“Why not?” John demanded.

“Won't it ruin the guns?"

“Not if you're careful. Come on, then.” He clapped his own helmet on his head, slid the waxed-wool rust-protector over it, then picked up his bundled supplies; his new sword, bought a week before in the protectorate village of Christ's Corner, was already on his belt, and his heavy leather jacket on his back.

He had no rifle; he had never liked them.

Reluctantly, the others he had selected gathered about him: eight of the Chosen, two of his loyal True Worder soldiers, and a blacksmith from Truechurch who had resented the Heaveners’ trade in plastic.

All ten soldiers carried rifles, with two rounds in each; the smith carried an assortment of explosives and a good sword, but like John himself, no firearms.

A few months earlier John would have considered twenty bullets an incredible extravagance for a single raid, but since the Heaveners had turned up with their apparently infinite supply of powder—if it was actually gunpowder they used, and not something else, as John had heard suggested—bullets were suddenly more plentiful, and had the advantage of being useful at long range. Guerillas could not afford to get in close enough to a fortress to use blades.

Besides, the Chosen were supplying the ammunition; it cost John nothing, and the Chosen officers had assured him more would be forthcoming if he needed it.

He had no grandiose ambitions for this initial raid; it was simply to get the men doing something, rather than sitting around letting the weather deteriorate. A raid would stir things up, would encourage the men, and might even attract more recruits. John had a dozen of his most reliable and intelligent men scattered about the local markets and taverns, looking for likely candidates as well as trying to pick up useful information about Heavener activities or organization.

The men he had chosen for the raid were his second-best dozen; he looked them over as he spoke a brief invocation, carefully kept non-denominational out of respect for the doctrinal differences between True Worder, Chosen, and Truechurcher. They seemed sound enough, reassuring him of his earlier selection. He did not care to increase the risk of failure by using men who might panic and freeze or flee, and he was confident these men would not. Although they grumbled, when he announced, “In the Name of the Lord, amen!", they echoed him promptly and followed him readily enough as he led the way out into the driving rain and up the hillside toward the Citadel.

Visibility was poor; the sun was still above the horizon when John broke out the rolls of string he had brought to link the men together and prevent them from getting lost in the dark. As long as each was tied to his string, the twelve of them would stay together; if any of them got lost, they all would. He had originally chosen string because a lantern would have been too easy for the Heaveners to spot, but he blessed his choice now because he doubted a lantern would have been enough in the downpour.

They struggled on, some of them complaining loudly, the others persevering in silence that could be either determination or simply resignation, and an hour or so after sunset they spotted the lights of the Citadel ahead of them.

They were approaching from the rear, with the intention of doing what damage they could to the fortress without involving any native Godsworlders. This side was not guarded, so far as anyone knew; the cliff below the fortress was presumably thought to be guardian enough. That was a major reason John had chosen it, instead of the “airport", for the first attack.

The cliff, however, was not really that bad at all; he had investigated it himself a few days earlier. It was steep, true, far too steep for horses or vehicles, but by no means sheer, with plenty of handholds and ledges, not a very difficult climb for a healthy man.

Of course, John had not climbed it in the dark, in pouring rain. His companions balked at first when they reached its base.

“Come on!” he said. “It's easy!” He snatched a rifle from its owner. “I'll show you myself!” He began marching up the slope, using one hand to steady himself, the rifle clutched in the other.

When he was twenty feet up he heard the scrape of boots on stone and knew that his men were following him. He kept moving, and only when he was almost halfway up the hundred and fifty foot climb did he glance back to be sure they were all there.

They were. “Safe-in-God's-Hands, come get your rifle,” he called.

The Chosen soldier scurried up to where John was waiting and accepted the return of his weapon. The rest of the climb was made in silence.

The slope levelled off as they climbed, and they soon found themselves standing on a gently-rising hilltop below the fortress wall.

The fortress loomed above them, its windows glowing golden through the gloom; the lowest were a few feet above John's head.

“All right, Safe,” he said. “Let's see what you can do with that gun of yours.” He gestured at the windows.

Silas Safe-in-God's-Hands lifted his rifle, selected his target—they had hoped to find a Heavener to snipe at, but he saw no sign of anyone in the windows—took careful aim, and fired.

Instead of the sound of breaking glass, however, his shot was followed by the whine of a ricochet.

Embarrassed, he lowered his weapon. “I must've missed, sir,” he called. “But I don't see how. Must've been the rain."

John had been watching the window, and thought he had seen it shiver as if something had hit it. “You were close, anyway. Here, move right up next to one and try again."

The range had already been short, but Silas obediently took a few steps forward and aimed at one of the lowest tier. He was so close that he was thrusting the rifle up more than forward. It was absolutely not possible for him to miss at this distance; he squeezed the trigger.

Again, the bullet whimpered away as a ricochet, and the window remained intact. John stared up at it for a moment, then stepped up as close as he could and studied it intently.

There was a narrow scratch on the glass, dead center. He motioned for the men to move in.

“Here,” he said, “someone lift me up and let me take a look at this."

Two men crossed arms to form a seat, and John was lifted up until his eyes were level with the bottom of the window. The scratch was definitely there. Peering in, he could see that the room was full of machinery quietly whirring about its business; he saw no sign of any human inhabitants.

He reached up and tapped the pane with one finger, then closed his fist and rapped on it with his knuckles.

“Darn!” he said. “It's not glass!"

“What is it, then?” someone called.

“I don't know—but whatever it is, it's bulletproof. Let me down."

He was lowered to the ground, where he stood staring resentfully up at the warm glow of the window.

“What do we do now?” someone whispered.

“Well,” John said, “maybe we can't shoot out the windows the way we planned, or pick anyone off, but we've still got ourselves enough explosives to blow a hole in their wall, I'd say.” He looked around for the Truechurcher blacksmith.

The smith's name was Thomas Across-the-Jordan. “Jordan,” John called, “let's see what you can do with that stuff."

“All right, Captain, but I'm not too sure about the fuses in this rain."

“Do your best."

The smith set to work. While he unpacked his knapsack, John announced, “If any of you have any ideas or suggestions, I'd be glad to hear them; I was figuring half of us would be inside by now, not still out here in the rain."

After a moment of uneasy silence, someone suggested, “We could work our way around the walls and go in the front, couldn't we?"

“We'd have to go over the old town wall,” someone else answered.

“We could head out to the airship port,” a third voice said.

“Could we?” John asked. He turned to look at the building's corner and consider the possibilities.

“Sure! If we stay right under the walls, no one will see us coming; we can slip right in and wreck the place, maybe cut the Citadel off."

John nodded. “I wasn't planning to do that tonight,” he said, “and I'm not sure we can get past the guards without a fight, but it's as good an idea as we're going to get. Soon as Tom here blows out that wall, we'll make a run for it; the mess here should keep the Heaveners too busy to stop us.” He glanced back at Across-the-Jordan, then at the corner. “In fact, why wait? Tom, you can handle this by yourself, can't you?"

Across-the-Jordan looked up. “I reckon I can, Captain,” he said.

“Well, I'll leave two men here just in case you need them, and the rest of us will head for the airport.

Silas, you've used up your bullets; you stay here and help out if you can. Simon,” he said, indicating another man, “you stay here as their lookout. Soon as that wall blows, the three of you come along after us; we shouldn't be too hard to find."

The three men selected all nodded acknowledgement, and John led the others around the corner and onward toward the airport.

They had just reached the juncture of the Corporate Headquarters and the old town wall when the explosion roared out behind them.

“Sooner than I expected,” someone remarked.

John said nothing, but he was suddenly worried. The explosion had, indeed, come sooner than expected, much sooner; he hoped nothing had gone wrong. He heard nothing after the initial blast, no sound of settling rubble; that was bad.

Then the sky lit up, greenish-gold, turning the rain into a shower of glowing sparks. John looked up.

The light was coming from an airship hovering over the headquarters building; it was roughly triangular, barbed and evil-looking, and a dozen sections around its edges were ablaze with light. John estimated it to be thirty or forty feet long.

“What's that?” one of his men hissed. John shushed him. “I think we better get out of here,” he said.

“Back the way we came?"

“No,” John said, looking appraisingly about him. “That's where the airship will be looking for us. Down the slope right here and head for home."

“What about Silas? And Simon and that Jordan?"

“Hope for the best,” John said. “I think the explosion got them; it came too soon. We can't afford to wait and see if I'm wrong.” He headed straight out away from the town wall, moving at a fast walk, half-crouched.

“Hey!” An unfamiliar voice shouted; John glanced back and saw someone standing on the wall, holding a gun.

“Run!” he called, suiting his own actions to his command.

Five of the others obeyed; one had frozen, one was running back toward the site of the explosion instead, and the last raised his rifle.

The man on the wall fired first, with the rattle of a machine gun; the man with the raised rifle fell.

A guerrilla commander could not leave wounded on the battlefield; John knew that. “Get that sentry!” he called, as he turned and ran back for the injured man.

Three men raised their rifles; two of them fired, the third went down in a spray of bullets. Another went down after squeezing off a shot; the third fired his second shot, then turned and ran for cover.

Someone had scored; the man on the wall also fell, and did not reappear. John thanked God for that small favor as he scooped up the man who had been first to fall.

He was unconscious, with red oozing from his scalp and running from his side. John dragged him down

toward the cliff.

Beside him, the man who had managed to fire both bullets was on his feet again, struggling to lift another wounded man. The man who had frozen by the wall joined them; the other two men had already fled out of sight.

“Head for home!” John called. He lifted his burden up across his shoulders and broke into a stumbling run.

The other two unhurt guerrillas followed him closely, each with a wounded man. One was able to hobble along with minimal support; the other was dragged like a sack. John hung back and looked at the dragged man; he did not like what he saw. When they were out of sight of the wall, all panting heavily, John checked the man out.

As he had feared, the man was dead, had probably been dead when he first hit the ground, with half a dozen bullet holes in a line across his chest. The man John had carried was still breathing, though badly injured; the other had taken a bullet through the meaty part of the thigh, but was otherwise unhurt, and could hobble along, using his rifle for a cane as needed.

Leaving the corpse, they struggled onward, down the slope and heading for home, alone in the darkness and rain.

Somehow they made it eventually, all five of them, reaching the roofed-over gully late in the afternoon.

The man John had carried remained unconscious for the entire journey, and the three uninjured men took turns carrying him.

The two who had disappeared into the night, ignoring John's order to turn and shoot, never turned up; John never saw either of them again, nor any of the four who had been at the back of the building. That made one dead, two wounded, six missing, out of a party of twelve men; John guessed that of the six, three were killed by the explosion, one captured, and two deserted.

It was a very bad beginning, but in the following month the situation only got worse.

Chapter Fourteen

“If the spirit of the ruler rise up against thee, leave not thy place; for yielding pacifieth great offences. "—Ecclesiastes 10:4

* * * *

After that first debacle John had expected it, but it still hurt to admit it—his biggest problem was desertion. Late in the afternoon of All Saints’ Day he looked down the slope at the mostly empty interior of his base and admitted to himself that the pitiful handful of men who had stayed with him, loyal as they were, would not be enough to accomplish anything during the winter. He could not expect to recruit more men while the cold lasted—it would be hard enough feeding those he had, and keeping them warm. The cloth-covered gully did not hold heat well. It held odors, though; John himself hardly noticed the stink any more, but the men still always complained of it whenever they returned from any trip outside. Ever since the first rain the smells of the stable and the latrine had simply accumulated, instead of blowing away. That would improve once the cold arrived—but little else would.

And would he be able to keep the horses healthy without solid walls?

He shook his head. Wintering here would not work. It would do no good; they would be unable to harass the Heaveners and then slip away once the snows came, as they would leave clear footprints—even assuming they dared to make the journey across country in the first place. With just twenty-three men and the two women—women who had both shown far more determination than John had expected—left in the camp, staying here was pointless. What would they do if they were stricken with some sickness? Trapped beneath a blizzard? Washed out by spring flooding? What could they accomplish?

Nothing, that was what they could accomplish. It was time to retreat and regroup. He and his handful of loyal supporters would go underground in the surrounding towns, then return in the spring.

They had at least done a little during their stay; half a dozen raids had been made on nearby villages, though they had, as yet, not managed to do any damage at all to the Citadel itself in their four attempts.

Not only was the Corporate Headquarters bulletproof and bombproof, so was every other Earther-built structure or craft; the heaviest slugs he had been able to find had simply rattled off the black-painted sides of the airship like hail—and that had been when they had finally managed to get close enough to shoot at it, which had been a major effort.

Even the Earthers themselves were partially bulletproof—John had seen one shot in the chest, at close range, who came away with only a slight bruise. He could not imagine how the thin shirts the Earthers wore could stop bullets, yet they did.

When shot in the face, of course, an Earther went down as quickly and died as messily as anybody else; John had seen that, too, when a sightseer was jumped in the village of Withered Fig that very morning.

That was the first confirmed killing of an Earther, ever, anywhere on Godsworld.

One of them, out of a few hundred—and John had lost at least eleven, probably eighteen, men, not counting those known to have deserted or been captured, not counting the six thousand who died in the fusion blast, not counting those cut down by the machine gun at Marshside. Scattering his men through the towns for the winter might actually be a better idea all around—perhaps they could become assassins, picking off Earthers whenever possible, until the survivors retreated into the Citadel and stopped interfering with Godsworld. Even if the assassins were captured or killed, a one-for-one exchange would be far better than he had been doing so far.

Of course, convincing men to become assassins could be difficult; of his remaining troops he estimated that only four or five were fanatical enough for such a role.

Still, whether any assassinations were carried out or not, dispersing for the winter was undoubtedly the best thing to do.

Despite all the logic that led to the same conclusion, he hesitated. If he once broke up the little band, would he ever be able to get it back together again?

He wasn't sure.

He kicked the question about for the remainder of the evening, sitting quietly throughout a subdued supper. He had no one left that he trusted enough to confide in; Habakkuk was back in New Nazareth, Jonas had deserted weeks ago, and none of the others had spoken to him much about anything but military matters. He had to think it through himself and make the decision.

He would sleep on it, he told himself, and decide in the morning. He said his evening prayer for the little congregation, congratulated again the man who had shot the Earther, then went quietly to bed.

He woke up suddenly, unsure what had disturbed him. He listened.

Someone was moving about nearby—several someones. A bright light flashed in his face; he blinked.

“You John Mercy-of-Christ?” someone asked.

This was obviously not the belated arrival of more volunteers; the man spoke with a thick Heavener accent. John did not answer.

“It's got to be him,” another voice said.

“All right, whoever you are, get up; you're coming with us.” Hands reached down and grabbed his arms; reluctantly, he allowed them to pull him to his feet, wishing he had kept his sword within reach.

The light shone in his face again.

“That's him—right, Sparky?"

“Correct,” an oddly neuter voice said. Remembering Cuddles, John guessed it to be a machine of some sort.

“Let's go, then."

He was dragged up out the upper end of the camp and hustled into an open doorway in a gleaming dark blue wall, a wall that had never been there before; still not fully alert, it took him a moment to recognize it as an airship, probably the one that had hovered over the Corporate Headquarters the night of the first unsuccessful attack on the Citadel.

Corporate Headquarters—his sleep-fuddled mind wondered idly why it was called “corporate". Was there a Spirit Headquarters somewhere? And the Heaveners called themselves a corporation—was that like a congregation? Did they worship the body? Their lives were luxurious enough to make such an idea possible.

It didn't matter. They strapped him into a seat aboard the airship, seated themselves all around, and ignored him for the few moments it took to fly back to the Citadel and set down on the fortress roof, chatting amongst themselves in a strange tongue.

Once the airship was down again he was dragged out of the craft and across a dozen feet of open roof, through a sliding door into a small room, where his guards simply stood, as if waiting for something. A moment later he felt a sudden odd lightening and realized that the room was sinking down into the building somehow.

When the door slid open again he faced a richly-upholstered chamber, only slightly larger than the movable one he was in, with a single door in its far wall. “This is as far as we go,” one of his captors announced. He was unceremoniously shoved forward into the chamber; the doors of the moving room slid shut behind him, and he was alone.

He paused to straighten his rumpled clothing, wishing that he had been allowed to put on his hat and boots and maybe his jacket; with the increasing cold he had kept on his shirt and trousers, so he was not completely unsuited to seeing people, but he would have preferred something more than woolen socks on his feet. He looked about.

The chamber was carpeted in very dark red; the walls were dusky orange, and padded, the padding covered by an unfamiliar fabric. There was no furniture whatsoever. The ceiling glowed, like most of the ceilings he had seen in the Earthers’ headquarters.

The inner door—which was dark red, a shade lighter than the carpet—slid open, and he faced another chamber, far larger. The floor was covered in the same carpeting, but the walls were an odd shade of light blue, and a row of windows made blocks of darkness along one side. This room was furnished, though he could not identify everything he saw; hanging just to one side of the room's center, for example, was a cloud of tiny glowing sparkles, arranged in a swirling helical pattern. He had no idea what they were or what they were for, or what supported them in mid-air. Cushions, in a dozen shades of red and dark blue, were scattered about. A single straightbacked chair, obviously made here on Godsworld, stood beside the sparkles, and facing it was a broad, gleaming reddish thing that he recognized only with effort as a desk.

The desk would have dominated the room, save for the woman sitting behind it; it was she who dominated. She was tall, even seated—and even for an Earther. Her hair was black and long, but pulled back over the top of her head in a way John had never seen before that seemed to thrust her face forward. Her eyes, too, looked black, but did not have the odd shape that so many of the Earthers’ eyes had. Her nose was small and straight; her jaw set firmly. She was wearing a yellow garment that covered her decently, but was cut tight, far too tight by Godsworlder standards, particularly over her breasts.

“Come in, Captain Mercy-of-Christ,” she said, her voice surprisingly smooth and pleasant, and revealing only a faint trace of accent. “I'm America Dawes."

Hesitantly, John took a few steps forward into the larger room. The door slid shut behind him. “I've heard of you,” he said. “Pardon me if I don't shake hands, but I reckon we're enemies. I won't make my hand a liar."

“That's fine,” she said. “I'm not fond of needless ceremony myself."

“Well, that's good, then."

“Sit down; we need to talk to each other.” She gestured at the Godsworlder chair. “I had that sent up, in case you don't like our unfamiliar furnishings."

Reluctantly, John seated himself.

“There are going to be two parts to this little talk, Captain. First I'm going to explain the situation and tell you what I want, and you're going to just listen; after that, I'll answer any questions you care to ask, and ask you a few in return, and maybe we can settle a few things and get to know each other a little better.

Is that all right with you?"

“I reckon it is,” John replied cautiously.

“All right. Now, I'm the chief executive officer of the People of Heaven, a wholly-owned subsidiary of the New Bechtel-Rand Corporation; that's a company, a business, but one so big that no one person or group of partners could own it all or run it all. The New Bechtel-Rand Corporation has been given permission by the government back on Earth to trade with Godsworld and to maybe develop it a little—that is, to see if we can improve things here so as to make trade even more profitable for both sides. I know you're a soldier, not a merchant, but it's obvious that it's more profitable to sell to a rich man than a poor one, so Bechtel-Rand is trying to make Godsworld a little bit richer, so that Bechtel-Rand can be a little bit richer. You understand that?"

