False Prophet
Nidorian 02c
(1956)*
Astounding Science Fiction – December 1956
Randall Garrett & Robert Silverberg
(as Robert Randall)
illustrated by van Dongen

The shortfiction stories The Chosen People, The Promised Land, and False Prophet were expanded in a fix-up titled the The Shrouded Planet(1957)

	There are times when it is exceedingly unwise to tell the truth—and the Nidorian was dedicated to truth. The Earthmen were wiser; they lied about him.

-

	THE last thing that would have entered Norvis peRahn Brajjyd's mind would have been a ceremony centering around his esteemed classmate, Dran peNibro Sesom. Dran peNibro, being honored for something? Impossible, Norvis thought. Dran peNibro was a bedraggled little Nidorian from the slums of Tammulcor, and, as far as Norvis knew, he had done nothing in his two years at the Bel-rogas School of Divine Law but occupy space in the classrooms.

	Norvis shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs away. It had been a long, hard night of work and brooding—mostly brooding, unfortunately—and Norvis took it most unkindly when young Krin peBor Yorgen, the first-year man who did the waking-up duties for Norvis' floor of the dormitory, awakened him an hour before the usual Bel-rogas reveille.

	Norvis had had just three hours of sleep, and he was thoroughly unhappy at the sight of Krin peBor's shining young face peeking in the door ahead of time.

	"Rise and shine, Norvis peRahn," Krin exclaimed, in an all-too-cheery voice.

	Norvis opened one eye quizzically and squinted out the window. It was still gray outside; the Great Light was not yet bright in the sky.

	"What are you doing here at this hour?" Norvis asked. "It's an hour to reveille, maybe more."

	"Not today," Krin said brightly. "Special ceremony this morning. Smith himself just came around to tell me to get everyone up early."

	"Oh," Norvis said, and sank back under the covers, thinking that Smith had a lot of nerve calling a morning ceremony after he'd been up most of the night. He shut his eyes hard, trying to pretend it was all a dream.

	A moment later he opened them cautiously. Krin peBor was still standing there, arms folded.

	"You'd better get up, Norvis peRahn," he said. "This is something special, according to Smith."

	"He's not going to miss me," Norvis told him. "The School's big enough that they'll never notice I'm not there. Go away."

	He slumped back and shut his eyes a second time, only to find Krin peBor shaking him vigorously by the shoulder.

	"Will you go away?" Norvis said. "I want to sleep—and you can tell that to Smith if you feel like it."

	"Sorry," Krin said cheerfully, "but Smith gave me special instructions that you were to be there. So I guess you don't have any choice."

	"I guess not," Norvis grumbled, and dragged himself out of bed. "What's going on, anyway? You have any idea?"

	"Sure," Krin said. "They're honoring Dran peNibro. Giving him the Order of Merit, Smith said."

	It took a moment to register. Then Norvis said, "What?" He sat down again. "Dran peNibro, getting honored? For what? That fumblewit can't even find his way to class without having trouble."

	Krin peBor shrugged. "I don't know why either," he said. "But the Earthmen do funny things sometimes." He gave Norvis a look intended to convey deep meanings, but which merely seemed ridiculous on his youthful face.

	Norvis shook his head. "Dran peNibro! I don't get it."

	It was, on the face of it, incredible, Norvis told himself, as he reluctantly pulled himself out of his bed, still red-eyed from his long night of wasted effort. Still puzzled, he rose and groped for a fresh vest. Krin peBor, seeing that Norvis was definitely up to stay, smiled politely and ducked out. A moment later, Norvis heard him thundering on the next door down the hall.

-

	Norvis stared balefully at the heap of papers on his desk, at the two or three scratched notes that had been the only products of his night's labors. His project was nearing completion—that was obvious—but last night he had come to the jarring discovery that, with the end in sight, he was not at all anxious to finish.

	His specialty was genetics, like that of his mother's illustrious father, Kiv peGanz Brajjyd. Norvis had been working fairly closely on his project with Smith, the enigmatic, bearded Earthman who was the leader of the Earthmen on Nidor. Both he and Smith were sure that the project would probably make him a national hero, a member of the Order of Merit, and all the other things, but some nagging doubt at the back of his mind kept him from handing in the completed work to Smith. The worst part of it was that he didn't know why; he was simply reluctant, and until he found out the source of his reluctance he was determined to go no further on the project.

	He scooped up the papers and shoveled them into his file, and clicked closed the combination lock. Then, smoothing his golden facial down with his fingers to make himself more presentable, he started downstairs. From outside, he could hear the sounds of the gathering starting to form in the square.

	He still didn't believe it. Dran peNibro, being honored? For what? What was the little rodent capable of, Norvis wondered, that could ever make him the center of any such affair?

	For a bleary-eyed moment Norvis considered the possibility that it was all a hoax instituted by Krin peBor for some obscure motive. It was unlikely, but it was more conceivable than the idea that Dran peNibro had done something worth-while.

-

	Yet, when he emerged from the dorm and crossed the square to the main building of the School, he discovered that all was actually as Krin peBor had said. On the little platform usually erected for such events, Norvis could see the tall, solemn-faced figure of the Earthman Smith, the rotund figure of Morn peDrogh Yorgen, Head Grandfather of the Bel-rogas School, and, standing between them, looking impossibly thin and meek, Dran peNibro Sesom.

	It just doesn't figure, Norvis told himself, as he drew closer. It just doesn't add up at all.

	He joined the outermost edge of the throng, edging in to a little clump of upperclassmen who were standing together. They greeted him morosely; they were, obviously, just as sleepy as he was.

	"Did I hear right?" Norvis asked. "Are we all down here to see Dran peNibro get glorified?"

	"Precisely," said a tall, bored-looking student named Kresh peKresh Dmorno, who came from the western coast of the gigantic landmass that was Nidor's one continent. "We were just discussing the improbability of it now."

	Norvis nodded and flicked a glance at the platform. Smith, Dran peNibro, and Grandfather Morn peDrogh were standing there waiting for the School to assemble.

	Smith, who had guided the School for years, who had been there in the days when Norvis' parents were students there—though he had not been a member of the original party of Earthmen who had come down to Nidor eighty-four years before, descending from the sky to found the Bel-rogas School and help bring the Law to the Nidorians—Smith was standing there, stroking and smoothing his graying beard, waiting calmly and patiently. Grandfather Morn peDrogh was darting nervous glances around, and occasionally turned to mutter something to Smith, at which the Earthman would hold up a hand in pardon. Apparently he was apologizing for the tardiness of his students; Morn peDrogh was much more of a stickler about those things than his predecessor, old Gils, peKlin Hebylla.

	As for Dran peNibro, the little fellow looked utterly ill at ease. As usual, his golden body down seemed waterlogged and unkempt, and his eyes were dull and dreamy. It had long been a mystery to Norvis—and, apparently, to some of the others—how Dran peNibro had managed to get past the Examiners. The Bel-rogas School, after all, skimmed off only the cream of Nidorian youth, with an eye toward grooming at least some of them for the priesthood and later the all-powerful Council of Elders. Indeed, with the selection of Norvis' grandfather Kiv to head the Brajjyd clan last year, the Council of Elders was at last composed entirely of Bel-rogas alumni. All sixteen clan-heads had studied at the School. It was quite an accomplishment for an institution which could trace its lineage back only four generations. On Nidor, where recorded history stretched back thousands of years, four generations was an incredibly short span of time for anything like that to come about.

	But Dran peNibro? What could they be grooming him for? He was just about fit to raise peych-beans like any other peasant, or perhaps work in the stables, tending deests. But yet there he was, planted up there between Smith and the Head Grandfather. And now, Morn peDrogh held both of his arms above his head. The crowd stilled. Norvis leaned forward to hear better. He was curious to find out just what this was all about.

-

	"My children," the Grandfather said in his solemn voice, "your attention, please." The priest waited for the low hum of conversation to die out, smoothing his hands against his blue tunic impatiently, then went on.

	"We are here this morning to ask the blessings of the Great Light upon one of our members. Let us pray."

	Everyone turned to face the east, where the morning glow of the Great Light was already showing a pearly gray through the eternal cloud layer of Nidor.

