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  Money was money. Money had brought him across the galaxy and Ballenkarch was at last at hand. At night when the temple searchlights left the sky he could see the sun Ballen, a bright star in the constellation the Druids called the "Porphyrite." The cheapest passage, hypnotized and shipped like a corpse, cost two thousand stiples.

  From a salary of eighty stiples a week he was able to save seventy-five. Three weeks had passed—twenty-four more would buy him passage to Ballankarch. Too long, with Margaret, blonde, gay, lovely, waiting on Earth. Money was money. Tips would be accepted with thanks.

  Joe took the car up the palace freerise, wafting up alongside the Tree, up toward the third level. The Tree hung over him as if he had never left the ground and Joe felt the awe and wonder which three weeks in the very shadow of the trunk had done nothing to diminish.

  A vast breathing sappy mass, a trunk five miles in diameter, twelve miles from the great kneed roots to the ultimate bud—the "Vital Exprescience" in the cant of the Druids. The foliage spread out and fell away on limber boughs, each as thick through as the Thearch's palace, hung like the thatch on an old-fashioned hayrick.

  The leaves were roughly triangular, three feet long-bright yellow in the upper air, darkening through lime, green, rose, scarlet, blue-black, toward the ground. The Tree ruled the horizons, shouldered aside the clouds, wore thunder and lightning like a wreath of tinsel. It was the soul of life, raw life, trampling and vanquishing the inert, and Joe understood well how it had come to be worshipped by the first marveling settlers on Kyril.

  The third level. Down again, down in the black Kelt to the plat beside Priestess Elfane's apartments. Joe landed the car, jumped out, stepped across the gold-and-ivory inlay. Elfane herself slid aside the door—a vivid creature with a rather narrow face, dark, vital as a bird. She wore a simple gown of sheer white cloth without ornament and she was barefoot. Joe, who had seen her only in her official vestments, blinked, looked again with interest.

  She motioned. "This way. Hurry." She held back the panel and Joe entered a tall chamber, elegant but of little warmth. Bands of white marble and dark blue dumortierite surfaced two walls, bands inset with copper palettes carved with exotic birds. The third wall was hung with a tapestry depicting a group of young girls running down a grassy slope and along this wall ran a low cushioned settee.

  Here sat a young man in the vesture of a Sub-Thearch—a blue robe embroidered with the red and gray orphreys of his rank. A morion inlaid with gold leaf-patterns lay beside him on the settee and a baton lathed from the Sacred Wood—an honor given only to those of Ecclesiarch degree—hung at his belt. He had lean flanks, wide spare shoulders and the most striking face of Joe's experience.

  It was a narrow passionate face, wide across high cheekbones, with flat cheeks slanting down to a prow of a chin. The nose was long and straight, the forehead broad. The eyes were flat black disks in narrow expressionless sockets, the brows ink-black, the hair an ink-black mop of ringlets, artfully arranged. It was a clever, cruel face, full of fascination, overrich, overripe, without humor or sympathy—the face of a feral animal only coincidentally human.

  Joe paused in mid-stride, stared into this face with instant aversion, then looked down to the corpse at the Ecclesiarch's feet—a sprawled grotesquely-rigid form oozing bright yellow blood into a crimson cloak.

  Elfane said to Joe, "This is the body of a Mangtse ambassador. A spy but nevertheless an ambassador of high rank. Someone either killed him here or brought his body here. It must not be discovered. There must be no outcry. I trust you for a loyal servant. Some very delicate negotiations with the Mang Rule are underway. An incident like this might bring disaster. Do you follow me?"

  Palace intrigue was none of Joe's affair. He said, "Any orders you may give, Worship, I will follow, subject to the permission of the Thearch."

  She said impatiently, "The Thearch is too busy to be consulted. Ecclesiarch Manaolo will assist you in conveying the corpse into the Kelt. Then you will drive us out over the ocean and we'll dispose of it."

  Joe said woodenly, "I'll bring the car as close as possible."

  Manaolo rose to his feet, followed him to the door. Joe heard him mutter over his shoulder, "We'll be crowded in that little cabin."

  Elfane answered impatiently, "It's the only one I can drive."