“No,” John said truthfully.

She frowned. “All right, it doesn't matter. My point is that we aren't trying to hurt Godsworld. We won't interfere with your beliefs; we aren't going to conquer anyone. We won't take anything we haven't paid for. We aren't criminals or invaders, we're just businesspeople. All we want is to trade with you people; you have things here on Godsworld that are precious back on Earth, and we have things that are precious here. All we want is trade."

She paused; John said nothing, simply looked at her.

“Look, if anyone from Earth wanted to conquer Godsworld, do you think you could stop them? You've seen our weapons. But we aren't allowed to conquer Godsworld, or anywhere else; Earth has laws and can enforce them, and anybody from Earth who broke those laws here on Godsworld would be punished severely. We can't do anything illegal—we don't dare. We can defend ourselves, as we did when you attacked us, but if we aren't attacked, we can't harm a single Godsworlder, or interfere with your religion, your customs, your rights in any way, or the authorities back on Earth would revoke our trade licenses and we'd be out of business. We'd have to leave Godsworld entirely, and let a competing corporation have a try at doing better. So you see, we aren't going to harm you, any of you."

John sat, looking at her.

“Now, you and your little band of marauders have been causing us trouble. You're interfering with business. You've attacked us. It's cost us money. However, we didn't want to stir things up too much—if we fought back it might cause bad feeling among the people we came to trade with. They might see it as a big strong bunch of bullies fighting dirty, turning Earthly weapons against your brave little company.

With that in mind, we preferred to just wait and see if you and your compatriots might not get tired and give up. I think in time you would have—or else your fellow Godsworlders would have taken care of you, since after all, your more successful attacks have been against them, not us."

She paused again.

“That is, until today. This morning you killed one of our stockholders, one of the people who owns a part of Bechtel-Rand. The laws back on Earth say that we have to let anyone who owns more than one percent of one percent of our company come here and roam freely—it's supposed to help keep us honest. We're required to let these people come in, at our expense, and do as they please, and we're required to protect them. We try to protect them, but we can't be everywhere they might wander, so we don't always succeed. One of your men blew the face off a stockholder this morning, down in Withered Fig, and that could mean that we're in very big trouble. I think we'll come out of it all right—this is a barbaric planet, so they'll make allowances when they investigate—but we can't let it happen again. Ever.

That means that your little band of guerrillas is going to be gone by noon tomorrow, one way or another.

Do you understand?"

“I'm not sure,” John answered.

“I mean that at noon tomorrow, if anyone is still in that camp of yours, we're going to vaporize the entire place. We don't want to do that—particularly because we know perfectly well that you could easily put together a new group, that you have agents scattered all through the protectorate. We would much rather settle this all peacefully. Is that clear enough?"

After a long silence, John admitted, “It's clear—but how do you figure on settling it peacefully?"

“By giving you what you want, so that you don't have to fight for it—if we can. What is it that you and your men want?"

John stared at her for a long moment, wondering if she could really need to ask. “We want Godsworld back the way it was, with no trace of you people left to pollute it,” he answered finally.

“Well, we can't do that. I think I've finished my explanation; it's time for some questions and answers.

Why do you want us off Godsworld?"

“Because you're destroying it."

“We aren't destroying anything! I told you, we aren't allowed to."

“But you are destroying it! I don't mean the people or the houses—I don't care about those. You're destroying our way of life! You've brought in weapons that make wars too dangerous to fight, and all these cushions and colors everywhere make life too soft to live!” He got to his feet, unable to contain himself, and leaned forward across the desk. “You're decadent and corrupt yourselves, like all of Earth, and you're making Godsworld decadent and corrupt, too."

“Decadent? Soft? Because we've introduced a few little improvements?” She rose, too, and John was startled to realize that she was taller than he was. “The most luxurious life ever lived on Godsworld would be abject poverty to your ancestors back on Earth! Decadence isn't a physical thing—a few pillows and hangings aren't going to turn people decadent. It's a way of thinking—a spiritual thing, in your terms. If Godsworlders are decadent now, then they always were—they just didn't have a chance to show it before. We're not forcing these things on anybody, we're selling them; if they're evil, as you say, then the righteous should resist the temptation. I've read the Bible, too, you know—in my own language, not your King James version, but it can't be that different. I've also read Mark Twain, which you haven't—an ancient American philosopher who proved that it's easy, and therefore meaningless, to resist temptation when there isn't any."

“Oh, you can say anything you please—the Devil can quote scripture, they say—but you people are foul and decadent, and we don't want you on Godsworld."

“Why are you so certain that we're foul and decadent?"

“Because I've seen it!” John shouted. “That slut who called herself Tuesday!"

“Tuesday?” Dawes’ eyes widened. “Tuesday Ikeya? You ran into her?"

Taken aback by the Earther's startlement, John said, “I met a pervert who called herself Tuesday, who abused me, yes."

“That idiot! She's just a stockholder, Captain; she doesn't work for us. What did she do? Rape you, and use the empathy spike? That's her usual routine."

Bothered by hearing it said aloud, and by a woman, John had trouble answering. He nodded, once.

“No wonder you think we're decadent! Captain, she isn't one of us—she's not one of the People of Heaven. I should have kept a closer eye on her—I'll check the tapes tomorrow and see if she's done anything else harmful. We're required to let her do what she wants here, but she isn't one of ours, she's a spoiled rotten rich nuisance. She sees the universe and everyone in it as toys to be played with. If you took her for a representative of our people, I can understand that you would be upset, but I promise you she's not."

“Oh?” John was sufficiently recovered from his shocked embarrassment to put his bitterness into words.

“Are you trying to tell me she's unique, that other Earthers aren't like that?"

“Not all of us..."

“What about her friend Esau, who had himself painwired?” John demanded. “And who gave her that spike thing in the first place?"

“I didn't say she was unique; she's not. Plenty of Earthers are hedonistic monsters. But not all of us—not the people who work for me. I won't have it. I don't hire rewires or rebuilts or variants, and I insist on specifications on anyone artificial—and I wouldn't use any of them on a planet like Godsworld even if I had them. I respect your culture here, and I don't want to interfere with it—after all, if Godsworld were just like Earth, what sort of a trade could I do?"

John had no idea what the woman was talking about. He simply stared at her across the desktop.

“You don't trust me,” she said. “I suppose there's no reason you should. Still, I mean what I say; Tuesday isn't one of the People of Heaven. I wouldn't allow her kind here if I had any choice."

“And I wouldn't allow any of you here at all,” John replied.

“Ah, but you don't have a choice, any more than I do! We're here to stay; if you drive us away, another group will move in. Once a colony is rediscovered, it's never allowed to slip away again."

“We're not a colony! We've been independent for three hundred years!"

“Is it that long by your calendar? I hadn't checked; for us it's two hundred and something. All right, not a colony, then, but a human settlement. Captain, once Earth finds a market, we never let it go."

“And I'm supposed to just accept that?"

“You have to accept it. It's the simple fact.” She took a breath, then continued, “We aren't getting anywhere yelling at each other like this. I'm ready to make you a good offer for giving up your fight, grant any terms that won't cut seriously into my profits, but I don't know what it is you want. I can't put Godsworld back the way it was, and I wouldn't if I could. I don't think most of your people would want it back. Short of that, what can I offer you? Money? I can give you almost unlimited credit, make you the richest man on Godsworld. Power? I can put you in charge of the entire True Worder territory, if that's what you want. You've told me you think physical comforts are decadent—sinful, I suppose—but I can provide them, if you'd like, more than you've ever imagined.” She looked at him, not pleading, as her words might have led him to expect, but measuring him carefully.

“And what would I do, with this money and power? My life has been dedicated to bringing the true faith to the heathen and the heretic, with fire and sword—do you expect me to sit back and spend the rest of my days in indolence? I have a calling in this world, and I mean to pursue it!"

“Do you? I have no objection if you want to preach your gospel."

“I'm no preacher, woman, I'm a warrior!"

“War,” she said, “is bad for business. It uses up money and kills off our customers. I don't think there will be many more wars on Godsworld—certainly nobody is going to fight any against the protectorate. No one will live long if they try."

“You see? You've destroyed the one true way, cut it down, stopped it from spreading the truth by destroying our army!"

“You think that the People of the True Word and Flesh had the one true religion, and all the others were false?"

“Heretical—the others had part of the truth, but had corrupted it."

“You're so very certain that yours was the true way? Then why did God allow your army to be wiped out so easily?"

That very question had troubled him greatly in the past few weeks. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” he said feebly.

“Captain, I've studied your religions here on Godsworld, and the records back on Earth about the expedition that brought your ancestors here—what records there were, anyway. There are two hundred faiths on Godsworld, at least, spread among two hundred tribes, and out of those two hundred not one is actually the same faith those original settlers brought! No one follows the Founders’ religion—not you, not the Chosen, not the Old Churchers, none of you!"

“You're lying,” John said, but without conviction.

“No, I'm not. I know I can't prove it to you—you'd accuse me of faking the records—but it's true. Your religion has changed to fit the situation here, just as religions always do."

“You're lying,” John repeated. “You're an agent of Satan, trying to weaken me."

“Oh, d ... No, I didn't mean to make you think that. Wait a minute.” She leaned back, then slowly settled back into her red-upholstered, oddly shapeless chair. “Sit down."

John hesitated, but then sat down.

“Captain, I don't think that your faith is what's really important to you—and hear me out before you argue!” John subsided, his protest half-formed. “I think that what really interests you is power—not having it, but getting it and using it. It's not religious fervor that drives you into battle, it's the need to prove yourself, the challenge, the chance to face and defeat a worthy foe. You need to win, to conquer.

You want to fight for something. So far you've fought for the True Word, as you call it, and you've fought with guns and swords, but I don't think that's what's really important; I think you'd be just as happy fighting for New Bechtel-Rand, using credits and trade goods as your weapons. I can't afford to let you fight against us; I want you to fight for us. That's what I'd like to give you in exchange for peace."

“What?"

“Captain, I'm offering you a job."

He stared at her for a long, silent moment, wondering if she might be mad. “A job?” he asked at last.

“Yes. You're determined, a good leader—oh, you haven't done very well against us, but no Godsworlder could. You don't have the technology. You probably thought we knew where to find your army because of hidden lookouts, or that we found your guerrilla camp by questioning your deserters, but that's not true; we used satellites in orbit around Godsworld that were able to see everything you ever did. You thought that our most advanced weapons were machine guns, because that's what you saw, but that was because we consider those so primitive that we don't mind selling them to people we think of—forgive me—as little more than savages; how could you know we had limited fusion weapons? You put up a good fight, but you never had a chance. Join us, and we'll send you back to Earth for retraining, and next time you'll have that technology fighting for you, not against you. We have a dozen development projects planned for Godsworld that could use a man like you in charge."

“No,” he said, without thinking.

“Are you sure? You can take some time to think about it..."

“No,” he repeated.

“Well, then, perhaps somewhere else? New Bechtel-Rand is developing fourteen rediscovered colonies at present, and any number of other projects. We can find any work you like, anywhere in human-inhabited space."

“Working for you?"

“Not me, personally—I'm only in charge of Godsworld. But for the corporation, yes.” Before John could reply, she added, “If it bothers you, working for a woman—well, I hope you'll get over that, because that's one of the worst things about Godsworld, this whole sexist set-up you have here, but even if you don't, at the moment a man's running Bechtel-Rand, and I'm sure we could find a position where none of your direct superiors would be female."

A few steps behind, John asked, “You said you would ship me back to Earth?"

“Yes."

“How could you do that? It's a century each way; by the time I got back here you'd be long dead—probably all Godsworld would be dead, with the sustaining faith destroyed."

“Oh, Lord, Captain, you don't think we spent a century coming out here, do you? If we were still limited by that we'd have left Godsworld alone. It's been over a hundred years since faster-than-light travel was developed. That was what brought down the United Nation and started Earth moving again! We don't really travel through space at all, we sort of ... I can't explain it in your language, but it's only a couple of hundred hours of subjective time to Earth, not a hundred years. Earth hours, at that, which are a little shorter than yours."

“Oh."

“Captain, I can see that this has all been a great deal to absorb. I'm going to have my people fly you back to your camp now, and at noon tomorrow we're going to wipe it off the planet, whether you and your people are in it or not. You can go on fighting us, but it won't do you any good, and if any more of our people die, either employees or stockholders, we're going to start removing your people, one way or another. I would much rather you joined us; we aren't the monsters you think us. Very few of us are like Tuesday; I'm sure that you have your own degenerates here on Godsworld, but we don't judge you by them, and we ask that you not judge us by ours. At least think it over, and if you decide to join us, come see me—announce your name in the entrance hall and the machines will bring you here. Just think it over, Captain—that's all.” She rose; John stood in response.

A section of the wall behind her slid aside, revealing gleaming golden walls; before John could see any details, she stepped through and the wall closed again. As she vanished, she called, “Remember, be out by noon!"

Chapter Fifteen

“When the wicked are multiplied, transgression increaseth: but the righteous shall see their fall.

"—Proverbs 29:16

* * * *

For a moment he was alone in the room; he turned to look it over. The door he had entered by had opened again, and the two men who had brought him were standing in the room beyond. “Whenever you're ready, Mr. Mercy-of-Christ,” one of them called. “The airship's waiting on the roof."

John took a final glance around, decided that there was no point in lingering, and marched out. His escorts fell in on either side as he stepped into the open door of the moving room.

The conversation with America Dawes was roiling in his head, with first one fact or question bubbling up, then another. As he felt the floor rising beneath him he glanced up automatically, and noticed the glowing ceiling.

“Why are your lights all that awful color, and so bright?” he asked. “Can't you make them any color you like?"

“Of course we can,” one of the guards replied. “That's the color of sunlight back on Earth. Earth has a yellow sun, you know, not a red one like yours. Godsworld seems pretty dim to us."

John noticed how much more respectfully he was handled now than he had been in being brought here, and guessed at the reason—before he had only been an enemy, whereas now he was a prospective member of the People of Heaven. These two were treating him with mild deference—if he accepted the offer of a job he would presumably be their superior, and that deference would be appropriate. He had no intention of working with the People of Heaven, though; if he did accept the offer of a job, it would be to attack them from within. He realized now that his enemy was not Dawes herself, but the people back on Earth who had sent her. He was still not sure exactly what a corporation was, whether a tribe, congregation, or as Dawes had said, merely an overgrown business, but he was sure that it was the New Bechtel-Rand Corporation that was destroying Godsworld, not any individual Earther.

And was Tuesday really not a part of the corporation? He still did not understand what a “stockholder” was, but whatever they were, if Dawes had not lied they were outsiders with special privileges. Had he been unfair in his assessment of the People of Heaven? That would bear some thought; they might not be the degenerates he had thought them. Oh, they were still his bitter enemies, there could be no doubt of that—they had destroyed Godsworld's traditional way of life, reduced the People of the True Word and Flesh to chattels and robbed them of their approaching triumph.

He needed to know more, to understand just exactly what Bechtel-Rand was. Would he have to go to Earth to destroy the corporation, or to drive it permanently off Godsworld? If so, he would probably need to accept the job offer—there was no power on Godsworld that could transport him off the planet other than Bechtel-Rand itself.

He certainly could not stay and fight as he had been fighting. He had no doubt that Dawes meant exactly what she said about destroying the camp, and he had been almost resigned to abandoning it for the winter in any case. Going underground in the towns would be difficult, all the more so now that he was being watched, and he was not sure he cared to attempt it. He had been offered a choice of death or surrender, and as he had always told himself he would, he chose surrender.

He was not, however, willing to give up completely. He would abandon his little band of guerrillas, but not the fight against the corrupting influence of the Earthers. He remembered how he had thought men who refused to acknowledge defeat to be fools, but thrust the thought aside; he had lost a battle, but not the war. He could still fight—if he knew what he was fighting, and how to attack it.

Right now, he had no idea how to find out what he had to know, other than accepting the job. He hesitated at that thought; the prospect of actually going to Earth was simultaneously exciting and terrifying.

Earth, hotbed of sin and corruption, heart of temporal evil—but the birthplace of mankind, the world where Jesus had walked! A world where the false god Progress had not been denied, where machines usurped the rights of men—and a world where a thousand green plants grew, instead of the handful on Godsworld.

Only green plants, no red ones—what did they use for nearwood? Was that why the Heaveners paid so much for it?

His two escorts seemed willing to talk; he asked, “What's Earth like?"

The guards smiled at each other. “How am I supposed to answer that?” said the one who had explained about the light. “It's an entire world! And a much more complicated one than yours, I'd say. There are nine billion people, cities, starports, mountains, oceans—what can I say?"

John skipped over the absurd population given as ordinary exaggeration. “I just meant generally—is the sky blue? The soil gray?"

“The sky is blue, but lighter than yours, and the soil comes in different colors. It's a brighter world than yours—more color, as well as the brighter sun. The air is thicker, and there's much more wind; the gravity is a little stronger, so everything's heavier. There are trees—big plants, taller than people."

“I know what trees are—they're in the Bible!"

The guard shrugged. “I've spoken to Godsworlders who didn't know, despite what your holy book says.

I don't understand why Godsworld hasn't got any trees, myself. Your ancestors should have brought some."

“They tried, the legends say, but they wouldn't grow here."

“Oh.” The guard nodded. “Could be."

They stepped out on the roof and boarded the airship. When they were seated, John asked, “The people you work for, the corporation—what are they like?"

The talkative guard shrugged again. “Oh, like any other big corporation, I guess—good people and bad ones. I do my job and they pay me."

There were other corporations, then. “Is the New Bechtel-Rand Corporation one of the big ones?"

He nodded. “It sure is."

“The biggest?"

“Oh, I don't think so—not even the biggest developer. ITD's bigger, I think."

“Ahtadi?"

“ITD—stands for Interstellar Trade and Development Corporation."

“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “How big is Bechtel-Rand?"

“Last I heard, they had about a million and a half employees and were earning half a trillion credits a year."

John balked at the numbers. “A million? Do you mean a thousand, ten times a hundred?"

“No, a million—a thousand times a thousand. A one and six zeroes."

“And a trillion?"

“A one and twelve zeroes—a million million."

Resentfully, John said, “If you don't want to tell me, just say so; you don't need to make stupid jokes."

“I'm not joking!” the guard insisted, obviously offended.

“A million and a half people? There aren't that many people on all of Godsworld!"

“Oh, I'm not sure of that; Cheng, what was our census count?"

“I don't remember,” the other guard replied, “Ask Sparky."

“Sparky? What's the population of Godsworld?” the guard said, addressing the ceiling.

“No exact count is available, sir, but the current estimate is four million, one hundred thousand,” said the neuter voice of a machine.

“There, you see?” The guard was triumphant.

