"You are correct," said Sam, "but tell me how you know these things."
"First," said the other, "you are an old man. A Master, too, could have upon him an old body, but he would not—any more than he would remain a dog for very long. His fear of dying the real death, suddenly, in the manner of the old, would be too great. So he would not remain so long as to leave the marks of rings deeply imprinted upon the fingers. The wealthy are never despoiled of their bodies. If they are refused rebirth, they live out the full span of their days. The Masters would fear a rising up in arms among the followers of such a one, were he to meet with other than a natural passing. So a body such as yours could not be obtained in this manner. A body from the life tanks would not have marked fingers either.
"Therefore," he concluded, "I take you to be a man of importance other than a Master. If you knew Olvagga of old, then you are also one of the Firstlings, such as he. Because of the sort of information which you seek, I take you to be one from afar. Were you a man of Mahartha you would know of the Masters, and knowing of the Masters you would know why Olvagga cannot sail."
"Your knowledge of matters in Mahartha seems greater than my own — oh, newly arrived sailor."
"I, too, come from a distant place," acknowledged the captain, smiling faintly, "but in the space of a dozen months I may visit twice as many ports. I hear news—news and gossip and tales from all over—from more than a double dozen ports. I hear of the intrigues of the palace and the affairs of the Temple. I hear the secrets whispered at night to the golden girls beneath the sugar-cane bow of Kama. I hear of the campaigns of the Khshatriya and the dealings of the great merchants in the futures of grains and spices, jewels and silk. I drink with the bards and the astrologers, with the actors and the servants, the coachmen and the tailors. Sometimes, perhaps, I may strike the port where freebooters have haven and learn there the faring of those they hold to ransom. So do not think it strange that I, who come from afar, may know more of Mahartha than you, who may dwell perhaps a week's faring hence. Occasionally, I may even hear of the doings of the gods."
"Then you can tell me of the Masters, and why they are to be numbered as enemies?" asked Sam.
"I can tell you something of them," replied the captain, "since you should not go unwarned. The body merchants are now the Masters of Karma. Their individual names are now kept secret, after the manner of the gods, so that they seem as impersonal as the Great Wheel, which they claim to represent. They are no longer merely body merchants, but are allied with the Temples. These, too, are changed, for your kinsmen of the First who are now gods do commune with them from Heaven. If you are indeed of the First, Sam, your way must lead you either to deification or extinction, when you face these new Masters of Karma."
"How?" asked Sam.
"Details you must seek elsewhere," said the other. "I do not know the processes whereby these things are achieved. Ask after Jannaveg the sailmaker on the Street of the Weavers."
"This is how Jan is now known?"
The other nodded. "And beware the dogs," he said, "or, for that matter, anything else which is alive and may harbor intelligence."
"What is your name, captain?" asked Sam.
"In this port, I have no name at all or a false one, and I see no reason for lying to you. Good day, Sam."
"Good day, captain. Thank you for your words."
Sam rose and departed the harbor, heading back toward the business district and the streets of the trades.
The sun was a red discus in the heavens, rising to meet the Bridge of the Gods. The prince walked through the awakened city, threading his way among the stalls displaying the skills of the workmen in the small crafts. Hawkers of unguents and powders, perfumes and oils, moved about him. Florists waved their garlands and corsages at the passer-by; and the vintners said nothing, sitting with their wineskins on rows of shaded benches, waiting for their customers to come to them as they always did. The morning smelled of cooking food, musk, flesh, excrement, oils and incense all churned up together and turned loose to wander like an invisible cloud.
Dressed as a beggar himself, it did not seem out of place for him to stop and speak to the hunchback with the begging bowl.
"Greetings, brother," he stated. "I am far from my quarter on an errand. Can you direct me to the Street of the Weavers?"
The hunchback nodded and shook his bowl suggestively.
He withdrew a small coin from the pouch concealed beneath his tattered garments. He dropped it into the hunchback's bowl and it quickly vanished.
"That way." The man gestured with his head. "The third street you come upon, turn there to the left. Then follow it past two streets more, and you will be at the Circle of the Fountain before the Temple of Varuna. Coming into that Circle, the Street of the Weavers is marked by the Sign of the Awl."
He nodded to the hunchback, patted his hump and continued on his way.
When he reached the Circle of the Fountain, the prince halted. Several dozen people stood in a shifting line before the Temple of Varuna, most stern and august of all the deities. These people were not preparing to enter the Temple, but rather were engaged in some occupation that required waiting and taking turns. He heard the rattling of coins and he wandered nearer.
It was a machine, gleaming and metallic, before which they moved.
A man inserted a coin into the mouth of a steel tiger. The machine began to purr. He pressed buttons cast in the likenesses of animals and demons. There came then a flashing of lights along the lengths of the Nagas, the two holy serpents who twisted about the transparent face of the machine.
He edged closer.
The man drew down upon the lever that grew from the side of the machine cast in the likeness of the tail of a fish.
A holy blue light filled the interior of the machine; the serpents pulsed redly; and there, in the midst of the light and a soft music that had begun to play, a prayer wheel swung into view and began spinning at a furious pace.
