Norlar for many years. It
had been a profitable business, for the island had been dependent upon
the mainland for many staple items, and had in return furnished many
items of exquisite craftsmanship, as well as the produce of its
extensive fisheries and pearl beds.

Then, the prophet, Sira Nal, had come with his preachings of a great sea
god, Kondaro, ruler of the Eastern Sea. Tonda told of the unbelief that
had confronted the prophet, and of the positive proof that Sira Nal had
offered, when he had gathered a group of converts, collected enough
money to purchase a ship, and made a highly successful voyage to the
distant lands to the east. Upon his return, Sira Nal had found a ready
market for the strange and wonderful products he had brought. He also
had found many more converts for his new religion.

His original group, now a priesthood, were the only men who could give
protection and guidance to a ship in a voyage past the sea demons who
frequented the Eastern Sea, and they demanded large offerings to
compensate for their services. Of course, a few adventurous shipowners
had attempted to duplicate Sira Nal's feat without the aid of a priest,
but no living man had seen their ships or crews again.

The profits from the rich, new trade, plus the alms of the traders
visiting Tanagor, had rapidly filled the coffers of Kondaro. A great
temple had been built, and the priests had become more and more
powerful, until now, not too many years after the first voyage of Sira
Nal, they virtually ruled the island.

For some years, Tonda, a conservative man and a firm believer in his own
ancestral gods, had paid little attention to this strange, new religion.
Upon arrival at Tanagor, to be sure, he had sometimes placed small
offerings in the votive bowl, but more often, he had merely strode past
the Slave of Kondaro, and gone upon his affairs.

At last, however, attracted by the great profits in the new, oversea
trade, he had decided to arrange for a voyage in one of the great ships.
Then, the efficiency of the priestly bookkeeping methods had become
apparent. The Great God had become incensed at Tonda's impiety during
his many previous trips across the channel, and a curse had been placed
upon him and upon his goods. Of course, if Tonda wished to do penance,
and to make votive offerings, amounting to about two thousand caldor, it
might be that the Great God would relent and allow his passage, but only
with new goods. His former possessions had been destroyed by the angry
Kondaro in his wrath at Tonda's attempts to place them in one of the
sacred ships. Empty-handed, Tonda had returned to the mainland.

"But why did you return with more goods?" inquired Musa.

Tonda smiled. "The wrath of Kondaro extends only to the Great Sea. And,
even though I cannot go farther east, trade here in Tanagor is quite
profitable." He paused, smiling, as he sipped his drink.

"I think the priests like having a few penitents around to explain
things to newcomers, and to furnish examples of the power of Kondaro."

Musa smiled in response. "But my ten caldor make me and my goods
acceptable?"

Tonda looked around quickly, then turned a horrified face toward his
protégé.

"Never say such things," he cautioned in a low tone of voice. "Don't
even think them. Your piety makes you acceptable, so long as you
continue in a way pleasing to the great Kondaro. The money means
nothing. It is only the spirit of sacrifice that counts."

"I see." Musa's face was solemn. "And how else may I be sure I will
remain acceptable?"

Tonda nodded approvingly. "I thought you were a man of good sense and
prudence." He launched into a description of the technicalities of the
worship of Kondaro, the god of the Eastern Sea.

At length, Musa left his tutor, and repaired to an inn, where he secured
lodging for the night.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following morning, in obedience to the advice given him by Tonda,
Musa took his way toward the Temple of the Sea. As he threaded through
the crowds already gathering in the streets, he took note of the types
of merchandise displayed in the booths, and hawked by the street
peddlers. Suddenly, one of these roving sellers approached him. In his
hands he held a number of ornaments.

"Good day to you, oh Traveler," he cried. "Surely, it is a fortunate
morning for both of us." With a deft gesture, he threw one of the
trinkets, a cunningly contrived amulet, about Musa's neck.

Musa would have brushed the man aside, but the chain of the amulet had
tangled about his neck and he was forced to pause while removing it.

"I told myself when I saw you," the man continued, "ah, Banasel, here is
one who should be favored by the gods. Now, how can such a one venture
upon the Eastern Sea without a sacred amulet?"

Musa had slipped the chain over his head. He paused, holding the
ornament in his hand. "How, then, are you to know where I am going?"

"Oh, Illustrious Traveler," exclaimed the man, "how can I fail to know
these things when it is given to me to vend these amulets of great
fortune?"

In spite of himself, Musa was curious. He looked at the amulet. There
was no question as to the superb workmanship, and his trading instincts
took over.

"Why, this is a fair piece of work," he said. "Possibly I could spare a
caldor or so."

The man before him struck his forehead.

"A caldor, he says! Why, the gold alone is worth ten."

Musa looked more closely at the ornament. The man was probably not
exaggerating too much. Actually, he knew he could get an easy
twenty-five balata for the bauble in Karth. A rapid calculation told him
that here was a possible profit from the skies.

"Why, possibly it is worth five, at that," he said. "Look, I'll be
generous. Shall we say six?"

"Oh, prince of givers! Thou paragon of generosity! After all, I, too,
must live." The man smiled wryly. "However, you are a fine, upstanding
young man, and one must make allowance. I had thought to ask twenty, but
we'll make it ten. Just the price of the gold."

Musa smiled inwardly. The profit was secured, but maybe--

"Let's make it eight, and I'll give you my blessing with the money."

The man held out his hand. "Nine."

Musa shrugged. "Very well, most expert of vendors." He reached into his
purse.

       *       *       *       *       *

Banasel hesitated before accepting the money. He looked Musa over
carefully, then nodded as if satisfied.

"Yes," he said softly, "I was right." He paused, then addressed himself
directly to Musa.

"We must be very careful to whom we sell these enchanted amulets," he
explained, "for they are talismans of the greatest of powers. The wearer
of one of these need never fear the unjust wrath of man, beast, or
demon, for he has powerful protectors at his call. Only wear this charm.
Never let it out of your possession, and you will have nothing to fear
during your voyage. Truly, you will be most favored."

He looked sharply at Musa again, took the money, glanced at it, and
dropped it into a pouch.

"Do you really believe in the powers of your ornaments, then?" Musa
asked skeptically.

Banasel's eyes widened, and he spread his arms. "To be sure," he said in
a devout tone. "How can I believe else, when I have seen their
miraculous workings so often?" He held up a hand. "Why, I could spend
hours telling you of the powers these little ornaments possess, and of
the miracles they have been responsible for. None have ever come to harm
while wearing one of these enchanted talismans. None!" He spread his
arms again.

Musa looked at him curiously. "I should like to hear your stories some
day," he said politely.

He felt uncomfortable, as many people do when confronted by a confessed
fanatic. His feelings were divided between surprise, a mild contempt,
and an unease, born of wonder and uncertainty.

Obviously, the man was not especially favored. He was dressed like any
street peddler. He had the slightly furtive, slightly brazen air of
those who must avoid the anger, and sometimes the notice, of more
powerful people, and yet, who must ply their trade. But he talked
grandly of the immense powers of the baubles he vended, seeming to hold
them in a sort of reverence. And, when he had spread his arms, there had
been a short-lived hint of suppressed power. Musa shuddered a little.

"But I must go to the temple now, if I am to make arrangements for my
voyage," he added apologetically. He turned away, then hurried down the
street.

Banasel watched him go, a slight smile growing on his face.

"I don't blame you, Pal," he chuckled softly. "I'd feel the same way
myself."

He glanced around noting a narrow alley. Casually, he walked into it,
then looked around carefully. No one could observe him. He straightened,
dropping the slightly disreputable, hangdog manner, then reached for his
body shield controls.

Quickly, he cut out visibility, then actuated the levitator modulation
and narrowed out of the alley, rose over the city, and headed toward the
rugged mountains that formed the backbone of the island.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lanko was waiting, and quickly lowered the base shield.

"Well," he asked, "how did it go?"

"I found him." Banasel walked over to the cabinets, and started sorting
the goods he had been carrying. "Sold him a miniature communicator. Now,
I hope he wears the thing."

"We'll have to keep a close watch on him," commented Lanko, "just in
case he puts it in his luggage and forgets about it. Did you give him a
good sales talk?"

"Sure. Told him to wear it always. I pawed the air, raved a little, and
made him think I was crazy. But I've an idea he'll remember and grab the
thing if he sees trouble coming." Banasel put the last ornament in its
place, and started unhooking his personal equipment. Then, he turned.

"Look," he commented, "why bother with all this mystic business? We've
got mentacoms. Why not just clamp onto him, and keep track of him that
way? It'd be a lot simpler. Less chance of a slip, too."

"Yeah, sure it would." Lanko gave his companion a disgusted look. "But
have you ever tried that little trick?"