John subsided without further protest and sat silently for the rest of the brief flight. He had trouble imagining any reason for the Earthers to lie about such details; they could not have known in advance that he would ask the questions he had asked. Therefore, he had to assume that the numbers were reasonably accurate. That meant that if he roused the entire population of Godsworld, including every man, woman and child, he would have the healthy, heavily-armed adults of the complete Bechtel-Rand outnumbered by less than three to one, and would not have enough people to even think of challenging Earth itself. The five hundred Earthers on Godsworld were nothing, merely a figurehead. In any battle, as he was well aware, knowing the enemy's reserves and countering them was as important as defeating the front line troops.

He needed allies; he had to turn the Earthers against each other. He had done it often enough as Armed Guardian, in dealing with small tribes—tempt one into attacking another, then move in and pick up the pieces without any real resistance. The Chosen had probably intended to do the same with the war between the Heaveners and the True Worders, but had never had a chance, since the massacre had been so fast and so complete. Godsworld would never be able to destroy Earth, but, John thought, the corporations might be kept so busy fighting one another that they would have no chance to do Godsworld further damage.

Why had only one corporation come to Godsworld in the first place?

There was still too much he didn't know, and the airship was settling to the ground at the head of the gully. The first dim red light was on the eastern hills, he noticed as he emerged from the craft, and he had to get his men and as much material as possible out of the camp before noon; long-term plans would have to wait.

Before the door of the airship had closed behind him he was running down into camp, shouting the alert, rousing his men.

Chapter Sixteen

“A good name is better than precious ointment; and the day of death than the day of one's birth.

"—Ecclesiastes 7:1

* * * *

Once they were all out of the gully there was no reason to hurry; John slowed his horse to a walk and turned for a final look at the camouflaged oilcloth. A minor pang ran through him; he was going to miss the place, miserable as most of his stay there had been. It had been his, the first place that ever truly was. Always before, when he was in charge of a place, he had been working for someone else—his father, his uncle, the Elders—someone. They had all betrayed the truth and surrendered to the enemy, though.

He had not; he would carry on fighting even now. He glanced up at the sky, wondering whether the same airship that had picked him up would be the one to destroy the camp. He doubted that the Heaveners had more than a handful of airships. He had wanted to pack up and carry as much as possible, so that it was now just about noon, and the attack was due.

He never even saw what it was that did hit the camp; he glimpsed a quick flicker in the air, gone before he could turn to look at it, and a moment later the gully erupted in flame.

The fire did not last long; within ten minutes it had died down to isolated patches of flame, leaving most of the gully adrift with white ash.

John shook his head. Nothing on Godsworld could fight that kind of weapon; they needed outside help.

He had no illusions about what sort of help he was likely to find; whatever other corporation he could bring in, if he could do it at all, would probably be just as unChristian, just as evil as Bechtel-Rand. He no longer cared. The old Godsworld, where the righteous stood alone and took their strength from the truth, was gone. He knew he could never eradicate the changes the Earthers had brought. Even if they were driven off Godsworld forever, all of them, things had been changed. The protectorate might survive without them; the People of the True Word and Flesh, however, would not. All the relative strengths and military balances that John had known for years had already been thrown off irretrievably. And the trade goods—dyes, fabrics, guns, ammunition—would be around for years, maybe centuries. Beliefs would change; the Apocalypsists could no longer maintain that Earth had been destroyed, and that the starships had been the new arks. Simply the knowledge that Earth was still out there, that people could travel between worlds, would change how people thought. Attempts might well be made to recover the lost arts of Earther technology, even to build new starships.

But that was all conjecture; in fact, the Earthers were not going to abandon Godsworld. All he could hope to do would be to slow, perhaps halt, their spreading contagion. If he drove away or destroyed Bechtel-Rand, another corporation would come—that was one thing Dawes had told him that he did not doubt at all.

Even a delay would be welcome, though. It would give the Godsworlders time to adjust to the changes, time to do what they could to maintain their way of life in the face of Earther encroachments. John also thought that he would prefer that Bechtel-Rand not be the group to profit from the ruin of Godsworld. If someone must, it need not be his personal enemies.

He turned away from the smoldering ashes in the gully and urged his mount to a trot; the way to the Citadel by horse was long and winding.

Beside him rode three of his last handful of men and one of the two women; in these last days the camp had only kept five horses. The rest of the band, left on foot, had scattered in all directions, with arrangements made for meetings and contacts throughout the central part of the Heavener protectorate.

The resistance against the Earthers’ encroachment was not done yet.

“What was that?” one of his companions asked.

“What was what?” John replied, startled out of his thoughts.

“That flash that burned the whole camp like that!” The speaker was Thaddeus Blood-of-the-Lamb, one of John's original True Worder soldiers—one who had joined the retreating half and thereby survived the massacre.

“I don't know; it doesn't matter. It's just another Heavener weapon. It's not the steel of the weapons that matters, Thaddeus, it's the steel in the man who uses them."

“That wasn't steel, Captain, that was hellfire,” said David Beloved-of-Jesus, one of the Chosen, on his other side.

“Just steel—a machine, that's all. The Earthers are just men and women, not demons."

“They're both,” David insisted, and John thought better of answering. Just machines, he told himself, designed and built by people. He wondered if his ancestors had made the right decision, abandoning most of Earth's technology.

The image of an ordinary religious war fought with Earther weapons came to him, and he decided quickly that the ancients had chosen wisely.

There were to be no more ordinary religious wars, though; the Heaveners didn't like them. The next war, John hoped, was to be between corporations. He couldn't expect that all the fighting in this new kind of war would be back on Earth; to make it worthwhile for Bechtel-Rand's opponent they would have to be invited to share in the trade on Godsworld. He hoped that if nukes and other such incredible weapons were used that the targets would be chosen very, very carefully.

For a moment his determination to destroy the New Bechtel-Rand Corporation faltered; would it be worth risking the lives of the Godsworlders who would inevitably be caught in the crossfire?

Yes, he answered himself, because only their bodies would die. Saving souls was worth any risk.

The route they followed was a long and winding one; they passed through two small villages and made camp in the wilderness, and only in the early afternoon of the following day did they reach the gates of the Citadel. By the time they arrived John had evolved a plan.

He would not immediately accept the offered job; instead, he would ask that it be held open while he explored possibilities and thought it over at length. He would then try and find another way of contacting another corporation back on Earth, rather than going himself. Corporations did not appear to be all that different from tribes, and as he well knew, any large tribe is likely to harbor spies and traitors, or simply weak-willed individuals whose loyalty and aid could be bought. If he could find those weaklings, spies, or traitors among Bechtel-Rand's people on Godsworld he would be able to contact his proposed ally indirectly.

He would talk to the Earthers, to any and all Earthers he could find, under the guise of considering the job offer—it would be only natural to find out more about his prospective employer, after all. The right questions, carefully asked, should find him what he was looking for. That corporation the guard had mentioned, ITD—that sounded very promising. If he could find no genuine spies, he would just try to hire someone to put him in touch with ITD's leaders. If ITD was bigger than Bechtel-Rand, then it should be able to destroy his enemy.

They were in the market square now. “Where are we going?” Thaddeus asked.

John glanced at him. “I am going to find a room at an inn; you're welcome to accompany me, but you're free to find your own place."

“I have a brother nearby,” said Eleazar Freed-by-the-Truth, “We'll stay with him.” His sister Esther nodded agreement.

“Abihu didn't come with us because he has a wife and two babies to look after,” she said, “but he'll keep us safe."

“That's good, then; stay with him. If you want to find us, check the market around midafternoon; I'll have someone here whenever I can, to keep us all in touch. David?"

“I'll come with you."

“Thaddeus?"

“I will, too."

“Fine. Eleazar, Esther, God be with you; we'll see you again.” He watched as the pair rode away down a side street.

When they were out of sight he prodded his own horse forward again, and his two remaining companions followed. After a moment's indecision they headed for the inn where John had stayed before, the Righteous House.

They reached it without difficulty; John dismounted at the front door, intending to ask what rooms were available before leaving the horses in the stable. When he turned to enter, though, a woman was standing in the doorway. He stared.

“Ms. Humble?” he asked.

“Captain John!” Miriam answered, staring back.

She wore a new dress, John noticed—dark green, of an unfamiliar fabric. She appeared confused and uncertain. Otherwise, she looked much as she had when last he saw her.

He studied her expression and could see no trace of malice. “A pleasure to see you again, Ms. Humble,” he said, forcing a smile. “Allow me to present my companions, Thaddeus Blood-of-the-Lamb and David Beloved-of-Jesus."

She nodded polite acknowledgement. “I thought you were living out on the hills somewhere,” she said.

“We were, but circumstances have changed. If you don't mind, Ms. Humble, we're here to find rooms for ourselves."

“Oh,” she said. She stepped aside; John and Thaddeus entered the inn, leaving David to watch the horses. When John and Thaddeus had passed Miriam turned hesitantly to follow them.

She waited and watched silently as they took two rooms and assured the care of the horses; then, as they turned back toward the door, she said, “I want to talk to you, Captain."

He glanced at her, then back at Thaddeus. “Go on out, Thad, and help David with the horses; I'll meet you at the rooms later."

Thaddeus nodded, looking at Miriam curiously, and obeyed. When he had gone John led the way to a quiet corner table, seated them both, and asked, “What is it? Are you still trying to get me killed?"

“No—at least, I don't think so."

“Don't you know?"

“No, I don't—not any more."

“I reckon maybe you don't, at that; I pretty much expected you to find our camp and come out there to bother me, but you never did. When I found out that the Earthers knew where we were I thought you might have told them, but it wasn't you at all, it was one of their ‘sat-alights'. I thought I'd seen the last of you."

“Well, I didn't expect to see you again, either! I thought you were so stubborn that you'd stay out there all alone after your men all deserted you, and freeze to death by Christmas!"

“I may be that stubborn, but I'm not that stupid. Suicide's a sin—besides, he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day, as the saying goes."

She stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” he demanded.

“Oh. I don't know how to explain, exactly. I wanted to tell you ... no, ask ... no, tell you something.

About how I feel about you."

“Tell me, then.” He sat back, expecting her to spout either gleeful anticipation of his impending death at the hands of the Heaveners, or a tearful forgiveness.

“I hated you, so very much—you took my home, killed my father, a dozen of your men raped me. I wanted to see you die, slowly.” She paused, looking up at him across the table.

John was uneasy. This was not the raving he had anticipated. He had rarely heard anyone speak so openly and directly. He tried to answer soothingly without lying or distorting the truth. “That's natural enough,” he said. “The Lord said to love your enemies and forgive the wrongs done you, but it's hard—about the hardest thing there is, I guess. I'm sorry about what my men did to you—it's the custom, in war, but that's hard, too. It was a just war, to bring people to Jesus, but I can't fault you for hating it."

“I hated you, though,” she said. “I blamed it all on you. You had led the invaders; I heard an officer say that it was your idea to use Marshside for a base instead of attacking the Chosen directly and I knew you'd given your men permission to pillage the town."

“It wasn't really my idea—one of the Elders..."

“That doesn't matter,” she interrupted. “Let me finish. I hated you, I thought you were an inhuman monster. When you took that splinter away from me so easily I was sure of it, and when you refused to rape me because the Bible says a man should be chaste I thought it was because you weren't human enough to rape a woman. I thought you were a demon. Maybe not really, actually a demon, but not really a man. You were the Enemy. And my enemy's enemy is my friend, so I believed that the Heaveners were honest and good, come to help Godsworld. You understand?"

John nodded, cautiously.

“Then you told me about that woman, Tuesday—you had a reason to hate the Heaveners, after all. And you'd lost your army; you weren't unbeatable, you'd suffered. I was confused by all that, Captain. I wanted to see how much of what you said was true. So I came back here, and got a job at the inn here—I told them I was the widow of one of your men. And I went to the fortress and talked to people there, and I saw some of the records they have, and what you told me about Tuesday was true; I saw the

tape of you and her together."

“What?!” John's outburst was involuntary, the result of astonishment and outrage. “What tape?"

“Oh, they tape everything there, pictures and sound—it's almost like watching through a window. Any time anyone moves, anywhere in the Corporate Headquarters, it's carefully recorded and filed away. The machines do it all. I got to know some of the Earthers pretty well in the past few weeks, and one of them let me watch the tapes of you. I watched it all half a dozen times, from different angles. You were raped, just the way I was—and you took it the same way I did, you wanted revenge. You're just human, like me; you're not a monster."

He stared at her for a long moment, unable to reply.

“I just wanted you to know that I know that now. You're just human, and you've been raped and your family killed—the army was your family, wasn't it?—and your home was destroyed, just the way it happened to me. We're even now; I can forgive you, at least partly. I still won't weep if you get killed, Captain, but I don't need to see it. I wanted to tell you that.” She pushed back her chair and stood up.

“That's all."

“Wait a minute!"

“Yes?"

“It was all recorded?"

“Well, not all—you can be glad of one thing.” A vicious smile suddenly lit her face. “Did you know they can even record what comes over an empathy spike? Tuesday didn't do that, though—what you felt is gone forever. Thank God for the small favors, Captain!” She walked away, her hips swinging in saucy derision.

Chapter Seventeen

“And thou, even thyself, shalt discontinue from thine heritage that I gave thee; and I will cause thee to serve thine enemies in the land which thou knowest not: for ye have kindled a fire in mine anger, which shall burn forever. "—Jeremiah 17:4

* * * *

After sending a message to Dawes that he needed time to consider her offer, John spent most of the next two days resting and thinking, while his few remaining followers were out in the streets and markets trying unsuccessfully to recruit new men, and making contact with their fellows, now no longer spies for an army but merely a band of saboteurs. It was the morning of the third day when John was certain of his decision; he tracked down Miriam. She worked days as a chambermaid and evenings as a waitress, rarely leaving the inn, so finding her was not difficult. After a few stiff formalities, John said, “You told me that you knew some of the Earthers pretty well."

She looked at him warily before replying, “Mostly just one, really."

“The one who showed you those tapes."

“Yes."

“What sort of a man is he?"

“How do you mean that?"

“Well, showing you the tapes—that wasn't something he was expected to do, was it? Did his superiors approve?"

“I don't know; I didn't think about it. Why? What does it matter?"

“I want to talk to an Earther, that's all—a reasonable one, who won't turn down a proposition before he hears it."

“You want to hire a spy?"

“No, not really—just someone who will do one or two things for me, nothing dangerous."

“Kwamé might do something like that, I don't know."

“Kwamé?"

“That's his name."

“I don't like these pagan Earther names; they don't mean anything. It makes them hard to remember."

“His name is Kwamé Montez; he says he's from a place called Australia, back on Earth."

“I never heard of it."

“Neither did I,” Miriam admitted. “This proposition you want to make—you're still trying to drive away the Earthers, aren't you?"

“I might be,” John said.

“Are you?"

“Yes,” he admitted.

“That's what I thought—you don't give up easily. I don't know if Kwamé will help you—he's not really dishonest, he's just ... well, playful. He is a Heavener, a real Heavener, not a stockholder like Tuesday; he wants them to stay on Godsworld."

“I just want him to listen to my offer. I'm not trying to hurt anybody. I won't ask him to damage anything."

She looked at him carefully. They were in one of the unoccupied rooms, where she had been replacing the bedsheets. “What are you up to?"

“Nothing that will hurt you. Just introduce me to this Kwamé, that's all. I can do you a favor in exchange, or pay you a little, if you like."

“Are you going to ask him to get you something? Steal something?"

John shook his head. “Don't ask me a lot of questions.” She was uncomfortably close to what he had in mind. He had not expected her to figure anything out, or even to try. He hadn't thought her capable of thinking like that.

“Are you planning to buy Earther weapons and meet the Heaveners on even terms?"

That was not exactly what he had had in mind, but he could understand how Miriam might have come up with such an idea. For his own part, he had dismissed the idea a few weeks earlier; open warfare with Earth weapons on both sides would be far too destructive. Half of Godsworld might perish in the crossfire.

“No,” he said. “I don't want to fight the Heaveners openly any more; they can do too much damage."

After another moment's hesitation, Miriam gave in. “All right,” she said, “I'll take you to see Kwamé."

“Good,” John replied. “Where and when can I meet this mysterious person?"

“I'll take you there, right now."

“Now?” John was startled and made no attempt to hide it.

“Yes, now; tell your friends you'll be back later."

“I don't...” he began.

“Come now or forget it, Captain!” she interrupted.

He gave in. “I'm coming,” he said.

After a detour to the market to tell David and Thaddeus, who were currently stationed there, that an urgent errand had come up, John followed as Miriam led the way at a brisk pace directly toward the Corporate Headquarters. She marched in through the open door without hesitation, turned left, and proceeded along one of the door-lined corridors. A right into another corridor, then a left, and she began counting doors. At the fifth she turned and tapped on a panel in the wall beside it.

The door slid aside; she stepped inside, John entering close on her heels.

He froze the moment he was inside. Despite minor rearrangement, he recognized the room; he had been here before.

The door had closed behind him. He was trapped. He reached for Miriam's arm, but before he could grab it an unfamiliar voice called, “Oh, it's you, Miriam! What are you doing here? Who's that with you?"

He turned, as Miriam said, “Hello, Kwamé; this is John Mercy-of-Christ. He wants to talk to you."

John could not locate the voice's origin.

“I'll be right down,” Kwamé said.

Miriam gestured at the cushions heaped on all sides. “We might as well be comfortable.” She sat down, the cushions rising to meet her in an unsettling, almost lascivious manner.

John remained standing. “I know this room,” he said. “This is where Tuesday..."

“Oh, I know that! But Tuesday left weeks ago; she's not even on Godsworld any more. Kwamé says she went on to a planet called Hellenbeck Five; I don't know much about it, but I guess it's a little like Godsworld, with Earthers just recently moving in. There are a lot of worlds out there, not just Earth and Godsworld."

“I know that,” John said, still uneasy.

“Stop worrying! Kwamé will be here in a minute. We picked this room as a meeting place because nobody uses it much—probably nobody uses it at all since the stockholders left. When your men killed that one over in Withered Fig there were three or four stockholders around, but they all left on the next ship—you scared them."

“Well, it's nice to know we accomplished something,” John said sarcastically. “If nobody uses this room, how did Kwamé know we were here?"

“Because,” Miriam said patiently, “the machines keep track of everything, everywhere, and we told the machines that whenever anyone came in here they should tell Kwamé."

“Oh.” Before he could say anything else the door slid open, and Kwamé Montez stepped into the room.

“So you're John Mercy-of-Christ,” he said. “I'm pleased to meet you.” He held out a hand.

John took it as briefly as he politely could.

Kwamé Montez was small for an Earther, about average by Godsworlder standards, a few inches shorter than John's five foot ten and a good many pounds lighter. His hair was black and curly, his skin dusky, and his smile broad and gleaming with big white teeth. “What brings you here?” he asked.

“Miriam told me a few things about you, and I wanted to talk with you about the corporation. Did you know they offered me a job?"

Kwamé nodded politely. “I had heard something about that,” he said.