	"O Great and Shining Father," the priest intoned, "favor us this day by shedding Your Holy light and Your ineffable blessings upon us all. And favor especially those of us who have diligently worked in Your holy Cause. And favor especially one of our members whom we, Your servants, are to honor today for his work in Your Great Plan.

	"Favor us, then, O Light of the World, by giving special grace to Your servant, Dran, the son of Nibro, of the noble Clan of Sesom, for the work he has done for Your people.'^

	The invocation was over. As one, the group turned back to look again at the platform.

	Dran peNibro still looked as snivelly and as stupid as ever. Norvis felt it quite unlikely that the Great Light had paid any attention to the prayer.

	Smith, the Earthman, stood up. "In order for all of you t& understand what this young man has done," he said, "we must take a look at the world's food supply and examine its fundamental nature.

	"The principal crop, which is the basic food of all Nidor, is the peych-bean," Smith said. "Now, while it is truly written, 'We do not live on peych alone,' it is, nevertheless, our most important crop. Because of its versatility, it may be used for many things: its leaves provide us with fiber for our clothing; its stalks can be used as fuel or deest-fodder."

	Norvis exchanged wary grins with the man standing next to him. "Next he'll be telling us that the stuff we breathe is air, and how important that is," the other whispered.

	"No," Norvis whispered back. "I think, after judicious consideration, that he will remind us that water is, after all, very wet."

	"You can see, therefore," Smith continued, "what a boon it would be if some method were discovered to aid the farmer in producing peych-beans. Dran peNibro has been concentrating on an approach to this problem.

	"Those of you who have been studying agronomy know how the soil is enriched by fertilizers, of course. What Dran peNibro has done, very briefly, is discover a way to increase the per acre yield by nearly one hundred per cent, by means of a new growth hormone which—"

	Norvis peRahn Brajjyd's wandering attention snapped back suddenly to what the Earthman was saying. Growth hormone? It couldn't be! That was his own pet project!

	He strained his ears to hear Smith's words more carefully.

	"... Which permits the plant to make more efficient use of the soil. Although the cost of producing this new substance is high, very little is needed for each plant, a matter of a few drops injected into the tap-root of the peych plant itself.

	"Naturally, the exact process will remain a secret, to be kept in the possession of Dran peNibro and his descendants, in order that he may reap the proper profit due him by virtue of his work."

	Norvis peRahn felt the golden fuzz on the back of his neck prickle. Smith had quoted almost exactly the words in his own notebook, locked upstairs in his file! He sputtered in rage. Why, that little sneak of a Dran peNibro had stolen his work!

	Norvis rocked back and forth for a second or two, much too bewildered to be able to do anything at all. The events of the entire morning had been insane, unbelievable.

	On the platform, Smith, with great show of ceremony, had taken a small box from his voluminous robes and had handed it to Grandfather Morn peDrogh. The Grandfather turned to Dran peNibro, who was yet to open his mouth. He was standing there, smiling insipidly.

	Grandfather Morn opened the box and brought forth a magnificent ribbon with a gleaming medal dangling from it. The assembled students suddenly became terribly quiet.

	"Dran peNibro," he said sonorously, "kneel."

	The little man knelt humbly. Grandfather Morn looked upward, where the Great Light was breaking through the clouds, and then down at the kneeling Dran peNibro. Norvis froze.

	Solemnly, the Grandfather said, "The Blessings of the Great Light are upon you, Dran peNibro, for the brilliant work you have performed here at the Bel-rogas School. It is only fitting then," he said, starting to slip the ribbon around Dran peNibro's thin neck, "that we, by virtue of the power vested in us by the Council of Elders, hereby invest you with full and unqualified membership in the Order of—"

	Norvis could take no more.

	"Stop!" he roared. The sound of his voice broke the dead silence that had prevailed. He heard the word ricocheting off the buildings and echoing back, bouncing around the square.

	All eyes turned on him. He felt terribly alone in the midst of the crowd.

	"What does this interruption mean?" Grandfather Morn asked sternly. His eyes were blazing with rage.

	Norvis took a step backward, and noticed that everyone around him was edging slowly away from him. He tried to speak, but couldn't find words.

	"I repeat," the Grandfather said, "what did that outburst mean? Why did you tell me to stop?"

	Again Norvis struggled to speak, and this time he found words.

	"Dran peNibro is a thief" he shouted. "The growth hormone was my project. He stole it from me!"

	"This is a very unusual charge," the Grandfather said cautiously. "What proof can you offer?"

	"Ask Smith! Smith knows! He knows I was working on it. I was almost finished with it. Go ahead, Smith. Tell him! Tell him that Dran peNibro stole my project!"

	Norvis felt his hands quivering. He was no longer afraid; he was burning with righteous indignation.

	Smith remained silent. "Go on," Norvis urged. "Tell him all about it."

	"Dran peNibro has been working on this project for over a year," Smith said quietly. "He has been reporting to me regularly. I know of no other project in the School which was even remotely similar."

	Grandfather Morn peDrogh frowned. Obviously the whole scene was very distasteful to him, and he was unsure of how he was going to recapture the dignified tone of the ceremony.

	"Did you hear that, Norvis peRahn?"

	"It's a lie!" Norvis yelled. "I was working on the project. Dran peNibro wouldn't know a hormone from a deest's bray without a picture-book. That was my project, and he stole it—and Smith knows that! Smith's lying!"

	Overcome by rage, Norvis pushed his way through the crowd, heading blindly for the platform, where Smith awaited him, arms folded calmly. Norvis kept repeating, over and over again, "Smith lied. The Earthman lied."

	Then suddenly a powerful hand was clamped over his mouth, and two more seized his arms. He struggled, kicked wildly, bit at the hand. It had the alien odor of an Earthman's skin, and then Norvis sensed the acrid taste of an Earthman's blood—but the hand stayed right there. He was in the grip of two of the Earthmen, and they were dragging him away, back from the platform, and then farther away and into one of the buildings. He continued to fight and shove, and as they hurled him, still protesting, into an open door, he heard the droning voice of Grandfather Morn peDrogh proceeding with the ceremony, as if nothing had happened.

	The long road that led from the capital city of Nidor, Holy Gelusar, to the great eastern seaport of Vashcor led southeast to avoid the Mountains of the Morning, a branch of the mighty range of the Ancestral Mountains that ran east and west across the continent, separating the rugged northern province of Sugon from the more fertile plains of the south.

	The traffic was not heavy along the road; the easiest method was to take a river packet from Gelusar, traveling down the Tammul River to the southern seaport of Tammulcor, and take a coastal ship around to Vashcor. But that cost money, and Norvis peRahn had precious little of that. He had six twenty-weight notes in the wallet of his vest, and two six-piece coins in his pocket, making a hundred and twenty-one weights in all. Not much money to last a man for very long.

	He tried not to think of his personal problems, but every step of the way they drifted back into his mind. A glance at the bleak crests of the Mountains of the Morning reminded him of the story his mother had told him about a secret place of magic the Earthmen had somewhere in those jagged peaks. Sindi iRahn had told the story many times, always cautioning young Norvis not to tell anyone else, and at the same time instilling in him a certain suspicion of the Earthmen that had been more than amply confirmed now.

	The sight of the Mountains, reminding him of his mother, reminded him in turn of her tears when she learned that he had been expelled from the Bel-rogas School, as a result of the scene he had caused that day.

	The first student expelled in the four-generation history of the School had received a lukewarm reception at home. His father had tried to understand, but it was obvious that he did not believe Norvis peRahn's story. After all, would an Earthman lie? And where were the notebooks that Norvis claimed to have kept? Why weren't they in his locker?

	Norvis had tried to explain that they had been stolen, but his explanation fell on deaf ears.

	Grandfather Kiv peGanz had been positively icy, but just. The gruff old man had given him the money for the trip, and asked him to take himself as far from Gelusar as he could get. There were no jobs open for a young man who had publicly called an Earthman a liar and tried to take credit away from a deserving fellow-student.

	So, alone and more than a little bewildered, Norvis had left Gelusar, all his proud hopes ended.

	The road to Vashcor was not a short one to begin with, but even the easy loping gait of the deest he was riding could not soothe the anger that boiled up inside him, and that anger only seemed to make the journey longer.