"No. I never had the occasion, but I've seen guardsmen run remote
surveillances, and even exert control when necessary. They didn't have
any trouble. We could try it, anyway."

Lanko sat up. "We could try it," he admitted, "but I know what would
happen. I did try it once, and I found out a lot of things--quick." He
looked into space for a moment. "How old are you, Banasel?"

"Why, you know that. I'm forty-one."

Lanko nodded. "So am I," he said. "And our civilization is a few
thousand years old. And our species is somewhat older than that. We were
in basic Guard training, and later in specialist philosophical training
together. It took ten years, remember?"

"Sure. I remember every minute of it."

"Of course you do. It was that kind of training. But how old do you
think some of those young guardsmen we worked with were?"

"Why, most of 'em were kids, fresh from school."

"That they were. But how many years--our years--had they spent in their
schooling? How old were the civilizations they came from? And how old
were their species?"

Lanko eyed him wryly.

Banasel looked thoughtfully across the room. "I never thought of it that
way. Why, I suppose some of their forefathers were worrying about space
travel before this planet was able to support life. And, come to think
of it, I remember one of them making a casual remark about 'just a
period ago,' when he was starting citizen training."

"That's what I mean." Lanko nodded emphatically. "'Just a period.' Only
ten or twelve normal lifetimes for our kind of people. And his
civilization's just as old compared to ours as he is compared to
us--older, even.

"During that period he was so casual about, he was learning--practicing
with his mind, so that the older citizens of the galaxy could make full
contact with him without fear of injuring his mentality. He was learning
concepts that he wouldn't dare even suggest to you or to me. Finally,
after a few more periods, he'll begin to become mature. Do you think we
could pick up all the knowledge and training back of his handling of
technical equipment in a mere ten years of training?"

Banasel reached up, taking the small circlet from his head. He held it
in his hand, looking at it with increased respect.

"You know," he admitted, "I really hadn't thought of it that way. They
taught me to repair these things, among other pieces of equipment, and
most of the construction is actually simple. They taught me a few uses
for it, and I thought I understood it.

"Of course, I knew we were in contact with an advanced culture, and I
knew that most of those guys we treated so casually had something that
took a long time in the getting, but I didn't stop to think of the real
stretch of time and study involved." He leaned back, replacing the
mentacom on his head. "Somehow, they didn't make it apparent."

"Of course they didn't." Lanko spread his hands a little. "One doesn't
deliberately give children a feeling of inferiority."

"Yeah. Will we ever learn?"

"Some. Some day. But we've got a long, lonely road to travel first."
Lanko stood up and adjusted the communicator.

"Right now, though, we'd better keep tabs on Musa. In fact, we'd better
follow him when he leaves here."

       *       *       *       *       *

The temple of Kondaro, the sea god, had been built at the edge of a
cliff, so that it overlooked the Eastern Sea. The huge, white dome
furnished a landmark for mariners far out at sea, and dominated the
waterfront of Norlar. Atop the dome, a torch provided a beacon to
relieve the blackness of moonless nights. This was the home of the
crimson priests, and the center of guidance for all who wished to sail
eastward.

Musa stood for some time, admiring the temple, then walked between the
carefully clipped hedges and up the long line of steps leading to the
arched entrance.

Again, he stopped. Overhead, the curved ceiling of the main dome was
lower than its outer dimensions would lead one to believe, but Musa
hardly noticed that. He gazed about the main rotunda.

It was predominantly blue. The dome was a smooth, blue sky, and the
smooth blueness continued down the walls. The white stone steps were
terminated at the edges of a mosaic sea, which stretched to the far
walls, broken only by a large statue of the sea god. Kondaro stood in
the center of his temple, facing the entrance. One arm stretched out,
the hand holding a torch, while the other arm cradled one of the great
ships favored by the god. Beneath one foot was one of the batlike sea
demons, its face mirroring ultimate despair. About the feet lapped
conventionally sculptured waves, which melted into the mosaic, to be
continued to the walls by the pattern of the tiles. At the far side of
the rotunda, the double stairs, which led to bronze doors, were almost
inconspicuous, seeming to be a vaguely appearing mirage on the horizon
of a limitless sea.

The trader looked at the far side, then down, and hesitated, feeling as
though he were about to walk on water. Then, he turned, remembering the
pedestal nearby. A crimson bowl rested on this stand, and beside it was
a slave in the crimson loincloth which marked the menials of Kondaro.

Musa stepped over to the pedestal, dropped a coin into the bowl, and
walked toward the rear of the temple, making proper obeisance to the
huge statue. A young priest approached him.

"I crave blessings for a voyage I propose to take," announced the
trader.

The priest inclined his head.

"Very well, Traveler, follow me."

He led the way to a small office. An older priest sat at a large table,
reading a tablet. Conveniently placed were writing materials, and on the
table before him was another votive bowl. Musa dropped a coin into the
bowl, and the priest looked up.

"I bring a voyager, O, Wise One," said the young priest.

"It is well," the older priest acknowledged in a deep voice. He turned
to Musa. "Your name, Voyager?"

Musa gave his name, his age, the amount of his goods, and an account of
his actions since his arrival in Tanagor. At the mention of Tonda, the
priest nodded.

"The actions of Tonda have been most exemplary for the past several
seasons," he remarked. "He is a good man, but he lacks the proper spirit
of sacrifice." He concluded his writing.

"Well, then, Musa, you may go to those who sail ships with the blessing
of Kondaro upon you. I shall only caution you as to the observance of
the rites and laws for those who sail the Great Sea. Go now, in peace."

As Musa turned, the younger priest spoke. "I will lead you to one who
will give you further guidance," he said.

Musa followed him to another small room, where he met still another
priest. This man, he discovered, was a shrewd trader in his own right.
He was familiar with goods and their values, and in addition to the
rites he described, he presented definite advice as to what to take and
what to leave behind. Fortunately, Musa discovered as he talked to this
priest, he had picked very nearly as good a selection as he could wish.

[Illustration]

During the days that followed, Musa made more votive offerings,
practiced the rites ordered by the priest, and watched his goods as they
were delivered to the _Bordeklu_, a ship belonging to Maladro, beloved
of Kondaro, a shipowner whose ships were permitted by the sea god and
his priests to sail the Eastern Sea.

At last, the day arrived when Musa himself boarded the ship and set sail
past the headland of Norlar.

       *       *       *       *       *

As the ship was warped out of the harbor, Musa took stock of his fellow
passengers. Among them were a slender, handsome man named Ladro, who had
been on many previous voyages to the land of the East, and Min-ta, a
native of the eastern continent, who was returning from a trading voyage
to Norlar. There were several others, but they kept to themselves,
seeming to radiate an aura of exclusiveness. Ladro and Min-ta on the
other hand, were more approachable.

_Surely_, thought Musa, _these two can teach me a great deal of the land
I am to visit, if they will_.

He walked over to the rail, where the two stood, looking out over the
shoreline. The ship was coming abreast of the great temple of Kondaro.

"It's the most prominent landmark on the island, isn't it?" Musa
commented.

"What?" Ladro turned, looking at him curiously. "Oh, yes," he said, "the
temple. Yes, it's the last thing you see as you leave, and the first
when you return." He paused, examining Musa. "This is your first trip?"

"Yes, it is. I've always traded ashore before this."

"But you finally decided to visit Kneuros?"

"Yes. I've dealt with a few traders who had goods from there, and their
stories interested me."

Ladro smiled. "Romance of the far places?"

"Well, there's that, too," Musa admitted, "but I'm interested in some of
the merchandise I've seen."

"There's profit in it," agreed Ladro. "How long have you been trading
around Norlar?"

"This is my first trip. I'm from Karth, in the Galankar."

"You mean you were never in Norlar before?" Min-ta joined the
conversation.

Musa shook his head. "I left Karth for the purpose of trading east of
the Great Sea."

"Unusual," mused Min-ta. "Most traders work between Tanagor and the
mainland for several years before they try the Sea."

"Yes," added Ladro, "and some never go out. They satisfy themselves with
the channel trade." He pointed. "We're getting out to the open sea now,
past the reef."

The ship drew away from the island kingdom, setting its course toward
the vague horizon. The day wore on, to be replaced by the extreme
blackness of night. Then, the sky lit up again, heralding another day.

The ship's company had settled to sea routine, and the traders roamed
about their portion of the deck, talking sometimes, or napping in the
sun. Musa leaned over the low rail, watching the water, and admiring the
clear, blue swells.

He raised his head as the door of the forward cabins opened. A priest,
followed by a group of slaves, went up to the raised forecastle. Under
the priest's direction, the slaves busied themselves putting up a high,
crimson and yellow curtain across the foredeck. They completed their
task and went below.

