IV

By the time medical supplies and equipment arrived--and also a message

from Linda, who was thrilled from having heard of his good work among

the barbarians--Ardelan's mountaineers had begun to accept Verrill as

a man, and not a mere medico. His efforts to ride their half-tamed

horses, time and again picking himself up from where they had thrown

him, to mount and try again, amused them enormously, and gave them a

comfortable feeling of superiority--and evoked a degree of respect.

To make his escape with the Fire of Skanderbek, he would have to ride

on a few cattle- and sheep-stealing raids and so acquire sufficient

skill for getting away with his loot.

It was Falana who explained the monstrous ruby's status as a tribal

fetish. "Ages ago," she said, "the gods destroyed the world with fire,

and after the flames had gone, the ghosts of the dead flames danced

over the earth, and killed whoever came near. They killed without

burning. The ghosts of the fire lived in the earth and air and water.

And there were only small patches where men could live.

"And there was Skanderbek, a wise man who talked to the ghosts. Maybe

he smelled them. Maybe he could see what others could not. Others say

that he had a talisman that talked to him, and warned him where not to

go. There are many stories.

"Skanderbek led his people to these mountains in time to keep them

from starving or being poisoned. He made fire come out of the rock.

Everlasting fire. Over it he hung the fire stone you now see. He taught

us to bow to the fire and serve it, so that when the fire gods stopped

hating mankind, the ghosts of the dead flames would go away. The years

passed, and there was always further range for our animals. Other

people came, and then of course there was looting and war.

"But Skanderbek talked with gods and devils, and so no one could drive

us out of here. One day Skanderbek said, 'I am going back to the gods.

Let such and such a one take my place; I have taught him what to do and

what to say to the holy flame, so that fire will never again destroy

the earth. And one day, wearing a new body, I will come back.' All this

was a long time ago, long before your people came out of the sky with

knives of steel, and with guns, to trade with us.

"And now tell me about your gods, Verrill."

There was very little to tell Falana, except that Science had become,

had from the beginning been the god of Venus. He was quite too busy

reflecting that Skanderbek, a man like himself, had undoubtedly used a

Geiger counter and some imagination, and had as a result become a god.

He was thinking also of Linda's letter. She had not been able to give

him much gossip about Dawson's plans to oppose him, since Dawson had

left without having done much talking. But he inferred from what she

did write, and from stories Ardelan's tribesmen brought from the

disputed frontier, that a Venusian was living with the neighboring

tribe, giving them rifles to take the place of their trade muskets.

This suggested that Dawson was taking the simple and direct approach:

coaching his protectors in the art of more efficient fighting, so that

as the climax of an eventual raid into Ardelan's almost inaccessible

fortress, Dawson could seize the Fire of Skanderbek and make off with

it in the confusion.

Whatever Verrill intended to do, he would have to do it quickly.

* * * * *

He went to the shrine and asked, "Kwangtan, where is the grave of

Skanderbek?"

"Skanderbek," the priest said, contemptuous of ignorance, "is not

buried. He went back to the gods. Now go, and stay away."

"I have heard a story like _that_," Verrill retorted. "Among my own

people, there are old books, ancient before Skanderbek was even dreamed

of. And it is written always how one leader or another went back to the

gods, not dying as other men died. But we know better. A man dies, and

his bones remain."

Kwangtan's eyes sharpened and changed. He seemed to be asking himself

whether this might not be one of those times when the wise thing was to

make an ally of an enemy. And Verrill was at the same time thinking,

"_Lies are the foundation of all priestcraft, and I've got this one

searching the foundations._"

Verrill said, "If a man found the bones of Skanderbek, he could build a

shrine there for the gods of death. Men serve most what they fear most."

"Which of us fears death?" the priest challenged. "We are fighting-men."

"My patients act otherwise," Verrill blandly countered. Then:

"Skanderbek had no wings. His bones can not be far from here. The

bones of Skanderbek will give a light like a glow-worm or a fire-fly.

Wherever they are lying, they will be easily recognized. Any herdsman

would know if he found them."

Verrill was gambling on the probability that Skanderbek, leading a

group of Terrestrians to safety, had exposed himself overmuch to the

deadly radioactivity, more so than any of those he led. Whether there

had been sufficient to make his bones radioactive until they would

glow, either then or now, was an open question. But Kwangtan was of

the line of priests who create and maintain a tradition: the blend

of knowledge and falsehood that keeps their craft alive and their

privilege secure. Kwangtan would surely have enough of that blend to

set him wondering, and in his own interests.