	Why had the Earthman lied? Why had the notebook been stolen? And why, above all, had the secret been given to that runted little blockhead, Dran peNibro Sesom? Was it because his great uncle was Grandfather Golis peGolis Sesom, one of the most powerful of the Elders? But what difference would that make?

	None of it made any sense. The only thing that made sense was his deep hatred for the Earthman, Smith. And the other Earthmen, too. McKay and the others must have known what Smith was doing. They must have known that Norvis peRahn would denounce the theft of his idea; otherwise, why had two strong Earthmen been in readiness, prepared to drag him away from the ceremony as soon as he opened up?

	For some reason known only to them, the Earthmen had contrived to ruin his life. They had stolen the secret that would have made him famous, and they had stigmatized him in the eyes of the world forever. Why? What went on in the alien brains behind those strange eyes? 

	Norvis peRahn turned the problem over and over in his mind during the long journey, but he never seemed to come up with an answer.

-

	The Grand Harbor of Vashcor shimmered greenly in the diffuse illumination of the Great Light. Here and there were tall masts of the seagoing vessels, and dotted among the bigger ships were swarms of smaller boats rolling lazily on the incoming tide. 

	Norvis peRahn watched one ship as her sails caught the wind at the harbor mouth and she moved majestically out into the open sea. The Grand Harbor was almost ideally sheltered, surrounded as it was by high cliff which protected the bay from the wind. The little paddle-wheeled steam tugs pulled the bigger ships out to the harbor mouth, past the cliffs, to where the wind could push them out to sea. Then they would wait until another ship came into the channel and tug them into port when their sails dropped and sagged idly in the still air of the harbor.

	It was almost unbearably hot, even for Norvis, who was used to this sort of weather. The humidity made his body hair cling to his skin; he felt sticky and uncomfortable.

	He also felt hungry.

	He wasn't quite sure whether he should eat immediately or wait until he got even hungrier. He was beginning to wish he hadn't been in such a hurry to sell his deest. After eighteen days, his money was getting low, and he hadn't found a decent job yet. Oh, there were plenty of jobs around, if one wanted to do any sort of thing. Street cleaning, stable sweeping, bilge scraping at the drydocks—none of them appealed to him and none of them offered any chance of advancement. Still, if things got much worse, he might have to take on a menial job just to eat and pay rent in the small hole-in-the-wall he had found.

	The trouble was, all the decent jobs were pretty well sewed up by the guilds. Of course, the letter he had from Elder Grandfather Kiv peGanz might allow him to get past the guild barrier, but he thought not. It would have, ordinarily, but the news of his expulsion had already preceded him to Vashcor. No one would want anything to do with him when they found out who he was.

	There was one other way. It was rough work, but if a man had brains he could get somewhere eventually. He watched the flying sea-lizards float lazily in the faint updrafts from the water and thought the proposition over.

	Finally, he took a three-piece coin from his shorts pocket and flipped it into the air. The bronze disk twinkled as it spun up and dropped back to his hand.

	If it came down "prayers," he'd try for another five days; if it came down "price," he'd go to the Shipmaster's.

	He looked down, wondering if he'd see the lettering of the prayer inscription or the graven figure 3.

	The number looked up at him. It was "price".

-

	The Shipmaster's was a huge, square building that had been erected a thousand years before. The stone, like that of any other ancient building, was weathered and pitted, and the stairs that led into the main entrance were deeply worn by the passing of hundreds of thousands of shod feet.

	The man behind the desk marked Mercantile Enlistments was wrinkled and old; his facial down was silvery with age.

	"Good day, Ancient One," Norvis said politely. "May the Great Light bless you."

	"Bless you, too, son," the oldster said sharply. "What do you want?" 

	"Enlistment in the Mercantile. Any openings?"

	The old man narrowed his eyes. "There's always openings for a man who likes the sea. What's your name?"

	"Norvis peKrin Dmorno," Norvis lied. The Dmorno clan was large and centered in the far west; it was a safe alias.

	"Can you read and write?"

	"A little," Norvis admitted cautiously. He didn't want to admit that he'd had much schooling, but it might be difficult to disguise the fact that he was literate.

	"I have an opening for a scrubhand, usual four-year terms. Do you know what that means?"

	"Stay on four years. Money is paid at the end of the enlistment. If I skip ship, I forfeit all rights to the money."

	"That's it," said the old man. He pushed a piece of paper and a pen across the desk. "Sign the bottom line."

	Norvis glanced at the paper, then looked up. "This is an eight-year contract, Ancient One. I only want four."

	The old man pulled the paper back. "You can read, I see. All right, try this one." He pushed out another paper. This time, Norvis signed.

	It was an old trick; if a man couldn't read, they'd hand him the longer term contract. He would think that he was free after four years and come to the office to collect his pay; often he'd miss his ship. Then—no money.

	Norvis knew that his first ship would be going to the Bronze Islands for metal cargoes. They wouldn't take a chance on giving a new man a ride around the coast; he simply might be trying to get back home again for nothing. They couldn't let him skip ship to his home port after only one voyage.

	The old man gave him a slip of paper. "Go back to Room Thirty-four. You'll be assigned to the Balthar, under Captain Del peFenn Vyless." Norvis nodded and headed for Room Thirty-four.

-

	Four years of life at sea helped Norvis become sure of himself. He started out cleaning ship and waiting on the crew. The sailors, all guild members, did nothing but sail the vessel; none of the dirty, grimy jobs for them. That was for the swabhands, not for skilled labor.

	It wasn't much of a life, for a man used to the comparative ease of the School. He took orders, but he didn't take them happily. He always carried them out to the best of his ability, though. It didn't seem wise to get jugged out of the one remaining source of income he had.

	After the first two trips, he found himself starting to rise aboard ship. He grew in responsibility, and the sailors began to accord him the privilege of a greeting. It was obvious to all, particularly Captain Del peFenn, that this was an unusual swabhand; he quickly rose to first rank among the swabhands, which was a small victory, true enough, but a victory none the less.

	At the end of his first year on the Balthar, Norvis was eligible for membership in the guild, and he was voted in by overwhelming acclaim of the full-fledged sailors on board, with Captain Del's hearty approval. They gave him his certificate on the first really long journey they undertook, out around the coast to the distant seaport of Sundacor. Someone had painstakingly inscribed "Norvis peKrin Dmorno" on it, and he smiled over it; for all intents and purposes, now, Norvis peRahn Brajjyd was dead and forgotten. It was just as well.

	He rose rapidly in the guild; at the end of his second year, he was elected Spokesman by his fellow crew members, in deference to his eloquence and superior intelligence. By now there was more than a little speculation aboard ship on the topic of Norvis peKrin's doings before joining the Mercantile, but he said nothing, and no one asked.

	From there, the step up in the hierarchy was rapid and inevitable. He was made second mate by Captain Del peFenn, a powerful, dynamic man with an overbearing bass voice and vivid contempt for some of the most deeply-rooted Nidorian mores. Captain Del came from a long line of ship owners, and the Seamen of Vashcor had always been fairly detached from the theocratic mainland life.

	For long hours as the Balthar, wind in its billowing sails, moved in dignified fashion over the sea, Norvis would sit, quietly nodding, while the captain would express opinions which would undoubtedly have resulted in his stoning, were he a landsman. Gradually, the captain unburdened himself more and more bluntly. He feared the power of the Council of Elders, who had immediate control over his cargoes and were always happy to tithe him at both ends. He bitterly resented this, as had his father before him and his father, no doubt, but it was the first time any of them had a chance to unload this resentment to another.

	Norvis, without committing himself, managed to let the captain see that he was in at least partial agreement. It took an effort occasionally, for Norvis did not actually hold the same animosity for the council that the captain did, and when Del peFenn spent the better part of an evening attacking the Elder Grandfather Kiv peGanz Brajjyd, it was all Norvis could do to restrain himself. After all, honor and love for one's ancestors was set forth on the very first page of the Scriptures, and little as Norvis cared for old Kiv, he still respected him both as an Elder and as his own grandfather.

	Del peFenn's grievance against Kiv was a simple one: his father, Fenn peFulda Vyless, had held a stranglehold on the shipping of Edris powder from one part of the world to another. When the youthful Kiv's revolutionary genetics work had ended the entire Edris industry, these contracts were voided, leaving Fenn peFulda temporarily bankrupt.