Miriam did not take John's news so calmly. Although she managed not to interrupt, she was plainly thunderstruck.

“They did. I told them I needed time to think about it. I'd like to talk to you, if you aren't busy."

“Oh, I set my own hours; what did you want to ask?"

“Well—could we go somewhere else? They record everything that happens here, don't they?"

“Yes, of course they do; you'll have to get used to that if you're going to work for us."

“I suppose I will, but right now I'm not used to it. Could we go somewhere else, where I can talk freely?"

“All right; lead the way. Hiring isn't exactly my regular job, but I'm here.” He waved, and the door to the corridor slid open.

John breathed more easily when they were out of the cushioned room, and by the time they had reached his room at the now-familiar inn he was feeling relaxed and sure of himself. “Mr. Mawn-Tess,” he said,

“thank you for coming. Sit down.” He indicated the bed; the room had no chairs.

Kwamé sat down.

“Ms. Humble, you don't need to stay,” John added.

Miriam, standing by the door, did not move. After a moment John shrugged. “Suit yourself. Mr.

Mawn-Tess, how did the New Bechtel-Rand Corporation wind up here on Godsworld in the first place?"

“We came in starships, like the one next to the headquarters..."

“No, no, that's not what I mean. I mean how is it that Bechtel-Rand came to Godsworld and nobody else? What about the Earth government? Or other corporations? Or religions seeking converts?"

“Oh, I see what you're asking. Bechtel-Rand won the development contract when Godsworld was rediscovered. I'm not sure if the Godsworld job was a bid, a lottery, or rotation, but when they let the contract we got it."

“When who let what contract?"

“When the Colonial Redevelopment Authority gave out the right to develop Godsworld."

“How does that work?"

“Well, the CRA is in charge of everything concerning the old sleepership colonies, both vol and shangman..."

“What?"

“The CRA—the Colonial Redevelopment Authority—controls everything about the colonies founded by the United Nation, back before FTL was developed..."

“Eftial?"

“Faster-than-light."

“Go on."

“Right. There are a lot of colonies—the United Nation got rid of anyone who made trouble by shipping them off quick-frozen. Some were founded by volunteers, like Godsworld—people who wanted a world of their own—and others were founded by prisoners or just people off the streets who happened to get caught, who didn't want to go. The volunteers are called ‘vol', and the others are called ‘shangman'—I'm not sure where the word came from. Anyway, it doesn't matter which they are, the CRA controls them all."

“All right, I understand that—but then, why is Bechtel-Rand here, instead of the CRA?"

“The CRA doesn't develop planets itself; that's not their job. They're just a branch of the Interstellar Confederacy overgovernment in charge of making sure that everyone plays by the rules. One of those rules is that lost colonies need to be handled carefully and treated with respect; nobody wants to start an interstellar war. So when a colony is found, the way Godsworld was, the CRA assesses the situation and chooses one developer who is allowed to move in slowly and establish contact between the colony and Earth. They're supposed to pick the developer best suited to handle each particular situation, but sometimes nobody can decide which company that is, so they hold a lottery, or if there are one or two companies that would do equally well, whichever one didn't get the job last time gets a turn. I don't know how they decided about Godsworld, but they gave it to Bechtel-Rand."

“Why only one?"

“Because if there were two, they would compete with each other, and that could be dangerous for the colonists. Keeping one corporation in line isn't that hard, but when there are two competing in the same market it's almost impossible, and the CRA doesn't want to try. Besides, why confuse the colonists with two developers, or three? On some worlds the developers are practically gods—and if a tribe thinks one developing corporation is the gods, then the other one must be demons. You can get some nasty little wars that way."

John nodded. The explanation made good sense, and was in line with some of his own guesswork.

“Does that one corporation keep the contract forever?"

“Oh, no, of course not! Eventually the colony reaches the point where it can handle modern civilization, and allow in other corporations, or even build corporations of its own. There are a dozen colonies that were never handled by a single developer, and a few others that outgrew it. After all, FTL was invented by one of the colonies in the first place—Achernar IV, the home of the Interstellar Confederacy. They weren't going to stand for giving one company from Earth a monopoly!"

John did not entirely follow this, but did not let that distract him; he latched onto the point that concerned him. “How do they know when a planet is ready to let other corporations in?"

“Oh, that's easy—when the people of the planet invite other corporations, they're free to come. The CRA only chooses the company that can land without an invitation. The colonists own their own planets, though, so they have the final word about who comes and goes. I suppose they could even refuse to let the CRA's developer land at all—but that's never happened, so far as I know."

“You mean that if another corporation received an invitation from someone on Godsworld, they could move in tomorrow?"

“Worried about someone competing with you if you work for Bechtel-Rand, huh? Well, it's not quite that simple. First off, it would take more than a day for a message to reach Earth and a ship to come here.

Second, the invitation has to come from someone who has the authority to issue it—the ship has to have a place to land. An innkeeper can't just invite in another company because he wants a better price on his liquor; you can't land a starship in a stableyard."

“I suppose not.” John looked at Kwamé thoughtfully. “How big an area do you need to land a starship?"

“Oh, a dozen hectares or so."

“What's a hectare?"

Kwamé snorted. “I think Godsworld must be the only planet in the entire galaxy where people don't use the metric system! Why your ancestors decided to use the ancient American system I will never understand!"

“They were Americans,” John said stiffly. Insulting the Founders was not something he could take lightly.

“Yes, I know, but even then America had been using metrics for a century or so!"

John had not been aware of that, but refused to be distracted. “What's a hectare?” he repeated.

“It's ... it's ... I don't know your units well enough. You could land a starship in a square about a thousand feet on a side, I think."

“A thousand-foot square? That would be twenty or thirty acres. That's not that much."

“It's enough."

“If I had a hundred acres of land somewhere, then, I could invite another Earth corporation to land there and trade with me and the rest of Godsworld?"

“Well, yes, I suppose you could—if you had some way of getting a message to them."

“Ah! That, Mr. Mawn-Tess, is why I wanted to talk to you where the machines couldn't hear us. Ms.

Humble tells me you don't mind bending rules a little—would you consider delivering a message to the

ITD Corporation for me?"

“What?"

“You heard me."

“Are you crazy? I'd lose my job! Why would you want to do that?"

“Mr. Mawn-Tess, I don't like the New Bechtel-Rand Corporation; I don't like the way they do business.

I don't think they deserve to be the only corporation on Godsworld, and I want to invite in another one to take part of the planet away from them. If you won't help me, I can find someone else who will—and if you do help me, I would think that the ITD Corporation might be grateful enough to give you a job if you lose your position with Bechtel-Rand."

“They might, at that.” Kwamé looked at him thoughtfully. “They just might—and there could be a nice bonus in it, too."

“You see?"

“I'd need your word that you'd demand they hire me and keep me hired—after all, you'd be issuing the invitation, so you'd be the one with some say."

“I'd be glad to do that, Mr. Mawn-Tess."

“You'll need that landing site—thirty heckus, or whatever you said, of flat, clear ground."

“Acres—thirty acres. That won't be a problem."

“In that case, Captain Mercy-of-Christ, you've got a deal.” He stuck out his hand. This time John's shake was more enthusiastic.

Chapter Eighteen

“Where the word of a king is, there is power: and who may say unto him, What doest thou? "—

Ecclesiastes 8:4

* * * *

It had been easy to say that finding thirty acres he could use for a landing site would be no problem—easy to say, but not necessarily true. Certainly Godsworld had no shortage of empty land, but John did not happen to hold title to any of it, nor did he have any clear idea of how to remedy that lack. He did not have any significant amount of money; what had come in in donations to his guerrilla army had gone out to buy supplies of food and ammunition. He had never bothered to save his own money when he had been Armed Guardian of the True Word and Flesh; he had assumed that if he lived long enough to need it he would either be granted a pension or made an Elder. His family lands had gone to his uncle Lazarus, at John's own request—he had never wanted to be a farmer.

Furthermore, Kwamé pointed out that it would be better if the invitation came from a government of some sort rather than an individual. That made sense, John had to admit, but he no longer represented a government. The Anointed had, after supplying his initial wants, not bothered to stay in contact; still, he was the closest thing to an ally that John had. The Chosen had plenty of land—more of it than anyone else on Godsworld except the Heavener protectorate, now that the True Worders were out of the running. An invitation from the Chosen to ITD would be ideal.

For one thing, if the Chosen issued the invitation and events then devolved into open warfare, the brunt of it would fall on the Heaveners and the Chosen, and John still did not find himself in sympathy with either group. The Anointed had helped him, but only out of the basest of motives, and never as openly or effectively as John might have liked.

All he had to do was convince the Chosen to issue the invitation. For something this important John decided not to rely on messengers, but to go himself.

As escort—as commander, he could scarcely go alone—he chose David Beloved-of-Jesus, himself one of the Anointed's men, and Thaddeus Blood-of-the-Lamb. The pair had been decent companions, and having one of the Chosen and one of his own men seemed like a good distribution. He expected Miriam to insist on tagging along, but she surprised him by announcing her intention to stay at the inn. Kwamé, of course, could not leave his job in the fortress without raising suspicion.

That settled, the threesome set out at dawn on the tenth of November, on horseback—John had become quite familiar with the roads and countryside in the area during his time there, and although taking an airship to one of the outlying towns to the northwest would have saved a considerable amount of time, John thought it would also be far more likely to attract the attention of people at Bechtel-Rand whose attention he preferred to avoid.

The first day was quiet and uneventful. The second was marred by a long, loud theological argument between David and Thaddeus; David maintained that all men were damned unless they served the Lord's Anointed, while Thaddeus insisted that, quite aside from any spurious claims to divine authority made by mere mortals, God was sufficiently merciful to allow a second chance for any who lived out their lives without ever hearing the Word of God—such would be reborn to live new lives, again and again, until they got it right.

Neither side sounded exactly right to John; Thaddeus’ version was not quite in accord with his own understanding of True Worder doctrine. He declined to intervene, however; since the defeat of the People of the True Word and Flesh John was no longer certain that he considered their doctrines to be absolute truth, and furthermore, for a commander to take sides in such a dispute between two of his men would be extremely foolish. He ignored the entire discussion and simply refused to hear questions or demands for intercession directed at him.

Other arguments sprang up, but none developed into anything worse than a moment's shouting, and the three men reached Spiritus Sancti without coming to blows, either amongst themselves or with the four soldiers who formed their escort for the last leg of the journey.

Once in the Chosen capital, however, events did not proceed as smoothly as John had hoped. Unlike his previous visits, he was kept waiting in the courtyard for virtually an entire afternoon; his men were not permitted to accompany him. Finally, only a few minutes before sundown, the great nearwood doors swung open and four men surrounded him.

He had the distinct impression that had he not stepped eagerly forward he would have been dragged, willing or not, into the audience chamber. One of the men kept a spear levelled at him the entire time he was in the chamber, and another had a hand on his sword-hilt; this was obviously no ceremonial honor guard.

He walked up the center aisle, as before, but upon seeing the Anointed's expression of extreme displeasure he stopped a few paces further back than he had previously.

Before he could decide what to say, the Anointed himself spoke.

“So, John Mercy-of-Christ, you're back—what do you want this time?"

John decided against any preliminary rigmarole. “J' sevyu, sir; I have only a small favor to ask,” he said,

“requiring simply the use of your name on an invitation and a few acres of barren land..."

“Oh? No more men to be killed or to desert their loyalties?"

“No, Reverend Sir..."

“Has it occurred to you that your schemes have not been very successful, Mercy-of-Christ? You've lost two entire armies now, one in the field and one of guerrillas."

“No, sir, I have not; I did not lose my guerrillas! They're in hiding in the protectorate!"

“Oh? Of the eighty-five men I gave you, ten are known dead and twenty-eight have returned here after leaving your service."

“I admit I've lost men—that happens in any war! And desertions have been a problem because we're facing a powerful enemy, and with little support!"

The Anointed glared at him for a few seconds of tense silence, then calmed somewhat, waved a hand in dismissal, and said, “All right, then, what's this new idea of yours?"

John spoke slowly, trying to choose his words carefully. “I have discovered that the People of Heaven are more powerful than I had thought. I don't think that any army on Godsworld can succeed against them—I don't think all of Godsworld put together could defeat them. However, that doesn't mean that they can't be stopped. I propose to invite one of their enemies to come in and oppose them, with our help. They're known back on Earth as a ‘corporation', the New Bechtel-Rand Corporation—it's something like a tribe or congregation. Theirs is the second largest, second most powerful of all the corporations that ‘develop’ worlds like Godsworld. I want to invite the largest, ITD Corporation, to come to Godsworld and compete against them, destroy them if possible."

There was absolute silence for a long moment. Finally, the Anointed asked, “Are you crazy?"

John did not answer.

“Isn't one of these what-do-you-call-its bad enough? You want to invite another one?"

“That's right; the two of them should slow each other down, maybe destroy each other."

“That's crazy!” The Anointed stared at him for several seconds; John stared back.

At last, the Anointed sighed. “All right, then, why do you need us? If you have some way of inviting in this other ‘corporation', why don't you just do it?"

“I can't,” John said. “These people are bound by a sort of covenant—only one is permitted onto each world unless others are invited. The invitation has to come from someone in a position of authority, who controls a piece of land big enough for their ships to land on—my informant said that thirty acres of reasonably flat country would be about right. I need your name on the invitation, and the use of thirty acres for the landing field."

“I see. And if I agree to this, what happens next?"

“Well, in a few weeks their first ship would arrive, and they would negotiate a trade agreement, just as the Bechtel-Rand people did with the old People of Heaven. They would sell you weapons, I assume, and set up a base here, and whenever the People of Heaven or any of their client states gave you any trouble after that you could ask for help."

“Why shouldn't I just join the protectorate, then, if I'm to give up my freedom?"

“You wouldn't be giving up your freedom! ITD would be here at your invitation; you would have complete say over what they do here on Godsworld!"

“Oh? Why would they do that? What's to stop them from simply taking over the entire Realm of the Chosen?"

“They have laws..."

“Laws! What good are laws, when these people aren't even true Christians? What can bind men who don't honor the word of God? Do you know what happened to Stephen Christ-is-Risen, the Shepherd of the People of Heaven, when the Earthers arrived in the Citadel?"

“Uh..."

“It was one of your own men that told me, Mercy-of-Christ—one who deserted your camp to return home to his wife and children. He heard it from one of your spies in the Citadel, who never told you because you never bothered to ask about what happened to the rightful rulers of the place!"

It was true that John had never troubled himself with learning the details of the Earther takeover of the People of Heaven; he had simply accepted it as an accomplished fact. It had not even occurred to him that there might have been resistance, and he had never before heard either the name or title of Stephen Christ-is-Risen, Shepherd of the People of Heaven.

“Well?” the Anointed demanded.

“I don't know,” John admitted, imagining assorted horrors—involuntary painwiring, perhaps, or some other even more perverse punishment.

“He agreed to let them trade, allowed them to build their headquarters and their airport—and then disappeared! He went into their headquarters one day and never came out, and all the Earthers would tell anybody was that he'd gone off somewhere! By then the Heaveners were too far gone to care, though—they never argued, just took orders from the Earthers as if their Shepherd had told them to.

They didn't care!"

John was startled by the Anointed's vehemence.

“Do you think that I'm going to let some ship land here and entice my people to sin, so that when these invaders get tired of me I could simply vanish without anyone even paying any attention?"

John suddenly understood. The Anointed had not brought up Stephen Christ-is-Risen as another example of the untrustworthiness or evil of the Earthers, but because he feared the same fate—whatever it was—himself. He was jealous of his own power and prestige.

“Oh,” John said. “No, I reckon you won't.” Further argument was obviously not going to accomplish much.

The rest of the audience was trivial; the Anointed asked for an accounting of the men and supplies he had provided, which John did his best to supply. It was agreed that any of the Chosen John could contact were to be ordered home to Spiritus Sancti; John refrained from voicing his suspicion that many of them would not obey such an order. There were no supplies left to return, as John told it; he had no intention

of giving up the few remaining arms he had salvaged from the destruction of his camp. Throughout the remaining conversation the Anointed was visibly tired and irritable, while John was simply impatient to be done and leave. He was quite certain that, barring the overthrow of the Anointed, he would not be getting any further help from the Chosen of the Holy Ghost; that meant that any more time spent in Spiritus Sancti would simply be wasted. He was eager to move on and find a tribe that would issue the invitation to ITD; surely, among the dozens of smaller tribes in the hills of Isachar and Gad, there would be one or more eager for a chance to become a rich and powerful nation, even at the cost of independence.

As he talked about missing men and squandered ammunition he ran through the possibilities in his head.

He would need a tribe where the government was not as jealous of its power as the Anointed of the Chosen.

That limited the field considerably. He thought over what he knew of the politics of the region, and was surprised to realize that most of the tribes he was familiar with were out-and-out dictatorships of one sort or another, ruled by prophets, military men, or hereditary monarchs. That was hardly in keeping with his own beliefs—hadn't Christ taught that all men are worthy? The ancient Americans had had a republic, and the original plan among the Godsworlders was for a democracy, with all laws set by referendum, but little seemed to remain of that; each group that had split off from the founding colony at New Jerusalem had followed its own leaders and set its own precedents, and New Jerusalem itself had elected the first Lion of Judah as its absolute ruler within a century of the Crossing—not that it mattered, since the city had been sacked by the Children of the New Israel long ago, and never rebuilt.

The People of the True Word and Flesh were not a dictatorship, of course—or at least they weren't before joining the protectorate—but they hadn't been a democracy, either. They were ruled by the Elders, who served for life, with death-created vacancies filled by vote of the eleven survivors. Such a council, made up of those who guarded the true faith, might be jealous of its prerogatives, too. John tried to imagine what the Elders would have said if he had asked them to issue the invitation, but could not decide.

That didn't matter, he told himself; his own people were part of the protectorate now, and therefore in no position to invite ITD.

He would surely be able to find a tribe somewhere that would do, he told himself. After all, even if he could only find dictatorships and oligarchies, he would not point out Stephen Christ-is-Risen's disappearance, and he might well turn up a dictator whose greed outweighed his caution.

When the Anointed finally dismissed him it was full dark; he returned to the room he had been provided, impatient for morning, when he could begin his search. He ate his dinner without tasting it, and slept hardly at all as he ran through everything he knew of the tribes not yet committed to either protectorate or Chosen. He hardly noticed when an officer came and escorted David Beloved-of-Jesus to the barracks to return him to regular service.

He was up at dawn, saddling his horse before the sun cleared the horizon, ready to ride for Isachar. He had three tribes in mind already. Thaddeus was barely able to keep up, but, unwilling to be left alone in a strange and hostile city, he did his best. It was not until they stopped for lunch that he was able to ask John where they were going.

Chapter Nineteen

“And if a stranger sojourn with thee in your land, ye shall not vex him. "—Leviticus 19:33

* * * *

The Followers of God had listened politely to the proposal, debated it for a day and a night, then declared John an agent of the Antichrist; he fled before they could lay their hands on him. The People of Christ's Blood had listened only after much argument, and dismissed the entire matter the moment John mentioned trade; they felt ordinary business and commerce unworthy of their attention, and tossed John and Thaddeus on a dungheap.

