Джон Вэнс - Scanned by Highroller

Joe followed him through the terminal, along an arcade lined with shops to a parking area. Joe glanced down the line of air-cars. Antique design, he thought –slipshod construction.

The Mang motioned him into the largest of these cars. «To Divinal,» he told the waiting driver.

The car arose, slanted up across the gray-green landscape. For all the apparent productivity of the land the country affected Joe unpleasantly. The villages were small, cramped and the streets and alleys glistened with stagnant water. In the fields he could see teams of men-six, ten, twenty–dragging cultivators. A dreary uninspiring landscape.

«Five billion peasants,» said the Mang. «The Laity. Two million Druids. And one Tree.»

Joe made a noncommittal sound. The Mang lapsed into silence. Farms below–interminable blocks, checks, rectangles, each a different tone of green, brown or gray. A myriad conical huts leaking smoke huddled in the corners of the fields. And ahead the Tree bulked taller, blacker, more massive.

Presently ornate white stone palaces appeared, huddled among the buttressed roots, and the car slanted down over the heavy roofs. Joe glimpsed a forest of looping balustrades, intricate panels, mullioned skylights, gargoyles, columns, embellished piers.

Then the car set down on a plat in front of a long high block of a structure, reminding Joe vaguely of the Palace at Versailles. To either side were carefully tended gardens, tessellated walks, fountains, statuary. And behind rose the Tree with its foliage hanging miles overhead.

The Mang alighted, turned to Joe. «If you'll remove the side panel to the generator space of this car and act as if you are making a minor repair I believe you will shortly be offered a lucrative post.»

Joe said uncomfortably, «You're going to a great deal of effort for a stranger. Are you a–philanthropist?»

The Mang said cheerfully, «Oh no. No, no! I act as the whim moves me but I am not completely selfless in my acts. Let me express it this way–if I were sent to do an unspecified repair job I would take with me as wide a variety of tools as I was able.

«So, in my own–ah–mission I find that many persons have special talents or knowledges which turn out to be invaluable. Therefore I cultivate as wide and amicable an acquaintanceship as possible.»

Joe smiled thinly. «Does it pay off?»

«Oh indeed. And then,» said the plump man blandly, «courtesy is a reward in itself. There is an incalculable satisfaction in helpful conduct. Please don't consider yourself under obligation of any sort.»

Jim thought, without expressing himself aloud, «I won't.»

The plump man departed, crossed the plat to a great door of carved bronze.

Joe hesitated a moment. Then, perceiving nothing to be lost by following instructions, he undamped the side panel. A band of lead held it in place like a seal. Joe hesitated another instant, then snapped the band, lifted the panel off.

He now looked into a most amazing mechanism. It had been patched together out of spare parts, bolted with lag screws into wooden blocks, bound to the frame with bits of rope. Wires lay exposed without insulation. The forcefield adjustment had been made with a wooden wedge. Joe shook his head, marveling. Then recollecting the flight from the terminal, he sweated in retrospect.

The plump yellow-skinned man had instructed him to act as if he were repairing the motor. Joe saw that pretense would be unnecessary. The powerbox was linked to the metadyne by a helter-skelter tubing. Joe reached in, pulled the mess loose, reoriented the poles, connected the units with a short straight link.

Across the plat another car landed and a girl of eighteen or nineteen jumped out. Joe caught the flash of eyes in a narrow vital face as she looked toward him. Then she had left the plat.

Joe stood looking after the sapling-slender form. He relaxed, turned back to the motor. Very nice–girls were nice things. He compressed his lips, thinking of Margaret. An entirely different kind of girl was Margaret. Blonde in the first place–easy-going, flexible, but inwardly–Joe paused in his work. What was she, in her heart of hearts, where he had never penetrated?

When he had told her of his plans she had laughed, told him he was born thousands of years too late. Two years now–was Margaret still waiting? Three months was all he had thought to be gone–and then he had been led on and on, from planet to planet, out of Earth space, out across the Unicorn Gulf, out along a thin swirl of stars, beating his way from world to world.

On Jamivetta he had farmed moss on a bleak tundra and even the third-class passage to Kyril had looked good. Margaret , thought Joe, I hope you're worth all this travail . He looked at where the dark-haired Druid girl had run into the palace.

A harsh voice said, «What's this you're doing–tearing apart the air-car? You'll be killed for such an act.»

It was the driver of the car the girl had landed in. He was a coarse-faced thick-bodied man with a swinish nose and jaw. Joe, from long and bitter experience on the outer worlds, held his tongue, turned back to investigate the machine further. He leaned forward in disbelief. Three condensers, hooked together in series, dangled and swung on their connectors. He reached in, yanked off the extraneous pair, wedged the remaining condenser into a notch, hooked it up again.

«Here, here, here !» bellowed the driver. «You be leaving your destructive hands off a delicate bit of mechanism!»

It was too much. Joe raised his head. «Delicate bit of machinery! It's a wonder this pitiful tangle of junk can fly at all.»

The driver's face twisted in fury. He took a quick heavy step forward, then halted as a Druid came sweeping out on the plat–a big man with a flat red face and impressive eyebrows. He had a small hawk's-beak of a nose protruding like an afterthought between his cheeks, a mouth bracketed by ridges of stubborn muscle.

He wore a long vermilion robe with a cowl of rich black fur, an edging of fur along the robe to match. Over the cowl he wore a morion of black and green metal with a sunburst in red-and-yellow enamel cocked over one temple.

«Borandino!»

The driver cringed. «Worship.» «Go. Put away the Kelt.»

«Yes, Worship.»

The Druid halted before Joe. He saw the pile of discarded junk, his face became congested. «What are you doing to my finest car?»

«Removing a few encumbrances.»

«The best mechanic on Kyril services that machinery!»

Joe shrugged. «He's got a lot to learn. I'll put that stuff back if you want me to. It's not my car.»

The Druid stared fixedly at him. «Do you mean to say that the car will run after you've pulled all that metal out of it?»

«It should run better.»

The Druid looked Joe over from head to foot. Joe decided that this must be the District Thearch. The Druid, with the faintest suggestion of furtiveness in his manner, looked back over his shoulder toward the palace, then back to Joe.

«I understand you're in the service of Hableyat.»

«The Mang? Why–yes.»

«You're not a Mang. What are you?»

Joe recalled the incident with the Druid at the terminal. «I'm a Thuban.»

«Ah! How much does Hableyat pay you?»

Joe wished he knew something of the local currency and its value. «Quite a bit,» he said.

«Thirty stiples a week? Forty?»

«Fifty,» said Joe.

«I'll pay you eighty,» said the Thearch. «You'll be my chief mechanic.» Joe nodded. «Very well.»

«You'll come with me right now. I'll inform Hableyat of the change. You'll have no further contact with that Mang assassin. You are now a servant to the Thearch of the District.»

Joe said, «At your service, Worship.»