  Joe took his time arranging the car against the door, frowning in deep thought. The only car she could drive… He looked across fifty feet of space to the next plat along the side of the palace. A short man in a blue cloak, with hands clasped behind his back stood watching Joe benignly.

  Joe reentered the room. "There's a Mang on the next balcony."

  "Hableyat!" exclaimed Manaolo. He strode to the door, looked out without disclosing himself. "He above all must not discover!"

  "Hableyat knows everything," said Elfane gloomily. "Sometimes I think he has mastered second-sight."

  Joe knelt beside the corpse. The mouth hung open, showing a rusty orange tongue. A well-filled pouch hung at his side, half-concealed by the cloak. Joe opened it. From behind came an angry word. Elfane said, "No, let him satisfy himself."

  Her tone, her contemptuous condescension, stung Joe. But money was money. Ears burning, he reached into the pouch, pulled out a sheaf of currency. Hundred-stiple notes, a dozen at least. He returned to the pouch and found a small hand-weapon of a make he did not recognize. He rucked it into his blouse. Then he wrapped the corpse in the scarlet robe and, rising, caught hold under the armpits.

  Manaolo took the ankles. Elfane went to the door. "He's gone. Hurry!"

  Five seconds saw the corpse stowed in the back. Elfane said to Joe, "Come with me."

  Wary of turning his back on Manaolo, Joe followed. She led him into a dressing room, pointed to a pair of cases. "Take them, load them in the back of the Kelt."

  Luggage, thought Joe. He obeyed. From the corner of his eye he saw that Hableyat had once more come out on the balcony and was smiling blandly in his direction. Joe returned inside. Elfane was wearing sandals and a dark blue robe like a girl of the Laity. It accentuated her sprite-like appearance, the tang, the spice, which seemed an essential part of her. Joe wrenched his eyes away. Margaret would not have dealt so casually with a corpse. He said, "The Kelt is ready to go, Worship."

  "You will drive," said Elfane. "Our route will be up to the fifth level, south over Divinal, across the bay and out to sea."

  Joe shook his head. "I'm not driving. In fact I'm not going."

  The sense of his words failed to penetrate at once. Then Elfane and Manaolo together turned their heads. Elfane was surprised with a lack of comprehension on her face rather than anger. Manaolo stood expressionless, his eyes dull, opaque.

  Elfane said in a sharper voice, as if Joe had not understood her, "Go on out—you will drive."

  Joe casually slid his hand inside his blouse, where the little weapon rested. Manaolo's eyes flickered, the only movement of his face, but Joe knew his mind was agile and reckless.

  "I don't intend driving you," sail Joe. "You can easily ditch that corpse without me. I don't know where you're going or why. I know I'm not going with you."

  "I order you!" exclaimed Elfane. This was fantastic, insane—contrary to the axioms of her existence.

  Joe shook his head, watching warily. "Sorry."

  Elfane dismissed the paradox from her mind. She turned to Manaolo. "Kill him here then. His corpse, at least, will provoke no speculation."

  Manaolo grinned regretfully. "I'm afraid the clobber-claw is aiming a gun at us. He will refuse to let me kill him."

  Elfane tightened her lips. "This is ridiculous." She whirled. Joe brought out the gun. Elfane halted stock-still, words failing in her mouth.

  "Very well," she said in a subdued voice. "I'll give you money to be silent. Will that satisfy you?"

  "Very much," said Joe, smiling crookedly. Pride? What was pride? If it weren't for Margaret he'd enjoy… But no, she was plainly running off with this brilliant and dangerous Manao
lo. Who would want a woman after his handling of her?

  "How much?" asked Manaolo idly.

  Joe calculated rapidly. He had four hundred stiples in his room, about a thousand he had taken from the corpse. He dismissed his calculations. Make it big. "Five thousand stiples and I've forgotten everything I've seen today."

  The figure apparently did not seem exorbitant to either of them. Manaolo felt in one pocket, then another, found a money-flap, riffled out a number of notes, tossed them to the floor.

  "There's your money."

  Without a backward glance Elfane ran out on the plat, jumped into the Kelt. Manaolo strolled after her.

  The Kelt jerked up, swung off into the clean air of Kyril. Joe was alone in the tall chamber.

  He picked up the notes. Five thousand stiples! He went to the window, watched the air-car dwindle to a dot.

