"Sure, preacher. Like you say. Only that's the way it is, so you better ..."
"I understand," said Quam, and gave the flyer its directions. It raised an objection.
"Without the special permission of the robot inspector, Mr. Quamodian," it declared, "I should properly go nowhere except back to the transflex terminal."
"But it's an emergency!"
"Of course, Mr. Quamodian." It hesitated, its neural currents pondering the problem. "Since I cannot contact the robot inspector at the moment," it decided. "I will have to return to the transflex terminal..."
"Confound you," shouted Quamodian, "Do what I tell you!"
"... but en route I will pause briefly at the Starchurch. If you then disembark, it is not a matter under my control."
"Hah!" barked Quamodian in disgust. "Do it, then. But do it fast!"
"It is done, Mr. Quamodian," sighed the flyer, settling to the ground. "I will remain here for one minute. During that time you may do as you wish."
Quamodian wasted no more time in talk. With Rufe and the huge, slow strength of the Reefer, it was no problem to get Molly out of the flyer and settle her gently on the ground. "Are you all right, dear?" Andy Quam asked anxiously. "I'm going for help ..."
The storm of weeping had passed. Her eyes were open and her face composed, but the weariness of ages was in her eyes. "All right, Andy," she said, "I'm all right anyway, so it doesn't matter."
"Don't talk like that!"
"All right, Andy," she repeated dully, and looked away.
"You stay here with her," he ordered the Reefer, who looked resentful but shrugged. "Rufe, let's find somebody!" And the man and the boy hurried into the Star-church.
As they entered the great chamber under the blue dome, a gong boomed and echoed, Rufe led the way, up a helical ramp into the dim vast church. The air was alive with the throb of many chanting voices, and sweet with the odor of the fusorian Visitants. The five pointed wings of the place of worship were filled with rising tiers of seats, but every seat was empty. The people were kneeling hi concentric circles on the immense floor, beneath the central dome that held the imaged suns of Almalik.
Of the robot inspector there was no sign. His errand, whatever it was, still kept him away.
"I see Molly's aunt!" cried Rufe eagerly, pointing. "Come this way!"
But Quamodian hesitated. "Pagan ritual" he called it, but something in the air held him, awed, faintly envious, half afraid. He raised his eyes to the many-colored splendor of the thirteen suns hung beneath the space-black inside of the dome: six close binaries arranged in three double doubles, one single sun.
Drinking in the blazing beauty of Almalik, breathing the sweetness of the Visitants, swaying to the melodic rhythm of the chanting worshippers, Andy Quam felt a sudden glorious dawn of utter peace and great joy. He wanted to forget himself and the waiting, weary girl outside. His only desire was to forget himself and to be one with Almalik.
"Preacher!" hissed the boy. "Aren't you coming?"
Solemn awe held Quamodian. "Are—are you sure it's all right to interrupt?"
"We won't interrupt. I've been here before for this, to watch, like. With Miss Zaldivar. They don't mind anybody."
Shivering with the strange elation, Quamodian followed the boy out across the vast floor and into the circles of communicants swaying on their knees. The sweetness of the Visitants made him drowsy; the blazing suns of Almalik bathed him in peace.
But the boy had paused before a kneeling man and woman. "Here's her folks, preacher," he said. "Mr. Juan Zaldivar. Mrs. Deirdre Zaldivar." His thin voice rose sharply. "This is Monitor Quamodian."
They stopped their chant. Reluctantly they withdrew their gaze from the multiple splendor of Almalik and, still swaying on their knees, looked incuriously at Andy Quam.
Both glowed with youth and health and joy. Juan was lean and tall and dark, with rich black hair. Blonde, blue-eyed and radiant, Deirdre looked even younger and more lovely than her daughter.
And both wore the mark of Almalik, where the migrating fusorian colony had entered their bodies. Deirdre's was on her blooming cheek, Juan's on his forehead. The marks were tiny irregular star shapes, their edges dissolving into fine branching lines. In the dusk of the starlit dome, the marks glowed softly, warmly golden.
"It's about Molly," Quamodian whispered, hardly daring to break the spell. "She's outside. She's hurt." Incongruous things to say in this sacred peace! He felt more of an interloper than ever, a brute among angels.
