He peered around. Which way was his ship? He shielded his eyes against the late-afternoon sun until he managed to make out its bent, tubular outline. It was far off to his right, barely visible in the dying glare that hung gloomily across the sky. Sung-wu got unsteadily to his feel and began walking cautiously in that direction.
He was in a terrible spot; the whole region was pro-Tinkerist— even the Chamber-appointed Manager. And it wasn't along class lines; the cult had knifed to the top level. And it wasn’t just Caucs, any more; he couldn’t count on Bantu or Mongolian or Indian, not in this area. An entire countryside was hostile, and lying in wait for him.
Elron, it was worse than the Arm had thought! No wonder they wanted a report. A whole area had swung over to a fanatic cult, a violent extremist group of heretics, teaching a most diabolical doctrine. He shuddered—and kept on, avoiding contact with the farmers in their fields, both human and robot. He increased his pace, as alarm and horror pushed him suddenly faster.
If the thing were to spread, if it were to hit a sizable portion of mankind, it might bring back the Time of Madness.
THE SHIP was taken. Three or four immense Caucs stood lounging around it, cigarets dangling from their slack mouths, white-faced and hairy. Stunned, Sung-wu moved back down the hillside, prickles of despair numbing him. The ship was lost: they had got there ahead of him. What was he supposed to do, now?
It was almost evening. He’d have to walk fifty miles through the darkness, over unfamiliar, hostile ground, to reach the next inhabited area. The sun was already beginning to set, the air turning cool; and in addition, he was sopping wet with filth and slimy water. He had slipped in the gloom and fallen in a sewage ditch.
He retraced his steps, mind blank. What could he do? He was helpless; his shiver-gun had been useless. He was alone, and there was no contact with the Arm. Tinkerists swarming on all sides; they’d probably gut him and sprinkle his blood over the crops—or worse.
He skirted a farm. In the fading twilight, a dim figure was working, a young woman. He eyed her cautiously, as he passed; she had her back to him. She was bending over, between rows of corn. What was she doing? Was she—good Elron!
He stumbled blindly across the field toward her, caution forgotten.
"Young woman! Stop! In the name of Elron, stop at once!”
The girl straightened up. "Who are you?”
Breathless, Sung-wu arrived in front of her, gripping his battered briefcase and gasping. "Those are our brothers! How can you destroy them? They may be close relatives, recently deceased." He struck out and knocked the jar from her hand; it hit the ground and the imprisoned beetles scurried off in ail directions.
The girl's cheeks i lushed with anger. "It took me an hour to collect those!”
' You were killing them! Crushing them!” He was speechless with horror. "I saw you!”
"Of course.” The girl raised her black eyebrows. 'Thcy gnaw the corn.”
"They" re our brothers!" Sung-wu repeated wildly. "Of course they gnaw the corn; because of certain sins committed, the cosmic forces have—” He broke off, appalled. "Don’t you know? You’ve never been told?”
THE GIRL was perhaps sixteen. In the fading light she was a small, slender figure, the empty jar in one hand, a rock in the other. A tide of black hair tumbled down her neck. Her eyes were large and luminous; her lips full and deep red; her skin a smooth copper-brown—Polynesian, probably. He caught a glimpse of firm brown breasts as she bent to grab a beetle that had landed on its back. The sight made his pulse race; in a flash he was back three years.
"What’s your name?” he asked, more kindly.
''Frija.”
"How old are you?”
"Seventeen.”
"I am a Bard; have you ever spoken to a Bard before?”
"No," the girl murmured. "I don’t think so.”
She was almost invisible in the darkness. Sung-wu could scarcely see her, but what he saw sent his heart into an agony of paroxysms: the same cloud of black hair, the same deep red lips. This girl was younger, of course—a mere child, and from the Farmer class, at that. But she had Liu’s figure, and in time she’d ripen—probably in a matter of months.