The man wore a beatific expression. After several minutes, the machine shut itself off. He inserted another coin and pulled the lever once more, causing several of those nearer to the end of the line to grumble audibly, remarking to the effect that that was his seventh coin, it was a warm day, there were other people waiting to get some praying done and why did he not go inside and render such a large donation directly to the priests? Someone replied that the little man obviously had much atoning to do. There then began some speculation as to the possible nature of his sins. This was accompanied by considerable laughter.
Seeing that there were several beggars waiting their turn in line, the prince moved to its end and stood there.
As the line advanced, he noted that, while some of those who passed before the machine pushed its buttons, others merely inserted a flat metal disc into the mouth of the second tiger on the opposite side of the chassis. After the machine had ceased to function, the disc fell into a cup and was retrieved by its owner. The prince decided to venture an inquiry.
He addressed the man who stood before him in line:
"Why is it," he asked, "that some men do have discs of their own?"
"It is because they have registered," said the other, without turning his head.
"In the Temple?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
He waited half a minute, then inquired, "Those who are unregistered, and wish to use it—they push the buttons?"
"Yes," said the other, "spelling out their name, occupation, and address."
"Supposing one be a visitor here, such as myself?"
"You should add the name of your city."
"Supposing one is unlettered, such as myself—what then?"
The other turned to him. "Perhaps ''twere better," he said, "that you make prayer in the old way, and give the donation directly into the hands of the priests. Or else register and obtain a disc of your own."
"I see," said the prince. "Yes, you are right. I must think of this more. Thank you."
He l
eft the line and circled the fountain to where the Sign of the Awl hung upon a pillar. He moved up the Street of the Weavers.
Three times did he ask after Janagga the sailmaker, the third time of a short woman with powerful arms and a small mustache, who sat cross-legged, plaiting a rug, in her stall beneath the low eave of what once might have been a stable and still smelled as if it were.
She growled him directions, after raking him upward and down again with oddly lovely brown-velvet eyes. He followed her directions, taking his way up a zigzagging alley and down an outer stair, which ran along the wall of a five-story building, ending at a door that opened upon a basement hallway. It was damp and dark within.
He knocked upon the third door to his left, and after a time it opened.
The man stared at him. "Yes?"
"May I come in? It is a matter of some urgency . . ."
The man hesitated a moment, then nodded abruptly and stepped aside.
The prince moved past him and into his chamber. A great sheet of canvas was spread out over the floor, before the stool upon which the man reseated himself. He motioned the prince into the only other chair in the room.
He was short and big in the shoulders; his hair was pure white, and the pupils of his eyes bore the smoky beginnings of cataract invasion. His hands were brown and hard, the joints of his fingers knotted.
"Yes?" he repeated.
"Jan Olvegg," said the other.
"The old man's eyes widened, then narrowed to slits.
He weighed a pair of scissors in his hand.
"'It's a long way to Tipperary,' " said the prince.
The man stared, then smiled suddenly. "'If your heart's not here,'" he said, placing the scissors on his workstand. "How long has it been, Sam?" he asked.
"I've lost count of the years."
"Me too. But it must be forty — forty-five?—since I've seen you. Much beer over the damn dam since then, I daresay?"
Sam nodded.
"I don't really know where to begin . . ." said the man.
"For a start, tell me—why 'Janagga'?"
"Why not?" asked the other. "It has a certain earnest, working-class sound about it. How about yourself? Still in the prince business?"
"I'm still me," said Sam, "and they still call me Siddhartha when they come to call."
The other chuckled. "And 'Binder of the Demons,'" he recited. "Very good. I take it, then, since your fortunes do not match your garb, that you are casing the scene, as is your wont."
Sam nodded. "And I have come upon much which I do not understand."
"Aye," sighed Jan. "Aye. How shall I begin? How? I shall tell you of myself, that's how. . . . I have accumulated too much bad karma to warrant a current transfer."
"What?"
"Bad karma, that's what I said. The old religion is not only the religion—it is the revealed, enforced and frighteningly demonstrable religion. But don't think that last part too loudly. About a dozen years ago the Council authorized the use of psych-probes on those who were up for renewal. This was right after the Accelerationist-Deicrat split, when the Holy Coalition squeezed out the tech boys and kept right on squeezing. The simplest solution was to outlive the problem. The Temple crowd then made a deal with the body sellers, customers were brain-probed and Accelerationists were refused renewal, or . . . well . . . simple as that. There aren't too many Accelerationists now. But that was only the beginning. The god party was quick to realize that therein lay the way of power. Having your brains scanned has become a standard procedure, just prior to a transfer. The body merchants are become the Masters of Karma, and a part of the Temple structure. They read over your past life, weigh the karma, and determine your life that is yet to come. It's a perfect way of maintaining the caste system and ensuring Deicratic control. By the way, most of our old acquaintances are in it up to their halos."
"God!" said Sam.
"Plural," Jan corrected. "They've always been considered gods, with their Aspects and Attributes, but they've made it awfully official now. And anyone who happens to be among the First had bloody well better be sure whether he wants quick deification or the pyre when he walks into the Hall of Karma these days.