In unison, blonde and black, they nodded their heads. Puzzled, Andy Quam started to repeat what he had said, but Deirdre breathed, "There's no hurt that matters in the bosom of the Star. She must join us, and then she will find peace."
"But she's hurt! It's—oh, it's too long to tell you, but she's in terrible danger. We all are!"
"Not here," smiled Juan Zaldivar. He groped for Deirdre's hand; she was already lifting her face to chant again. "Bring her within. The Visitants will make her whole!" And his dark eyes lifted and he joined his wife in the chant.
Rufe bit his lip. "It's no use, preacher," he said somberly. "They're too happy."
Andy Quam looked at him meditatively. It was, after all, not a bad idea to bring Molly inside, he thought. Let the Visitants enter her body with their fusorian healing. She would heal; everyone did. Not merely the sculis and bruises of her body, but the somber agony of her mind ...
"Preacher," whispered the boy apprehensively, staring at him.
Quamodian caught himself. "Sorry," he mumbled, and grabbed the boy's elbow, turned him around, scurried away. He felt a sudden flood of longing that almost stopped him and turned him back, but the boy was leading him now. He stumbled out of the aura of Almalik, down the helical ramp, out of the building as the siren chant faded behind.
Quamodian filled his lungs gratefully with cool dry air that held no lotus odor of the Visitants.
He said sadly, "I wanted to stay. I always want to stay. But it isn't for me—the peace of Almalik." He hurried down the ramp, leaving a vanishing vague regret.
His flyer was gone, but the huge form of the Reefer stood solidly over the reclining body of Molly Zaldivar. The night air felt suddenly chill, and Andy Quam shivered. "What can we do now?" he muttered, half to himself. "What can we do for Molly Zaldivar?"
"My house, preacher," said the boy, Rufe. "It's only down the square, over there. My folks will take her in. I think," he added, sounding worried. Andy Quam glanced at him sharply, but did not question him.
However, there was no one at home in the house to which the boy led them. The door was unlatched. Lights were on. The little cottage's autonomic living systems were purring away, a cheery fire in the hearth, a pleasantly scented breath of air carrying the gentle warmth to every room. But no one was there. "Never mind," sighed the boy, as though he had expected it. "I expect what Miss Zaldivar mostly needs is a little rest right now. Why don't you take her in that room, preacher? And I'll see if I can stir up a little food; you must be hungry."
Fed, warmed, almost relaxed, Andy Quam sat in the cheerful living room. The boy lay on the floor before the fire, his chin in his hands, stretching out now and then for another piece of fruit or a last crumb of the sandwiches he had produced for them. And the Reefer leaned at his ease against the fireplace, answering Quamodian's questions.
They had begun like a prosecuting attorney and defendant; but the Reefer would not accept the role. Defiant, uncaring, mildly contemptuous of everything around him, the Reefer rumbled, "I'd not take the responsibility, Monitor Quamodian. What happens on my land is my business, and those hills are mine."
"Creating rogue life is everyone's business," cried Quamodian.
"But that was not my doing," the big man declared. His scarred face was angry. "Miss Zaldivar is a lovely child. I meant no harm for her. But she had no business trespassing."
"What about Cliff Hawk?"
Under the ragged beard, his mouth set hard. "I brought his mother back f
rom the reefs. He was almost a son to me—but I take no blame for what he has done. Except that I let him go to school, but that wasn't my intention. I wanted him to be another hunter, like me. When he was grown, I planned to take him back to the reefs, find a cub sleeth for him, let him do as I did. But he had to cross the creek. He went to Starday school. He got queer ideas from the robots and the Visitants. Finally he had to go away to space to learn to be what you call a transcience engineer..."
"There was nothing wrong with that," declared Quamodian. "I was at the same school. He was a decent human being then."
The Reefer shrugged; then, flinching, touched his arm where it was bandaged. "No matter," he rumbled moodily. "He's paid for it now. He's dead. Or so I think."
"What do you mean, you think?" demanded Quamodian. "Is he dead or isn't he?"
The Reefer's deep-set eyes peered at him from under the bushy yellow brows. "He wasn't breathing," he said shortly. "Does that answer your question?"
