CHAPTER
5

“COME! COME FREELY and experience the word of K’olkr!”

The Edemians had set up shop in an empty booth along the Promenade. Mas Marko rang a large, resounding chime to attract the attention of passersby. It worked to the degree that it got people to glance the Edemians’ way. But it did nothing to get anyone to take them seriously.

Sisko, far more familiar with the parade of life that was the Promenade, had gone over some ground rules with Mas Marko. There was to be no physical accosting of people; no getting in their way; no attempt, in any way, shape, or form to force their beliefs on the denizens of Deep Space Nine. The reason for that was simple: Sisko was looking to avoid starting a fight.

Fortunately for all concerned, Mas Marko readily accepted Sisko’s rules. “Only those who willingly embrace the word of K’olkr can truly understand,” he had replied. “We can but expose individuals to those thoughts. K’olkr teaches us that his way is the way of acceptance. Acceptance in all things, Commander. You cannot quarrel with that, certainly.”

Indeed, Sisko could not.

So now Mas Marko stood in the Promenade, trying to appeal to that which was worthwhile and decent and good in the Promenade’s browsers. Which was not, unfortunately, a lot.

He was surrounded by his entourage, who were trying to hand out treatises on the greatness of K’olkr. No one seemed particularly interested.

Bashir stood a short distance away, watching carefully. In particular, he was watching the boy, Rasa.

From his knowledge of Edemian physiology, he determined that the boy was roughly ten earth years in age. Edemians were almost indefatigable. Marko and his followers had been calling to people nonstop for several hours now.

All except Rasa. He remained quiet, listless. The prodding from his mother to participate in their endeavors was met with indifference.

And she was worried.

Even from where he was watching, Bashir could see her anxiety. But was she worried about something and did not know what? Or was she genuinely concerned about something in particular?

Either way, Bashir felt it was worth his time to find out.

And he knew of a very simple way to do it.

He walked very casually toward the Edemians. As he got within range, he saw that Azira was still urging the boy to take part in what they were doing. Bashir was lucky enough to make eye contact with the unenthusiastic lad, and he raised an eyebrow to indicate interest.

“Have you heard the word of K’olkr?” asked Rasa. His voice was high-pitched, not at all like the stentorian tones of his father. Up close, Bashir could even see some of what Sisko had already picked up. One didn’t have to be an expert in alien medicine to see that Rasa looked . . . diminished, somehow. His eyes, rather than the softly glowing red of the others, were mere flickers, like smothered embers.

Furthermore his skin was not the solid ebony of the others, but instead was inconsistently colored. Looking closely, Bashir could even see signs of splotching.

All this he noted in a second. Covering his clinical assessment smoothly, he said, “Why, no. I haven’t. The word of K’olkr?”

His response caught the attention of the others. They turned toward him, but Bashir deliberately didn’t look at them, instead focusing entirely on Rasa. He wanted to make it painfully clear that the dialogue was between him and the boy. “Who is K’olkr?” he asked. “A friend of yours?”

“Uh . . . ” Clearly the boy hadn’t expected any response. He licked his lips and looked nervously to his father for guidance.

“He asked you, son. Tell him,” came Marko’s response.

“Uh . . . ” Rasa looked back to Bashir. “K’olkr is . . . is all.” It was clear that the words his father had drilled into him were slowly coming back to him, out of reflex . . . or perhaps out of a sense of self-preservation. “K’olkr loves us. K’olkr protects us. He . . . ” He looked once more to his father, who merely nodded in calm surety. “He guides us,” said Rasa. “By trusting ourselves to the fate decreed by K’olkr, we have that much more security in ourselves.”

“Trusting yourselves to the fate K’olkr decrees?” said Bashir. “So you believe purely in predestination? Or do you accept the notion of free will?”