Again, the door opened, and a procession, headed by the chief priest,
slowly mounted the ladder to the forecastle. Each of the three priests
was followed by his slave, who bore a crimson casket. The curtain closed
behind them, then the slaves came out and ranged themselves across the
deck, facing aft.

"I wonder," said Musa, turning to Ladro, "what ritual they are
performing."

Ladro shook his head. "The less a man knows of the activities of the
priests, the better he fares," he declared. "Truly, on a great ship,
curiosity is a deadly vice."

Musa nodded to the stern. "I see that one of the priests is not at the
bow."

"That is right. One priest always remains by the steersman, to ward off
the spells of the sea demons." Ladro paused, pointing overside. "See,"
he said in a pleased tone, "here is an envoy from Kondaro."

       *       *       *       *       *

Musa's gaze followed the pointing finger. A huge fish was cruising
alongside, gliding effortlessly through the waves, and occasionally
leaping into the air.

"An envoy?"

"Yes. So long as a kontar follows a ship, fair weather and smooth
sailing may be expected. They are sent by Kondaro as guardians for
those ships he especially favors."

At a call from the priest in the stern, two sailors appeared, carrying
chunks of meat. As the priest chanted, they tossed these overside. The
great fish rose from the water, catching one of the chunks as it fell,
then dropped back, and the water frothed whitely as he retrieved the
other. He gulped the meat, then swam contentedly, still pacing the ship.

"Suppose someone fell overboard?" Musa gazed at the kontar in
fascination.

Ladro and Min-ta exchanged glances.

"If one is favored by the Great One," replied Min-ta slowly, "it is
believed that the kontar would guard him from harm. Otherwise, the
sacrifice would be accepted."

Musa looked at the clear water, then glanced back to the spot of foam
which drew astern.

"I don't believe I'll try any swimming from the ship." He backed
slightly from the rail, glancing quickly at Ladro and Min-ta, then
looking away again.

He suddenly realized that he had exceeded his quota of questions, and
that he could get into trouble. He had noted that most of the ship's
company appeared to know the other traders aboard, even though some of
them hadn't been to sea before. Min-ta and Ladro were obviously well
acquainted with several of the ship's officers. But he, Musa, was a
stranger.

He had already observed that the priesthood of Kondaro was not averse to
a quick profit, and that they placed a low value on the lives and
possessions of others. He had dealt with tribes ashore, who had the
simple, savage ethic:

"He is a stranger? Kill him! Take his goods, and kill him."

Ashore, he had protected himself during his many trips by consorting
with other traders of good reputation, and by hiring guards. But here?
He remembered the remarks made by Kerunar back in Manotro.

"When I face the thief or the bandit, I prefer to have a weapon in my
hand."

Slowly, he collected himself, and looked back at Ladro and Min-ta.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me," he apologized, "I have some accounts
to cast, so I believe I'll go to my quarters." He turned and went below.

As he disappeared down the ladder, Ladro turned to his companion.

"Of course," he said thoughtfully, "if all goes well, this man will be
most favored. But if the Great One shows signs of displeasure--"

Min-ta nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "I have heard of strangers who excited
the wrath of Kondaro." His eyes narrowed speculatively. "Those of the
faithful who keep watch on such unfavored beings are rewarded by the
priests, I am told."

Ladro nodded. "I believe that is correct," he agreed. "We should be
watchful for impiety in any event." He stretched. "Well, I think I shall
take a short nap before dinner."

Below, the traders' quarters were cramped. There was a small, common
space, with a table, over which hung the single light. About the
bulkheads were curtained recesses, sufficiently large for a bunk and
with barely enough space for the occupant to stand. Musa closed the
curtains, and sat down on his bunk.

Of course, he had no proof. There was no really logical sequence to
prove that the situation was dangerous. There was no evidence that his
fellow voyagers were other than honorable, well-intentioned men. But he
simply didn't feel right. He pulled his wooden chest from under the
bunk, opened it, and looked through the small store of personal effects.

There was no weapon. The law of Kondaro forbade the carrying of those by
other than the priests and their slaves. His attention was attracted by
a glitter, and he picked up the small amulet he had bought from the
peddler in Norlar. Slowly, he turned it in his hands.

It was an unusual ornament, strangely wrought. He had never seen such
fine, regular detail, even in the best handicraft. As he looked closer,
he could not see how it could have been accomplished with any of the
instruments he was familiar with, yet it must have been hand made,
unless it were actually of supernatural origin.

He remembered the urgent seriousness of the peddler's attitude, and he
could recall some of his words. The man had spoken almost convincingly
of powerful protectors, and Musa could foresee the need of such. He
found himself speaking.

"Oh, power that rests in this amulet," he said, "if there is any truth
in the peddler's words, I--" He paused, his usual, hard, common sense
taking over.

"I'm being silly!" He drew his hand back to throw the ornament into the
chest. Then, he felt himself stopped. An irresistible compulsion seized
him, and he dazedly secured the amulet about his neck. Feeling sick and
weak, he tucked it into his garments. Then, still moving in a daze, he
left the cabin and returned to the deck. He did not so much as try to
resist the sudden desire.

The breeze made him feel a little better, but he was still shaken, and
his head ached violently. Little snatches of undefined memory tried to
creep into his consciousness, but he couldn't quite bring them into
focus. He turned toward the rail, and saw Min-ta still there.

"Well," commented the easterner, "your accounts didn't take long."

Musa smiled wanly. "It was stuffy down there. I felt I had to come up
for some air."

Min-ta nodded. "It does get close in the quarters during the day." He
pointed alongside.

"We are favored still," he said. "Another kontar has joined us."

Two of the great fish paced the ship, gliding and leaping effortlessly
from wave to wave. Musa watched them.

"We must be favored indeed."

"Yes." Min-ta smiled. "May our favor last."

Musa's head still ached, and the glints of the sun reflected from the
water made it worse. He looked aft, to the faint line where sky met
water. There was a low line of clouds. His gaze traveled along the
horizon, and he noted that the clouds seemed a little darker forward.
Still, he felt uneasy, and alone.

       *       *       *       *       *

_"See what I meant?"_

_"Ooh! Yeah. Yeah, I see. What a backlash that was! I've got the
grandfather of all headaches, and I won't be able to think straight for
a week. Wonder how Musa feels--But I got results, anyway."_

_"Yes. You got results. So did I once, when I tried something similar.
But I'll live a long time before I try it again. How about you?"_

_"Don't worry. Next time I try to exert direct mental control on another
entity, this planet'll have space travel. Wonder if some klordon
tablets'll help any."_

_"Might. Try one, then let's get busy and scatter a few more
communicators around that ship. Be more practical than beating our
brains out."_

       *       *       *       *       *

As the days passed, Musa became familiar with the shipboard routine and
lost some of his early uneasiness regarding his traveling companions. He
became acquainted with other traders, finding them to be average men,
engaged in the same trade as himself. He talked to members of the ship's
company, and found them to be normal men, who worked at their trade in a
competent manner. Only the four priests held aloof. Ignoring officers,
sailors, and traders alike, they spoke only to their slaves, who passed
their comments to the ship's company.

On the morning of the tenth day, Musa came to the deck, to find the sea
rougher than usual. Waves rose, scattering their white plumes for the
wind to scatter. Ahead, dark clouds hid the sky, and occasional spray
came aboard, spattering the deck and the passengers.

Just outside the cabin entrance, a small knot of traders were gathered.
As Musa came out, they separated.

Musa went over to the rail, looking overside at the waves. The two
kontars were not in sight. He looked about, noting the sailors, who
hurried about the deck and into the rigging, securing their ship for
foul weather. Close by, Ladro and Min-ta were talking.

"It is quite possible," said Ladro, "that someone aboard has broken a
law of the great Kondaro, and the kontars have gone to report the sin."
He glanced at Musa calculatingly.

"Yes," agreed Min-ta, "we--"

An officer, hurrying along the deck, stopped. "All passengers will have
to go below," he said. "We're in for bad weather, and don't want to lose
anyone overboard."

"Could this be the wrath of Kondaro?" asked Ladro.

The officer glanced at him questioningly. "It could be, yes. Why?"

Again, Ladro cast a look at Musa, then he caught the seaman by the arm,
pulling him aside. The two engaged in a low-toned conversation,
directing quick glances at Musa. At last, the officer nodded and went
aft, to approach one of the slaves of Kondaro.

Musa started across the deck to the ladder, his heart thudding
painfully. Surely, he thought, he had done nothing to offend even the
most particular of deities. Yet, the implications of Ladro's glances and
his conversation with the ship's officer were too obvious for even the
dullest to misinterpret. Musa took a long, shuddering breath.

His fears on that other day had been well grounded, then.

He gazed at the lowering sky, then out at the waves. Where could a lone,
friendless man find help in this waste of wind and water?

Slowly, he climbed down the ladder leading to his tiny cubicle.