"Doesn't it?"
The Reefer said helplessly, "I don't know, Monitor, and that's the truth. Oh, Cliff was in bad shape, all right. I didn't give him much chance of lasting more than an hour—less, because we couldn't move him and the fire was coming close. But... "
He hesitated. "Boy," he growled, "have you got anything to drink in this place?"
"Just milk. Or water. Or maybe I could make a cup of tea..."
The Reefer pursed his lips, shook his head gloomily.
"Go on!" ordered Quamodian.
The Reefer half closed his eyes. "Cliff had been at work hi his transcience lab," he droned, apparently bored with the subject. "I knew what he was doing was dangerous, but he's a man grown now. Was. I didn't want to interfere. Then something happened."
The Reefer shifted position, thoughtfully scratched his bushy yellow head. The thick fingers raked through the blond tangles like gangplows through soil, methodically, deeply, mechanically. He said, "It was an explosion. Down below, in the old cryomagnetic and radiation galleries that used to be part of the Plan of Man's military installations. Things the Visitants had failed to destroy. That was the part that I knew was dangerous. Then, while we were putting ourselves together, Molly Zaldivar showed up, crying and threatening Cliff; she'd been scared by my sleeth, so I guess she wasn't accountable. But that was just the beginning. There was a real blowup then. Don't know where. Something winged me—a stray piece of metal, I guess, and I was knocked out for a while."
"I was watching from Wisdom Creek," said Quamodian. "I saw a bolt of plasma strike from the sun, then two more. Is that what it was?"
"I guess." The Reefer scratched again stolidly. "Then I heard Cliff and the girl inside. I went to them. Tried to call my sleeth, but the creature was spooked, acted funny, didn't respond. It never did that before. But there it was, inside the tunnel, trying to get Cliff uncovered. Only it was too late. He was dying. Then ..."
The Reefer stood up straighter and stopped scratching. A look of real humanity came into his eyes as he said bleakly, "Cliff looked up at me. He said something— couldn't hear what, exactly. It didn't make sense. And he just stopped breathing."
The Reefer turned away, began roaming around the little room. "I don't mean he just died then, Monitor. I've seen men die; they make a little more fuss about it than that. But he just stopped. Like he was turned off. And I made sure he was dead, and then I grabbed Molly Zaldivar and got out of there. 'Bout an hour later, you showed up. That's it."
"Not quite," said Andy Quam sharply. "What was it that Cliff said before he died?"
The Reefer stopped, stared angrily at him. "Doesn't matter! It didn't make sense, anyway."
"What was it?"
The Reefer growled wordlessly. The thick fingers plowed into the scalp again, raked it furiously. Then he dropped his hand and said, "Oh, if you must know—it was something like, 'I made it—now it wants me.' "
Quam abruptly shivered, as though a cold blast had found the back of his neck. "What does it mean?" he demanded.
"Nothing! Nothing at all, Monitor! Or anyway—" the Reefer looked away, "nothing that I understand. 'I made it—now it wants me.' Does it mean anything to you?"
Quamodian paused before answering. "I—hope not," he whispered.
The rogue was no longer an infant. Neither was it full grown—call it a youth, becoming steadily larger, each moment finding itself stronger and more skilled than the moment before, feeding upon everything around it that offered energy or mass or patterns to be assimilated.
It had now assimilated a very large number of patterns, sipping at -the assorted radiances that surrounded it, and in the process discovering that some were far—"tastier"? -than others. Engorging the identity that had once been Cliff Hawk had been a transcendentally new experience for it, and now it found itself equipped with a thousand new habit patterns, constructs of thought, programmatic drives. They no longer had any relationship to the hundred kilograms of carbon compounds that had been Cliff Hawk's physical body, for that was now an irrelevant blob of spoiled reactions. Hawk's "personality," even, was gone— nothing now remained in the universe that thought his thoughts, remembered his experiences, could recite his opinions. But something of his motives and desires remained as a moment of thrust inside the behavior of the young rogue, shaping the vector result that was its behavior. It was no longer entirely random. In some degree it had become polarized.