  There was a small throb in his throat, a pang. Elfane was a wonderful creature. On Earth, had it not been for Margaret, he would have been entranced. But this was Kyril, where Earth was a fable. And Margaret, supple, soft, blonde as a field full of jonquils, was waiting for him to return. Or at least knew that he was expecting her to wait. With Margaret, Joe thought ruefully, the idea might not mean the same thing. Damn Harry Creath!

  He became uneasily aware of his surroundings. Any one of a dozen persons might enter and find him. There would be difficulty explaining his presence. Somehow he had to return to his own quarters. He froze in his tracks. The sound of a door sliding brought an instant quickening of the pulse, a flush of sweat. He backed against the tapestry. Steps, slow, unhurried, came down the passageway.

  The door scraped back. A man entered the room—a short yellow-skinned man in a blue velvet cloak—Hableyat.

  III

  HABLEYAT glanced briefly around the room, shook his head dolefully. "A bad business. Risky for all concerned."

  Joe, standing stiffly at the wall, found ready assent. Hableyat took a couple steps forward, peered at the floor. "Careless. Still much blood."

  He looked up, became conscious of Joe's stance. "But by all means be at your ease. Indeed be at your ease." For a moment he inspected Joe impersonally. "No doubt your mouth has been crammed with money. A marvel you still live."

  Joe said dryly, "I was summoned here by the Priestess Elfane, who drove off in the Kelt. Otherwise I disassociate myself from the entire affair."

  Hableyat shook his head wistfully. "If you are found here with the blood on the floor you will be questioned. And since every effort will be made to hush up Empoing's assassination you will undoubtedly be killed to insure your silence."

  Joe licked his lips. "But isn't it from whom they want to hide the killing?"

  Hableyat nodded. "No doubt. I represent the Power and Reach of the Mangtse Dail—that is, the Bluewater Faction. Empoing was born to the Red-streams, who follow a different school of thought. They believe in a swift succession of events."

  A strange idea formed in Joe's mind and would not be dismissed. Hableyat noticed the shift of his features. His mouth, a short fleshy crevice between the two yellow jowls, drew in at the corners.

  "Yes indeed. I killed him. It was necessary, believe me. Otherwise he would have slaughtered Manaolo, who is engaged on a very important mission. If Manaolo were deterred it would be—from one viewpoint—a tragedy."

  The ideas were coming too fast —they fled by Joe's mind like a school of fish past a dip-net. It was as if Hableyat were displaying a tray full of bright wares, waiting to see which Joe would select.

  Joe said warily, "Why are you telling me all this?"

  Hableyat shrugged his meaty shoulders. "Whoever you are you are no simple chauffeur."

  "Ah-but I am!"

  "Who or what you are has not yet been established. These are complex times, when many people and many worlds want irreconcilable things and every man's origin and intentions must be closely analyzed. My information traces you to Thuban Nine, where you served as an instructor of civil engineering at the Technical Institute. From Thuban you came to Ardemizian, then to Panapol, then to Rosalinda, then to Jamivetta, finally to Kyril.

  "On each planet you remained only long enough to earn transportation to the next. There is a pattern here and where there is a pattern there is a plan. Where there is a plan there is an intent and where there is an intent there are ends to be gained. And when ends are gained someone is the loser. But I see you are uneasy. Evidently you fear discovery. Am I right?"

  "I do not care to be killed."

  "I suggest that we repair to my apartment, which is nearby, and then perhaps we will have a chat. I am always eager to learn and possibly in gratitude for a safe exit from this apartment—"

  A chime cut him short. He started, moved rapidly to the window, looked up, down. From the window he ran to the door, listened. He motioned to Joe. "Stand aside."

  The chime sounded again—a heavy knuckle rapped at the door. Hableyat hissed under his breath. A scratch, a scrape. The door slid aside.

  A tall man with a wide red face and a little beak of a nose strode into the room. He wore a flowing white robe with a cowl and a black-green-and-gold morion atop the cowl. Hableyat slid behind him, executed a complex gesture involving a kick at the back of the man's legs, a clip of the forearm, a wrench at the wrist— and the Druid fell face down on the floor.

  Joe gasped, "It's the Thearch himself! We'll be flayed…"

  "Come," said Hableyat, once more a benevolent man of business. They stepped swiftly down the hall. Hableyat slid back his door. "In."