Once inside, he again started checking over his personal items. There
was nothing there to help. Hopelessly, he looked at the collection in
the chest, then he got out a scroll of prose and went to the central
table to read in an effort to clear his mind of the immediate
circumstances.

Minutes later, he went back to his bunk and threw the scroll aside.
Possibly, he was just imagining that he was the target of a plot.
Possibly there was a real sea god named Kondaro--an omnipotent sea
deity, who could tell when persons within his domain were too curious,
or harbored impious thoughts, and who was capable of influencing the
actions of the faithful.

Possibly, his opinions of the priesthood had been noted and had
offended. Or, perhaps, that peculiar little device he had seen a priest
studying was capable of warning the god that it had been profaned by an
unsanctified gaze. Possibly, this storm was really the result of such a
warning. He was sure the priest hadn't seen him, but it could be that
the device itself might--

Musa threw himself on his bunk.

       *       *       *       *       *

A deep voice resonated through the room.

"Musa of Karth," it said, "my master, Dontor, desires your presence on
deck."

Musa came to his feet. Two of the slaves of Kondaro stood close by,
swords in hand. One beckoned, then turned. Musa followed him into the
short passage, and up the ladder. As they gained the deck, the small
procession turned aft, to face the senior priest.

Dontor stood on the raised after deck, just in front of the helmsman.
The wind tugged at his gold and crimson robe, carrying it away from his
body, so that it rippled like a flag, and exposed the bright blue
trousers and jacket. Dontor, chief priest of the _Bordeklu_, stood
immobile, his arms folded, his feet braced against the sway of his
vessel. As the trio below him stopped, he frowned down at them.

"Musa, of Karth," he intoned, "it has been revealed to me that you have
displayed undue curiosity as to the inner mysteries of the worship of
the Great God. In your conversations, you have hinted at knowledge
forbidden any but the initiated.

"You came to us, a stranger, and we trusted you. But now, we are all
faced with the wrath of the Great One as a result of your impieties. A
sacrifice, and only a sacrifice, will appease this wrath. Can you name
any reason why we should protect you further, at the expense of our own
lives? What say you?"

Musa stared up at him. The cotton in his throat had suddenly become
thick, and intensely bitter. Unsuccessfully, he tried to swallow, and a
mental flash told him that whatever he said, he was already convicted.
Regardless of what defense he might offer, he knew he would be condemned
to whatever punishment these people decided to deal out to him. And that
punishment, he realized, would be death. He straightened proudly.

"Oh, priest," he said thickly, "I am guilty of no crime. You, however,
are about to commit a serious crime, which is beyond my power to
prevent." He hesitated, then continued. "Be warned, however, that if
there are any real gods above or below, you will receive punishment. The
gods, unlike men, are just!"

Aware of sudden motion in his direction, he rapidly finished.

"So, make your sacrifice, and then see if you can save your vessel from
the natural forces of wind and water."

The priest stiffened angrily.

"Blasphemy," he said. "Blasphemy, of the worst sort." He looked away
from Musa. "I believe that in this case, the Great One will require the
ship's company to deal with you in their own way, that they may be
purged of any contamination due to your presence." He raised his arms.

"Oh, Great Kondaro, Lord of all the seas, and the things within the
seas," he began.

Musa evaded the two slaves with a quick weave of his shoulders. Covering
the distance to the side of the ship with a few quick steps, he jumped
over the rail. As he fell, the wind tore at him, and his windmilling
arms and legs failed to find any purchase to right him.

He hit the water with a splash and concussion that nearly knocked the
breath from his body, and promptly sank. As the water closed over his
head, he struck out with hands and feet in an effort to climb again to
light and air. His head broke the surface, and he flailed the water in
an effort to keep his nose in air. The ship was drawing away from him,
its storm sails set.

As he struggled in the water, he wondered if it was worth while. After
all, he had only to allow himself to sink, and all his troubles would be
over shortly. Wouldn't it be easier to do this than to continue
torturing himself with a hopeless fight?

Too, he wondered if he had been right in leaving the ship, but he
quickly dismissed that thought. The sea was impersonal, neither cruel
nor kind. It was far better, he thought, to surrender to the forces of
nature than to subject himself to the viciousness of angry men.

Suddenly, a constraining force seized him. He instinctively fought to
free himself, then realized that he was being drawn upward, out of the
water. Possibly, he thought, the Great One wanted to speak to him.

       *       *       *       *       *

He rose swiftly through the air, passed through complete darkness for an
instant, then found himself in a small room. Two men stood facing him,
both of them vaguely familiar. As his mind refocused, Musa recognized
the peddler of amulets, then the herder to whom he had once sold a
sword. They were strangely familiar, but they were in strange costumes.
He stared at them.

"Well, Musa," said the herder. "I see you got into trouble."

Musa blinked. "Who are you?" he demanded. "How do you know of my
affairs?"

The peddler of amulets grinned. "Why, we are old companions, Musa," he
said. "Of course, you have forgotten us, but we never forgot you." He
pointed.

"This is Resident Guardsman Lanko. I am Banasel, also of the Stellar
Guard. Our job is to prevent just such situations as the one you just
found yourself in." His grin faded. "That, and a few other things."

Musa frowned. "Stellar Guard? What is that?"

Lanko studied him for a moment, then crossed the small room. "You knew
once," he tossed over his shoulder, "but you rejected the knowledge, and
it had to be taken from you. Since you'll be working with us for a
while, I think we will have to restore your memories. Perhaps you'll
want to retain them." He removed equipment from a cabinet.

"Some of this will have to be secondhand, since neither Banasel nor
myself have been in the spots shown. But some of it is firsthand."

His hand flicked a switch.

A power unit hummed, and Musa found himself recalling a campsite near
the now destroyed and rebuilt city of Atakar. As the imposed mental
blocks fell away, he remembered who Banasel and Lanko were. And he
realized why he had been drawn to them in the recent past.

Memories of his days of slavery in Atakar flashed before his mind, and
he remembered the part these two had taken in his escape. He recalled
the days of banditry, and the strange visitors, who had brought with
them disturbing knowledge, and strange powers.

He saw the destruction of Atakar, and the capture of the galactic
criminals who had depraved that city. He shared the experiences of his
two companions during their introduction to the advanced culture of the
Galactic Federation, and he saw snatches of their training at Aldebaran
Base. He went with them on some of their missions.

The humming stopped, and he looked up at the two.

"So," Lanko told him, "now you know."

Musa nodded. "I turned something down, didn't I?"

       *       *       *       *       *

As Musa disappeared over the vessel's side, the priest, Dontor, lowered
his arms. Quickly turning the unscheduled event to advantage, he cried,
"We need worry no further, my children. The Great One has called this
blasphemer to final account."

He turned to one of his juniors, lowering his voice.

"Go below, Alnar, and break out this man's goods. We must reward those
who informed us."

The junior bowed. "Yes, sir." He hesitated. "Will this storm blow over
soon?" he queried.

Dontor smiled. "You should have paid more attention to your course in
practical seamanship," he chided. "We are sailing fairly close hauled,
so our speed is added to that of the wind. And, since storms move, it'll
pass us shortly." He pointed to the horizon.

"See that small break in the clouds? That indicates a possibility of
clear weather beyond. We should be through the worst of the storm in a
matter of a few hours. And we'll never reach the really dangerous core
of the storm, for we are passing through an edge of it. Our only problem
is to keep from losing a mast during the time we are close to the
storm's heart." He paused, looking aloft.

"The crew is competent. They have the sails properly reefed, and, if
necessary, they can furl them in short order. What trouble can we have?"

"Thank you, sir." The younger priest bowed again. "I will make the
necessary arrangements for those goods."

Dontor stood for a moment, surveying the ship, then walked toward the
helm.

"If I am ever in charge of operations," he told himself, "I will replace
some of these sailors by neophyte priests, and let them steer by their
own compasses. This method is too cumbersome. Besides, the neophytes
should get to sea earlier, anyway."

He approached the pilot priest, who stood apart from the helmsman, his
slave holding the little red box with the compass.

"How is our course?"

The priest turned, then bowed. "We are off course twelve degrees to the
north, sir," he reported. "I have instructed the helmsman to come as
close to the wind as possible."

Dontor nodded. "Very good," he approved. "Keep track of your time, and
we'll correct when we get a chance to shift course to the south. We can
determine whatever final correction is necessary at noon sight
tomorrow."

Alnar came up the ladder to the quarterdeck. Approaching Dontor, he
bowed in salute, then reported.

[Illustration]

"The goods are ready, sir."

"Very well. Find those two traders and give them the usual ten per cent,
then bring me an inventory of the remainder."

       *       *       *       *       *

Musa stood, fists clenched, facing the recorder play-back. "The usual
ten per cent, he says! Why, I'd like to slaughter the lot of those
murdering thieves!"