It was time to leave; and, nodding contentedly, Verrill left, rightly

assured that the old devil would lose no time hunting the bones of

Skanderbek, lest someone else find them first and set up a rival

shrine. He would have to hunt by night, and alone. The nights were

cold, and the trails dangerous.

A few nights later, Verrill went out, high on the rimrock, to lurk in

a perilous perch overhanging the shrine. He saw Kwangtan momentarily

outlined by the light that came from the grotto. The priest was making

for the spring, and then climbing higher. Apparently he was going out

by a secret way, for a concealed purpose. Well satisfied, Verrill

climbed down out of the bitter cold wind which whined eternally about

the limestone buttresses. Unobserved, he went down again into the

shelter of the ledge, and to the house where Falana was asleep.

She no more perceived his return than she had his departure.

* * * * *

Before many days had passed, Verrill was busily probing for bullets,

suturing sword slashes, and setting bones. When the fighting-men he had

salvaged were well enough to be about and looking for more trouble,

Ardelan confessed that he had entirely revised his notions on doctors.

And that gave Verrill his chance to say, "I'll go along the next time

there's a raid. I could have saved that one who died on the way."

Ardelan shook his head. "There is a personal enemy of yours among our

neighbors. I can't take any chance of your being killed or captured."

"You're making a priest of me!" Verrill said, mockingly. "Living on the

fat of the land, and taking none of the risks."

"You've made that for yourself," Ardelan retorted. "And speaking of

priests, you'll have one for a patient."

"How's that?"

"Kwangtan is coughing a lot. He's failing rapidly. We had always

thought he would live forever."

Verrill shrugged. "He's old, so old he hasn't much time left. He'd

rather die a little sooner than admit that there is anything I could

possibly do for him. Letting me treat him would be casting serious

reflections on the fire god. How was the raid--did it pay?"

"Pretty well, all around."

"A few more sheep, and some more work for me!"

"More than that," Ardelan corrected. "There's a nice looking valley,

but it's always been deadly. Poisonous from the beginning. We've never

used it. That stranger, that Dawson, must have found out that the curse

is no longer on the soil. They've been using it for their flocks. Well,

it's ours, it always has been, so we ran them out."

"They'll come back?"

"Of course they will; but with enough raids, we'll discourage them, and

then we can send some of our own people to hold it permanently. Build a

settlement."

Verrill had heard talk of all this, but not in such clear terms; now,

having got it from the chief, he could take notice, and he was prepared.

"Your oldest son will live there," Verrill surmised, "to represent you?"

Ardelan nodded. "Good experience for him against the day of my death,

when he will rule the tribe."

"That's been worrying you."

Ardelan's brows bristled and his eyes went fierce. "Worrying about the

day of my death--what do you mean?"

"I meant, worrying about your son's taking an exposed outpost."

"It's good experience for him."

"It's worrying you. The next son is six years younger."

The chief grimaced. "He's a reckless young fool and a show-off. Like I

was at his age. And I don't think he has my luck."

"Next time there's a raid," Verrill promised, "I'll go. It will be good

for all your men, not just for him in case he is wounded. It won't look

as though you're favoring your son."

Ardelan grumbled something midway between throat and beard, and gave

Verrill a gesture of dismissal. Verrill knew when to stop pressing a

point; and he knew also that further words had not been needed.

In this he was right. He rode out with others who went to reconnoiter

the dangerous valley, and there was no objection. He rode well. His

presence was good for the morale of the raiders. And while he caught

no sight of Dawson, he won prestige from supposedly having come to the

frontier camps to get a shot at his enemy. Actually, he rather hoped

that he would not have any such chance to settle the feud ... it would

be much more satisfactory to have Dawson witness his return to Venus

with the Fire of Skanderbek.

And of an evening, when he was at home with Falana, she would sit

with him as he watched Venus hanging low over the rimrock, white and

splendid; she was finishing her term as evening star. And the sight

of that far-off globe made him more than homesick. It accentuated his

feeling of remoteness and of exile, and at the same time made him

uneasy and uncomfortable, as though he and his Terrestrian redhead were

somehow under Linda's eyes.

