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bent double in silent agony, clasping his lower adomen. Manaolo stepped
lightly back, kicked under Joe's jaw.
Joe slid slowly, laxly to the deck. Manaolo bent swiftly, a little metal
device glittering in his hands. Joe raised his arm feebly Manaolo kicked it
aside. He hooked the metal instrument in Joe's nostrils, jerked. Two little
hooked knives sliced the cartilage. A cloud of powder seared the flesh.
Manaolo jumped back, the corners of his mouth pushed in deeper. He turned on
his heel, swung jauntily out of the room.
The ship's doctor said, "There it's not too bad. You'll have the two scars for
awhile but they shouldn't be too noticeable."
Joe examined his reflection in the mirror his bruised chin, the plastered
nose.
"Well I've still got a nose."
"You've still got a nose," the doctor agreed woodenly. "Lucky I got you in
time.
I've had some experience with that powder. It's a hormone promoting the growth
of skin. If it hadn't been removed, the splits would be permanent and you'd
have three flaps on your face."
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"You understand," said Joe, "this was an accident. I wouldn't want to trouble
the captain with any report and I hope you won't."
The doctor shrugged, turned, put away his equipment. "Strange accident."
Joe returned to the saloon. The Cils were learning the game with the colored
bars, chatting gaily with the Mangs. The Druid missionaries, heads together,
were performing some intricate ritual at their portable altar. Hableyat was
spread comfortably on a couch, examining his fingernails with every evidence
of satisfaction. The door from Elfane's cabin opened, Manaolo stepped out,
swung easily along the balcony, down the steps. He gave Joe an expressionless
glance, turned up toward the promenade.
Joe settled beside Hableyat, felt his nose tenderly. "It's still there."
Hableyat nodded composedly. "It will be as good as new in a week or two.
These Beland medics are apt, very apt. Now on Kyril, where doctors are
nonexistent, the man of the Laity would apply a poultice of some vile material
and the wound would never heal.
"You will notice a large number of the Laity with tri-cleft noses. Next to
killing it is a favorite Druid punishment." He surveyed Joe from under
half-closed lids.
"You seem to be rather less exercised than would be permissible under the
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circumstances."
"I'm not pleased."
"Let me cite you a facet of Druid psychology," said Hableyat. "In Manaolo's
mind the infliction of the wound terminated the matter. It was the final
decisive
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Vance, Jack - Son of the Tree (v1.0) (html).html act in the quarrel between
you two. On Kyril the Druids act without fear of retaliation in the name of
the Tree. It gives them a peculiar sense of infallibility.
Now, I mention this merely to point out that Manaolo will be surprised and
outraged if you pursue the matter farther."
Joe shrugged.
Hableyat said in a querulous voice, "You say nothing, you make no threats, you
voice no anger."
Joe smiled a rather thin smile. "I haven't had time for much but amazement.
Give me time."
Hableyat nodded.
"Ah, I see. You were shocked by the attack."
"Very much so."
Hableyat nodded again, a series of wise little jerks that set his dewlaps
quivering.
"Let us change the subject then. Now your description of the European pre-
Christian Druids interests me."
"Tell me something," said Joe. "What is that pot that all the fuss is about?
Some kind of message or formula or military secret?"
Hableyafs eyes widened. "Message? Military secret? What are these? No, my dear
fellow, to the best of my knowledge the pot is merely an honest pot and the
plant an honest plant."
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"Why the excitement then? And why try to stick me with a ringer?"
Hableyat said musingly, "Sometimes in affairs of planetary scope it becomes
necessary to sacrifice the convenience of one person for the eventual benefit
of many. You were to carry the plant to decoy my pistol-flourishing
compatriots from that conveyed by the Druids."
"I don't get it," said Joe. "Aren't you both working for the same government?"
"Oh indeed," said Hableyat. "Our aims are identical the glorification and
prosperity of our beloved planet. No one is more dedicated than myself. But
there is a rather odd cleavage in the Mang system, separating the Redbranch
Militars from the Bluewater Commercials. They exist like two souls in one
body, two husbands married to the same wife.
"Both love Mangtse. Both use their peculiar means for displaying this love. To
some extent they cooperate but only as is expedient. They are ultimately
responsible only to the Lathbon and, a step lower, to the Ampianu General, in
which body both seat members. In many ways the arrangement works well
sometimes two approaches to a problem are valuable.
"In general the Redbranch is direct and forceful. They believe that the best
way to end our difficulties with the Druids is to seize the planet in a
military operation. We Bluewaters point out that many men would be killed,
much material detroyed and, if by some miracle we finally overcame the
religion-
crazed hordes of the Laity, we would have destroyed whatever usefulness Kyril
might have for us.
"You see," he nodded wisely at Joe, "with a productive peasantry Kyril can
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Vance, Jack - Son of the Tree (v1.0) (html).html produce the raw materials and
handcrafts for our Mang industries. We form a natural couple but the current
Druid policy is a disturbing factor. An industrialized Ballenkarch ruled by
the Druids would upset the balance. Now the
Redbranches want to destroy the Druids. We Bluewaters hope to influence a
gradual metamorphosis toward an economy on Kyril channeled into production
instead of into the Tree."
"And how do you propose to work that out?" Hableyat wagged a solemn finger.
"In the strictest confidence, my dear fellow by letting the Druids proceed
undisturbed with their intrigues."
Joe frowned, touched his nose absently. "But this flowerpot how does it enter
the picture?"
"That," said Hableyat, "is what the poor single-minded Druids conceive to be
the most cogent instrument of their plan. I hope it will be one of the
instruments of their defeat. So I mean to see that the pot reaches Ballenkarch
if I must kill twenty of my fellow Mangs in the process."
"If you're telling the truth, which I doubt "
"But my dear fellow, why should I lie to you?"
" I commence to understand some of this madhouse."
Junction a many-sided polyhedron one mile in diameter, swimming in a diffused
luminescence. A dozen spaceships suckled up close like leeches and nearby
space was thick with firefly flecks of light men and women in airsuits,
drifting through the void, venturing off ten, twenty, thirty miles, feeling
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Vance, Jack - Son of the Tree (v1.0) (html).html majesty of deep space. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]