Lanko snapped off the switch. "Don't blame them too much," he laughed.
"After all, they're only trying to make a living, and it's the only
trade they know."

As Musa nearly choked on his attempted reply, Banasel broke in.

"Sure," he chuckled. "Besides, it's guys like them that keep guys like
us in business."

Lanko noticed the horrified expression on Musa's face, and quickly
composed himself. He put his hand on the man's shoulder.

"Look," he explained seriously, "if we got so we took people like these
to heart, we'd spend half our time getting psyched to unsnarl our own
mental processes." He gestured to the reels of tape in a cabinet.

"Here, we have the records of hundreds of cases like this one. Some are
worse, some are not so bad. Every one of them had to be--and
was--cracked by members of our Corps. This is just another of those
minor, routine incidents that keep cropping up all over the galaxy. It's
our problem now, and we'll get to work on it." He turned.

"Where do you want to start, Banasel?"

"Well--competition's the life of trade."

"That comes later." Lanko shook his head. "There's an alien or so to be
taken care of first, you know."

"I know. It's fairly obvious."

"So, we've got to find him--or them."

Musa had regained his self-control. "What about these birds in hand?"

Banasel shrugged. "Small fry. We'll take care of them later." He walked
over to the workbench, picking up Lanko's sword.

"I wondered about this before," he said. "Now, I'm sure about it. It
simply doesn't match a normal technology for this period."

Musa looked at him curiously. "But there are a lot of those around
Norlar," he said. "They're a rarity in the Galankar, to be sure, but--"

"That's what we mean," Lanko told him. "Too many anachronisms. First, we
have this sword. Then, we meet these priests of Kondaro, who discuss
meteorology, navigation, and pilotage with considerable understanding.
We've had communicators planted on that ship for several days now, and I
still can't see how the technology was developed that allowed the
manufacture of some of their instruments. We should have noticed
something wrong a long time ago.

"The priests use sextants, watches, compasses. And, just to make it
worse, we have one video recording of a priest laying out a course on an
accurate chart. He was using a protractor, which was divided into
Galactic degrees. That was the clincher. Somebody's out of place, and
we've got to find him--or them."

He took the sword from Banasel. "I think we'd better go on to the
eastern continent, see what we can find, then we can deal with our
friends. But first, Ban, you'd better run out a call for one of the
Sector Guardsmen to back us up if necessary. We could run into something
too hot for us to handle."

Banasel nodded and turned to the communicator. Lanko dropped into the
pilot seat, glanced at the screens, and moved controls. In the
viewscreen, the sea tilted, drew farther away, then became a level,
featureless blue expanse.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, here's your eastern continent. In fact, this is the city of
Kneuros. It's where you wanted to go, isn't it?"

Musa looked at Banasel thoughtfully.

"Yes," he admitted. "It's where I thought I wanted to go, but now I
really know what I wanted in the first place."

"Oh?"

"Certainly. I was restless. I thought I liked being a trader in Karth,
and I was a fairly good trader, too. But I was just getting things at
secondhand. I turned down just what I really wanted, because it scared
me. That was a long time ago." He looked at the control panel. He'd
understood such panels once, some years ago.

"How do you plan to find your aliens--if there are any?"

"Search pattern." Lanko shrugged. "We'll cruise around in a grid pattern
until we pick up some sort of reading, or until we spot something
abnormal." He pointed at a series of instruments.

"They're bound to have a ship somewhere, and we'll pick up a small
amount of power radiation from their screens. If their ship were
orbiting in space, we'd have picked it up long ago, so we must assume
it's grounded. I think we'd better go right into a pattern. We can use
Kneuros as origin." He stared at the plotting instruments.

"Let's see. If I wanted to hide a ship, I'd use the most inaccessible
location I could find. We do that ourselves, in fact. And there are some
mountainous regions inland." He set up course and speed.

"Yeah," Banasel added, "and I'd worry a lot more about ground approach
than air accessibility, at least on this planet."

The ship gained altitude, accelerated, and sped eastward.

Day by day, the course trace built up, the cameras recorded the terrain
under the ship, and the two guardsmen built up their mosaic. The ship
crossed and re-crossed the continent, mapping as it went.

From time to time, Lanko made careful comparison of the new mosaic with
an earlier survey, noting differences. There were new settlements. Where
members of a nomadic culture had roamed the prairie, an industrial
civilization was rapidly growing.

Lanko tapped on the map. "Two cultures," he observed. "Two cultures,
separated by mountains and desert. Absolutely no evidence of contact,
but considerable similarity between them. This pattern begins to look
familiar."

He picked a tape from the shelves, ran it through a viewer, then
reversed it, and picked out various portions for recheck. Finally, he
made a superposition of some of their observation tape, examined it, and
turned. Banasel held up a hand.

"Don't tell us," he growled. "I studied about drones, too."

"Drones?" Musa looked at him, then glanced back at the viewer.

"Yes. Characters from one of the advanced cultures, who feel frustrated,
and fail to fit in. They often turn into pleasure seekers, and
frequently end up by monkeying with primitive cultures, to prove their
ability to themselves, at least."

"Things like this happen often?"

"Oh, not too often, I suppose, but often enough so that people like us
are stationed on every known primitive planet, to prevent activity of
the type. You see, the drones usually start out simply, by setting up
minor interference in business or government on some primitive planet.
Usually, they're caught pretty quickly. But sometimes they evade
capture. And they can end up by exerting serious influence in cultural
patterns. Some planets have been set back, and even destroyed as a
result of drone activity. Although their motives are different,
drones're just as bad and just as dangerous as any other criminal."

Lanko grinned a little. "Only difference is, they're usually easier to
combat than organized criminal groups with a real purpose. Generally,
they're irresponsible youngsters who don't have the weapons,
organization, or ability that the real criminals come up with." He
shrugged.

"Of course," he added, "we've called for help just in case. But we'll
probably be able to take care of this situation by ourselves. In fact,
unless there are unusual features, we'd better, if we don't want to be
regarded as somewhat ineffectual." He paused, glanced toward the
detector set, and tapped on the map again, then slowly traced out an
area.

"We should be picking up something pretty soon," he said, thoughtfully.
"Better set up a pattern around here, in the mountain ranges, Banasel.
We can worry about settled areas later."

       *       *       *       *       *

A needle flickered, rose from zero, then steadied.

Somewhere, back of the instrument panel, a tiny current actuated a micro
relay, and an alarm drop fell.

As the warning buzz sounded, both Lanko and Banasel looked over at the
detector panel.

"Well, it's about time." Lanko leaned to his right, setting switches. A
screen lit up, showing a faint, red dot. He touched the controls,
bringing the dot to center screen, then checked the meters.

"Not too far," he remarked. "A little out of normal range, though. He
must have all his screen power on."

Banasel turned back to the workbench, studied the labels on the drawers
for a moment, then opened one.

"Guess we'll need a can opener?"

"We might. If he's aboard, we may have to get a little rough." Lanko
leaned back.

"Check the power pattern. Sort of like to know what we're running into
before we commit ourselves." He glanced again at the indicators, then
poked at switches.

"In fact, I think we'd better wait right here, till we get this boy
identified."

Banasel was whistling tunelessly as he set up readings on a computer.
Finally, he poked the activator bar, and watched as the machine spat out
tape. Above the tape chute, a series of graphs indicated the
computations, but Banasel ignored them, feeding the tape into another
machine.

"I suppose there are some characters who could make a positive
identification from the figures and curves. But I'm just a beginner.
That's why they furnish integrator directories, I guess."

Lanko smiled. "I don't know anything, either," he agreed. "But I
generally know where I can look up what I need." He set a compact reel
of tape into the computer.

They watched the directory as its screens glowed. Figures and
descriptions shimmered, and there was a rapid ticking. A sheet flowed
out toward them, and Banasel tore it off as the ticks ceased.

"Type seventeen screens," he read. "Probably Ietorian model Nan
fifty-seven generators. Strictly a sportster setup. He's got
electromagnetics and physical contact screens, but there's nothing else.
And, with the type of readings I've got here, I'd say he's running all
the power he's got. Do we go in?"

"Sure we do." Lanko nodded confidently as he slapped the drive lever.

"This thing we've got's only an atmosphere flier, but it's made to take
care of tougher stuff than luxury sportsters. Set up your can opener,
just in case our boy wants to argue with us."

Banasel nodded silently.

The small sportster was parked between two peaks. Before it was a tiny
level space, too small for any ship. Above it, towered bare rock, tipped
with eternal snow. Lanko examined the scene disgustedly.

"Inhospitable, isn't he?" he grunted. "He could at least have had enough
front yard for a visitor to land." He picked up a microphone, touched a
stud, and turned a knob. A faint hiss sounded from the speaker before
him.