Despite their disdain of material possessions they kept the horses, so that the two men had to walk over the hill to the village of Savior's Grace, whose people had no established name for themselves. They came across no streams, and at Thaddeus’ insistence did not take time to rest, so that they limped into the village stinking and filthy and exhausted.

There was no inn, but the minister, Seth Bound-for-Glory by name, brought them to the rectory, where his children took over; the three daughters washed the soiled clothes while the two sons heated and hauled water for long, luxurious baths; they also provided a few small cakes to ease growling stomachs.

The minister's wife saw to preparing a suitable dinner a little later in the evening.

It was only after dinner, feeling greatly refreshed and relieved, that John and Thaddeus explained their mission.

“Have you heard about the People of Heaven?” John asked, to begin the conversation.

“Is that the protectorate that's been developing of late?” the minister asked.

“Yes, it is,” John said.

“A man of theirs came by a few weeks ago, with samples of their goods and a smooth line of talk; we've been considering the offer, but haven't decided as yet. They set no deadline, so we're not in any hurry. It sounds good, but fair speeches aren't always the truth."

John nodded. “I might as well admit, right up front,” he said, “that I'm an enemy of the protectorate. They destroyed my own tribe's army."

“You're a True Worder? That fellow boasted about defeating those folks."

John nodded again. “We're both True Worders."

“Ah!"

John had hoped for a more informative response; he glanced at Thaddeus, who shrugged slightly.

“We came looking for someone who would like to stop the spread of the People of Heaven.” He held his hand up quickly to forestall any protests. “Not by open warfare—I'm not looking for allies for another war. I want to defeat the Heaveners at their own game—trade and negotiation. I don't have the means to do it myself, but I know how it can be done, and make the doer rich in the process; all I need is the cooperation of a government with thirty acres of empty land to spare, and a willingness to work with strangers."

He tensed, watching the minister's reaction.

“That sounds right interesting,” Bound-for-Glory said. “Tell me more."

John smiled his relief and explained.

When he had finished there was a long moment of silence; finally, Bound-for-Glory said, “We'll need to talk it over."

“We?"

“The folks here; I'm not the boss, just the spokesman. Everybody has a say in what we do."

John smiled again. That was exactly the situation he was hoping for.

“I'll say right now, though,” Bound-for-Glory added, “that we'll probably do it. I'd reckon that sooner or later somebody's going to, and that someone's going to get rich off it. Might as well be us, then—I figure I'd like being rich.” He smiled back.

John and Thaddeus were lodged in a spare room in a neighbor's house, while the villagers jammed into the minister's house for the discussion. Assuming the debate would last a few days, John quickly settled in to sleep, intending to rest after his recent efforts and be ready to start back toward the Citadel as soon as the decision came. He was startled by his awakening after what seemed like mere minutes; a glance at the window assured him that it was still dark out. He looked up at the unfamiliar form looming over him, the features hidden by shadow, as the room's only lamp was on a bracket beside the door, behind whoever it was.

“Mr. Mercy,” the figure said, “we've decided. I won't keep you in suspense; we'll make the invitation."

“Oh,” John said, “Good. What time is it?"

“Around midnight; we figured we'd let you know now, so you wouldn't have a chance to slip away in the morning before we could talk to you."

“Why would I want to do that?"

“Oh, I don't know—we've had a swindler or two come through here. And Mr. Mercy, if you're one of them, if you've lied or deceived us about this, I just want you to know that around here we skin our enemies alive.” Before John could reply, the figure retreated back through the doorway and out of sight.

John stared after him. He had thought that the people of Savior's Grace were some of the calmest, friendliest, most sensible folk he had yet encountered, but this midnight visitation disproved that. Some of them, at any rate, were just as unpleasant as people anywhere else, and their behavior just as unpredictable. He hoped that nothing would be done that might disrupt his plans.

He worried for perhaps five minutes before falling asleep again.

In the morning, when he had arisen, washed, and dressed, he met with a deputation of the townsfolk, who confirmed what his midnight visitor had said, even providing a written document to that effect. That done, Seth Bound-for-Glory apologized for the nocturnal intrusion.

“Don't pay old Hezekiah any mind,” he said. “He's impatient and mistrustful, that's all. You just go tell your corporation that the Free People of Savior's Grace want them to come here and talk to us, and that they can use that flat piece of pasture land at the foot of the hill here for their ships."

John nodded. “Thank you; I'll get moving just as soon as I can. If anyone could lend me a horse, or better still two, for me and my comrade here, we'd make better time...” He stopped upon seeing the expressions of the half dozen men facing him go hard.

“Mr. Mercy, it's not that we don't trust you,” Bound-for-Glory said, “but all we have is your word, and you haven't shown us a dime. This could all be just a ways of talking us out of two horses, you see. I don't reckon we can spare any."

John looked around, then nodded. “I understand. God be with you, then—I'll be back as soon as I can.” His meager supplies were already packed; he slung the sack on his shoulder and marched out of the village without further conversation, Thaddeus close behind. He had no money for horses or airship fare; even when they reached the protectorate they would still have to walk the entire way, unless someone took pity on them. John knew that was unlikely.

They were perhaps halfway to the Citadel when the first snows began, and the going got steadily rougher; John began to wonder whether he would make it before Anno Domini 2593 gave way to Anno Domini 2594, but on December 20th he looked up at an unfamiliar sound and saw a gleaming metal something rising straight up into the sky. After a moment's astonishment he recognized it as one of the ships that came and went from the field beside the Corporate Headquarters of the People of Heaven, and that meant that he was almost to the Citadel.

He had never seen one of the starships flying in daylight before; they had always taken off and landed under cover of darkness, showing no lights.

It flashed in the sun's ruddy glow, dwindled, and vanished; John stood for a moment staring after it. It was a beautiful thing, he admitted that readily, despite his hatred of what it represented.

They reached the Citadel in the midst of a blizzard on the twenty-third, and after making their way through the empty streets found Miriam waiting at the Righteous House. She hurried them to a table, wrapped blankets about their shoulders, and supplied them with hot beef stew and herbal brew.

When he had recovered sufficiently to speak, Thaddeus announced, “Captain, I've had all I can take. I wish you luck, but I'm not going back to Savior's Grace with you; I'm going home as soon as I can raise the fare for an airship ride to New Nazareth."

John nodded. “I don't blame you,” he said. “Go with my blessing."

They sat for a moment in silence, warming their bones.

Miriam sat down at the table and said, “Kwamé told me you were coming; he's been watching you when he could."

John looked at her. “Watching us how?"

“By satellite, mostly."

“Those things again.” He shook his head, then looked up at her. “Do you mean that the Heaveners have known where we were every step of the way?"

“Oh, I don't think so—Kwamé was keeping track of you, but I don't think anyone else was. The rumor seemed to be that you'd gone underground again, and no one was very concerned about it."

“They weren't?"

“I don't think so; I'm not really sure."

“They should have been. We found what we wanted.” He sipped his brew.

“Kwamé thought you had; he's been thinking about going out in one of the airships to get you, but he decided not to risk it—at least, until this blizzard hit. If you hadn't made it when you did he'd have come after you."

John did not find that reassuring, somehow; he suspected that Kwamé might well have waited just a little too long, thereby keeping a clear conscience while ridding himself of potential trouble—and of course, potential profit as well. Before he could think of anything appropriate to say, the door of the inn slammed open, caught by the wind, and Kwamé himself stepped in, wrapped in a dull gray cloak.

John noted that somehow, none of the wet, driven snow had stuck to the garment; Kwamé was able to take it off and fold it up without shaking it out. Not only was there no snow adhering to it, it looked dry.

Another bit of Earther technology, John thought with resignation. Even miracles could lose their savor when they came too often, and the Earthers seemed to produce one minor miracle after another, without let-up.

“You made it,” Kwamé said as he sank into the table's only remaining vacant chair.

John nodded. “So we did,” he said.

The Earther seemed uncertain of what to say next, so John went on, “We got the invitation, from a village called Savior's Grace up in Isachar—they call themselves the Free People, but so do a lot of independent villages. There's a big meadow at the foot of the hillside they're on that should be just about large enough for the landing site.” He pulled out the document Bound-for-Glory had given him.

Kwamé accepted it, unrolled it and began reading. John interrupted to ask, “What happened to Stephen Christ-is-Risen?"

Kwamé looked up. “Who?"

“Stephen Christ-is-Risen, Shepherd of the People of Heaven."

“Oh, you mean the preacher here? He's out on Fomalhaut II, I think—wanted to preach the word to the heathen, I suppose."

“He's alive?"

Kwamé lowered the document. “Of course he's alive! Why wouldn't he be?"

“The rumor in Spiritus Sancti is that you people murdered him when he got in your way."

“Oh, no! We couldn't get away with that. He just felt useless after we started running everything; his last few meetings didn't get more than a dozen people. When he complained, Ricky Dawes offered him free transportation anywhere in the Confederacy, and he took it."

“He did?"

“Sure, why not? What is there here on Godsworld for him?"

“It's his home."

“So what? He's a preacher—he wanted people to preach to, and the people here weren't interested any more. They have plenty of preachers. Out on Fomalhaut II organized religion was outlawed for a couple of centuries, so the miners are eager for interesting preachers."

“Oh.” John found it impossible to answer intelligently. Kwamé and the other Earthers knew so much more than he did, about the universe and everything in it, that he often found himself feeling like a stupid child when talking with them. Changing the subject, he tapped the document. “How do you like your Christmas present?"

“Christmas?” He looked down at the paper, then up at John. “Oh, Christmas! I see. I like it fine!"

“Don't they still celebrate Christmas back on Earth? I know true Christianity is dead, but I thought the trappings still lingered."

“Oh, we do! But we call it Exmas, and Earth's on a different calendar from Godsworld; it's only October to me. I haven't adjusted to the change yet."

“Oh; here, tomorrow is Christmas Eve, the day after that is Christmas, and the day after that is New Year's Day, the start of Anno Domini Two Thousand Five Hundred and Ninety-Four—that means ‘the year of the Lord'."

“I know that, I'd just forgotten for a moment. On Earth it's October, Twenty-Five Forty-Three, Standard Reckoning."

John nodded. “What do they reckon from?"

“The same thing you do, except that your years are shorter. That's not important. John, this invitation doesn't mention you anywhere."

“Oh?"

“Don't you want to have some say in what happens? I want you to— you promised me a job with ITD, but this Seth Bound-for-Glory never did."

John shrugged. “I'd like to help run things, but I won't insist. If you're worried about your own job, just demand they hire you before you give them the invitation—or at least before you tell them where Savior's Grace is. You just get them to come here, and I'll take care of myself."

“All right,” Kwamé said. “There's a ship going out tomorrow morning; I'll see if I can get on that. I'm due for some vacation time."

That reminded John of something. “Why are they flying their starships by daylight now?” he asked.

“Oh, that's your doing! You made such a big point of telling everyone that we're from Earth that there didn't seem to be any reason to hide it any more; they've been flying in daylight since four days after you left.” He rolled up the invitation and stood. “I should get going; I'll be lucky to get on this flight as it is.” He paused. “I'm not sure whether I should thank you or not."

“Don't worry about it,” John said. “We'll see how things turn out."

“Right. I'll probably be coming back on an ITD ship and landing directly at Savior's Grace, I guess."

“I'll be there waiting for you,” John said; he reached out and shook Kwamé's hand in farewell.

The Earther flung his cloak about his shoulders and marched out into the snow.

Chapter Twenty

“Withdraw thy foot from thy neighbor's house; lest he be weary of thee, and so hate thee. "—

Proverbs 25:17

* * * *

Despite his attempts to earn his keep by shoveling snow, carving nearwood, and breaking up ice for drinking water, it was obvious to John that he was wearing out his welcome in Savior's Grace. Although few said so openly, he doubted that more than a handful of the villagers still believed an ITD ship was coming. John was not entirely sure he believed it himself. He had hurried back to Isachar, unsure whether the ship might come before he could reach Savior's Grace, but his haste turned out to be completely unnecessary.

January and February passed without any sign of a ship, and with the first week of March and the spring thaw he began to wonder if something had gone wrong. Had Bechtel-Rand discovered what Kwamé had in mind, and somehow stopped him? Had ITD refused to cooperate for some reason? Had they thought it was a trick, or dismissed Godsworld as not worth fighting over? Had Bechtel-Rand shot down the ITD

ship?

Late in the afternoon of the eighth of March he was working in a nearwood field, carving away the soft red pulp from an unusually large, fine mass, when he glanced at the sky for the thousandth time and saw a distant glittering.

He froze, the machete half-raised, and stared.

The glittering grew brighter; something shiny was falling out of the sky.

He dropped the machete and ran for the meadow, shouting, “The ship! The ship's coming! Clear the field!"

Around him his fellow workers stopped and stared. “Get back here!” the nearwood field's owner called; John ignored him and kept running.

By the time he was past the stone fence he could make out the ship's general contours; it was roughly cylindrical, with several odd lumps and bulges. It was descending rapidly; John had no way of judging its size, but it was obviously enormous.

He charged full-tilt down the hillside toward the meadow chosen for the landing, just barely managing to slow down in time to avoid colliding with the wire surrounding it. The ship, too, slowed as it neared the meadow; its shadow spread across the field.

Others had seen the immense vessel's approach now, and were trickling down toward the fence in twos and threes. Following John's example, none stepped over into the meadow.

The ship was now dropping so slowly that it scarcely seemed to be moving at all, and that, combined with the utter silence of its descent, gave the scene an air of unreality. John wondered for a moment if its arrival were all just a wish-fulfilling dream. He stared up at the ship, now only a few hundred feet from the ground as best he could estimate.

He tried to guess its size, comparing its shadow to the length of the meadow and the villagers who were now crowding the uphill side of the fence, and came up with a diameter of two hundred feet. That seemed unreasonably large—it was certainly far bigger than the ships he had seen in the Citadel of Heaven—but within the bounds of possibility.

The ship seemed to suddenly accelerate, as if it were simply falling the last few yards, and there was a sudden roar of wind accompanying it, followed by an earth-shaking boom as it struck the ground.

That was followed by a long moment of silence as the thing settled into the soil. No one in the watching crowd spoke; all just stared in silent amazement.

Now that the thing was down, John revised his earlier estimate. It was over a hundred feet in diameter, but well short of two hundred. It stood upright on one flat end, and he judged the height at roughly five or six hundred feet. Not the monster he had first thought it, but quite big enough. The sides were gleaming silvery metal, for the most part, with red and white patterning; in addition to the bulges he had seen during the descent he could now make out odd bits of piping, hatchways, and printed messages. The only one large enough for him to read at this distance was also the only one that was neither red nor white; halfway up the side facing him were three immense blue letters, with narrow horizontal yellow stripes across them.

The letters were ITD, removing any possible doubt about the ship's origin.

He glanced away from it at the villagers; it appeared that the entire population of Savior's Grace was lined up along the fence, staring at the cylinder. This was the ideal opportunity to impress them, to convince them once and for all that he was a man due their respect, not just a swindler. He climbed up on the stone baseline and lifted one leg over the wire.

Before he could put his foot down on the other side and swing himself completely over there was a sudden change in the crowd's silence, as if everyone had caught his or her breath at the same instant.

John looked over the line of faces, but saw no explanation there; he turned, still straddling the wire, and looked up at the ship.

A hatchway had opened, some fifty feet off the ground, effectively stealing his thunder. Hurriedly he finished crossing the fence and stepped down into the meadow, a hundred yards from the towering vessel's side.

A man was standing in the open hatchway. John looked up and waved.

The man leaned forward, and called, “Hlo, John, is that you? We made it!"

John smiled, and shouted back, “J'sevyu, Kwamé! Welcome to Savior's Grace!” His importance had been neatly established, right at the start.

“I'll be right down!” Kwamé answered. He stepped back inside, and the hatch closed again.

The silence around the field was broken, and a babble of voices poured from the line of villagers. John stood, arms folded, waiting for Kwamé to reappear.

A moment later another hatchway opened, this one only about eight feet above the ground; a ladder appeared from the side of the ship, though John was not quite sure exactly where it emerged. Kwamé stepped out and carefully descended the ladder. When he was safely on the ground he turned and waved.

John walked slowly toward him, hand upraised in formal greeting. Kwamé picked up his cue, and began walking toward John, hand up. When they reached the midpoint they shook hands.

“I was beginning to wonder what was keeping you,” John said.

“Oh, you know bureaucracy; the executives spent a couple of weeks arguing. I don't think there was ever any real doubt they'd accept the invitation, but they had to make it look good. Besides, it takes awhile to put together a big expedition, even for a company like ITD. Sorry if you were worried."

John shrugged it off. “It doesn't matter now that they're here.” He paused. “Now what?” he asked.

“Now ITD's chief negotiator talks to the village elders, or whoever's in charge here."

John looked around at the spectators. “Savior's Grace is pretty loosely run; that invitation came from a vote of the entire adult population. I reckon the minister, Seth Bound-for-Glory, would do as a spokesman.” He pointed. “That's him yonder, in the brown jacket and black hat."

Kwamé nodded. “I take it you're not in a position of authority yourself."

“Me?” John snorted. “I was lucky they didn't chase me away weeks ago! If they hadn't had a good crop of nearwood to cut they would have."

“As bad as that?"

“Just about.” He did not offer any details, preferring not to admit that he had been found, by the villagers and by himself, to be amazingly inept at ordinary labor. He had the necessary strength, dexterity, and intelligence, but had simply never acquired any of the skills.

Kwamé shook his head. “Then it's just as well I anticipated that. I've got a job lined up for you if you want it, as an on-site consultant."

“A what?” Anything that required no heavy physical work would sound good.

“A consultant—an advisor. You'd be at the side of the planetary administrator—that's the person in charge of the operation, the way Ricky Dawes is at the Citadel. Different companies, different names, but the same work. Your job would be to answer questions about how the people of Godsworld think or anything else about the world that the administrator might want to know, and to make suggestions and comment on any plans. It pays well, and it's good work—productive, but it won't kill you. There's room for advancement, too; you'll be learning how the company works at the same time you'll be teaching the company about Godsworld, and if the planetary administrator gets promoted off-planet you'll have a good shot at replacing him.” He coughed. “I think it's a good job, anyway; they've budgeted two on-site consultants for this post, and I'm the other one."

“I'll need to think it over,” John replied. “Right now there are other matters to settle."

“Yes, I suppose there are. I came out first so that you'd see a familiar face, and so the people here could see us talking like old friends, but I don't really have any authority yet—my job's contingent on setting up a post here. It's the P.A.—the planetary administrator—who'll have to do the actual negotiating. It's his show; he says he wants to do his own talking, doesn't trust anyone else to do it. I'll go get him down here if you'll go get this Bound-for-Glory person—have I ever mentioned how much I like your family names here on Godsworld?"