Rasa looked somewhat surprised at this. It was as if he hadn’t been certain until just this moment that Bashir was actually paying attention to what he was saying. Automatically he said, “Free will when it comes to dealing in mortal affairs. But trusting in the wisdom of K’olkr when it comes to those matters that are the affairs of gods.”

Bashir suddenly snapped his fingers. “Blast! You know, this is so interesting . . . but I have to get to my duties.”

“Oh.” Rasa looked deflated. He glanced apologetically at his father.

“That is a pity,” said Mas Marko. “It is clear to me that your conversation with my son is of interest to you, Mister . . . ”

Bashir was about to correct him out of habit by saying, “Doctor,” but some internal warning sense stopped him. Instead he said simply, “Bashir. Julian Bashir.”

“Mr. Bashir. Must you leave so abruptly?”

“I’m afraid so. Although . . . ” and he paused, as if just coming up with the idea. But then he said dismissively, “No. Forget it.”

“What?” said Rasa, momentarily forgetting that his father was supposed to take the lead in discussions. Marko, however, did not remonstrate with him. He was obviously proud to see his son actually taking charge of a situation.

“Well,” Bashir said, “perhaps this young man would be interested in accompanying me. Much of my job, I hate to admit, is somewhat drudgery-filled. Certainly some stimulating conversation would be a vast improvement for me. Although . . . well, he’s probably helping you far too much here.”

“To be honest, sir,” said Mas Marko, “we have been here for some hours and have not had much success in attracting more than sniggering looks. That being the case, I would hate to lose momentum with you. Rasa, would you care to accompany the gentleman?”

“Yes, sir,” said Rasa immediately.

But at almost the same moment Azira said, “I don’t think so.”

Rasa looked from one to the other, as did Bashir.

Something was definitely going on between the boy’s parents. Their faces were absolutely unreadable. But whatever was happening, it was quite clear to Bashir that Mas Marko was still in charge. Azira held his gaze for only a moment before lowering her eyes.

Marko spoke to her in a voice that seemed filled with understanding and a very faint sorrow. “Like all of us, the boy must accomplish all that is possible during his time in this sphere. You must be willing to let him go.”

“That is what I do,” she said. It wasn’t a comment that Bashir fully understood, but Azira turned to Rasa and said, “Make K’olkr proud.”

“Of course I will, Mother,” he said.

Deciding that further conversation would only delay matters—and possibly shift them in a different direction—the doctor started walking without further hesitation. “So how do we know when we are operating under our own free will . . . and when we are to leave matters in the hands of K’olkr?”

Rasa immediately fell into step next to Bashir. “Well,” he said, “we have a set of laws called Siilar that enable us to study situations and make determinations. . . .”

Their voices faded, mixing into the general babble and buzzing of the surrounding voices.

“He will make us proud,” said Mas Marko firmly. He did not look at Azira or even seem to be addressing her.

Azira said nothing.

The matter already apparently concluded, Mas Marko spoke with even more fervor to the next person who happened by. As if encouraged by the apparent success his son was having with the Starfleet man, he said, “Sir, the words of K’olkr would be of interest to your life—”

“Unless the words happen to be ‘profit,’ ‘money,’ and ‘greed,’ I seriously doubt it,” said Glav, and he walked away from the Edemians.

As he neared Quark’s establishment, he slowed down his brisk pace . . .  and then, very deliberately, gave the place a wide berth. He saw Quark busily attending to customers, being his usual servile self. Glav managed to angle himself to just within Quark’s view and then started to walk away.

Quark, however, moved like lightning. “Glav!” he shouted. He practically leapt over a table and barreled across the Promenade, knocking people aside to get to Glav as quickly as he could.

He struck another very distinctive Ferengi posture the moment that he was at Glav’s side: he bent over slightly so that his eye level was just below Glav’s. This was a body-language method of saying, “I acknowledge the greatness of your place in the universe. How may I serve you so that you may enrich me?”

The body language said all that. Quark, for his part, licked his lips with anticipation and purred, “Glav, old fellow, where have you been? I’ve tried repeatedly to reach you in your quarters. You weren’t there.”