"Philcor resident calling sportster," he snapped. "Come in, Over."

The hiss continued. Lanko punched another stud, and listened. The hiss
remained unchanged.

"Open him up, Banasel," he finally ordered. "I'm going in."

He rose from his chair, crossing to the exit port. For an instant, he
stood, checking his equipment belt. Then, he reached to a cabinet, to
pick up a tool kit. He opened the box, examined its contents, then
turned and nodded to Banasel.

The port opened wide, and he stepped through.

He dropped lightly to the space before the sportster, then stepped away,
crouching behind a rock out-crop, and turned his body shield to full
power.

"Screens down," he ordered.

       *       *       *       *       *

A faint haze grew about the sportster. At first, it was a barely
perceptible fluorescence. Then, it became a fiercely incandescent glow.
It flamed for a few seconds, then faded, becoming green, yellow, red,
and at last, blinking to invisibility.

"They're damped," Banasel's voice announced. "Shall I give him some more
and knock out the generators?"

"Not necessary," Lanko told him. "Just hold complete neutralization.
I'll cut them from inside."

He rose from his position behind the rock, idly kicking at the face of
it as he walked past. A shower of dust crumbled to the ground.

"Good thing there aren't any trees around here," he laughed. "We'd have
to put out a forest fire."

He pulled his hand weapon from his belt, made a careful adjustment, then
walked over to the ship. After a quick examination, he directed the
weapon toward a spot in the hull.

"Lot of credits here," he commented laconically. "Shame to hurt the
finish too much."

A few minutes later, he stepped back, examining his work. Then, he
nodded and removed another instrument from his tool kit. He focused it
on the ship's port, flicked a switch on his belt, then snapped the
instrument on.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, then there was a grinding screech
of tortured metal, and the port swung open.

As Lanko stepped inside, he examined the control room with care. At
last, satisfied that no booby traps were set, he crossed to the control
panel. He located the communicator controls, and picked up the
microphone.

"All's well, Ban," he reported. "Ease off."

He watched as the overloaded generator recovered. When the needles were
at normal readings, he flicked the screen controls off, then picked up
the microphone again.

"Haul out, Banasel," he ordered. "I'm going to fix this can up again,
close the port, run up the screens, and wait for our boy to come home.
Like to talk to him."

       *       *       *       *       *

The sportster had a well stocked galley. Lanko ate with enjoyment,
studying the tapes he had found interestedly. Finally, he pushed the
last reel aside, then sat back to gaze at the wall.

A low tone sounded, and the viewscreen activated. Lanko nodded to
himself, then went to the control room aperture, turning off the alarm
as he went through. A few strides took him to the entry port, where he
waited, weapon in hand.

The door swung open and Lanko touched his trigger. The newcomer's screen
flared briefly, then collapsed. Lanko stepped forward, examining his
prisoner.

He was humanoid. There were some differences from the usual type
encountered on the planet, but they were not serious. He could have
passed in most of the Galankar, if not anywhere. Some might even be
attracted by his slightly unusual appearance. Lanko drew him into the
ship, and closed the port.

He took his time, making a complete search of the captive's clothing,
and removing equipment and weapons. At last, he drew back, satisfied
that the being was harmless. He waited. It wouldn't be too long before
the business could begin.

As the paralysis effect wore off, the man on the floor flexed his
muscles, then got to his feet. Lanko watched him, his weapon resting on
his knees. As the man tensed to spring, Lanko raised the weapon a
little.

"You are Genro Kir?"

"Who are you? What's the idea?" Kir reached for his belt, then dropped
his hand again as he found nothing there.

"Resident Guardsman. Name's Lanko. You seem to be a little out of place
on this planet."

"I'm not responsible to some native patrolman." Kir's face became
stubborn. "I'm a Galactic Citizen."

"Possibly. We'll leave that to the Sector authorities." Lanko shrugged,
his face expressionless. "Meantime, you'll have to accept things as they
are. Or would you rather be paralyzed again?"

Genro Kir tensed again, making an obvious mental effort.

Lanko grinned at him in real amusement. "I took it. Wouldn't do you much
good anyway. They gave me heavy-duty equipment, you know." He waved
toward a chair with his weapon. "Might as well sit down and talk about
it. I've been through your tapes, of course."

Kir looked around unhappily, then sank into a chair. "What's there to
talk about, then? You know what we were doing."

"In general, yes, we do. A good deal was on your tapes. But we need more
detail, and we've got to pick up your companions, you know. It would be
a lot better if we knew where they were."

"I don't know where they are myself. They're building up their forces,
and working for position. This is just the opening, you see. The real
game won't start for quite a while."

Lanko laughed shortly. "Frankly, I don't think it will start. But it
would make it simpler for all concerned if you'd help us find the
players."

"I told you. I don't know where they are. They don't have to tell the
referee every move they make, unless they want a consultation as to
legality. I was just keeping watch on the general picture, to see that
neither of them broke a rule, or took an unfair advantage."

"You may not know where they are," Lanko admitted, "but you can
certainly contact them."

Genro Kir smiled tightly. "But I won't."

"They'll be hunted down, you know. We'll have them eventually. Be a lot
easier for all concerned if you'd coöperate."

"Coöperate with a bunch of half savage natives, against my own friends?
Don't be more stupid than you have to be!"

"I see." Lanko glanced away. "All very ethical, of course. Well, in that
case, we'll have to go to work." He pulled a fine chain from a case at
his belt, and walked over to his captive, weapon ready.

"Just hold still," he ordered. He slipped the delicate looking necklace
over the man's head, squeezed the pendant, and jumped back.

"I don't know whether you're familiar with this device," he said, "so
I'll explain it to you. It's a type ninety-two gravitic manacle, and is
designed to hold any known being. You can move about freely, so long as
you don't make any sudden or violent motion. The device is keyed to my
shield, and you'll suffer temporary paralysis if you get within my near
zone. You're safe enough a couple of meters from me." He walked back to
the control console.

"Oh, yes," he added, "don't try to take it off. It's designed to prevent
that action by positive means. It won't do you any permanent damage, but
it can make you pretty uncomfortable. And, remember, if it becomes
necessary, I can activate the manacle. It'll put you into full paralysis
and send out a strong homing signal."

Genro Kir looked at him sourly. "I won't try to escape," he promised.

"That's immaterial to me." Lanko flicked switches and the ship rose from
the ground, swung, and started westward. "I was merely describing the
capabilities of the manacle."

       *       *       *       *       *

On the way over the sea, Lanko noted the positions of a few of the
trading ships, and approached them closely, examining them. As he
approached a small archipelago, his communicator screen brightened.

"Resident Guardsman to Sportster. Identity yourself. Over."

Lanko picked up the microphone. "It's all right, Ban. Got one. Two more
to go."

"Fair enough. Come on in. I've got a beam on you."

Lanko checked the approach scope. The small circle was a trifle out of
center. He touched the control bar, and as the circle centered, he
snapped a switch and sat back.

The sportster dipped over an island, crossed a narrow lagoon, and
settled to the ground beside the guard flier. Lanko started pulling
tools from his kit. Working carefully, he removed the cover from the
control console, examined the terminal blocks, then attached a small
cylinder between two terminals.

He closed the console again and walked over to the exit port, where he
pressed the emergency release. The port swung wide. For an instant, the
control console was blurred. Lanko waited, then as the panel returned to
focus, he walked back to it. He snapped the drive switch on and pushed
the drive to maximum. Nothing happened. He punched the emergency power
button, and waited an instant. There was no result. He nodded to his
prisoner.

"Come on, Genro Kir. We may want you to talk to someone." He pointed to
the port. Kir hesitated, then went through. He managed a sneer as he did
so.

The port of the flier opened, and Banasel looked out. "Need any help?"

"No. This spaceship won't fly till someone from Sector comes out to pull
the block." Lanko pointed. "This is Genro Kir. He was refereeing a sort
of battle game between a couple of his companions."

Lanko herded Kir in front of him, and entered his own flier. He placed
the equipment kit on a shelf, and sat down. Banasel perched on his
workbench.

"What kind of a setup did these jokers have?"

"Well, you can review the tapes later and get a few of the details, but
here's the general idea:

"Genro Kir and his two companions made planetfall some years back. They
didn't know it was a discovered planet, and failed to note any evidence
of our presence. Somehow, we missed them, too, for which we should hang
our heads.

"Anyway, they checked the planet, found it was suitable to their
purpose, and decided that Koree Buron and Sira Nal could use it as a
playing board. Seems they had a bet on, and their last game was
inconclusive. Both of the involved civilizations collapsed.