	Even though he had built up his fortune again, and Del peFenn had increased it twofold, they retained this bitterness, and the captain returned to the subject of Kiv peGanz Brajjyd more than once.

	As the months moved on, the captain and his former swabhand grew quite close. And, when, in the third year of Norvis' time on board, a prematurely lowered boom carried Charnok peDran Yorgen, the Balthar's first mate, overboard, never to be recovered, who else was the logical replacement but Norvis peKrin Dmorno?

-

	As first mate, Norvis moved up to the second-best cabin, just next to the captain's, and his wage went up considerably. In odd moments, it pleased him to contemplate the amount of money that was accumulating for him, to be paid in a lump at the end of the four-year voyage.

	Each time the ship put in port, it was his task to supervise loading and unloading of cargo, and to break in the new men Del peFenn was forever hiring. The swabhands had the occasional habit of jumping contract, apparently preferring to lose their pay for the year rather than sweat out three more of the same, and hardly a stop was made without some new swabhand coming aboard. They were generally tall gawky boys, too restless to make good farmers and not clever enough to get into Bel-rogas.

	After a while, Norvis came to realize why his rise to the top had been so easy: he was a veritable intellectual giant among sailors. Since every sailor began as a swabhand, and since the swabhands were always green boys without education or any particular ability, a man with several years of the Bel-rogas School behind him stood out aboard ship like the Great Light over the mountains.

	And then, on a warm afternoon in Norvis' final year of duty, Ganz peKresh Danoy joined the crew.

	"We've got a new swabhand," Captain Del told Norvis. "He's down on the forward deck now, getting some of the smell of the sea into his lungs."

	"Another green kind, eh?" Norvis said. "Well, I'll make a sailor out of him before long."

	The captain smiled. "Maybe you'd better go down front and see him before you decide on anything." There was a strange expression on his face, and when Norvis got his first view of Ganz peKresh Danoy he understood.

	Ganz peKresh was no green recruit—not by thirty years, or so. He was a man of middle-age, short, stooped, not very intelligent-looking. His blunt, flat face had the blank and bewildered appearance of a man whose life has been shattered after fifty years of complacent routine.

	"You're the new swabhand?" Norvis asked, just barely managing to conceal his disbelief.

	"That's right, sir," said Ganz peKresh. He spoke in a dull monotone, and his voice had the nasal twang of a farmer from the bleak, hilly province of Sugon.

	"You're older than our usual run of men, you know."

	"I know, sir. But this is all I'm fitted for." He spread his hands in an eloquent gesture of defeat and despair. Norvis felt a sudden twinge of premonitory fear.

	"What do you mean?" he asked anxiously.

	"Sir, you don't know? What's happened to us?"

	Norvis' expression became grim. "No," he said slowly. "Suppose you come back to my cabin and tell me all about it. I'm somewhat out of touch with things." It was not the custom for officers to invite swabhands to their cabins, but Norvis wanted to be sure this would be a private conversation—and his respect for custom in general was rapidly dwindling anyway.

-

	The story Ganz peKresh unfolded was a gloomy one. He had been, as Norvis had guessed, a farmer from Sugon. He had a small tract of barely marginal land on the southern tip of the province, in the foothills of the Ancestral Mountains. The farming there had never been profitable in the first place; the hundreds of small farms there, raising peych-beans almost exclusively, operated on just the flimsiest dividing line between profit and loss, with loss meaning starvation.

	Norvis nodded. He knew the situation in that part of Sugon; he had studied it, back in those almost-forgotten days when he had been working on the growth hormone project.

	He suddenly grimaced at the memory. He had succeeded in burying it deep, the whole sordid business of the trumped-up ceremony for Dran peNibro, his expulsion and discrediting, and everything else. And now, it came flooding back and hit him hard.

	"Something the matter, sir?"

	"No ... no," Norvis said. "Suppose you get on with your story. How come you left your farm?"

	"Well," Ganz peKresh began hesitantly, "it ... it was this new thing. The new thing that the Elders had. I don't know what it is, but all of a sudden I couldn't sell my crop."

	Norvis stiffened, those Earthmen! he thought savagely. All the old hate and bitterness surged up again now. He set his jaw. "Tell me," he said, trying to seem sympathetic. "Tell me all about it."

	"There's not much to tell. The Elders got something from that School to make their farms prosper, and suddenly the price of my beans dropped to nothing. I ... I ... I had to sell my farm. I couldn't meet the competition."

	"Something from the School, eh? And they gave it to the Elders?" 

	"That's right, sir. There was a big ceremony at Gelusar, I remember; people came from all over. And one of those Earthmen presented whatever this was to the Council and—and the next I knew, Elder Danoy bought my farm from me, and the only way I could stay alive was to go to sea. So here I am." He smiled with false gaiety; it was a weak, pathetic attempt at expressing an emotion he did not feel.

	Norvis stood up. "The Elders kept it to themselves, eh? Just like them," he muttered. They took my hormone, he thought, and of course, produced it in a limited supply—all of which the Elders took for themselves. He paced up and down, ignoring Ganz peKresh. So the Elders are getting richer and richer, and the small farmers are being squeezed off their land.

	He turned. "All right, Ganz peKresh. That'll be all for now. I'll explain your duties in the morning."

	"Thank you, sir," the farmer said humbly. "May the Great Light illumine your mind as He does the world."

-

	Norvis sat alone in his cabin for a while after the farmer had gone, struggling to control himself. He felt, once again, the same righteous indignation he had experienced on that long-gone day in the square in front of the main Bel-rogas building, when he had shaken his fist at impassive Smith and called him a liar in front of the whole School.

	What did the Earthmen want? Why were they doing this? It could only be the Earthmen, Norvis thought. They were the ones who had stolen his notes, who had trumped up his expulsion, who had seen to it that the Council of Elders had managed to get control of his growth hormone. Naturally, with the already rich Elders growing wealthier, and with the greater supply of peych beans bringing down the asking price and cutting the small men out of the bidding, the Earthmen's action was going to have disastrous consequences for Nidor's carefully balanced economy, which had been happily stable for thousands of years. There was no room in it for a small, tight group of very wealthy men, and that was the situation being created.

	Deliberately. They were deliberately changing the old ways, twisting, distorting, burying the Scripture and the Law under the weight of their innovations and manipulations. Norvis shivered with the strength of his realization; it occurred to him that he might be the first Nidorian ever to suspect that the Earthmen might not be as virtuous as they claimed to be. It was a staggering thought.

	"But it's not too late to return to the old ways," Norvis said aloud. The Earthmen had been on Nidor not ninety years, and ninety years was but a moment in Nidorian history. The damage could be undone—if someone acted in time.

	He blew out the candle and went on deck to find the captain. Del peFenn liked to stand this watch himself; it was a long-ingrained custom of his.

-

	"Hoy, captain!"

	"Hoy, Norvis." The captain was standing alone on deck, with the evening drizzle starting to come down. He was staring out into the grayness; the Lesser Light was out, and its faint beam illuminated the harbor of Gycor.

	"I've just been talking to the new swabhand, sir."

	"Oh?" Del peFenn did not look around, but continued to stare out at the sleeping city. "Did you find out what a man his age is doing signing up as a swabhand?"

	"Yes," Norvis said. Quickly he explained how Ganz peKresh had lost his farm, not bothering to mention his own part in the development of the growth hormone.

	Captain Del cursed vividly when he had heard the whole story. "Those Elders! It's a wonder the people don't rebel! How many thousand years is it that we've lived so infernally at peace?"

	"The Elders aren't at fault, sir. It's the Earthmen who are responsible," Norvis asserted.

	"Hm-m-m. Maybe so," the captain said, after some thought. "But I've never trusted those old men anyway. They're probably busy conniving with the Earthmen right down the line."

	"Sir—"

	"What is it, Norvis?"

	"We're heading to Tammulcor next, aren't we?"

	"That's right. Straight around the coast, to Tammulcor."

	Norvis nodded. "I'm going to ask for my release when I get there. I think I can do something about this whole business—at least I'm going to try."

	"You're crazy," Del told him calmly. "You can't fight the Elders. The whole world's bound hand and foot to them. It's always been that way."