“Oh . . . I’ve been looking around this fascinating station of yours,” he said, turning in a slow circle so that he bore a passing resemblance to an antique conning tower. “This is quite an amazing situation you people have here. But enough of me, Quark. Let’s talk about you. What do you think of me?”

Quark bobbed his head in appreciation and gave a high-pitched laugh. “Ah, Glav . . . no one can tell a centuries-old joke like you.”

“That’s extraordinarily obsequious of you, Quark.”

“Thank you,” said Quark, bobbing his head appreciatively. “I strive for perfection in all matters.”

“So tell me, Quark . . . am I correct in assuming that you have checked out my . . . status?”

“Thoroughly,” said Quark. “Very thoroughly. Glav, dear fellow . . .  you’ve managed to keep a rather low profile personally, haven’t you.”

“I have tried to do so,” agreed Glav. “Oh, if you do research under my name, it is quite easy to find my net worth. Otherwise, though, I’ve managed to be fairly subtle about it.”

“Exceptionally subtle,” crowed Quark. “Subtle as the whispering winds of space. Subtle as—”

“Quark.”

“Yes, Glav?”

“You’re overdoing it.”

Quark stepped back and bowed slightly. “I apologize.”

“It’s no matter,” said Glav. “To be honest, Quark, I expected no less of you.”

“Then it is my honor to live down to your expectations.”

Glav put a hand on Quark’s shoulder. “We can do business, Quark.”

Quark gasped in amazement and pleasure, not to mention fulfilled hope. “How can I, from my lowly station in life, hope to aid you? My humble business is barely worth your notice.”

Glav looked around and then gestured toward a nearby table and chairs at the outskirts of Quark’s Place. He sat down, Quark opposite him.

Elbows on the table, head propped up, looking the soul of disingenuousness, Glav said, “You have connections.”

“I do?” Quark looked momentarily confused. But then he cleared his throat and, recapturing his self-possession, said, “Well . . . of course I do. But not . . . I mean, how could the people whom I have connections with possibly compare to the scope of—”

“It’s the individuals whom you are connected with,” said Glav. He sighed and lowered his gaze. “I have a confession to make, Quark.”

Quark looked at him questioningly.

“When I came to this station,” he said, “I was . . . Well, my motives were not particularly honorable.”

“So?” The concept of honorable motives did not have much importance in Quark’s worldview.

“I came here,” sighed Glav, “because I was very much looking forward to rubbing my good fortune in your face. I wanted to parade my success before you, make you squirm, perhaps even dangle a business proposition in your face . . .  and then depart. It was . . . ” He shook his head. “It was petty vindictiveness.”

“It’s understandable,” said Quark.

Glav looked up in surprise. “Why, Quark . . . you’re not even being obsequious. You really do understand.”

“Squirming, vindictiveness . . . pfaw. What’s not to understand?”

“If you understand that, then certainly the subsequent events will be well within your comprehension as well. For as I was walking around this incredible station, I had a realization. And my greed, I will admit, came bubbling to the surface. It was a heady feeling, Quark. With the amount of money at my command, my sense of pure greed had become . . . stilted. Lost.”

Quark gasped. “You poor bastard.”

“You know, I hadn’t even realized I’d lost it. That’s the truly tragic thing. It’s far too simple to become content. Beware contentment, Quark. It can lead to your undoing.”

Quark shifted uneasily in his chair. “Well, I am . . . I am happy with my situation in life. But,” he said more firmly, “but content? No. No, never. I always dream of riches. Of the deal,” he said reverently.

“The deal,” said Glav, “sits before you. Look at me, Quark. I hold the key to the deal.”

Quark stared at him for a long moment.

And then suspicion played across his face.

“This is a scam,” he said slowly.

Glav looked confused. “What?”

“It is!”

“Quark! I have been honest with you!”