  Hableyat's suite was larger than the chambers of the Priestess Elfane. The sitting room was dominated by a long rectangular table, the top cut from a single slab of polished dark wood inlaid with arabesque copper leaves.

  Two Mang warriors sat stiffly on each side of the door—short stocky men, craggy of feature. Hableyat paid them no heed, passed them as if they were inanimate. Noting Joe's inquiring glance, he appeared to observe them for the first time.

  "Hypnotized," he said off-handedly. "So long as I'm in the room or the room is empty they won't move."

  Joe gingerly moved past him into the room, reflecting that he was as open to suspicion here as he was in the Priestess' apartment.

  Hableyat seated himself with a grunt, motioned Joe to a chair. Rather than trust himself to a maze of unknown corridors Joe obeyed. Hableyat lay his plump palms flat on the table, fixed Joe with candid eyes.

  "You appear to be caught up in an unpleasant situation, Joe Smith."

  "Not necessarily," said Joe with a forlorn attempt at spirit. "I could go to the Thearch, tell my story and that would be an end to it."

  Hableyat's face quivered as he chortled, opening his mouth like a squirrel. "And then?"

  Joe said nothing.

  Hableyat slapped the table heartily. "My boy, you are not yet familiar with the Druid psychology. To them killing is the response to almost any circumstance—a casual act like turning out the light on leaving a room. So when you had told your story you would be killed. For no particular reason other than that it is easier to kill than not to kill." Hableyat idly traced the pattern of a tendril with his yellow fingernail, spoke as if musing aloud.

  "Sometimes the strangest organisms are the most efficient. Kyril operates in a manner remarkable for its utter simplicity. Five billion lives devoted to feeding and pampering two million Druids and one Tree. But the system works, it perpetuates itself—which is the test for viability.

  "Kyril is a grotesque ultimate of religious dedication. Laity, Druids, Tree. Laity works, Druids conduct the rites, Tree is—is immanent. Amazing! Humanity creates from the same protoplasm the clods of the Laity, the highly-tempered Druids."

  Joe stirred restlessly. "What is all this to me?"

  "I merely indicate," said Hableyat gently, "that your life is not worth the moist spot where I spit to anyone but yourself. What is life to a Druid? See this workmanship? The lives of ten men have been spent on this table. The slabs of marble on the wall—they
were ground to fit by hand. Cost? Druids have no awareness of the concept. Labor is free, man-power unlimited.

  "Even the electricity which powers and lights the palace is generated by hand in the cellars—in the name of the Tree of Life, where the poor blind souls ultimately hope to reside, serene in the sunlight and wind. The Druids thereby justify the system to their consciences, to the other worlds.

  "The Laity knows nothing better. An ounce of meal, a fish, a pot of greens—so they survive. They know no marriage rites, no family, no tradition, not even folklore. They are cattle on a range. They breed with neither passion nor grace.

  "Controversies? The Druid formula is simple. Kill both parties and so the controversy is dead. Unassailable—and the Tree of Life looms across the planet, the mightiest promise of life eternal the galaxy has ever known. Pure massive vitality!"

  Joe hitched himself forward in his seat, looked to his right at the immobile Mang warriors. To his left, across the deep orange rug, out the window. Hableyat followed his gaze with a quizzical purse to his lips.

  Joe said in a tight voice, "Why are you keeping me here? What are you waiting for?"

  Hableyat blinked rapidly, reproachfully. "I am conscious of no intent to detain you. You are free to leave any time you wish."

  "Why bring me here in the first place?" demanded Joe.

  Hableyat shrugged. "Sheer altruism possibly. If you returned to your quarters now you are as good as dead. Especially after the regrettable intrusion of the Thearch."

  Joe relaxed into the chair. "That's not—necessarily true."

  Hableyat nodded vigorously. "I'm afraid it is. Consider—it is known or will be known, that you took up the black Kelt, which subsequently was driven away by Priestess Elfane and Ecclesiarch Manaolo. The Thearch, coming to his daughter's apartments, perhaps to investigate, perhaps in response to a summons, is attacked. Shortly afterwards the chauffeur returns to his quarters." He paused, opened plump hands out significantly.