* * * * *
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 no 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.
[Illustration]
"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."