“Not that I recall; have I ever mentioned how much I dislike all the pagan, meaningless, apocryphal names you Earthers use?"

“Not in my hearing. You may like our P.A., then—his name is Gamaliel Blessing. I think that may be what got him this job; it certainly wasn't his looks."

“What do you mean by that?” John asked, suddenly worried.

“Oh, you'll see. I'll go get him; you get the minister."

Kwamé turned and strode back toward the ship, while John turned and headed for the spot along the fence where he had seen Seth Bound-for-Glory. He wondered what Kwamé's remark about the administrator's looks could mean; he had distinctly called this person “him", so John was sure that it was not a woman, as he might otherwise have feared.

The minister saw him coming, and clambered awkwardly up over the wire. “You want me, John?” he called.

“Yes, Reverend, I do; can you act as spokesman for your people here? The Earther commander wants to do some negotiating."

Bound-for-Glory was visibly nervous. “Seems to me you're doing fine,” he said.

“Oh, no, Reverend,” John replied, suppressing a grin. “You've got it all wrong. I'm not one of the Free People at all, now, am I? You folks have made that plain these past months. I work for them, not for you!” He waved a hand at the towering starship, gleaming golden-red in the sun. He had not actually decided whether to accept the job he had been offered—he had strong reservations, not entirely clear even to himself, about working for any offworlder—but he saw no point in admitting that to the minister.

“Oh,” Bound-for-Glory replied. “Well, then, I can just talk to you, can't I?"

“Well, now, the commander wanted to speak for himself. Come on, now; he's just a man.” He glanced back at the ship and waved toward the hatch.

A figure was emerging—not Kwamé, but someone much larger.

“There he is now,” John said, turning around for a good look at the administrator.

As he stepped out of the shadowy hatchway the explanation of Kwamé's remark was suddenly obvious.

Gamaliel Blessing stood more than seven feet tall, John was sure, certainly taller than any other Earther John had ever seen, let alone any Godsworlders. He was heavily built, too, not the tall and slender sort.

He wore tight black trousers—not jeans—gleaming black boots, a loose, open yellow vest, and a great deal of metal apparatus; no shirt, no jacket, no hat, despite the lingering winter chill. His skin was a deep brown, almost black; his hair was black and curly, and his eyes glowed—literally glowed—a peculiar milky white. His metal trappings were not mere ornaments hung on his limbs, but were set into his flesh; some sparkled and flickered with unnatural lights and colors. A silvery band ran around his head, with several oddly-shaped protrusions; metal blocks jutted from his chest; wires were woven through his arms.

Perhaps worst of all, three more irregular metal blocks hung in the air behind him, following along just above his shoulders.

John heard Bound-for-Glory whisper “Oh, my good Lord in heaven! What is it?” He said nothing himself, but his feelings were similar.

The hideous apparition turned and climbed down the ladder; Kwamé emerged right behind him and also descended, again moving very cautiously down the metal rungs. At the bottom of the ladder the brown-skinned man-thing turned and looked over the villagers who still lined the fence. The three metal things drifting in the air suddenly fanned out across the meadow, spacing themselves along a line parallel to the fence, but a hundred feet in, and hanging about eight feet off the ground. Several villagers started back in alarm.

“Hlo!” boomed a voice, coming simultaneously from the three flying contraptions and the huge Earther.

“I'm Gamaliel Blessing, representing the Interstellar Trade and Development Corporation!” It spoke with a thick Earther accent.

Kwamé tugged at Blessing's arm, and led him to meet John and the minister.

John stepped forward readily to shake the monster's hand, trying hard to hide his dismay at Blessing's appearance and to resist the temptation to stare rudely at the opalescent artificial eyes. Kwamé introduced him. “Mr. Blessing, this is Captain John Mercy-of-Christ, formerly the Armed Guardian of the

True Word and Flesh, currently under consideration to be your on-site consultant. John, Gameliel Blessing, planetary administrator for ITD."

“Captain Mercy-of-Christ, a pleasure to meet you."

John winced at the incorrect form of address. He wanted the Earther to come across well, and silly little mistakes in form would not help at all. “J'sevyu, Mr. Blessing; this here is the Reverend Seth Bound-for-Glory, spokesman for the Free People of Savior's Grace and pastor of the Savior's Grace Church of Christ."

Blessing stuck out a hand; Bound-for-Glory took it reluctantly, apparently surprised to find it felt like any other man's hand. “Reverend,” Blessing said, “I hope we can do business together. I understand Godsworld is short of plastics; would ITD be able to lease this meadow with plastics, or is there something else you'd prefer? I don't suppose that you have much use for Terran credit out here."

“Plastic?” The minister's face lit up. “I think we can make a deal, Mr. Blessing."

From that point on it was easy. The villagers quickly forgot Blessing's mechanized body and dark skin when other crewmembers, almost all of them completely human in appearance despite a wide range of skin colors, began bringing out crates of guns, ammunition, plastic sheeting, and other trade goods.

John followed the negotiations with interest, and found himself, without really meaning to, giving both sides advice on how to deal with the other, correcting misunderstandings, explaining obscure references, and interpreting phrases that one or the other did not understand. By noon the next day he had formally accepted Kwamé's offer and signed on as an ITD employee.

Chapter Twenty-One

“For what hath man of all his labour, and of the vexation of his heart, wherein he hath laboured under the sun? "—Ecclesiastes 2:22

* * * *

John glanced impatiently at the cabin door. “I don't understand how ITD could be so stupid,” he said. “How could they send a rebuilt black man to run their operation on an all-white world where cyborgs are traditionally considered the work of the Devil?"

“John,” Kwamé said patiently, “ITD is an equal-opportunity employer. They hire the most qualified people without worrying about their skin color or how many gadgets have been built into them. Hell, at least he's human! They could have sent an arty or a sport model or something. Black skin isn't so bad when you consider the other possibilities."

“What other possibilities?"

“Green and scaly, say."

“You mean they've found intelligent beings out there besides humans?"

“No, they built them. Maybe they've found some, too—there were rumors when we left."

“Oh.” John shook his head. “It still seems wrong, somehow, messing around with God's image."

“God's image?"

“Man was created in God's image—the Bible says so."

“Which man? Is God white?"

John looked down at the table for a moment, then looked up again. “I don't know,” he said. “A year ago I probably would have said yes, but now I don't know. I do know He isn't green and scaly."

Kwamé shrugged. “That's more than I know about Him; I'm not even sure He exists!"

“Well, you're not a Godsworlder—and Gamaliel Blessing isn't even close. Couldn't they have found someone who would be more ... who would fit in better?"

“John, they didn't even try. I don't think you really understand the situation. You invited ITD to come here; that's supposed to mean that you're ready to deal with the people of the Interstellar Confederacy, that you and these other Godsworlders are reasonably sane and civilized now. To anyone out there in the Confederacy, that means you're supposed to be able to accept people as people, however they may vary; that's just about the most basic rule our civilization has. Gamaliel Blessing is a person, even if he has had half his nervous system rewired and any number of things added; Godsworld is going to have to accept that if they're going to deal with civilized people. Now, you know and I know that ITD was invited in here because you feel Bechtel-Rand wronged you, not because Godsworld is actually ready for open trade; you know and I know that Savior's Grace issued the invitation and ITD accepted it because they both smelled a profit; but ITD can't admit that, because the CRA wouldn't allow them to trade here if they did. They have to behave as if Godsworld really were civilized."

“It is civilized! More civilized than Earth!"

“Oh, come on, you know better than that!"

“We have the perfect way of life here, following the word of God! How can anything be more civilized than that?"

“The perfect way of life? Living on the edge of starvation, fighting petty little wars over whether to use wine or grape juice to simulate human blood?"

“That war was over centuries ago! The prohibitionist heretics were wiped out!"

“That's civilized?"

“Yes!"

“I think we may have a problem in translation here; you may have noticed that those pop up, where words have changed their meanings over time. Godsworlder English isn't exactly like the evolved Old American that the machines taught us before we came here. Just what do you mean by ‘civilized'?"

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I don't know,” he admitted.

“That's what I thought."

“It seems to me, though, that a guest should respect a host's customs, and we don't allow mixing men and machines here."

Kwamé shrugged. “Get used to it,” he said.

“We also try and keep our appointments; when is this strategy session going to start?"

“When Blessing gets here. That idiot minister of yours is probably arguing about some stupid detail."

“He's not my minister. And I still think picking a black and a cyborg was ... inconsiderate."

“Oh, I don't know,” Blessing said from the doorway. “I think they wanted someone impressive. And you must admit, Captain, that to your little pale people here, I am impressive."

“I didn't hear you come in,” Kwamé said.

“I didn't want you to,” Blessing replied.

Impatiently, John said, “Forget that. Sit down, Mr. Blessing, and let's talk."

“Gladly.” He sank into one of the cushions; it billowed up around him, supporting his weight and pillowing him on all sides. “The robots have started digging our headquarters. I hope, Captain, that Godsworld has no taboos about building underground? There is no sacred earth here, no burial ground? Mr.

Bound-for-Glory made no objection, but he might have been constrained from speaking by some custom of which I am unaware. He did not appear happy, however."

John stared at him. “You can't build underground on Godsworld; the soil's only a few feet deep. You'd need to blast out rock. We don't have any laws against it—I don't know what you mean by

‘taboo'—because we never needed any."

“Oh, we can go through rock; that's no problem. It explains our host's misgivings, though. ITD learned its trade on planets where the atmosphere was not breathable, Captain; we always build underground unless local custom forbids it. It would be a shame to disturb the fields here, wouldn't it?"

John accepted another amazing accomplishment of Earther technology without further argument. “Oh,” he said. “Well, there's no graveyard here; if there were there would be headstones."

“Ah. Good. That makes it easy.” He nodded. “Then the robots should have the basic rooms ready in a few hundred hours. Already we have arranged to purchase a few tons of this fungoid you call

‘nearwood’ from the village here, in exchange for firearms, in addition to leasing our headquarters site for a few tons of cheap styrene."

“Firearms? You mean guns?"

“Yes, guns. Your people seem very fond of them."

“These aren't my people; I'm a True Worder, not from Savior's Grace."

“All Godsworlders, Captain; I meant no offense. At any rate, they seem pleased to have us here. We should be able to make quick progress."

“Do you expect the People of Heaven to try and stop you? Are you putting your headquarters underground for defensive reasons?” John asked.

“No, no, Captain; I told you why we build underground. The People of Heaven certainly know we're here, and will undoubtedly try to prevent us from establishing ourselves on Godsworld; I expect them to cut their prices and aggressively expand their trading."

“Cut prices?” John sat stunned for a moment as vague misgivings that had been mounting since the ship landed suddenly crystallized. Blessing and Kwamé did not notice; Blessing was inquiring what Bechtel-Rand's former employee thought would be the best-selling products on Godsworld.

John was realizing clearly for the first time that ITD and Bechtel-Rand were not immediately going to start shooting at each other. America Dawes and Gamaliel Blessing were merchants, not warriors.

They would not kill each other off.

He had made a mistake, a disastrous and irreversible mistake. ITD and Bechtel-Rand were not going to drive each other off Godsworld. They would split the planet between them.

He might still be able to salvage something from the situation, he told himself. The two were competitors.

If he could keep them nibbling away at each other they might yet leave the rest of Godsworld alone.

And at the very least, Godsworlders would now have the choice of two Satanic organizations to surrender to, instead of only one. Somehow, John did not find that thought comforting.

He returned his attention to the meeting, and found that one of Blessing's remote floaters was projecting an incredibly detailed topographic map of Godsworld on a nearby cream-colored bulkhead.

“We're here,” Blessing said, pointing to a spot in the northeast of Isachar. “And Bechtel-Rand's base of operations is here, in the Hills of Judah, far more centrally located. Of course, with the opening contract and development license, they were able to pick any spot on the planet. Now, where would you two suggest we send our first batch of envoys?"

Kwamé shrugged. “That's not my field,” he said.

John looked at the map carefully, trying to match it up with the distorted and crudely-drawn maps he was familiar with. “Would this be the Little New Jordan River, here?” He pointed.

“Yes,” Blessing said after an instant's hesitation, “That's what the ship's records call it."

“Then this must be the marshes; there's a village there that I don't see on here."

“Oh, we can't show every single village on that map! If you like we can have it enlarged until the village does show. Why? What did you have in mind?"

“Oh, I'm just trying to get oriented. I was thinking you might try Little St. Peter. I have three men there loyal to me who might be able to sabotage the defenses."

“Captain, we aren't trying to capture towns from Bechtel-Rand's net quite yet; first we need to establish ourselves. We'll be cutting into their markets soon enough, but for now we need to turn a profit quickly to convince the home office it's worth investing further, and to do that we want previously-untapped markets, where we can set our own prices. Once we have more funds available we can start picking at the edges of Bechtel-Rand's little empire."

“Oh.” That was just good military sense, of course; build a base first, exploit that to support your attack...

But there wouldn't be any attack. ITD was not interested in killing or converting the people of Godsworld, but only in buying and selling. Odd, John thought, how very similar the strategies might be.

“What about the other villages in these hills around us—Isachar, they're called?” Blessing asked.

“Yes, Isachar. Probably not worth bothering with, actually,” John said without thinking. “Too many of them, too small, all independent of each other. It would take years to pick them all up piecemeal. That's why nobody ever conquered them—too much time and trouble for little gain."

“Ah. Small markets, then. We'll send out a few people to see what they have to offer, but I'd prefer

something larger for our major campaign. What about this city-state here—doesn't it have something of an empire of its own? And trade, as well?” He pointed to a dot that John realized must represent Spiritus Sancti.

“That's the Realm of the Chosen of the Holy Ghost,” John said. “They're big and rich, all right, with a good location—protected on two sides but open to the western plain—but I don't think you'll be able to trade with them."

“Why not?"

“Because it's ruled by a man called the Anointed of God who doesn't trust Earthers. I tried to get him to invite you here, but he threw me out, and I wound up in Savior's Grace instead."

“Oh.” Blessing looked at the map. “It's too good to pass up, though. We'll have to offer this Anointed of God a deal he can't refuse. Either that, or depose him somehow.” He gazed thoughtfully at the map.

John, too, stared at it. Depose the Anointed? These Earthers might be merchants, not killers, but they had possibilities after all. Blessing was a pervert, by Godsworld standards, corrupting his own flesh with steel, but he had drive and intelligence; he was not wholly decadent, not a simple thrill-seeker like Tuesday Ikeya.

John wondered for a moment whether his rewiring included an empathy spike, but thrust the question aside as irrelevant.

This campaign, he thought, was going to be interesting. “How would you do that?” he asked.

“Oh, there are ways—but let's hope it doesn't come to that. Why doesn't this Anointed person like Terrans? I mean, Earthers?"

John described his last meeting with the Anointed, and told the story of Stephen Christ-is-Risen as he understood it.

Blessing frowned as he listened; when John had finished he thought silently for a moment. “This Stephen Christ-is-Risen,” he asked finally, “do you think Bechtel-Rand really sent him off-planet?"

John floundered for a moment, then looked at Kwamé.

“I think they did,” Kwamé said.

“Then I don't think we need to worry about protests to the CRA if we depose the Anointed,” Blessing said, “though I still hope it won't come to that. We can make anything we do to the Anointed look like what they did to Christ-is-Risen. I like that.” He paused. “It shouldn't be necessary, though. John, you've talked with this person, so I'll be sending you along, but you won't be speaking on our behalf—if anyone asks you're just along as a guide. I know just the person to send to talk to this Anointed.” He smiled, and one of his three floaters did a slow roll in mid-air.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“And the maiden pleased him, and she obtained kindness of him ... "—Esther 2:9

* * * *

The woman let out another little startled yip, and again John glanced sideways at her in disbelief. Even riding astride at a slow walk she was obviously having trouble staying in the saddle. John knew perfectly well that horses were extinct back on Earth—or nearly so, anyway—but he had not realized anyone, even a woman who had never seen a horse before, could have quite so much trouble riding one.

This woman, however, was doing just that. Three times now the entire expedition—John, the woman, and an escort of four of the Free People and two ITD employees—had come to a halt while John adjusted her saddle and boosted her up until she was reasonably steady once more. The stirrups had been shortened almost as far as they would go, the cinch-strap pulled so tight the horse was visibly uncomfortable; fortunately, the beast found for her was so placid it made no protest, but merely walked all the more slowly and gingerly.

John had great difficulty in believing that this tiny, frail, clumsy woman was Premosila Kim, the incredible salesperson that Gamaliel Blessing had been so proud of. She was less than five feet tall—a meter and a half, she said—by far the shortest Earther John had yet encountered, with black curling hair and big dark eyes, but flat-chested and scrawny. She did, he had to admit, have a delightful smile—she had used it on him when they were introduced—but it would take more than a smile to win over the Anointed.

She gasped suddenly as she slipped sideways; she caught herself with both hands grabbing the pommel, but her riding skirt fell away.

After spending as much time as he had among Earthers John was no longer shocked or intrigued by the sight of a woman's legs, particularly legs as thin as these; he simply reined in his mount, slid to the ground, and walked back to recover the skirt. It would not do to let her be seen bare-legged by any of the Chosen.

Two of the men from Savior's Grace were staring, while the other two averted their eyes; John shook his head in disgust. Their reactions would be different a year from now, he told himself, when the Earthers had been around their village for awhile. The other two ITD people were not staring, but simply watching calmly and casually—but then, one of them was a woman herself. The other claimed to be from someplace called Groombridgiana, which he insisted was not on Earth at all, and for all John knew the women in Groombridgiana ran around stark naked.

He threw the skirt across the horse's back behind her, and stood by as she tugged it into place again.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him for the second time.

He smiled back without meaning to, then remounted and spurred his horse forward again. A pretty smile would not be enough to win over the Anointed—but it might help.

That was the last time she slipped; somehow she seemed to suddenly get the hang of riding after that, and by the time they reached the border of the Chosen Empire the party was moving at a decent pace and able to converse with one another.

John knew that long before they reached Spiritus Sancti, word of their coming would reach the army and an escort would meet them; that meant that this was his last opportunity to talk with Kim where there was no chance of being overheard by unfriendly ears. He had held his peace through all the long ride through the hills and while they wandered along the Upper New Jordan searching for a ford, but he could resist no longer.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked her at a moment when they happened to be out of easy earshot of the others.

“Do what?” She looked honestly puzzled.

“Talk to the Anointed. He hates Earthers; it's entirely possible he'll have you imprisoned or even killed."

“Oh, I don't think he'll do that."

“I'll do the talking, if you like."

“No, no; it's my job."

“But it's dangerous!"

“Captain, it's my job. I don't think you understand."

John was getting tired of being told that he didn't understand things, but he knew that it had usually been true when one of the Earthers had said that. “Oh?” he replied.

“Be honest, now; you've negotiated with this person three times so far. Have you ever gotten what you wanted?"

John had to admit that he had not gotten the alliance he had asked for, nor permission to land the ITD

ship on the Anointed's land, but he insisted, “I got my guerrillas!"