	"I'm not thinking of fighting the Elders, sir. I don't want to fight anyone. I just want to open people's eyes! They're all blind, everyone, and they're being led right over a cliff."

-

	Captain Del was silent a long while, and there was no sound aboard ship but the steady splutter of the rain against the wooden hull of the ship, and the plinking of the drops into the water of the harbor. After a while he said, "You'd be smarter to stay with me. I don't have any children, Norvis. If you stayed here, you might just find yourself a shipowner yourself some day."

	"No, sir," Norvis said. "I appreciate all you've done for me—but I think I've got a job to do on the mainland."

	"Very well," the captain said. "I won't hold you back. I'll give you your release at Tammulcor. But I want you to know I'm not anxious to lose you."

	"Thank you, sir."

	"And when you come creeping back here with your tail tucked between your legs, remember that there'll be a place ready for you on the ship at any time."

	"You don't seem very confident that I'll get anywhere, do you, sir?" 

	"No," said the captain. "No. I'm not."

	The rain continued to pour down. Neither of them said anything further.

-

	Norvis went ashore at the large port of Tammulcor, four years' pay weighing down the pocket of his seaman's tunic. The first thing he decided to do was to spend some of it on clothes; a sailor's uniform would be somewhat conspicuous on Gelusar, and he had no intention of calling attention to himself until he had made a few inquiries.

	He bought several well-tailored vests and shorts and packed them into a new clothing carrier. Then he checked on the schedule of the next river-packet upstream to Gelusar. He found he had a few hours to kill.

	So, still wearing his uniform—there was no danger in a coast-town like Tammulcor—he strolled into a waterfront beerhouse and ordered a glass of the heavy, warm brew that was the favorite drink of Dimay Province.

	"May the Great Light illumine you, barman," he said. "What news from the Holy City?"

	"May He illumine us all," replied the barkeep. "I've heard nothing much, seaman. Just about the same as yesterday." It was the common reply, and meant nothing. If there was any news, it was yet to come. "That will be one weight and two," he went on, setting down the tankard of foaming brew.

	"One and two?" Norvis asked in surprise. "That's rather cheap, isn't it?"

	The barman nodded as he took the money. "It is. A tankard has sold for one and six as long as I can remember. My father, great be his name, sold it for that, and so did his father before him. It covered expenses well. But now, with the peych-bean selling so cheaply, making the brew is cheaper, too. Others cut their price, so I had to as well. But it doesn't matter; the profit remains the same, and that's all that matters."

	Then he paused and looked toward the north. "News from Gelusar? There is some, I think. There have been more farmers who have lost their holdings all over Nidor, of course, but most of them have been around the Holy City. However, it's been said that the Elder Grandfather Kiv peGanz Brajjyd is still holding out. He won't use the new fertilizer-stuff on his own farms; he says it's not according to Scripture." The barman grinned.

	" 'Course, he hasn't said anything about it in Council. I dare say he ain't intending to get the other Elders riled."

	"I've been at sea for four years," Norvis said. "How come only the Elders are getting this whatever-it is?"

	"Oh, it's not just the Elders. There are others who are getting some of it, but not many. Seems as though the stuff was invented by one of the Elder Grandfather's nephews, or some such. Anyway, it took a lot of money to build the equipment to make it, so this Elder got some of the others together and they chipped in to back the boy. The understanding was that they would get first crack at it, and what money they made would be used to make a bigger plant so that other farmers could get the Grome, too. It's a long-range plan, of course, but it's a good one. After all, I understand there was some difficulty three hundred years ago, when they brought the steam engine in. It'll take time, that's all. Just time."

	"I suppose so," Norvis agreed. So Grandfather Kiv peGanz is still holding out, eh? Interesting. What was it the barman called the growth hormone? Ah—Grome; that was it. Grome.

	He finished his beer and laid coins on the bar. "Here you are, barman. This is the four pieces you should have made."

	"May the Great Light illumine you, sir." He scooped the coins off the bar with a practiced hand as Norvis strode out of the bar.

	He spent the rest of the time before the riverboat left walking the streets of Tammulcor, thinking over what he'd learned. So little-snot Dran peNibro was in business now, eh? Making himself quite a pile, too, no doubt. And by stealing another man's work!

	Well, we'll see about that, me buck. The Earthman, Smith, was pulling a fast one on all of Nidor. Of that Norvis was sure. The set-up was obvious.

	What they intended to gain, he didn't quite know—but then, who could ever figure out how an Earthman thought?

	The Earthmen had come down from Heaven, from the Great Light Himself, according to the stories they told. But that didn't necessarily hold water; they could have come from the Edge, far out across the Eternal Sea, where the sky met the water. Weren't there demons there, according to Scripture?

	It didn't matter. Whatever or whoever they were, they were trying to ruin the old, tried-and-true ways of Nidor. By giving the growth hormone—Grome—to the Elders, they were running the little farmers out of business and making the Elders richer. It was all right for a man to make money, and a monopoly was perfectly all right, too, but not when it threatened the lives of thousands of little men.

	Something would have to be done.

-

	When the riverboat arrived in Gelusar, Norvis peRahn Brajjyd no longer looked like a sailor. He was just another well-dressed, middle-class citizen. After he found a small room in a hotel, he took a walk toward the capital's produce district, where the great peych-bean warehouses were. There, he could find out more about the situation.

	It didn't take him long to find out; he could hear the hubbub all up and down Lower Temple Street.

	Farmers with deest-carts loaded with the threshed peych-beans were blocking the street, straining, sweating, and swearing. He could see how it would be on Chilz Street, where the cut stalks were taken, or in Yorgen Square where the long, fibrous leaves were pulped and made into cloth.

	Pushing his way through the throng, he headed toward the Trading Building. There was a great deal of milling about, but Norvis peRahn's attention was caught by a large group of men who were listening to a red-faced peasant talk in an emphatic voice.

	"I tell you," said the peasant, "something's got to be done! We'll have to petition to our Elders—all of us! We're being ruined! I'm sure the Elders will change their plans if they see what's happening here!"

	A chorus of "Yeas" came up approvingly.

	"It would be different if things were getting better," he went on. "But they're not! They're worse! Two years ago, when I brought my crop in, they said the warehouses were full—full! And for thousands of years our warehouses have only been seven-tenths full! They refused to buy except at a lower rate! 'A quick sale', they told me. 'So we can unload the warehouse.'

	"But they haven't unloaded! This new thing the Elders are using makes the beans ripen earlier, so they sell their crop first! It just isn't fair, I tell you!"

	"What do you propose we do, Gwyl peRob?" asked one of the crowd.

	"We must petition! We must all get together! They'll understand!" He nodded his head vigorously.

	"All right," said another, "we'll petition and ask them to reconsider their plans. I'm a Sesom! Who'll go with me to speak to the Elder of our Clan?" Several of the crowd moved off with him, and another man stood up and declared his Clan as well.

	Finally, Norvis stood up. "I'm no farmer," he said loudly, as soon as he had silence. "But I'm a Brajjyd, and I say the Clan must stand together. I'll go with you."

	"Who are you?" asked Gwyl peRob Brajjyd, the red-faced speaker. 

	"My mother's father is Elder Grandfather Kiv peGanz Brajjyd," Norvis said evasively.

	"Good, Clansman!" said Gwyl peRob. "You'll be our spokesman, then! Come, we'll round up others!"

	It took two days for the committee to get an audience with the Elder Grandfather. None of the farmers had paid any attention to his name when Norvis peRahn finally admitted it, and he decided that all the scandal about his dismissal from Bel-rogas had not penetrated to the farming class, and if it had it had been forgotten.

	But he knew Grandfather Kiv peGanz had not forgotten. When the two days, which Norvis had spent in some private investigations of his own at the Grome factory, were up, and the acolyte introduced Norvis and his little delegation into Kiv's study, the look on Kiv's face had nothing of the friendliness one would expect from one's mother's father.

	Norvis met Kiv's cold glare for a moment, and then, seeing that the four years had not altered the old man's sternness, he knelt in the ritual bow.

	"The Peace of your Ancestors be with you always," Kiv said. His voice had no warmth in it.

