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 l 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 ho 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.
“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.
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