Ageless, honeyed craft worked his vocal cords. "I have landed in this area to make a survey. Something has gone wrong with my ship and I must remain the night. I know no one here, however. My plight is such that—”
"Oh,” Frija said, immediately sympathetic. "Why don’t you stay with us, tonight? We have an extra room, now that my brother's away.”
"Delighted,” Sung-wu answered instantly. "Will you lead the way? I’ll gladly repay you for your kindness.” The girl moved off toward a vague shape looming up in the darkness. Sung-wu hurried quickly after her. "I find it incredible you haven't been instructed. This whole area has deteriorated beyond belief. What ways have you fallen in? We’ll have to spend much time together; I can see that already. Not one of you even approaches clearness—you’re jangled, every one of you.”
"What does that mean?” Frija asked, as she stepped up on the porch and opened the door.
"Jangled?" Sung-wu blinked in amazement. "We will have to study much together.” In his eagerness, he tripped on the top step, and barely managed to catch himself. "Perhaps you need complete instruction; it may be necessary to start from the very bottom. I can arrange a stay at the Holy Arm for you—under my protection, of course. Jangled means out of harmony with the cosmic elements. How can you live this way? My dear, you’ll have to be brought back in line with the divine plan!”
"What plan is that?” She led him into a warm livingroom; a crackling fire burned in the grate. Two or three men sat around a rough wood table, an old man with long white hair and two younger men. A frail, withered old woman sat dozing in a rocker in the corner. In the kitchen, a buxom young woman was fixing the evening meal.
"Why, the plan!" Sung-wu answered, astounded. His eyes darted around. Suddenly his briefcase fell to the floor. "Caucs,” he said.
They were all Caucasians, even Frija. She was deeply tanned; her skin was almost black; but she was a Cauc, nonetheless. He recalled: Caucs, in the sun, turned dark, sometimes even darker than Mongolians. The girl had tossed her work robe over a door hook; in her household shorts her thighs were as white as milk. And the old man and woman—
"This is my grandfather,” Frija said, indicating the old man. "Benjamin Tinker.”
UNDER THE watchful eyes of the two younger Tinkers, Sung-wu was washed and scrubbed, given clean clothes, and then fed. .He ate only a little; he didn't feel very well.
"I can't understand it,” he muttered, as he listlessly pushed his plate away. "The scanner at the Central Chamber said I had eight months left. The plague will—” He considered. "But it can always change. The scanner goes on prediction, not certainty; multiple possibilities; free will... Any overt act of sufficient significance—” Ben Tinker laughed. "You want to stay alive?”
"Of course!” Sung-wu muttered indignantly.
They all laughed—even Frija, and the old woman in her shawl, snow white hair and mild blue eyes. They were the first Cauc women he had ever seen. They weren’t big and lumbering like the male Caucs; they didn't seem to have the same bestial characteristics. The two young Cauc bucks looked plenty tough, though; they and their father were poring over an elaborate series of papers and reports, spread out on the dinner table, among the empty plates.
"This area,” Ben Tinker murmured. "Pipes should go here. And here. Water’s the main need. Before the next crop goes in, we'll dump a few hundred pounds of artificial fertilizers and plow it in. The power plows should be ready, then.”
"After that?” one of the tow-headed sons asked.
"Then spraying. If we don't have the nicotine sprays, we’ll have to try the copper dusting again. I prefer the spray, but we're still behind on production. The bore has dug us up some good storage caverns, though. It ought to start picking up.”
"And here,” a son said, "there's going to be need of draining. A lot of mosquito breeding going on. We can try the oil, as we did over here. But I suggest the whole thing be filled in. We can use the dredge and scoop, if they’re not tied up.”
Sung-wu had taken this all in. Now he rose unsteadily to his feet, trembling with wrath. He pointed a shaking finger at the elder Tinker. "You’re—meddling!” he gasped.
They looked up. "Meddling?”
"With the plan! With the cosmic plan! Good Elron—you’re interfering with the divine processes. Why—” He was staggered by a realization so alien it convulsed the very core of his being. "You're actually going to set back turns of the wheel.”