"Each of them selected a portion of the habitable part of the eastern
continent as a primary base. Buron took the east, and that left the west
to Nal. It so happens that the central portion of the continent is
difficult to pass, and that fitted in with their plans. You remember the
desert and mountain ranges, of course? Well, so far as I can discover,
there was virtually no contact before the arrival of these three prizes
of ours. And after their arrival, they made sure that there would be no
contact--not until they wanted it.

"Of course, deserts can be crossed, and mountains can be climbed, but
our three boys fixed it so it would be fatal for any native to try it.
Then, each of the two contestants set to work to build up the war
potential of his part of the continent.

"In the meantime, Genro was acting as referee. He's been checking the
progress of the two contestants, and making sure that neither of them
sneaks into the territory of the other to upset something, or commits
any other breach of rules."

Banasel slid off his bench. "Atmosphere of mutual trust, I see."

"Precisely."

"Where do the Kondaran priests come in?"

"Oh, those two aren't going to confine the final stage of their game to
the one continent. That's just the starting point--the home base. And
what they're doing now is just the opening of the game. The end game
will decide control of the entire planet. Sira Nal's just getting off to
an early start, that's all."

"This is legitimate, according to their rules?"

"I guess so. According to Kir's tapes, he thinks it's a clever maneuver.
'Sound move' is the way he expressed it." Lanko stood and walked over to
the reproducer set. "That all came from the tapes, of course."

"How much more has Kir told you?"

"As little as possible."

       *       *       *       *       *

Banasel looked toward the prisoner. "Why not coöperate? You're due for
Aldebaran anyway. And a little help now would make it easier for you and
your partners later."

Genro Kir's lip curled. "As I told your friend, I don't have to lower
myself to work with a bunch of low-grade primitives."

"See what I mean?" Lanko slanted an eyebrow at Banasel. "But I think our
friend here will help us some, anyway. That 'sound move' he recorded is
almost sure to catch us one of the players."

"Oh?"

"Sure. What's the whole foundation of this cult of Kondaro?"

"Why, they navigate ships. They keep strict security on their methods.
They enforce that security by terrorism. They claim that no one else can
successfully cross the Great Sea, and it seems to be a proven fact that
they're right. So, they collect from seamen, traders, and shipowners."

"That's right. And they claim that only they can overcome the spells and
actions of the sea demons, which try to destroy any ship that sails the
sea. First, though, they navigate ships. They guarantee to get 'em
across the sea and back. Right?"

Banasel nodded.

"Suppose they start losing ships? Suppose that from now on, no ship
returns to port?" Lanko walked over to the control console.

"Hey, wait a minute. I know these priests are a bunch of pirates--or
some of them are, at any rate. But we can't--"

"Who said anything about destroying life?" Lanko spread his hands. "We
have here a fairly nice group of islands," he pointed out. "Not too
spacious, of course, and not possessed of any luxurious cities. But
there's water, and fresh fruits are available in plenty. The ships are
provisioned fairly well, but they generally put in here for those very
fruits. So, all we need do is give a little unwanted help."

"Shipwreck?"

"Something like that."

Banasel shook his head doubtfully. "It'll take a long time to undermine
their reputation that way," he objected. "And we'd have a lot of people
on these islands before we were through."

"I don't think so. Kondaro's a god, remember? And gods are infallible.
Sira Nal can explain a few disappearances by accusations of irreverence,
but he'll know better than to try explaining too many that way. I should
imagine that the normal losses due to unexpected storms just about use
up his allotment along that line."

[Illustration]

Lanko shook his head. "No, Sira Nal's going to have to do something to
prevent any rumor to the effect that the sea god is losing his grip." He
paused. "And what ship do you think I spotted standing this way?"

"Oh, no! That's too much of a coincidence."

"No, not really. We took considerable time gathering in our boy here."
Lanko inclined his head toward Genro Kir. "And the _Bordeklu's_ home
port is Tanagor, so Musa's old ship wouldn't spend too much of a layover
in Kneuros. They're on schedule all right. You'd like to see your old
friend, Dontor, again, wouldn't you, Musa? Sort of watch him try to save
his ship in a real emergency?"

Musa grinned wolfishly. "Might be fun, at that," he agreed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dontor strode firmly toward the ladder leading to the observation deck.
The slaves had rigged the screen, and the priest looked proudly about
this ship of which he was the actual and absolute master. Slowly, in
majestic silence, he mounted the ladder and passed through the opening
in the curtain.

He went to the middle of the forecastle, and stopped, waiting until the
two junior priests had taken their positions near him and the slaves had
set down the equipment chests. The slaves straightened, and stood, arms
folded, waiting. Dontor inspected the area, then moved his head
imperiously.

"Very good," he said. "Take your posts."

As the slaves left, the three priests opened their instrument chests,
removing navigational tools. Alnar went to the folding table, spread the
chart over it, then took his watch out of the chest and stood back,
holding it.

"Just about time, sir."

"Very well." Dontor glanced at the juniors, saw that Kuero had his
sextant ready, and raised his own.

"Now," he instructed, when the readings were complete, "you will each
calculate our position independently. I'll check your work when you have
finished." He replaced his sextant in its case, then headed the small
procession back to the cabins.

The ship's routine continued its uneventful course. The junior priests
reported to Dontor with their calculations. Their work was examined,
criticized, and finally approved. They were given further instructions.
All was well aboard the _Bordeklu_.

The chief priest examined the charts and decided on the course for the
next watch. The ship, he thought, would have to put in for water. And
some of the island fruits would go well on the table. He set a course
accordingly, and went topside to give instructions to the pilot.

       *       *       *       *       *

_"Are you going to help them on their way?"_

_"It's not necessary, unless they start to by-pass the island. They'll
have plenty to worry about when they try to anchor."_

       *       *       *       *       *

Ahead of the ship, the sea was calm. No cloud marred the bright blue
overhead. Slowly, a vague shape formed on the horizon, then it grew, to
become a small, wooded island.

The ship continued on its course, approaching the bit of land, and
neared the breaker line. Orders sounded sharply, and the sails
collapsed, spilling their wind. A crew forward cut the snubbing line,
and the bow anchor splashed into the water.

The ship continued, and the anchor cable became taut. In defiance of the
helmsman's efforts, the ship continued on a straight course. The bow
line stretched, then loosened a little, as the anchor dragged. Still,
the ship refused to swing. Hurriedly, the crew aft dropped the stern
anchor. But the ship persisted on its course. All hands forward took
shelter as the bow cable snapped and whipped viciously across the deck.
The ship maintained its slow progress.

Frantically, the crew backed the sails, hoisting them to take all the
wind possible. The helmsman spun the wheel in a final effort to turn the
ship back to sea, then cast a glance astern at the taut cable, and
ducked for shelter.

Sea anchors were hastily thrown overside, but still the ship approached
the beach. The keel grated on sand, and the ship continued to move
forward, as though, tired of the sea, it had decided to return to the
forest. At last, wedged among the trees, the vessel stopped, far above
the sands of the beach.

It was obviously there to stay.

Dontor stood, looking seaward. He shook his head, looked forward, then
down at the ground beneath the ship. This was outside his experience. It
was also outside the teaching so carefully instilled in his mind in the
classrooms back at Tanagor, and later during those long days and nights
when he was a junior priest. He had been taught to speak of sea demons,
and to explain their actions, but he had not been told to believe in
them.

He wondered if the great Kondaro really existed, and if he did, just
what he might think of Dontor and of the ship he had so recently
controlled. The thought crossed his mind that a real god might be
somewhat critical of the priesthood of the sea.

"Something," he mused aloud, "will have to be done to prevent loss of
faith."

       *       *       *       *       *

_"Well," remarked Lanko as he snapped the tractor off. "That's the first
handful of sand for the cook pot."_

       *       *       *       *       *

Sira Nal drummed impatiently on the table before him.

"I thought you could handle routine operations," he said bitingly. "Now,
you tell me you've been missing ship after ship. What happened to them?"

The high priest shook his head. "We haven't been able to find out, sir."

"Do you mean to tell me you haven't anything to report on them?"

"We have sent out investigating ships, sir."

"And?"

"They haven't reported back, sir."

Sira Nal's checks paled slightly with rage as he stared at his
underling.

"Miron," he snapped, "I'm not going to tell you exactly what to do, or
how. You're supposed to know how to treat emergencies, not to call me
any time something outside of routine happens. I want a report on those
ships tomorrow morning." He glanced out of the window. "I don't care how
you do it, but find out what happened, and I don't ever want to hear you
admit again that you can't account for any ship I ask about. Is that
clear?"

Miron nodded unhappily. "Yes, sir." He bowed and backed out of the room.

He forced himself to suppress his anger as he gently closed the door.
Then, he stood for a moment, fists clenched, as he directed a furious
gaze at the panels.