“Yes, given grudgingly and undersupplied, and taken back again later!"

John had no answer to that.

“Besides, how can you speak for ITD, when he knows you as a True Worder? He won't really accept what you say. I know you work for ITD and hold a responsible position, but he won't believe it. He thinks of you as a Godsworlder and ITD as Earther, and if he's as rigid in his thinking as you've led me to believe he won't accept any crossovers."

“Not me, then, but you need a strong negotiator, someone he'll respect..."

“No, you don't. You're thinking in military terms again, Captain, where the object is to scare your enemy.

We're not an army. We want to look just as harmless and weak as we can, don't you see that? We want him to believe that he has nothing to fear from us, that he can allow us the free run of his whole empire without worrying about his own security. And if he's like other primitives—forgive me, Captain, but that's what Godsworlders seem to us—then he'll equate physical size with power. If he sees me as the representative of ITD—as their spokesman and as their symbol both—then he'll think he's safe, that we're weak and harmless. He'll agree to terms that he would not risk granting to a big strong male like yourself."

“Oh.” John saw the logic to what she said, although it still went against his accustomed beliefs. After a moment of silence, he asked, “But aren't you really just as weak as he sees you to be? You don't have your ship here, or any of your machines..."

Kim sighed. “Take my word for it, Captain, I can handle it."

“But..."

She urged her horse forward before he could finish his question, putting an end to the conversation, and twenty minutes later their escort appeared.

In Spiritus Sancti they were met by two of the Anointed's advisors, both small, delicate men, who interrogated them politely in a small office; John noticed for the first time, now that Kim had brought it to his attention, that none of the government officials among the Chosen, and none of the higher-ranking officers, were really very large. John guessed that the Anointed did, indeed, equate physical strength with ambition and power, and allowed no big strong men into positions of power lest they one day overthrow him. That seemed odd, since the Anointed himself was so grotesquely fat that the effort of hauling his own weight around left him with little strength for anything else.

Or perhaps it was not so odd, at that. John thought of the Anointed as a man of great power, certainly, since he commanded an empire, but perhaps he saw himself as a weakling. His fear of being subverted by the Earthers certainly said little for his self-confidence.

At Kim's insistence John did not speak to the advisors during the questioning, but stood silently with the four men from Savior's Grace as the three offworlders were interviewed. He made no protest when the advisors recognized him and demanded to know why he was there, and were told that he had been hired simply as a guide. He understood that admitting a connection between himself and ITD might harm the negotiating; he also knew that with their mysteriously perfect maps—he was still unclear on what a

‘satellite’ was, though he had learned to spell and pronounce the word—the Earthers had no need of guides in the usual sense.

Kim did virtually all the talking for the Earthers, despite the attempts of the advisors to draw her male companion into the conversation. The Groombridgian was adept at finding various ways of saying,

“That's not my field; you'll have to ask my superior, Ms. Kim."

Something about Kim seemed to make the two Chosen uneasy, although John could not see what it would be; she was being the very picture of deference, smiling, nodding, apologizing, and speaking in simple, sometimes broken sentences, as if she were not fluent in English—or rather, Godsworlder English, as the Earthers called it. Apparently it differed greatly from the dead language known as English back on Earth.

It was only as the conversation was nearing its end that John realized the Chosen were having trouble dealing with her because she was a woman. He had been associating so much with Earthers that he had forgotten how thoroughly the Chosen despised women, the heirs of sinful Eve. The People of the True Word and Flesh had relegated women to secondary roles, as did every Godsworld society, but the Chosen carried it to an extreme—while the Earthers at times seemed totally oblivious of any difference between the sexes. Perhaps that was another reason that the Anointed had wanted nothing to do with them.

And not only was Kim female, but John realized when they all stood again that she had managed to loosen the collar of her blouse, as if by accident. Throughout the interrogation the Anointed's advisors had been staring down her neckline, too polite to mention her apparent disarray; a Godsworlder woman would have noticed their stares and fixed the collar.

She certainly knew the difference between the sexes, and was willing to exploit it. That was nothing new on either planet, John was sure.

It was decided that Kim, the man from Groombridgiana, and the senior of the men from Savior's Grace would be permitted to discuss the possibility of trade with the Anointed the following morning. The entire party was escorted to rooms up the street, which John remembered well.

When they were gathered in their two rooms, John remarked quietly to Kim, “I'm impressed, I think—you probably convinced those advisors you're a harlot, and not a very bright one at that."

“Do you think so?"

“Yes."

“Oh, good! I was hoping that was their impression, but I wasn't sure how far to go to convince them without being blatant."

“Oh? You planned on being taken for a whore?"

“Certainly! Is there anyone more despised and harmless in your culture? They probably think I'm Blessing's woman of the moment, and the fact that he sent me on a delicate mission should convince them he's either an idiot, drastically short-handed, or both. How much of a threat can his organization be, then?

You see? You couldn't have done that—no man could."

John shook his head in admiration. “You Earthers may not all be Satanists—I haven't decided that one yet—but you're tricky enough."

Kim shrugged. “Just psychology."

“I still don't think he'll let you open a trading post here, though."

At that, Kim just smiled.

John had underestimated the Earther salespeople and the Anointed's greed; Kim returned from her first audience with a signed agreement allowing ITD traders freedom to cross the borders at will until further notice. She was also bubbling with suppressed laughter at the Anointed's ludicrous attempts to seduce her.

Within a fortnight the Chosen of the Holy Ghost had not merely agreed to the establishment of a trading mission, but had joined the Free Trade Federation, ITD's puppet organization intended to counter the Protectorate of Heaven, outright, signing exclusive contracts stating that ITD was to supply all new weapons for their army.

Once the Anointed had signed the contract and joined the Federation the two corporate powers shared a border—the border between the Chosen and the True Worders, the site of conflict for as far back as John could recall. Upon his return to Savior's Grace John spent an hour or so pondering this on the incredible maps ITD's ship generated upon request, and brought up the subject at the next strategy session.

“You know, if the Chosen were to march south across the Little New Jordan, then swing west, they could cut the True Worders off from the rest of the Protectorate and probably march right into New Nazareth unopposed. The True Worders don't have much of an army; they lost it fighting the Heaveners."

Kwamé stared at him. “They lost it under your command."

“I'm well aware of that!” John snapped.

“Are you suggesting, Captain,” Blessing said, casually flicking at a wire that protruded, at the moment, from one of his fingertips, “That we arm the Chosen and prod them into conquering your own native land?"

“Not conquering; recapturing!"

“It looks very much like conquest to me,” Blessing replied. He folded the wire down; it vanished into his finger. “Weren't you leading an army against the Chosen a year ago?"

“Yes, I was."

“It seems you've changed sides."

“No, I haven't—everyone else has! My people surrendered to the Heaveners, and the Chosen

surrendered to us."

“There would be a bloodbath, you know; we've armed the Chosen with light machine guns and armor-piercing bullets, and I'm sure Bechtel-Rand has equipped the True Worders with equally formidable weapons. Casualties would be enormous. Even if the True Worder army was destroyed, surely they have some sort of militia, and you yourself told us that they joined the protectorate in order to acquire the means to defend themselves. And furthermore, Captain, as its name implies, wouldn't the protectorate be obligated to come to their aid? True, the Chosen could cut them off on the ground, but Bechtel-Rand has enough aircraft to keep True Worder resistance well-supplied for months, even if they don't decide to use their starships, as they well might."

John stared at the map. Blessing was right, he knew. He had still been thinking in the terms of old Godsworld, where wars could be fought without interference, and where trained men, horses, and steel blades decided battles. He had not considered either the heightened firepower or the presence of aircraft.

“Besides,” Kwamé said, “what's the point in killing potential customers?"

Reluctantly, John pulled his eyes away from the map and nodded.

“However,” Blessing said, “I think you may be right in choosing our next target. The agreement that your former people signed upon joining the protectorate—was it an exclusive contract?"

“I don't know,” John admitted, “I never thought about it."

“Well, Captain, if you're to go on working for ITD you need to think of such things. Just because Bechtel-Rand has trading rights in New Nazareth and holds the contract to defend the tribe, doesn't mean that we can't trade with them as well."

John stared at him.

“In fact, Captain, I think that tomorrow morning you'll be leaving for New Nazareth, to see if you can't open trade there."

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him; but I will maintain my own ways before him. "—Job 13:15

* * * *

The airship dropped him and his party at the border; he and Blessing had decided that it would be unwise to fly directly into New Nazareth until they had a better idea how matters stood there. John had a small metal device that was supposed to signal the airship to come and get him, wherever he might be at the time, when he was ready to leave and return to Savior's Grace. He had wanted Kwamé along on this expedition, but the Australian had refused; in fact, John noticed that he no longer left the ITD headquarters except to go aboard the ship for one reason or another. He had obviously lost interest in Godsworld.

Besides, as Blessing pointed out, it was reckless and wasteful to send both of his local experts—only Kwamé used the official term, “on-site consultants"—on a single expedition.

Premosila Kim, however, was available; once the opening rounds of negotiation were out of the way Blessing had replaced her in Spiritus Sancti with a man, someone that the Chosen could deal with more comfortably.

John found himself thinking the worse of the Chosen for their prejudice against women, even while he realized that he, himself, had not been much better for most of his life. He was still not ready to concede women full equality with men, as the Earthers did, but he certainly respected some of the Earther women far more than he ever had any Godsworlder women.

For one, he respected Kim, despite her occasional awkwardness with the details of everyday life on Godsworld; he accepted her inclusion gladly.

He also took along a deacon from Savior's Grace, to lend the group some official status by Godsworlder tribal standards, and a young male Earther in case the True Worders refused to deal with Kim.

The four of them walked from the border as far as the outskirts of New Nazareth, a journey lasting about a day and a half, before anyone stopped them or asked their business. Finally, only a hundred yards from the city's open gates, a patrol marched out to meet them, apparently alerted by a lookout somewhere.

John introduced himself by name only, since his titles had been revoked, and explained that he had come to speak to the Elders on behalf of himself and his companions. He did not offer any explanation of who his companions were.

Two of the six men in the patrol obviously recognized him immediately; he was unsure of the others, and did not himself recognize any of them well enough to call by name.

“Captain John,” the patrol leader said, “we thought you were dead."

He felt an unreasonable warmth at simply being addressed by his old familiar title, rather than just

“Captain", as the Earthers called him, or by a civilian name, as the Chosen did now that he no longer had an army.

“No,” he said, “I came close once or twice, but God's not ready for me yet."

“Either that, or the Devil thinks you're more use here than there!” The patrol leader smiled, but John did not laugh at the jibe; he was too uncertain of his reception among his own people.

“I need to talk to the Elders,” he said. “Can that be arranged?"

“I reckon we might get a couple of them to see you,” the soldier answered. “Old Captain Habakkuk's an Elder now, and I'm sure he'll be eager to see you again, sir!"

John smiled. “I hope so."

“He's up at the garrison, sir; would it be all right if I brought you and these others there?"

John nodded. “It'd be fine with me—you know what your orders are better than I do, now. Don't break them just because it's me."

“Oh, they don't get very specific about it, sir; we're to use our own judgement, so I'll take you to Captain-Elder Habakkuk."

“Good,” John answered. “We'd like that."

In practice, however, they were not taken directly to Habakkuk, but rather to one of his aides, in a small, cluttered office at one end of the garrison barracks. There they were kept waiting at swordpoint—John noticed that all six soldiers carried revolvers on their belts, but two swords were the only weapons drawn to guard the foursome—while the aide went to consult with his commander.

They sat on the floor for almost an hour before the aide finally returned.

“Mr. Mercy,” he said, “the Captain-Elder will see you now."

The civilian address struck John as a bad sign as he got to his feet. He said nothing, but followed the aide up a flight of stairs to Habakkuk's office—an office which had once been his own.

It had changed very little, he saw when the door swung open. Habakkuk, too, had changed very little—except he did not stand up when John entered the room. That was a mark of respect to a superior officer; whatever form of address the patrol leader might have used, Habakkuk obviously no longer saw John as his commander. He sat behind his desk, his heavy body squeezed into the familiar chair, his square face expressionless, and said nothing. The initial warmth John felt at the sight of his old comrade quickly faded before that lack of response.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“J'sevyu, Captain-Elder,” John said at last.

“J'sevyu, John,” Habakkuk replied. “I never expected to see you again."

John nodded and was about to say something when Habakkuk added, “I never wanted to see you again."

John's mouth, opening in preparation for speech, continued to open, but no sound came out for the first few seconds. “What?” he managed at last.

“You heard me."

“Yes, I heard you, but I don't understand you. I thought we were friends."

“Maybe we were once, but we aren't now. You betrayed your own people; how can I be friend to a traitor?"

“I'm no traitor!"

“No? You prevented our people from conquering the Chosen when we had the chance; you led our army into a trap and saw it destroyed instead. When we had found an ally in the People of Heaven to protect us from the Chosen, you waged a guerrilla war against them. Now you've come here openly as an agent of the Chosen. What did they pay you for all this, John? Was it worth it?” John could hear the bitterness in Habakkuk's voice.

“Nobody paid me!” he replied. “And I'm not here as an agent of the Chosen!"

“You aren't under the Anointed's protection?"

“No!"

“I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to come back here any other way. If you're not here as a foreign agent, then you're still a True Worder, and a traitor. Will you insist on a trial, or can we just get right on with the hanging?"

“Darn it, I'm not a traitor!"

“Oh, come on, John!"

“I'm not! I made mistakes—bad mistakes—but I'm not a traitor!"

The two men stared at one another for a long moment; then Habakkuk demanded, “Well, if you aren't here as an envoy for the Chosen, why are you here? Were you just coming home?"

“No,” John admitted. “I am an envoy, but not for the Chosen."

“Who, then?"

“The Free Trade Federation."

Habakkuk looked utterly blank. “Who?"

“The Free Trade Federation,” John insisted. “It's ... well, an alliance. Intended to counter the Heavener protectorate. Our base is in Savior's Grace, up in Isachar."

“I never heard of it."

“We're still pretty new—but we've signed up the Chosen..."

“I knew it!"

“Wait..."

“I knew you were working for the Chosen!"

“Darn it, I am not!” John was infuriated. Habakkuk had always had a tendency to hang onto ideas that had outlived their usefulness; John had tolerated it before, but never before had one of those ideas been directed against him. “I'm working for ITD!"

Habakkuk stared at him for a moment. “Get your story straight, John,” he said at last. “Who's Ahtedeh?

And you said you worked for this federation."

“I said I was here on their behalf, not that I worked for them."

“Not much of a difference from where I sit."

“There is, though. I work for the Interstellar Trade and Development Corporation; it's an organization that competes with the People of Heaven back on Earth. I brought some of them to Godsworld to give the Heaveners a little of their own medicine. The corporation is called ITD for short, and ITD runs the Free Trade Federation, which is based in Savior's Grace, and which has signed up the Chosen as a client state, just the way the Heaveners signed up you folks."

“You work for Earthers?"

“Yes—Earthers, but not the Heaveners."

“Earthers are Earthers, John; I thought you hated them all for the pagans they are."

“I hate the Heaveners for coming in here and destroying what we had on Godsworld, corrupting the people and usurping power and destroying my homeland. If I have to work with Earthers to fight them, I will."

“How long have you been working for the Earthers? Were they the ones who paid you to attack the Heaveners instead of the Chosen?"

“Nobody paid me to do that, Hab! It was a mistake!"

Habakkuk stared at him.

“Look, I've been working for ITD for about a month now—that's all."

Habakkuk stared for a moment longer, leaning back in his chair. Then, abruptly, he leaned forward across the desk.

“You swear you weren't paid to betray us?"

“I swear it, by God and Jesus."

“All right, then, I believe you—I think. What did you come here for?"

“To trade—the Free Trade Federation wants to trade with you."

“We're part of the Heavener protectorate, you know."

“Yes, of course I know that, but you can still trade with us, can't you? Anything the Heaveners can sell you, we can sell you—and probably at a better price."

“I'm no trader."

“I know that—but you're an Elder."

“True enough. All right, keep talking."

“Let me get my assistant up here; she's the expert."

“She? You mean that woman isn't just baggage?"

“That's Premosila Kim, our top salesperson,” John said proudly.

Habakkuk sat back and stared in astonishment.

It took four days of haggling to arrange for a caravan's reception; John stayed quietly in the background while his companions handled the details.

After the initial explanations were made, Habakkuk, too, stayed in the background, letting the other Elders handle things; his specialty was the military, and he left other matters to other people. Once, on the second day, he came and sat beside John throughout a long debate, but did not speak; the coldness between the two men had not been completely dispelled.

On the third day he did speak, remarking casually, “That woman's quite a talker; when you brought her here I thought you'd gone mad, putting so much faith in a woman."

John nodded. “She's smart, all right."

“She says you're second in command of ITD's entire force on Godsworld,” Habakkuk continued.

“I thought I was third,” John replied truthfully, “but I reckon I might be wrong.” He had never inquired as to how he stood relative to Kwamé.

Habakkuk nodded silently, accepting the information. After a long pause he said, “Then I don't guess you plan to come back here again."

John thought long and hard before finally replying, “No, I guess I don't."

He had never thought about that, never planned that far ahead. He had only been concerned with opposing the Heaveners, never worrying about what he, personally, would do when he no longer had a part to play in that opposition. Now that he did think about it, though, he knew he would never be happy returning to the People of the True Word and Flesh. They would never again wage war upon their neighbors, he was certain; the spirit had been destroyed, the steel stripped from their souls, by their crushing defeat at the hands of the People of Heaven. Their empire had been swallowed up by the protectorate, and John could not believe that it would ever again be the proud and independent power it had once been.

That was no place for a man like himself.

“Reckon it's just as well,” Habakkuk said. “You aren't real popular around here, traitor or not."

John nodded. That, too, was true.

When the negotiations were finished he signaled the airship, eager to return home—home to the ITD

headquarters in Savior's Grace.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“My lips shall not speak wickedness, nor my tongue utter deceit. "—Job 27:4

* * * *

After the Chosen and the True Worders, John spent several weeks visiting various old allies, accompanied by ITD salespeople, stopping back at Savior's Grace every so often for more supplies and to report back to Blessing. Several tribes had agreed to open trade with ITD, which was, for once, all John was asking for—no military commitments or exclusive contracts. He had made a good trip through eastern Reuben and was just off the airship, bound for Blessing's office, when someone called to him from across the landing field.

He stopped and looked; a woman was waving at him from beyond the fence.

“John! Over here!” she called.

Puzzled, John turned aside, motioning to the two sales representatives who had left the airship with him to go on without him. He strode quickly to the fence.

The voice and figure had been familiar; the woman was Miriam Humble-Before-God.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I came to see you,” she answered. “And maybe Kwamé."

“Why?” John could guess why; she was probably renewing her drive for vengeance against him, and hoping to revive her friendship—if that was what it had been—with Kwamé.

“Ms. Dawes sent me."

He had not expected that. “Oh?” he said.

