The street was dark, except for the moonlight shining faintly through
the serrated rooftops, and reflected grey and dismal from the rounded
edges of the cobblestones. Angus and a cowled man made a short dash,
ran into the shadows, and trotted at a slow pace.
Above them a sign creaked on rusty chains. Angus looked behind at the
huge stone bulk of the Citadel where it rose from solid rock, wall
piled on wall, and turret on tower, and battlement upon bastion. Beyond
the Citadel the thin, delicate spires of the palaces towered above the
clean, fragrantly perfumed Upper City. Up above, there was no swill.
There was no stench of rotting garbage. The patricians did not know
what roast derstite looked like on a greasy platter, or how broiled
colob smelled or what awful stuff the vintners sold in the big Mart.
Angus said, "I still don't see why the Hierarch bothers sending me
after the Book. He has a lot of scientists who'd do a better job of
finding it."
The lips of the man twisted in the darkness of the cowl. "How do you
think the Diktor keeps us penned in the Citadel, red-man? He has
spectragrams of each of us in his palace, attached to central controls.
Every once in a while he has his captains check on our locations.
When the vibratory beams touch us, they reflect our spectrums on the
visi-screens. If one of us is out of place--beyond the limits of Karr
City, that is--he sends a patrol to find and capture us. We lost
several good men that way before we grew resigned. Once a scientist is
captured by the Diktor he is destroyed. Instantly."
"Isn't there anyone else to help you?"
The scientist showed his disdain by a twitch of the lips. "Who? One
of the people? They'd run so fast to betray us a theto-hound couldn't
catch them. They hate the Diktor, but I think they hate us more."
Behind them the shadow of a man with a zigzag scar on his face
disengaged himself from beneath an overhanging cornice and silently
followed.
Angus and the scientist went through the narrow streets, down stone
steps and across a great square. To one side the red lanterns of the
Spotted Stag tavern glowed and the shouts and roistering laughter of
men mingled with the shrill, excited laughter of a woman.
The scientist glanced about him nervously, wet his lips with his
tongue. "I don't like this section. It's too near the wharves. There
are other rats than the four-legged kind."
A blackish, blunt object in the big hand of a half-naked man bounced
from the skull of the cowled one. Angus went forward, left hand
hooking. He caught the big man on the side of the mouth and drove his
head sideways. His right fist was crossing as his left landed. He hit
the man with his right hand and the man went backwards into a brick
wall.
"Easy, Angus," growled a voice in back of him, with a hint of laughter
in it.
Angus whirled, teeth bared. When he saw the bald head of the giant in
front of him he laughed harshly.
"By the gods! Tandor. The Hierarch did keep his promise, then!"
"We heard you'd missed killing that scum that lives in the palace by an
inch. Tsk! The Hierarch felt that, with luck, Stal Tay would be dead
by now. He let me go, yes. As soon as he learned that you and that
priestess were in the black pool."
Angus bent and threw back the cowl of the scientist. There was a
swelling lump on the back of his head. Angus said, "I thought you broke
his skull when you hit him." He looked at the man stirring against the
brick wall. "Sorry, friend. I thought you a footpad."
"Tandor told me you were fast. He wasn't lying." The man grinned
ruefully, feeling his jaw.
Tandor shouldered Angus aside and picked up the cowled man. He led
the way up through the streets, the limp man's legs and arms dangling
inertly. Tandor asked, "Where was he taking you?"
"To a hidden globe-ship. I'm supposed to find the Book of Nard. The
Hierarch is holding Moana as hostage for my success."
Tandor whistled softly, eyes round. "He exchanged me for the girl. A
smart man, the High Priest!"
* * * * *
Laughter came out at them from the illy-lighted interior of the tavern
together with the dry smell of wine and the stench of sweating flesh.
Tandor kicked the oak door open and went along the wall with his
burden. A girl with a rag around her middle ran for Angus, tipsily
pressing wet lips to his. She threw up a wooden goblet, the red wine
splashing over its rim, crying, "The Anvil! To Red Angus the Anvil--the
only friend we have!"
The roar echoed in his ears as Angus stepped into the little side room.
Tandor kicked a chair toward Angus, reaching for a wooden pitcher. He
growled, "Are you going hunting for the Book?"
Angus stretched out his legs and dragged a full goblet toward him. He
stared at the dark liquor. Finally he said, "Yes, I'm going."
"Why?"
"Because I've seen the way they live in the Upper City. I've seen the
life they lead and I've seen the life those people out there in the big
room lead."
Tandor made a rumbling sound in his throat. "You don't think they'll
appreciate your changing it, do you?"
Angus looked thoughtful. He smiled, "I know what our race is
heading toward, now. We will be like Stasor--the man behind the
veil--eventually. The longer the Diktor stays in power, and others like
him, the longer will the rest of us be kept from that goal."
Tandor grinned like a wolf. "Some men like to be martyrs. It's a
weakness of the brain." He scowled, and brought the flat of his
ham-like hand down on the wooden tabletop. "I say it's madness. Let the
Hierarch and the Diktor slit each other's throats. Let's go back to the
star trails, Angus. Out where a man can breathe and stretch himself."
Angus shook his head. "Take the ship yourself. Go raiding, if you want.
I stay. I want to answer a question."
"What question?"
"Why is science?"
"Why is--? You're crazy, now. I know it. Of all the stupid questions.
Science is an art designed to better the life standards of the
patrician class. There. That answer you?"
"I say science is something that should benefit all. Why do we have
torches while the hierarchy and the patricians use illumi-lamps and
incandescent walls? Why don't we have stoves instead of hearths or
electronizers instead of percussion guns?"