"How?" he thought. "How does he expect me to know what's going on at sea
unless ships come in to give me information, or I am able to go out
personally. And how does he expect me to make a personal check in one
night?"

He started walking along the corridor. "I have no supernatural powers,
and he knows it. He's the prophet. Wish I'd never--"

He looked at the walls around him, then shook his head. No use thinking
of that. None had ever successfully left the service of Kondaro. He
continued to a stair, mounted it, then climbed ladders, to finally come
out at the observation platform atop the temple. The observer bowed as
his superior entered the little room just below the torch.

"Have there been any arrivals?"

"None, sir. I've seen no sails."

"I am going to send you an acolyte. If you see anything, send him to me
immediately." Miron turned to go back to his quarters.

       *       *       *       *       *

After Miron's departure, Sira Nal sat for a time, still staring at the
closed door. He had caught the wave of frustrated rage, and had almost
responded for a second. But, he was forced to admit, the priest had
justification. He had organized his forces adequately--had been a useful
piece, within his limitations.

"I wonder," mused Sira Nal, "if Buron's pulling a sneak punch." He
tilted his head. "It would be a little foul, but he might try something
like that." He reviewed the rules they had agreed upon.

After all, this phase of his operation was outside of the home zone, and
he was actually vulnerable to attack, even this early. He had assumed
that Buron would be too busy developing his own pieces to spend any time
on an offensive move at this stage. Of course, direct intervention was a
little unethical, but Buron might try it.

He had thought his opponent would be too occupied to notice a move at
this remote part of the board. And he had established this advance base
by direct intervention, too. If Buron had noticed, and if he had checked
Nal's methods, he might have felt justified, and have taken time for a
quick, disruptive move. And Sira Nal was forced to admit that such a
move might be allowed by Kir. It might be even approved, and hailed as a
brilliant counter.

He rose to his feet, pacing about the room. If this were a move by
Buron, the priesthood would be powerless to counter. It would take
direct action by the player, of course. He grumbled to himself.

"Can't let this development be wasted. I'd lose too much time. I'll have
to check personally."

He crossed to the window, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony.

Outside, the sun glinted on the harbor. A ship was standing out to sea,
sails set to pick up the breeze from the headland. Sira Nal looked over
toward the shipyards. It was a well organized secondary base, and it
would probably develop into a highly valuable position. Somehow, he
doubted that Buron would have been able to do as well, considering the
time factor. He shook his head. This must be retained.

He threw the robe back, checked his equipment belt, adjusted his body
shield, and stepped off the balcony, activating his levitation
modulator. He swung around the outgoing ship, noting the activity aboard
with approval, then headed seaward, to follow the route he had
prescribed for his navigators. Somewhere out there, he would undoubtedly
find Buron, poised to strike at any ship which bore the red and gold of
Kondaro.

And when he did find him, he knew, he would have to outline a counter
move which would force immunity to his sea lanes. He considered the
possibilities as he sped over the sea.

       *       *       *       *       *

Musa sat before the detector, idly watching the vague patterns that grew
and collapsed on the viewscreen. The scanner, Lanko had explained,
picked up ghost images from heated air masses, or from clouds, but it
discriminated against them, refusing to form a definite image unless a
material body came within range. Then, it indicated range and azimuth,
checked the body against the predetermined data, and the selective
magnification circuits cut in.

As Musa watched, a sea bird appeared on the screen, outlined sharply
against the darkness of the sea. The viewscreen tracked it for an
instant, then continued its scan. Another body showed, seeming to come
from under the sea. Musa looked at it curiously, then noticed that the
range marks had tripped on. The screen was holding the object at center.
A slight glow appeared, obscuring visual detail, and more marks showed
in the legend. Musa turned around.

"Banasel," he called, "what's this?"

Banasel was engaged in his usual pastime of tinkering with the
equipment. He looked around, then walked quickly over to the screen, to
make adjustments. The object came into sharp focus, revealing itself as
a man in the robes of Kondaro. Range and azimuth lines became clearly
defined, and a graph showed in the legend space. Banasel glanced down at
the dials.

"Hey, Lanko," he called, "we've got a customer."

"Where?" Lanko came out of the mess compartment.

"About seventy-one, true, and coming in fast. Range, about a hundred
K's." Banasel twisted dials, watching the result on the screen. "Looks
as though our friend's coming in for a conference."

"Screens?"

"Personal body shield. Probably a Morei twelve. Nothing special."

Lanko got into the gunner's chair and punched a button. The sight screen
lit, showing the approaching body clearly. He turned a knob, increasing
magnification.

"All dressed up in his ceremonial robes, too," he laughed. "This kid
could have done well as a clothing designer."

He adjusted a few knobs, examining a meter. Then, he reached for the
weapon's grip.

"No point in discussing matters with him now. He can talk after we get
him in, and he's just about in range now." He brought the hair-lines on
the viewscreen to center on the approaching figure, and squeezed the
grip.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sira Nal felt the sudden pressure. Annoyed, he reached to his belt, to
turn his shield to full power. This was highly unethical. Buron should
certainly know better than to resort to personal attack. Such action
could be protested, and Sira Nal could demand concessions.

He looked ahead, searchingly. The horizon ahead was broken by a faint
cloud, which indicated the islands, but there was no evidence of his
opponent. He shook his head, and started to rise, but his shield was
failing. Suddenly, he became aware of the overheating generator pack.
Something was decidedly wrong. He reached for his own hand weapon, still
searching for his attacker. At last, he noticed a slight shimmer, dead
ahead. He pointed the weapon.

"Now, now," cautioned a voice, "you could get hurt that way. Close down
your shield and relax. This is a guard flier. You're in arrest tractor."

Sira Nal recognized that the tractor was pulling him ahead. His
generator pack was heating up dangerously.

He was being captured!

Furiously, he thought of the attacks he had made in similar manner, in
this same area. He still could remember the horrified expression on one
shipowner's face just before his ship broke to bits under him.

They wouldn't get him, though.

They couldn't.

He would blast them out of his path. Just as he had blasted the
presumptuous natives who opposed him.

Thumbing the hand weapon to full blast, he centered it on the faint
shimmer ahead, and squeezed the trigger.

Let the meddlers look out for themselves.

       *       *       *       *       *

Banasel winced a little as the fireball spread, then rose skyward, to
form a large cloud.

"You could have relaxed," he protested. "The blast wouldn't have jolted
our screen too much, and you could have gotten him again."

"I know." Lanko flicked off the gunnery switches and leaned back,
rubbing his head. "There was a possibility, and I fully intended to
relax. But the decision time was short, and frankly, those thoughts of
his overrode me for just too long. That boy was dangerous!"

He turned to Genro Kir, who was looking with horrified fascination at
the still growing cloud in the screen.

"It's unfortunate. We'll try to get your other partner alive."

"You destroyed him!" Kir looked a little sick.

"No. We didn't destroy him. He should have known better than to fire
into a tractor. I'll have to admit, I did slip a little. I assumed he
was the usual type of drone. I didn't recognize the full extent of his
aberration."

Lanko got out of his chair, and crossed the room, to confront the
prisoner.

"Look, Kir. I don't know whether your other partner's like that one or
not. But I think it's about time you helped a little. If you had given
us clues to Sira Nal's personality and probable location, we might have
been able to take precautions. He might be with us now. Or, do you enjoy
seeing your friends turn themselves into flaming clouds of smoke?"

"You mean I ... I'm responsible ... for that?"

"Partially. You helped them. You refused any assistance in their
capture. And you knew they were going to be captured, one way or
another."

Kir directed a horrified look at the screen.

"What can I do?"

"Get in contact with Koree Buron. Tell him what happened here. Tell him,
too, that we're looking for him, and that there is a Sector Guardsman
due to join us within a few hours. Explain to him that there will be
direction-finders on him very soon, and that any effort he may make to
use his body shield, his weapons, or even his thought-radiations, will
be noted, and will lead to him.

"Once you establish contact, we will ride in, if you wish. And we can
assure him that he'll be either hunted down promptly, or he will have to
assume and accept the role of a native--and a very inconspicuous,
uninfluential native, at that.

"Tell him that he is free to come to us and surrender at any time within
the next twenty hours, planetary. After that, he will be taken by the
most expedient means. After the surrender deadline, you can assure him
that his life will be of less importance to us, and to the Sector
Guardsman, than that of the most humble native.

"Here's your mental amplifier, if you need it."

Genro Kir looked at the proffered circlet, then slowly extended a hand.
He took the device, turned it around in his hands for a few moments,
then put it on.

Suddenly, his face set in decision, and he sat quietly for a while, grim
faced. At last, he looked up.

"I got him. He argued a little, but he had a poor argument, and he knew
it. He'll be here within an hour, screens down."


THE END




Transcriber's Note:

This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_ April 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors
have been corrected without note.