What were the other moments of force that played a part hi the behavior of the infant rogue? Its own growing knowledge and skills. Its discoveries about the world it lived hi. Its innate drive toward growth and mastery. Move. Grow. Eat, it had thought, as soon as it could think at all; but now, with the powerful discipline of Cliff Hawk's trained mind permeating its being, it thought more clearly and articulately; it had discovered the convenience of formulating its objectives in language.
I am small but I am growing, thought the maturing rogue star that had been born on earth. There are other beings which are large but do not grow. I can be more powerful than they.
And already it had implemented its strength with a dozen organized masses of matter. The sleeth was now its mind-linked tool; it watched with the rogue's eyes, would act under the rogue's wishes. Tiny crawling and flying things, in the mountain, under the mountain and hi the air above it, had all become a part of its extended being. And it had recruited something else.
For the robot inspector had challenged the curiosity of the rogue. It had not been difficult at all for the rogue to swallow it whole, to incorporate the mind analogue of the machine into its own consciousness. The robot still looked as it had, torpedo-shaped metal body and glowing plasma panel; but it was no longer its links with the supercomputers on the planets of the stars of Almalik that gave it its categorical imperatives, but the needs and intentions of the stripped electron plasma that had exploded under the hill.
The rogue toyed with and puzzled over, but did not yet understand that complex linkage of transflection fields which united this new part of its self with distant and more powerful beings. They did not matter at the moment. The distant entities were not powerful enough to resume control against the near and mighty presence of the rogue. And it had other considerations to occupy it.
One was a part of its heritage from the dying mind of Cliff Hawk, Over that too the rogue puzzled, without comprehension.
Why was it that it felt so attracted, so drawn to, so conscious of the presence of that small and unimportant organized mass of thought-radiant matter that Cliff Hawk's mind had identified as "Molly Zaldivar"?
Through the blind, transflex eyes of the sleeth riding high over the cottage where Molly Zaldivar lay sleeping, the mind of the rogue stared down, Molly Zaldivar, it thought, what do I want with you?
And inside the house Molly started up from sleep and tried to scream. Sleep, ordered the rogue; and the girl subsided into the catalepsy of terror. No one had heard her scream; no one was in the house at that moment, and she had not been able to be loud enough to reach tho
se who were outside on the grass, staring up at the sleeth.
The boy said, awed, "Mister, that's a wicked-looking beast. You sure it won't hurt us?"
The Reefer barked a savage laugh. "Not any more, boy," he rumbled, 'Time was 'that sleeth would follow me like a kitten. Do everything I wanted it to, never think of disobeying—I raised it from a cub, it 'never knew any boss but me. But now it does." He studied the sleeth thoughtfully for a moment. As it hung in the sky on its shimmering transflection fields, the great black creature looked like some wingless Pegasus astride the air, its dangling claws capable of wrenching any carbon-based, air-breathing, muscle-powered animal in two as readily as a hawk's talons rend fur. "Fine beast," he said. "But not mine anymore."
Andy Quam said angrily, "Why did you bring it here? This sort of animal doesn't belong on a planet!"
"Why, because it's mine, Monitor Quamodian," the Reefer said simply. "I'm a hunter, and it's my companion. It goes wherever I go. Or used to. Why," he cried, suddenly enthusiastic, "with that sleeth T collected the finest specimens of every game animal in the solar system! You should have seen them. A score of fine pyropods. Dark-beasts from out past the reefs, moonbats, creatures from the hot deeps of Venus—there was nothing in a dozen light-years could touch that sleeth as a killer!"
Andy Quam said in disgust, "You talk as though killing were a good thing. Violence is evil. The laws of Almalik do not permit the destruction of life by life!"
The Reefer's deep eyes twinkled. "And would you never take a life, Monitor Quamodian? Not even, say, to save Miss Zaldivar?"
Andy Quam flushed. "We Companions are exempt from certain of Almalik's laws," he said stiffly. "We may even admit violence, in" some situations."
"Then help me!" cried the Reefer. "I'm going to stalk something new, Monitor Quamodian, and you can join me in the hunt. I don't know what it is that's controlling my sleeth, but I'm going to take its pelt to put in my collection!"
"Nonsense," cried Andy Quam, startled. "Why—great Almalik, man—I mean, how can you? Don't you realize that that's probably a rogue star?"
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