And he was afraid lest Falana read his thoughts. The longer he stayed,

the harder it would be to leave; for in spite of his having come with

fraudulent intent, he had done enough good to these barbarians to have

become attached to them.

Meanwhile, the sooner Venus became the morning star, the better he

would like it.

V

At last came the night when he felt sure that Kwangtan's search for the

bones of Skanderbek had become such a fixed habit that the priest would

be ranging further and further afield, leaving the shrine unguarded for

an ever-lengthening period. The length of Kwangtan's absence was the

measure of Verrill's head start.

As he set out for his goal, he said to himself, "When the old devil

misses the ruby, and then hears I'm gone, he'll likely play foxy and

cook up a yarn about my having taken it back to the gods. He couldn't

be so dumb as to admit he was out wandering when he should have been

guarding the shrine.... I've done a reasonable number of other miracles

since I brought Falana's nephew back from the dead ... so if he's

smart, he'll invent another miracle, and that will make it nice for

Falana...."

And so, all at ease, he rode boldly from the walled enclosure. The

guards, assuming he was going out on a case, settled back after

greeting him, and drew their sheepskin coats closer about them.

Nearing the shrine, he left his horse in the shadow of a limestone

ledge, to proceed afoot. He had to make sure that Kwangtan was actually

away.

Stealthily, he made the most of rocks and shadows to cover his advance.

The gurgling overflow of the spring combined with the whining of the

wind to make a curtain of sound. He was quite near the spot from which,

unseen, he could look in and see if Kwangtan was there, when he heard a

disturbance which gave him all the answer he needed.

Kwangtan was not abroad, hunting a dead man's bones. He was instead

choking, gasping for breath; in his struggle, he knocked down some

pottery, judging from the clatter.

The sounds, and the way the old man had been scrambling about by night,

exploring ravines and caverns, exposing and overtaxing himself, told

the story. He had come to the end of his crooked rope.

This was perfect. It had worked far better than Verrill had

anticipated. Just sit and wait for silence and the finish.

But another ingredient took effect. Verrill's own long-sustained

pretense of being a doctor drove him forward against his best

interest. After two paces taken in a helpless daze, he was no longer

compulsion-driven and bewildered; he ran, and with his kit. He had

brought it with him, from force of habit as much as for making a show

for the benefit of whomsoever he might encounter along the way to the

border.

As he knelt beside his patient, Verrill concluded that Kwangtan's heart

had been cutting up tricks; though with exposure and worry, other

complications might have set in. He got his vials and his hypo and set

to work.

Of a sudden, he knew that he was not alone with his patient. Startled,

he glanced about.

* * * * *

Falana was in the doorway, and with her two of the guards. They held

her by the arms. She had a bundle of something wrapped up in a shawl.

Her face showed only impatience and annoyance at their stupidity.

Their faces were still changing; the growth of understanding and the

accepting of a new idea had not yet erased suspicion.

The sight of the trio gave Verrill the story, before any could speak:

Falana, sensing what he planned, had packed up a bundle and had set out

after him; and the guards, even though not getting the entire point,

had suspected that the doctor was up to the very trick of which he had

been accused. Falana had from the start been a hostage, at least a bond

sufficiently strong to guarantee his good behavior. Thus the sight of

her apparently preparing to follow him into the night had aroused all

the suspicions which his work had lulled.

Falana said, "The poor fellow's half starved, Verrill! And shivering

from cold! Let go of me, you blockheads--he's busy and I've got to give

him a hand."

She plopped her bundle on the floor, brought out a small pot, and set

to work heating water over the sacred flame.

"If you don't like it, get some brush," she told the guards, "and I'll

stop the sacrilege."

Blinking owlishly, they obeyed.

When they returned to kindle a fire on the floor, she had dried meat in

the pot. "Here, hold this!" she directed, and taking a heavy cape from

the bundle, she blanketed the patient. Next she drew the shawl about

his head and shoulders. Whatever else she may have had in the bundle,

Verrill did not know, for she had very deftly wadded the odds and ends

into a shirt and had tucked the lot under the priest's head, for a

pillow.

When Kwangtan responded to treatment and regained consciousness, he did

not have any idea as to what had happened, or why people were gathered

about him. But he swallowed some of the broth Falana offered him.