	"And may the Great Light illumine your mind as He does the world," said Norvis. He stood up. "Hello, Grandfather. Recognize me?"

	"What do you want?" Kiv asked bluntly.

	Just as bluntly, Norvis replied, "I want you to talk to your fellow Council members. You've got to show them what this new hormone is doing to Nidor."

	Kiv smiled delicately. "My fellow Council members are well aware of what they're doing, Norvis peRahn." He paused; Norvis saw that he was waiting for a ritual apology, but that was the last thing he was going to do. The Scripture, Norvis thought, would have to be put aside for the sake of getting something done.

	He waited just long enough to make Kiv uneasy and the rest of his delegation thoroughly uncomfortable, and just when everyone was beginning to fidget he said, "These people are Brajjyds." He indicated Gwyl peRob and the other farmers with him.

	Kiv nodded. "I assumed they were clansmen," he said.

	"They're starving" said Norvis loudly. "The new hormone and the almost exclusive use of it by the Elders. Don't you see what that's doing to them? They can't sell their crops! The warehouses are full."

	"I know," Kiv said in a quiet voice. "My own farms do not make use of the new hormone, and my overseers are reporting difficulties along the lines you mention."

	"The hormone—how does it square with the Scripture?" Norvis demanded.

	"I ... don't know," said Kiv. He stared past Norvis focusing his eyes on the symbol of the Great Light in the niche in the wall above Norvis' head. "This is why I have not used the hormone myself."

	"But the Council—"

	"The Council as a group has approved use of the hormone, on recommendation of Smith." Kiv spread his hands. "I am a minority." 

	"Can't you fight?" Norvis said.

	"I have yielded to their greater numbers," said Kiv. "They are willing to trust the word of the Earthmen, and I do not wish to quarrel. I prefer not to use the hormone myself, but I cannot publicly take a stand that differs from the will of the Council as a whole."

-

	Norvis looked from one member of his delegation to another. They were standing in a tight clump, and it seemed to him they were more awed by the immediate presence of an Elder Grandfather than they were concerned with their own pressing problems. Norvis told himself that they had not been through the same embittering experiences he had, and that thus they still were able to cling to the old faith.

	"You won't help us, then?"

	Kiv smiled. "You haven't made clear to me just what help you require, Norvis peRahn."

	"Certainly I have," Norris retorted hotly. His words reverberated loudly in the little chamber, reminding him of that day when they had echoed through the square at Bel-rogas. "I want you to go before the Council and demand abolition of the Grome hormone!"

	He felt Gwyl peRob nudge him gently with his elbow. "Norvis ... you're speaking to an Elder!"

	"Let me handle this," Norvis muttered. "Well?" he asked.

	"I have told you," Kiv said, spreading his hands. "I have yielded to the will of the Council." He closed his eyes as if he would brook no more debate.

	"But it's ruining Nidor!" Norvis shouted. He was angry now; the obstinate old man was deliberately refusing to see beyond the end of his nose. "Forty years ago you nearly ruined everything with your Edris adaptation, and now you're letting the same sort of thing happen—only we won't recover so quickly!"

	The Edris reference evidently stung Kiv. He straightened in his seat, and what had been the remainder of his earlier smile sharpened into a grim frown. "I can do nothing. The Council has decided. This audience is at an end."

	"You can't throw me out like this!" Norvis sputtered. "Why won't you think? Why won't you look at—"

	"This audience is at an end," Kiv peGanz said icily.

	Norvis started to say something, but he felt the pressure of Gwyl peRob's hand on his arm, and subsided. Drawing a deep breath, he said, "All right. If you won't do anything, / will. I'll take the matter into my own hands."

	"Please go," Kiv said. Suddenly he seemed very old and tired. "This audience is at its end."

	Norvis, still raging, barely managed to control himself. "I'll go," he said. "But remember—the Council's had its chance. From now on this is in my hands."

	He turned and stalked out, pushing the door open himself without waiting for the acolyte to do it for him. The delegation of farmer Brajjyds followed.

	When they were outside, Gwyl peRob confronted him.

	"Norvis peRahn—that was no way to address a Council member! Particularly your own mother's father!"

	"You heard what I told him," Norvis said. "From now on this is in my hands. I'll talk to Elder Grandfathers the way they ought to be talked to." 

	"But—"

	"It's too late for buts. Come on; there's work to do!"

-

	The mass meeting had been called for late evening. Every farmer in town had been asked to show up at Shining Lake Park for a special address by Norvis peRahn Brajjyd, whose mother's father was the Elder Grandfather of the Brajjyd Clan.

	Word had spread throughout the city, among the farming people, that something was to be done about the worsening peych-bean situation, and by the time the Great Light had gone to rest, a sizable crowd had gathered in the park. Torches had been set up in the holders that ringed the speaker's platform.

	It was something new to the people: a speech given without a formal occasion. Normally, the platform at the lake's edge was used for concerts held by the various musical groups in Gelusar who wanted to perform for the public.

	At the appointed time, Norvis stood up on the platform and raised his hands to silence the murmuring of the crowd. They were used to being addressed by a priest or a public official, so they quieted down immediately despite the fact that properly speaking, Norvis was a nobody.

	"In case any of you don't know who I am," Norvis began, "I'm Norvis peRahn Brajjyd. You all know what our trouble is: this new thing that the Earthmen have given out. This newfangled Grome that doubles the crops of the Elders and robs those who don't have it of their proper share of the crop money."

	He paused and surveyed the crowd. It was growing larger by the minute, and it was a restless, shifting group of people. All the better, Norvis thought; it meant they were unhappy with the state of things.

	"Farmers are being ruined!" he roared. "Men who have held their land since the times of their great-grandfathers have been forced to leave it."

	Now the crowd began muttering. Norvis smiled inwardly; he was beginning to reach them.

	"We know what is wrong, and we know that something has to be done about it. The question is, what are we to do?

	"We have petitioned the Elders and we have been put off. Our requests have been denied. And do you know why? I'll tell you why! We've been going about it in the wrong way! We've been asking for help and not getting it because we haven't been attacking the problem the right way."

	He raised his voice and said, "What does the Scripture tell us? 'To destroy a thing, cut at the root and not at the branch!' And what is the root of this evil? Where has this Grome come from that is ruining our culture, our very lives?"

	Norvis waited a moment and then shouted, "From the Earthmen! It is they, not the Elders, who must be approached! The Elders do the bidding of the Earthmen; when an Earthman says 'jump', they jump!"

	The crowd was growing angrier and angrier by the moment. Norvis saw black frowns, heard mutters of wrath. He saw it was his moment to spur them even further.

	"They are trying to ruin our lives! You all know how things have changed in Nidor since they came; our old system is breaking down! A hundred years ago, no Elder would have ignored a proper petition from his Clan. I say we must destroy this evil by destroying the Earthmen! Their Bel-rogas School is a sacrilege against the name of our great ancestor!

	"The Earthmen—"

	He got no further. A clod of dirt struck his chest, and he was astonished to hear someone shout, "Blasphemy!"

	"Do you know who this Norvis peRahn is?" yelled someone else. "He's the blasphemer who was expelled from the School four years ago!"

	"Stone him!" cried another. "False prophet!"

	Norvis was paralyzed. He hadn't realized—

	He snapped out of his shock when a rock thudded against his ribs, almost knocking the breath out of him.

	Amid shouts of "Sacrilege!" and "Blasphemy!" and "Kill him!" Norvis peRahn Brajjyd turned to run. Another rock struck his back. The crowd, spurred on by a few of its more vociferous members, was beginning to get murderous.

	"He preaches against the Great Light!"

	"Stone him!"

	Norvis leaped off the back edge of the platform, clearing the balustrade that ran along its rear edge. Twelve feet below him was the water of Shining Lake. As he hit the water, stones splashed all around him, thrown by some who had swarmed up on the stage to get at him.

	"Get torches!"

	"Bright lights!"

	"Find the blasphemer!"

	"Someone call the police! Call a priest!"

	Norvis ducked underwater and swam as though his life depended on it—which it did. There was only one way to go, directly across the lake. It was long and narrow, and he could make it across before anyone would be able to get around it. And he was fairly sure that no one would try to swim after him.

	They didn't, but there were a few pleasure boats tied up near the shore, and some of the pursuers got into them, carrying torches raised over then-heads to illuminate the water.