"When's your appointment?" he finished.
"Tomorrow," said Sam, "in the afternoon. . . . Why are you still walking around, if you don't have a halo or a handful of thunderbolts?"
"Because I do have a couple friends, both of whom suggested I continue living—quietly—rather than face the probe. I took their sage advice to heart and consequently am still around to mend sails and raise occasional hell in the local bistros. Else"—he raised a callused hand, snapped his fingers—"else, if not the real death, then perhaps a body shot full with cancer, or the interesting life of a gelded water buffalo, or . . ."
"A dog?" asked Sam.
"Just so," Jan replied.
Jan filled the silence and two glasses with a splashing of alcohol.
"Thanks."
"Happy hellfire." He replaced the bottle on his workstand.
"On an empty stomach yet. . . . You make that yourself?"
"Yep. Got a still in the next room."
"Congratulations, I guess. If I had any bad karma, it should all be dissolved by now."
"The definition of bad karma is anything our friends the gods don't like."
"What made you think you had some?"
"I wanted to start passing out machines among our descendants here. Got batted down at Council for it. Recanted, and hoped they'd forget. But Accelerationism is so far out now that it'll never make it back in during my lifetime. Pity, too. I'd like to lift sail again, head off toward another horizon. Or lift ship. . ."
"The probe is actually sensitive enough to spot something as intangible as an Accelerationist attitude?"
"The probe," said Jan, "is sensitive enough to tell what you had for breakfast eleven years ago yesterday and where you cut yourself shaving that morning, while humming the Andorran national anthem."
"They were experimental things when we left home," said Sam. "The two we brought along were very basic brain-wave translators. When did the breakthrough occur?"
"Hear me, country cousin," said Jan. "Do you remember a snot-nosed brat of dubious parentage, third generation, named Yama? The kid who was always souping up generators, until one day one blew and he was so badly burned that he got his second body—one over fifty years old—when he was only sixteen? The kid who loved weapons? The fellow who anesthetized one of everything that moves out there and dissected it, taking such pleasure in his studies that we called him deathgod?"
"Yes, I recall him. Is he still alive?"
"If you want to call it that. He now is deathgod—not by nickname, but by title. He perfected the probe about forty years ago, but the Deicrats kept it under wraps until fairly recently. I hear he's dreamed up some other little jewels, too, to serve the will of the gods . . . like a mechanical cobra capable of registering encephalogram readings from a mile away, when it rears and spreads its fan. It can pick one man out of a crowd, regardless of the body he wears. There is no known antidote for its venom. Four seconds, no more. . . . Or the fire wand, which is said to have scored the surfaces of all three moons while Lord Agni stood upon the seashore and waved it. And I understand that he is designing some sort of jet-propelled juggernaut for Lord Shiva at this moment. . . things like that."
"Oh," said Sam.
"Will you pass the probe?" Jan asked.
"I'm afraid not," he replied. "Tell me, I saw a machine this morning which I think may best be described as a pray-o-mat—are they very common?"
"Yes," said Jan. "They appeared about two years ago—dreamed up by young Leonardo over a short glass of soma one night. Now that the karma idea has caught on, the things are better than tax collectors. When mister citizen presents himself at the clinic of the god of the church of his choice on the eve of his sixtieth year, his prayer account is said to be considered along with his sin account, in deciding the caste he will enter—as
well as the age, sex and health of the body he will receive. Nice. Neat."
"I will not pass the probe," said Sam, "even if I build up a mighty prayer account. They'll snare me when it comes to sin."
"What sort of sin?"
"Sins I have yet to commit, but which are being written in my mind as I consider them now."
"You plan to oppose the gods?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I do not yet know. I shall begin, however, by contacting them. Who is their chief?"
"I can name you no one. Trimurti rules—that is, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Which of these three be chiefest at any one time, I cannot say. Some say Brahma—"
"Who are they—really?" asked Sam.
Jan shook his head. "I do not know. They all wear different bodies than they did a generation ago. They all use god names."
Sam stood. "I will return later, or send for you."
"I hope so. . . . Another drink?"
Sam shook his head. "I go to become Siddhartha once more, to break my fast at the hostel of Hawkana and announce there my intent to visit the Temples. If our friends are now gods then they must commune with their priests. Siddhartha goes to pray."
"Then put in no words for me," said Jan, as he poured out another drink. "I do not know whether I would live through a divine visitation."
Sam smiled. "They are not omnipotent."
"I sincerely hope not," replied the other, "but I fear that day is not far off."
"Good sailing, Jan."
"Skaal."
Prince Siddhartha stopped on the Street of the Smiths, on his way to the Temple of Brahma. Half an hour later he emerged from a shop, accompanied by Strake and three of his retainers. Smiling, as though he had received a vision of what was to come, he passed through the center of Mahartha, coming at last to the high, wide Temple of the Creator.
Ignoring the stares of those who stood before the pray-o-mat, he mounted the long, shallow stairway, meeting at the Temple entrance with the high priest, whom he had advised earlier of his coming.
Siddhartha and his men entered the Temple, disarming themselves and paying preliminary obeisances toward its central chamber before addressing the priest.
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