“Ah, but here it comes!” Quark raised his voice in anger and alarm. “The scam! The sting! Put me off my guard with sweet words and then persuade me to participate in some insane enterprise in the hope of improving my station in life. When, in fact, your real intention is to deprive me of—”

“I’m not going to deprive you of anything!” said Glav in confusion.

Quark sat back, his fingers interlaced, looking confident and smug. “How much?” he said. “How much were you going to ask me to contribute to whatever scheme you were launching? Eh? Enough to put my entire establishment at risk? Or—”

“Nothing!” cried Glav. “Nothing, I swear! I . . . ” His face turned dead serious. “I swear on Amorphous, the shaper of Ferengi dreams of avarice, that I was not going to ask you to put your establishment—or any of your personal fortune, however paltry that might be—at risk in any way.”

Quark’s jaw dropped. A Ferengi did not swear by Amorphous lightly. Even among the Ferengi, certain things were simply not done, and lying to another Ferengi in the name of Amorphous was one of them. It was enough to restore Quark’s confidence to some degree.

“All right,” he said slowly. “All right. What can I contribute? I don’t understand.”

“This station,” said Glav, barely able to repress his rising excitement. “This station . . . for pity’s sake, Quark, look at it. The potential, Quark. The potential! I’ve been doing a study of it. Projecting across the probable expansion of the business that will come through here as a result of the Bajoran wormhole. Furthermore, I’ve been analyzing the percentage of effectiveness in the way that business is being done here. Would you like to know what I’ve found?”

Quark nodded eagerly.

“There is potential here,” he said, “for increasing profits . . .  thirteen hundred percent!” Upon Quark’s startled intake of breath, he nodded his head. “Yes, you heard me right. Under the right management . . . under the right mind-set . . . this station could be the single largest profit generator in this entire sector.”

“Under the right management? But the Federation—”

“The Federation!” Glav laughed coarsely. “The Federation! Oh, please, Quark. If you want a painfully boring continuation of the status quo, you call in the Federation. But if you want profit”—he tapped his chest—“you call a Ferengi.”

“But . . . no one called us.”

“We Ferengi do not sit around waiting for the deal to come to us. We find the deal. We exploit the deal. We”—he thumped his fist on the tabletop to emphasize each word—“we make . . . the . . . deal. There are those in this universe to whom things happen. And there are others who make things happen. Which would you be, Quark?”

“Well . . . obviously, the latter.”

“Then you will help me?”

“Help you what?”

“What! Isn’t it obvious?” He smiled toothily. “I want to buy Deep Space Nine.”

Quark stared at him skeptically for a moment. “You . . . you aren’t serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

“Well, because . . . for pity’s sake, Glav! It’s not for sale!”

“Have you asked?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Ah,” said Glav, leaning forward, “but you see, it’s amazing what’s for sale if the price is right. And I’ll tell you right now, Quark, what we Ferengi already know: when the price is right, anything is for sale. That is where you come in.”

“It is?” Quark sounded less than enthusiastic.

“Yes. Because you are going to be able to use your influence to help.” For a moment he seemed uncertain. “You do have influence, don’t you?”

“Uh . . . why, yes, of course.” Quark gathered his composure. “The fact of the matter is that I am one of the major influences on this station. Why,” he continued, becoming more full of himself by the moment, “just last month, all the station personnel were ill. Whom did they turn to in their hour of need?” He thumped his chest proudly. “I ran the entire station single-handed.”

“Now you’re boasting.”

“I swear! There I was, all alone in Ops, holding things together. And then there was the time when I became the very first source of relics brought through the wormhole. I held an auction here that they’re still talking about throughout the sector.”

“Then you can help me.”

“I—”

At that moment, an irritated Orion shouted, “Quark! You call this a drink?”

Seeing the source of the complaint, Quark turned to Glav apologetically. “I hate to break off, but I fear I really must attend to this. The last time an Orion was dissatisfied, the damage took me a week to repair.”