	Norvis came up for breath and saw that he was far enough away from the boats to chance swimming on the surface. He headed for the opposite bank, hoping he'd come out of it alive.

-

	When he reached the Grand Harbor of Vashcor a good many days later, after a tortuous and unpleasant hitch-hike with a foul-breathed old deest peddler who had been heading that way, he made his way almost immediately to the small, squat little hotel down in the fisherman's quarter of the city. He was in a dismal mood.

	He registered under the peKrin Dmorno name and was shown to a dingy room overlooking the sea. His room was unpainted and smelled of fish, but it represented the first sanctuary for Norvis since his flight from Gelusar. He had barely managed to get out in one piece, after that stoning, and he was glad of a place where he could sit down and rest.

	The outlook was gloomy. He had botched things on all sides; Bel-rogas had been long ago lost to him, and his abortive crusade to prohibit use of the growth hormone had only resulted in his alienation from both sides; the people had stoned him as a blasphemer, and were now perfectly content to let the Elders squeeze them dry in the name of Scripture.

	It was a bitter ending; now, he realized, he had accidentally pushed the Elders into a stronger position than they'd ever been in before. The populace was always ready to do something irrational if they could find theological grounds to do it on, and he had given grounds with his blasphemous talk. They still held firmly to the old beliefs, and they'd do so even if it ruined them—which it was doing.

	He frowned and walked to the window. There was a cluster of boats in the harbour, and he squinted out, searching for the familiar mast of the Balthar. He didn't see it, but his way seemed clear: he would abandon the pack of them, leave Nidor to its Elders, and throw in his lot with Del peFenn or some other free sea captain. It was an unheroic way out, but he was a miserable failure as a hero.

	The next day, he made inquiries. No, the Balthar was not in port, he was told; yes, it was due back soon, and have you heard about the blasphemer who was stoned in Gelusar?

	Norvis pretended he hadn't, and was told the whole grisly tale. He listened to it all patiently, and at the end said, "A grandson of the Elder Brajjyd, eh? What's that Clan coming to?"

	"It's a disgrace, an utter disgrace," his informant agreed.

	Norvis nodded. "But they killed the blasphemer?"

	"Of course!"

	"Well, then, we needn't worry," Norvis said. "His ideas stand no chance of being spread, then." 

	"A blessing indeed," the other said.

	Norvis was overjoyed at the report of his death. It meant no one had seen him slip out at the far end of the Shining Lake and make his way out of Gelusar, and the knowledge of his death took some of the pressure off. He was free, now, to bury Norvis peRahn Brajjyd forever and live on in security as Norvis peKrin Dmorno.

-

	Norvis strolled up and down the cobbled street that led past the quay, seeking the Balthar. No one seemed quite sure where the ship was, but everyone seemed agreed that Captain Del peFenn would be back soon. Norvis hoped so; the quicker he got off land and away from the scene of his failure, the better.

	At the end of the third day, he saw his first familiar face. Down at the end of a dock, busily cleaning scales from a newly-unloaded cargo of fish, was Ganz peKresh Danoy, the middle-aged swabhand from the Balthar.

	"How come you're here?" Norvis asked. "You skip ship or something?"

	The elderly ex-farmer was even more washed-out than he had looked aboard ship. He shook his head. "No," he said. "When the ship rolled, I became sick." He demonstrated this with a vivid gesture. "I am too old to learn how to stay aboard a ship."

	"Sorry to hear that," Norvis said sympathetically. "What happened?"

	"It was impossible for me to remain on the ship," Ganz peKresh said. "So Captain Del agreed to release me from my contract, pay me some money, and find me a job here on the docks. I am very grateful to him."

	"Captain Del is a fine man," Norvis said. "I'm waiting for the Balthar to come back myself, right now."

	"Oh?" the old man asked innocently. "Then your venture in Gelusar did not work out, eh?"

	Norvis grinned. "I'm afraid not. I'm back here looking for a job."

	"That is sad," Ganz peKresh said. "Tell me: how is it, in the peych regions? Are many of the farmers being ... being driven out?"

	"Unfortunately, yes," Norvis said. "And it'll get worse. The Elders have their own farms treated with this new Earthman substance, and they're turning out enough peych to fill the warehouses. The small men like you, who can't afford the new treatment, are being pushed out."

	Ganz peKresh's faded face became even unhappier. "I can't understand how the Great Light will permit His Elders to do such a thing."

	"I don't know either, Ganz peKresh," Norvis said. He pulled together his cloak. At this time of the year, the wind blew in from the sea, directly through the narrow, rock-bound channel. The combination of the sharp winds whipping in and the pungent odor of the fish Ganz peKresh was still busily cleaning was becoming a little too much for Norvis, and he decided he'd best move on.

	"They are so wise," Ganz peKresh said reflectively. "They hold our world in their hands. They should see what they are doing."

	"I guess there's no answer," Norvis said. "Not when the Elders are becoming so wealthy."

	As Norvis turned to leave, Ganz peKresh smiled wistfully and said, "It is too bad the growth treatment may be given only to the few. How wonderful it would be if all the farmers could share in its bounty equally!"

	"Yes," Norvis said politely, barely listening to what the old man had said. "Well, I must be moving on."

	"May the Great Light bless you," Ganz peKresh said.

	"May He illumine your mind," responded Norvis.

	He had gone more than a hundred paces before he realized that the old farmer had given him the answer.

-

	The next two weeks he spent in his dingy hotel room, scribbling over page after page of calculations and formulae of the new mathematics he had learned at the Bel-rogas School, trying frantically to dig out of his memory the things he had striven so hard to forget for four years.

	Fool! Why hadn't he seen it before? Of course, it simply wasn't done; it was unethical, dishonest, and a downright dirty trick. He grinned gleefully as he worked. Sure, it was a low blow, but as the Scriptures said: "Those who transgress the Law shall fall before other transgressors." That was justification enough.

	Finally, after he had his notes all down and was absolutely sure they were correct, as sure as he could be without building a working model, he had one more problem to solve. He knew he could make the new hormone, but he had to make more of it, and faster. And, if possible, cheaper.

	Now, let's see. What's the thing that makes the process so slow? He considered : it's got to be fermented in the vats, and then—

	The Earthman, Smith, had taught him the trick of examining a problem closely to see where the solution lay. It was an Earthman kind of thinking. The first thing to do was to find out what the problem really was. "Get back to the basic concept," Smith would say, over and over again.

	Norvis hadn't tried to use the method in years, because he'd hated everything he'd learned at the School. But now he saw that that kind of thinking was necessary if he was going to beat a man who thought that way. Smith and Company were going to be tripped by their own feet.

	When Captain Del peFenn Vyless strode down the gangplank of the Balthar, he saw a familiar figure standing on the dock. His weathered face broke into a grin.

	"Hoy! Norvis peKrin! By the Light, I thought you'd be back; once the sea gets into a man's blood, it's there to stay!" He shook the younger man's hand heartily. "What happened in Gelusar? I heard they stoned a man to death there for blasphemy. I hope you didn't get mixed up in it."

	"No; I'm still alive. I saw what could happen to a man who tries to stir up trouble that way, so I decided on different tactics."

	"Oh, so? Still trying to buck the Council?" The sea captain shook his head. "Give it up, my boy. That's like trying to dim the Great Light Himself."

	Norvis shook his head. "I'm not giving up yet. I've got an idea, captain. I've got a little scheme that will make the Elders uncomfortable and make us some money at the same time. And it's perfectly legal. Do you want to hear it?"

	"Won't do any harm to listen," Del peFenn said. "Come along to the Seaman's Guild Hall. I'll stand you a drink." 

	"Right."

	The public room at the Guild Hall was crowded with sailors who were relaxing after long voyages or bracing themselves for a new one. Norvis and the captain managed to get themselves a table, and after the drinks had been brought, the younger man began to outline his plan.

	"You know of this new stuff, Grome, that's being used to make peych-beans grow better and mature faster? Well, I've got the formula for making it."

	"But I thought some kid from the school had a monop—"

	"Don't worry about that. Strictly legal, I tell you. I came by the formula honestly—believe me."

	"I'll grant it," the captain said. "But reluctantly. Go ahead with the rest of the business."