“Yes. Can we go somewhere else, somewhere more comfortable?"

“I have an office in the headquarters here."

“No, somewhere we can't be watched."

He glanced at her curiously. He had never asked Blessing whether his office was monitored, but in all probability it was; that was standard for all rooms in Earther buildings, even the lavatories. He had become accustomed to the idea—just as he had become accustomed to Earther lavatories and the incredible amounts of water they used. Kwamé had assured him that all the water was purified and re-used, not simply wasted, but it had still taken him weeks to adjust to the idea of intentionally polluting water with his own wastes.

He had adjusted, though, and now he was bothered by the smell whenever he had to use Godsworlder facilities, and annoyed by the inconvenience of carrying a communicator with him when outside headquarters, rather than being able to talk to anyone he chose simply by addressing the ceiling.

Miriam said she was working for Dawes, and wanted complete privacy; it was easy to guess that whatever was to be said to him was something Bechtel-Rand did not want ITD to hear. That might be interesting; it might well be something he could use against Bechtel-Rand.

“All right,” he said, “I know a hollow over in the rocks.” He pointed with one hand and slipped the other into his pocket, checking the settings on his communicator and trying to decide whether or not to use it to record the conversation.

Miriam nodded, and he led the way up to where a rocky shelf jutted out from the hillside. A piece had broken off and slid down the slope a few yards, leaving a gap where they would be sheltered on three sides.

When they reached the spot, John turned expectantly to Miriam.

“What is it?” he asked.

“What's in your pocket?” she demanded.

“What?"

“You shouldn't wear your jeans tight, like the Earthers, if you want to hide things in the pockets—I can see you've got something there. What is it?"

Reluctantly, he pulled out the communicator. She snatched it away and tossed it down the hillside.

“You can fetch it back later, if you want,” she told him.

“All right, then,” he said. “You've got your privacy, Ms. Humble; what is it you wanted to tell me?"

“The People of Heaven hired me to come and talk with you because they were pretty sure you'd talk to me, where you might not talk to one of their own people. I'm not saying I like what they're doing, but they're paying me enough to buy my own inn, if I want, so here I am."

“What is it?"

“I just want you to understand I'm not here on my own—I'd given up my revenge. I think you deserve this, but it's not my doing."

“What isn't your doing? Darn it, woman, will you get to the point?"

“They don't want you working for ITD any more; they want you to break up this Free Trade Federation if you can, but whether you do that or not, they want you to go away from here. They don't like having a native Godsworlder running things for ITD here—it's making ITD look good and the Heaveners look bad, especially when it's you, the man who fought the Earthers for so long. It makes it look like ITD

belongs on Godsworld more than the Heaveners do."

“Maybe it does."

“I don't know, maybe it does—but that's not the point. Ms. Dawes wants you to stop working for ITD.

She doesn't care what you do after that—her job offer is still open, she says, or you can just go home, or whatever, just stay away from ITD."

“Why should I? I don't owe her any favors!"

“She'll pay you."

“ITD is paying me, and they can match anything she can offer."

“All right, then; I was hoping it wouldn't go this far. Do you know what a videodrome is?"

“Of course—Mr. Blessing is thinking of building one here."

“Ms. Dawes has built one in the Citadel, and she's going to open it to the public tomorrow, free of charge. And if you're still in Savior's Grace, the first tape she'll have shown is the one of you and Tuesday Ikeya; she's had copies made, and one will go to every town in the protectorate. You'll be a laughingstock."

John stared at her silently for a long moment. “You think so?” he said at last.

“Of course! The great warrior, humbled by a mere woman!"

“I don't think that's how it'll look, Miriam. I think that if you hadn't seen that tape while you still hated me you'd know that."

Suddenly uncertain, Miriam asked, “What do you mean?"

“Think about it. The Earthers are planning to show Godsworlders an obscene tape—first off, how many do you think will actually watch it? How many of them will dare admit they watched it? Most places on Godsworld strong men still blanch when one of our saleswomen adjusts her collar; do you think they'll watch a tape of a perverted rape? And you think that if they do, after watching me and this naked slut of an Earthwoman, they'll think the worse of me but not of her?"

“No, but Tuesday isn't here any more; she doesn't matter."

“Doesn't she? Do you think that your ordinary Godsworlder will think that? He'll see an Earthwoman wallowing in decadent lust. Do you think he'll say, ‘oh, that's just this one pervert'? No, he'll say, ‘I knew those Earthers were bad!’”

“But John, they'll see you naked!"

“No, they won't; she didn't get my clothes off."

“No, I mean they'll see ... see you!"

“They'll see a lot more of her, as I remember it."

She stared at him. “What kind of a man are you? You can stop the tape from being shown, and you won't? You don't care if half the population of the world watches you rutting like an animal?"

“No, actually—I don't care. I suppose I should, but it hardly even seems as if I'm the same person I was then. I was naive and ignorant, like most Godsworlders; I'm not any more."

“You're still a Godsworlder."

“Am I? I haven't attended services in months; the minister here doesn't like me, and I don't like him. I'm not a member of any tribe; the True Worders have disowned me. I live here in the Earther headquarters, like an Earther myself—I eat their foods and I use their furniture."

“You're still a Christian, with morals..."

“Am I? I'm not sure about that. Look, I followed the rules in my tribe for all of my life; I thought we had the one true path, God's intended way, and that anyone who lived differently was wrong, evil, lost—and that all those people would have to be miserable, suffering for their sins, that the only joy was to be found in Christ. Isn't that what you were taught?"

“Yes, of course!"

“Well, it's not true. The Earthers live just as they please, and they don't suffer for it. God doesn't punish them. They don't know Christ, but they're happy, happier than anyone I ever knew before they came.

They're comfortable—not just physically, either, they're comfortable with each other and with themselves, most of them. They don't worry about sin. Maybe they'll all burn in hell, I don't know, but in this life they're better off than Godsworlders, and a lot of it is because they don't worry about things like sin and righteousness. I'm not going to worry about strangers watching that tape—if I ever had any reputation for chastity or dignity it doesn't matter any more. I am going to worry about going on with my work. I don't like Bechtel-Rand, and I don't like America Dawes. Let her show the tape; if things get too rough for me here on Godsworld I'll leave."

“What?"

“You heard me; if Bechtel-Rand makes me unwelcome on Godsworld there are plenty of other worlds out there."

“You mean leave Godsworld? But you can't! This is your home!"

“Is it? I don't think I have a home any more. Stephen Christ-is-Risen went somewhere else when the Heaveners ruined his home; I can do the same. Listen, Miriam—you tell America Dawes that she can run that tape if she wants, but I'm not leaving ITD, and it'll hurt her business more than it'll hurt mine. She must know that.” To himself, he added silently that Dawes must be desperate to make such a foolish attempt at blackmail.

Miriam stared at him. “They've corrupted you. I thought you were the great fighter who would never give in!"

John shrugged. “I'm still fighting—but for money, not for God."

“That's disgusting!"

“Is it? Look at it this way, Miriam; I haven't killed anybody since I left the Citadel, haven't ordered anyone to his death. No one from ITD ever raped anybody—except financially. Our conquests don't leave widows and orphans and burned villages; they leave a more comfortable life."

“A year ago you heard those same arguments and denounced them."

John shrugged. “I was wrong,” he said.

When Miriam had gone he sat in the rocky hollow for a moment staring at the sky and thinking.

Miriam was quite right; a year earlier he had been determined to wipe every trace of the Earthers off Godsworld, and now he was working with them, doing the best he could to expand ITD's influence, yet he wasn't aware of any great change in his thinking.

A year ago he had thought Tuesday Ikeya's empathy spike an unspeakable abomination; now he was working for a man equipped with an identical one, and other rewirings as well, and was not troubled by it.

Of course, Blessing never raped anyone, so far as he knew, but still, his attitude had changed.

The change, he decided, had been a gradual thing, the result of working, first as a common laborer in Savior's Grace, then as ITD's local expert. He had never done common labor before that; his family had always been wealthy, by Godsworld standards, and he had entered the army as a boy of fourteen. That had been dangerous, but always exciting. He had never really seen the grinding boredom and exhaustion most people lived with. His stay in Savior's Grace had destroyed any ideas he had still held about the nobility of ordinary life on the old Godsworld. That old life was simple misery for most people, unending drudgery just to stay alive. His ancestors had been fools to give up Earther technology—even the less sophisticated technology of their time.

And working for ITD he had found the excitement of the military back in a new guise. Dawes had told him, when she spoke to him in her office those months ago, that he was not really interested in beliefs, but in using and expanding power, and she had been, he had to admit, quite right. He had hated the Heaveners for ruining his old life, destroying his position of power and privilege—but Earth had provided a replacement. He had refused the first one offered, by the Heaveners themselves, like a petulant child refusing a new puppy and demanding a dead one be brought back somehow—but he had brought ITD

to Godsworld to punish Bechtel-Rand, and, worn down by his “puppyless” stay in Savior's Grace, he had taken what was offered.

He did not regret it at all.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“So I was great, and increased more than all that were before me in Jerusalem: also my wisdom remained with me. "—Ecclesiastes 2:9

* * * *

By the local calendar it was Christmas Day, Anno Domini 2596, when the ship bearing news of Gamaliel Blessing's promotion set down at Savior's Grace. John watched the landing through his office window; he had been the first to lay claim to a window when the above-ground addition to ITD's headquarters was built, and had made sure he had a good view of the spaceport. He already knew about the promotion; the ship had transmitted the news from orbit. What had not yet been mentioned was the name of the new planetary administrator. There were three possibilities, as he saw it; either himself, currently the director of planning for all Godsworld; Premosila Kim, director of sales; or someone aboard the ship, sent from Earth to take over.

He wanted the job badly. Premosila was very good at what she did, certainly, and had perhaps the best intuitive grasp of practical psychology he had ever seen, but he had doubts about her ability to handle the job's other aspects. And a stranger from Earth would not know Godsworld the way he did. He had done a good job, he knew, helping ITD fit into Godsworld better than Bechtel-Rand ever did—the old protectorate had added no clients for two years now, while the Free Trade Federation was everywhere on the planet. He deserved recognition for his work.

Besides, it was the only promotion open to him, and he had always wanted to be at the top of his profession.

He watched the freighter settling onto the concrete pavement—the old-line folks in Savior's Grace had put up a fuss about that pavement, but it allowed larger ships to land safely, and when it was explained that that meant lower prices, the old-line folks had been decisively outvoted.

He could stand the suspense no longer. “Get me a line to the ship,” he told the wall.

“ITD Vessel Clydesdale,” a woman's voice answered.

“This is John Mercy; can you tell me whether Mr. Blessing's replacement is aboard?"

There was a moment's hesitation before the woman answered, “Mr. Mercy, I'm just the pilot; they don't tell me what's going on, they just tell me where to put the ship. We have a company executive aboard, but I have no idea whether he's anybody's replacement."

“Oh."

“He'll be debarking in a minute; why don't you come ask him in person?"

“Thanks, I'll do that."

His duties did not ordinarily include meeting new arrivals, but this was a special case; he stood, slapped his belt to be sure his communicator was working, and headed for the field.

By the time he stepped out onto the concrete crates were unloading themselves, sliding out through the upper hatchways and neatly stacking themselves on the waiting cargo platform. Most of the goods would have to be transferred to other containers before sale—Godsworlders were still uncomfortable around machinery that needed no human direction, and besides, the crate's brains were worth reusing.

The lower passenger hatchway was open, and three people had emerged. Two of them were ordinary ship's personnel, come aground on their own business; the third was a silver-haired man in a bizarre dark gray jacket and matching pants of a cut John had never seen before.

“Hlo and j'sevyu,” John said, extending a hand, “Welcome to Godsworld."

“Hlo,” the stranger replied. “I'm Colin Szebenyi."

“John Mercy, director of planning."

“Ah! Good, good—glad to meet you."

“Mr. Seven-Ye..."

“Szebenyi."

“Szebenyi, yes. Mr. Szebenyi, I won't waste any time; why are you here? Are you Mr. Blessing's replacement?"

“Direct, aren't you? Is that the local custom, or is it just you?"

“A little of both.” John noticed that Szebenyi had not answered the question.

“Ah. Well, yes. I'm here to evaluate the situation; the development committee has given me free rein. If I think it's necessary, I have the authority to take over here and run things myself, but I don't plan to—and I don't want to, either. Does that ease your mind?"

John smiled. “Yes, it does. What can I do for you?"

“Take me to Blessing, first off."

Three hours later, as Christmas Day was fading with the setting of the sun into New Year's Eve, John, Blessing, Szebenyi, Premosila, and Kwamé were gathered around the table in Blessing's office.

“It looks good,” Szebenyi said.

“Thank you, sir,” Blessing replied.

“You've got an outlet within ten kilometers of every village on the planet that's not exclusive to Bechtel-Rand, is that right?"

“Yes, sir."

“You've got regular air freight running?"

“Yes."

“Stable currency?"

“Yes."

“You're buying foodstuffs, leather, this weird nearwood fungus, and plenty of handicrafts—anything else?"

“Not really, sir—Godsworld has no fossil fuels at all, since it's never had dense enough carboniferous life and has been geologically stable since before life really even got established. It's extremely poor in heavy metals and even some of the lighter ones. There's no established industry at all—the original colonists were mildly BTN, and with so little to work with..."

John interrupted, “What's BTN? I never heard that term."

“'Back-to-Nature',” Kwamé explained. “Anti-technology. It's a recurring problem on colony planets."

“Aren't any of the other native life-forms useful?"

“Not that we know of; there are no native fauna, only the fungoids—red plants, the locals call them.

They aren't really fungus at all, they're a whole new category—but not a very useful one, except for nearwood. They're not biologically interactive with any terrestrial life, though in an emergency they can be eaten without ill effect. The nutritional value of the best of them is low, and the taste is like eating dirt."

John did not consider fungusmeat to be as bad as that, but said nothing.

“We'll want to put a biochemical research team on that all the same,” Szebenyi said. “Let's see ... any chance of tourism?"

“I don't think so, sir—the native culture is pretty drab.” Blessing glanced at John, who made no objection. “About the only thing they ever did with real style was fight wars, and of course we put an end to that. They do have some very complex theology, which has produced interesting rituals—but interesting to anthropologists, not tourists. And really, sir, it's a pretty ugly planet. No trees, no real mountains, no beaches worth mentioning. We've had a few stockholders come around to look the place over, and every one of them got bored and left on the next ship out, so I don't think the place has any overwhelming attraction."

“All right,” Szebenyi said. “That's what I'd heard from the computers. Blessing, we've got a new post for you—ITD just got the contract to open Harwood's World, and you've been named as supervisor—assuming you want the job."

Blessing nodded, smiling.

“For the rest of you, after looking things over here, I've decided to cut back operations on Godsworld.

This place is a backwater—it's always going to be a backwater. We'll keep up what we've got, but any expansion would be a waste of money; we're already at the point of diminishing return on our investment, because there just isn't anything here.” He glanced at John, the only native Godsworlder in the room, but John simply stared back silently. He had long suspected that the profits to be made on Godsworld were limited. Even ITD couldn't make money from nothing.

“Mercy, you'll be taking over for Blessing for now; Kim, you'll be coming back to Earth as soon as you can get your operation here set up to run without you. Montez, you'll be taking over as second-in-command—use whatever title you like, we'll pay you the same in any case.” He stood up.

“Any objections?"

No one spoke.

“Good. Mercy, I want to talk to you alone for a moment about what you'll be doing.” He motioned for John to follow.

John obeyed, and the two men left the room; they strode side by side down the upholstered hallway, neither one speaking.

Szebenyi led the way to John's office; by unspoken agreement neither man sat behind the desk, but instead each took one of the crude Godsworlder chairs John kept handy for visiting locals.

When both were settled, Szebenyi said, “Mercy, you've done good work here, despite your background."

John nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

“Of course, it's your home planet, and that gives you an advantage."

John nodded again.

“Have you ever considered moving on?"

John leaned back thoughtfully. “Can't say,” he said.

He had thought about leaving Godsworld, of course—particularly in those uncertain weeks when he still thought America Dawes might carry out her threat to show the tapes of Tuesday and himself publicly—but never very seriously. ITD had hired him for his knowledge of this one particular planet, after all—why would they move him elsewhere?

“Well, I'll tell you, the reason I wanted to talk to you alone is to let you consider something without having to listen to what anyone else thinks, because we want it to be entirely your own choice. We're putting you in charge of the operation here on Godsworld, and we're perfectly willing to leave you here running it for the rest of your life, if that's what you want. You can have the entire planet, if you want it—we have inside information that Bechtel-Rand has been losing money here and will be pulling out soon, so we'll have the whole place to ourselves. You're a native, so you can get away with a lot—you could pretty much set yourself up as a dictator and I don't think the CRA would care—I know ITD

wouldn't. So that's one choice."

He paused.

“The other possibility—if you want, we could use a good administrator in our development department.

We could give you some training back on Earth, and probably find you a job as planetary administrator on a new world somewhere, maybe even as supervisor on an opening. There's no guarantee of how that will turn out, of course; development of rediscovered planets is a tricky business. They won't be like Godsworld, most of them. And you won't have a shot at a dictatorship; that's only possible here because you're a native, which makes you acceptable to the CRA, and because the market here on Godsworld isn't going to be expanding any further. We don't set up static situations on planets where there are still untapped profits. If you move on, you'll have one of the most challenging jobs in the galaxy; if you stay here you'll have the whole planet. It's your choice."

“If I go,” John asked, “who'll take over here?"

“Montez,” Szebenyi replied, “Kwamé Montez.” He stood up. “You'd have to stay long enough to train him and get everything squared away here—five or six months, Terran calendar."

John stood as well.

“You don't need to decide immediately,” Szebenyi said. “Just let me know before I leave, or send a message on the next ship. If you wait any longer than that I can't promise the offer will still be open."

“I'll let you know,” John assured him, as he saw him out of the office.

When Szebenyi had gone he settled behind his desk and turned his chair to stare out at the landing field.

Two small fliers were cruising overhead, their polished steel sides gleaming bright in the last rays of the setting sun; he remembered how his sword had flashed in much the same way when he led his cavalry charge into Marshside. He remembered the madness of the battle and the mess afterward.

After all this time, so far from the machine gun that Little St. Peter had sold the elders of Marshside, Bechtel-Rand was giving up, defeated by ITD's competition; he had finally won his long battle, and without ever killing a single Bechtel-Rand employee, yet the fight and eventual victory were none the less satisfying for that.

Now, if he chose, he could sit back and enjoy the fruits of his victory. He had just been offered Godsworld, the entire planet, as his reward—but he didn't want it. Kwamé could have it. The fun, the excitement, the challenge lay in the taking, not the having! Much as he hated to admit it, America Dawes had been right, right from the first; she had understood him before he understood himself. He would not, could not rest on his laurels. He looked up to where the stars were coming out above the Clydesdale.

Whether by sword or starship, he was a conqueror, and the entire galaxy awaited his steel.

—END—

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