“I understand fully. We’ll talk later.”

Quark slid off the chair and headed toward the disgruntled Orion. Glav, for his part, walked away humming to himself, looking around the station as if trying to figure out where he was going to redecorate.

And the table that they’d been sitting at, unseen by either of them, shifted. Within moments it had dissolved into a puddle and then built itself back up again to become the distinctive form of the station’s security officer.

Odo shook his head.

“What fools these Ferengi be,” he muttered.

 

Rasa looked around the infirmary with curiosity. “What is this place?” he asked.

“It’s where we treat the sick,” Bashir told him, trying to look casual. He watched as Rasa opened a cabinet and stared in fascination at the contents. “Certainly you’ve seen places like this before.”

“No,” said Rasa. “I’ve never had the need.”

“Hmm. Well, you’re a lucky young man. Never to be sick a day in your life.”

He waited until Rasa’s interest in the cabinets seemed to flag and then he said, “You know what this is?” And he tapped the monitors up on the wall over a bed.

Rasa shook his head.

“All sorts of lights come on,” said Bashir. “Here . . . watch. Hop up onto this bed and lie down.”

Rasa, curious about the equipment, did as he was told. As he lay back, the bioscan units came on. Readings immediately began feeding into the diagnostic files of the computers. Oblivious of what was happening, Rasa twisted around so that he could see the blinking lights and the source of the noises. “What’s that thumping sound?” he asked.

“That’s your heartbeat. It . . . sounds a little fast,” said Bashir, still endeavoring to seem casual. “Fast for an Edemian, at any rate. Tell me, Rasa, does your head ever hurt?”

“Sometimes.”

“When?”

“Oh . . . in the morning. And a little at night. And . . . sometimes in the middle of the day.” Rasa was starting to sound uncomfortable. “I thought you wanted to talk about K’olkr.”

“Well,” said Bashir reasonably, “if I’m supposed to learn a bit about your life . . . seems only fair that you learn a bit about mine, don’t you think?”

Rasa started to sit up, and Bashir moved quickly to his side, holding his shoulder down gently to prevent him from rising. “Let me go!” shouted Rasa, but he didn’t have the strength to back up his command.

And then he started to cough.

It was a deep, hacking sound. The exertion had cost him, and he coughed more and more violently. Within seconds the hacking became so fierce that his legs flexed upward while his upper torso cramped over, as if he were curling into a fetal position with each sudden expulsion of air.

“Nurse!” called Bashir. He started to order a hypo that would settle Rasa down, but ultimately it proved unnecessary. Rasa stopped of his own accord, the coughing settling down until the fit simply ended. Rasa looked up at Bashir then, and the glow in his eyes seemed just a bit dimmer.

“Are you all right?” asked Bashir.

Rasa nodded. But he didn’t look all right, and he didn’t sound all right.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” the doctor said.

“It’s all right,” said Rasa. He swung his legs over and slid off the biobed. “I . . . think I’d better go back to my parents now.”

“Don’t you want to discuss K’olkr?”

Rasa studied him. “I . . . don’t really think that you do.”

“How about you?”

The boy let out a long sigh that Bashir feared, for a moment, would set off another fit. But instead Rasa simply shrugged fatalistically.

“No. Not really.”

And he walked out of the infirmary.

 

Lobb studied the passersby carefully to see who might be amenable to hearing the message, the word, the glory, of K’olkr.

The follower of Mas Marko then thought he saw a likely candidate—an attractive young woman who looked lost and adrift on the sea of humanoid consciousness.

She was walking away from Quark’s, holding a drink as if it were her last friend in the cosmos. Merely looking upon her, Lobb felt tremendous empathy.

K’olkr seemed to whisper to Lobb, saying, “Yes! Yes! She is one for whom you’ve been waiting. She will be your first convert to the wisdom of K’olkr. You can do it. Steady. Speak to her in soft, alluring terms that will draw her to you.”

As she passed nearby, Lobb raised his voice in vehemence that surprised even him. “K’olkr wants you!” he called out. “K’olkr loves you! You, young woman!”

She stopped in her tracks. She turned her head slowly to stare at him.

“Your life,” he said, his fervor rising, “can be a beautiful and splendid thing. Your life can be beyond anything you might have imagined possible. Your life can be sanctified, glorified, purified, if you accept, understand, and embrace the wisdom of K’olkr!”

He stretched out a hand to her, gesturing for her to come over to him.

She regarded him for a moment more and then—slowly, ever so slowly—approached him . . . 

And then she raised the glass and hurled its contents at him.

The liquid hit Lobb square in the chest. A huge stain spread in no time, the red liquid pouring down his chest and trickling to his waist. He stared at it in stupefaction.

“My life is fine as it is, fool,” she said tartly. “Maybe you’re the one who should be reevaluating your life. Standing around shouting things at people who didn’t ask you to come and don’t want you here.”

She turned on her heel and walked away.

Lobb stood there, unmoving, not certain what to say or do. He felt utterly humiliated in front of Mas Marko. He was all too aware of his leader and mentor’s presence looming over him.

Sadly, Mas Marko put a hand on Lobb’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lobb. I’m afraid that the realities of our mission aren’t going to be particularly easy to deal with.”

“Why . . . ” Lobb seemed to grope for words. “Why do they hate us so much?”

“They hate themselves,” Mas Marko told him. “We hold up a mirror to the emptiness and misery of their lives. They see what they have . . . see the meaninglessness and misery of a life without the spirit of K’olkr . . . and the vast majority of them react with hostility. The truth can be very difficult to accept, but a very small number will see what we have to offer and be drawn to it. It is for those few that we commit our lives to constant labor.”

Lobb nodded understandingly. Unfortunately none of it made him feel any drier or any less humiliated.

Azira had listened without comment to all her husband had said. But now she perked up slightly as she saw Rasa heading across the great open area of the Promenade. “Rasa,” she called. “Darling! Over here!” And she waved.

“He knows where we are, Azira,” said Marko. He didn’t sound harsh or angry, but something in his voice indicated quite clearly that he found her behavior inappropriate.

Azira folded her hands into her gown, accepting her husband’s mild rebuke. But when Rasa walked up to them, Azira put an arm around him protectively and gazed up at her husband with an expression that might have been called deliberately blank.

Mas Marko ignored it. “Rasa,” he asked, “how did it go with the Starfleet man?”

Rasa didn’t say anything at first. Marko looked at him curiously and then said, with more firmness in his voice, “Rasa, I believe I asked you a question.”

“I don’t know, Father.”

“You don’t know how it went?”

“No, Father.”

Marko was silent for a long moment. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Mas Marko,” Azira said, choosing to use the full formal address since they were out in public. “I think the boy is too tired to concentrate right at this moment.”

“Is that the case, boy? That you are too tired?”

The boy looked down at the toes of his boots with great interest. “Yes, Father.”

“I see. Very well.” He turned to Lobb. “Would you be so kind as to escort Rasa back to our quarters and make certain that he settles down for some rest? You can take the opportunity to go to your own quarters as well and change to something . . . drier.”

“Thank you, Mas Marko,” said Lobb. He was just starting to feel the uncomfortable dampness and chill from the liquid, and was rather eager to change out of the sodden clothes.

They walked away, and as Mas Marko watched them go, he was aware of Azira stepping a bit closer to him than was typical for public behavior. But he did nothing to discourage her, for he knew what was on her mind, and he was not, after all, without feelings or heart.

“He looks so small,” she whispered. “So small.”

Mas Marko shook his great head. “K’olkr moves in mysterious ways,” he said. He tried to keep the sadness from his voice, but was only partially successful.

 

Rasa had settled down easily enough. Indeed, “settled down” might have been too mild a phrase. When the boy lay down on his bed, Lobb saw that Rasa was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

Satisfied that his mission had been successfully completed, Lobb stepped out of the quarters that Mas Marko was sharing with his wife and son and started to head to his own across the hall.

There was a man standing there.

He had thick red hair, and his face was fixed in a sullen deadpan. His chin came to a point; indeed, his entire face looked like a perfect triangle. He was not particularly tall, not particularly short, not particularly anything.

He simply stared.

“Can I help you?” asked Lobb.

The man said nothing.

“Are you interested in learning the wisdom of K’olkr?”

Nothing.

Out of reflex Lobb was going to press the point further, but then he became more aware of the sogginess of his clothes. The dampness was becoming uncomfortable, and a chill began to spread through him . . . although some of that chill was possibly a result of the sullen, fixed scrutiny that he was receiving from this odd red-haired man.

“Perhaps we can discuss matters later,” he said, not really feeling like prolonging the encounter. He stepped past the red-haired man and, for some reason that he could not readily pinpoint, suddenly tensed as if he expected an abrupt attack.

But there was nothing. The red-haired man made no motion at all, and a few seconds later Lobb was safe in his room.

Safe?

What an odd word to occur to him. Safe. Had he been in danger just then?

The red-haired man had been unarmed and unassuming. What possible threat could he have posed?

Lobb stared into a mirror, looking sadly at the mess on the front of his robe. No wonder he felt paranoid about someone as unthreatening as the red-haired man. Certainly he had not expected to be assaulted by the charming woman whom he had been trying to help. So it wasn’t surprising that he was starting to give a second look to everyone he ran into.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. It might help him stay one step ahead of those who would like to see people like him come to harm.

And then he heard something.

It was like . . . something dripping, something thick and gelatinous, slurping around. . . .

He spun.

The door was not airtight. Through the joints now poured some sort of bizarre . . . stuff.

“What in the . . . ” he managed to get out.

It was viscous and red, bubbling into a large puddle on the floor. Lobb was afraid to touch it, for he had no idea what it might do to him. But it was blocking the exit. If it started to seep toward him, how would he get around it to safety?

He took a step to the side, trying to figure out a way to maneuver around it.

And then, in defiance of any logic, the mass began to grow.

It was as if a tower were rising underneath it, and it took Lobb a few moments to understand that, in fact, the mass was reshaping itself.

It grew, expanded, began to fill out, and then took on definition. He could see the outlines of arms close to the sides of a body, a head starting to form, features coming into existence.

The red-haired man.

Lobb rubbed his eyes, trying to deny what they had already told him.

The glubbing and slurping sounds ceased. The man was now fully formed in Lobb’s room, studying him with detached interest.

“Who in the name of K’olkr are you?” whispered Lobb. “What do you want?”

The red-haired man gave a reply . . . but it was not verbal.

He drew back his right arm, and it re-formed.

It became a cube-shaped mass, square and gleaming, like a solid block of metal.

Lobb gaped, not comprehending.

And the red-haired man took four quick steps forward, like a bowler about to release a ball. The movement of his right arm was fast, smooth, and liquid as he slammed it forward.

Lobb had just enough time to emit a high-pitched, terrified scream. And then the hand-weapon took him squarely in the face, driving the young Edemian back. And then it kept on going, before Lobb even had a chance to scream, and connected solidly with the wall. Lobb’s cranium, unable to offer the slightest resistance, collapsed with the sound of a crushed melon.

The red-haired man remained in that position for a moment, as if admiring his work or waiting for photographers to take pictures. Then he withdrew the anvillike fist, paying no attention to the sickening thud of Lobb’s remains to the floor. The red of the drink that had been tossed onto Lobb’s robe now mingled with the dark tint of his life’s blood.

A massive smear of blood had spread over the wall.

The killer stared at it for a moment and then extended a finger toward it.

And he began to write.