	"The way I see it, we'll make this Grome cheaper than the Gelusar plant is turning it out, and we'll sell it to the small farmers. That way, the big schemes of the Earthmen will bounce right back on them, and we'll keep the Elders from becoming too powerful. I think we can even drive the Gelusar manufacturer out of business if we can get a few men who'll keep our methods secret."

	The captain looked highly skeptical. "I've got men on my ship I'd trust anywhere," he said. "But how do you propose to do it? And what makes you think you got the right formula, anyway? And how can you produce more of it than the Gelusar people can?

	"I understand it took several of the Council Elders to put up enough money to build this one little plant. How can we build more than that? I don't have that kind of money, Norvis. Nor do you."

	Norvis stilled the captain's rising flood of objections by raising his hand. "I'll prove to you that I know the formula by making some for you. We'll try it on some peych and see.

	"As for building a producing plant, I've got a new idea there. A different way of doing things."

	"How?" The captain seemed a little more interested now. His hard keen eyes were wide open.

	"The trouble is that the Gelusar plant is producing the stuff by making it in big lots, which ties up all their equipment for weeks at a time. They use what's called a batch process to turn it out. Now, if you can get the men on the ship to chip in with us—we'll promise each one his proper share—we can build the right kind of plant, one that'll produce the stuff in a steady stream."

	Del peFenn leaned forward. "I don't quite see—"

	Norvis pulled out a sheaf of paper covered with sketches in a large, scrawling hand. "See here: we make the process continuous instead of whipping up batches. Instead of making one big glob at a time, we'll start the process at this end and feed in the various ingredients at different points along the line. Then we—"

	When he was through explaining, Norvis looked at the captain. "Well, what do you say?"

	Del peFenn scowled. "To be honest, I didn't understand a thing you were talking about. But it sounds as though you know what you're doing." He paused, while Norvis anxiously watched him chew the idea over in his mind. Finally he said, "What you want is a sort of regular contract. You supply the brains, and I supply the money. Fifty-fifty."

	Norvis nodded.

	"I'm sorry," the captain said. "I just can't risk—"

	Norvis stopped him. "Now, wait a minute. You're the one who's taking the risk; I'll grant that. So I tell you what you do; you take control, too." 

	"What's that?"

	"You see to the buying of equipment and everything. I'll just tell you what I want and how much I'll need. For my part of it, you can pay me a salary—whatever you think I'm worth. I trust you."

	The captain chewed that over, too. Hesitating, he said, "Well-l-1... I don't know. It sounds good, but ... well, how much would it take?"

	Norvis named a figure that ran into the thousands of hundred-weights.

	Captain Del winced and shook his head. "I don't know. Let me think about it a while."

	It took Norvis better than a week to talk the sea officer into investing his 'money, but during that time he bought some small flasks and a few other things and ran off a batch of Grome right under the captain's nose. The process worked just as he had theoretically constructed it, back at Bel-rogas.

	There was only a drop or two, but it was enough. Norvis bought two potted seedling peych plants and needled the stuff into the tap-root of one.

	"One thing we'll have to warn our customers about," Norvis warned, "is using too, much of the hormone. They'll probably all overdose at first, but if they do, they'll not only waste it but probably ruin the plants."

	"You've got this stuff figured pretty well," Del peFenn said. "I knew you were sharp, but I didn't think you were as good as that."

	"Hold it," Norvis said. "Let's wait and see how sharp I am. We'll know soon enough."

	When, within the space of a few days, the treated plant was noticeably different from its twin, Captain Del peFenn decided it was time to invest his money in the project.

-

	Three months later, the first substantial yield from the new process came through from the factory. Norvis and Del were confronted with the stuff early one morning, when Drosh peDrang Hebylla, the tall, thin young man who was the foreman of the hormone factory, came dashing up the end of the dock and hailed the nearby Balthar.

	"Here it is!" he cried enthusiastically, after the dinghy had conveyed him from shore to ship. He leaped out and held forth a small wooden box.

	Norvis took it, lifted the lid, sniffed, and replaced the lid. "Ugh," he said. "It's not going to be its lovely odor that'll be the selling point, I'm afraid."

	"You should come out and spend some time at the factory," Drosh peDrang said. "If you think this sample has a bad smell, you ought to hover around the end of our feed line for a while."

	"That's all right," Del peFenn boomed. "There must be something in the Scripture some place about being able to put up with nasty smells for the sake of turning an honest few weights."

	Norvis thought for a moment. "No," he said. "I can't think of any."

	"Nor can I," said Drosh peDrang.

	"Nevertheless," the captain maintained, "there must be something in there. There's something in that wonderful book to cover everything!"

	"I wonder how the Elders are planning to hide their red faces when we get our stuff out to the common people," Norvis said.

	"They're not going to like it much," replied Del. "But I think we've stepped on their toes so hard it's going to hurt a long time." He turned to Drosh peDrang. "You'll have the stuff ready to ship soon, won't you?"

	"They're baling it now," the foreman told him.

	"Good. The Balthar's pulling out for Lidacor tomorrow, and we might as well start distributing it at once. The people up there are so hungry they'll hail us as saviors."

	"Fine," said Norvis. "Lidacor's a good place to begin. Besides, it'll be pleasant to get away from the eternal fish-odor here in Vashcor, anyway. I like Lidacor."

	"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Captain Del said. "You're not going with us, Norvis." 

	"How so?" Norvis asked, puzzled.

	"You're heading in the other direction, taking a cargo of the stuff to Molcor and Sundacor—and Tammulcor as well, I guess. You'll be aboard the Krand."

	"The Krand? That's Captain Prannt peDrel Kovnish's ship, isn't it?" Norvis asked.

	"It was," Del corrected. "It's now Captain Norvis peKrin Dmorno's. I entered your name in the Roll of Captains this morning. It's my new ship. I've decided to expand operations, now that there's the prospect of good business ahead. I'm now a two-ship man, and I couldn't think of a better captain for my new one than you, Norvis."

	"I'm very grateful," Norvis said sincerely. He was tempted to add some blessing of the Great Light, but decided against it; it wouldn't be of much use in thanking Del, who didn't seem to set much store by the Scripture.

	"You're sailing west tomorrow," Del told him. "We'll pull anchor at the same time. We ought to return rich men."

-

	They did. The hungry farmers of Sugon swarmed all over the Balthar as soon as word traveled that a ship had arrived bearing the same wonderful mystery that had resulted in such marvelous production on the Elders' farms.

	Del peFenn found people bidding frantically for the cargo, and one rich landowner offered to purchase the whole shipment for use on his farms. But Del remembered the careful plan of Norvis peKrin, which was to distribute the hormone as widely as possible, and he resolutely held the price down and rationed out the quantity. He returned to Vashcor with an empty hold and a full purse.

	As for Norvis, his first experience as the captain of his own ship was an equally successful one. He guided the Krand flawlessly around the coast, heading in a westerly direction toward the south-western port of Sundacor, and at each of the three stops along the way he disbursed a third of his cargo.

	Del peFenn had been back in Vashcor for several days when the Krand returned. As soon as his ship was docked and anchored, Norvis made his way to the Balthar, but was told that the captain was at the hormone factory, located at the nearby town of Elvisen.

	A swift deest ride took Norvis there. It was a tall and fairly imposing building, and he allowed himself the luxury of a sensation of pride at the sight of it.

	He entered, and a busy-looking workman directed him up the stairs and around a corridor, where he opened a door and found Captain Del in conference with Foreman Drosh peDrang.

	He sniffed as he entered. "Yes," he said. "This place does have a vile smell."

	The two men, startled, looked around. "Norvis!"

	"Hoy, Del!"

	Hurriedly, they spilled out to each other the story of the success of their respective voyages.

	"It's going well, is it?" Norvis said. "Good, good. We'll teach the Elders they can't corner a valuable commodity like Grome." He turned to Drosh peDrang.

	"How are the local sales going?"

	"We've established a center here in Elvisen," he said. "The farmers have been coming from all over Pelvash to buy the stuff. The money's been coming in faster than we can get it to the bank."

	"Hm-m-m. We don't want to get too rich out of this thing," Norvis said slyly. "Next thing we know the Elders will be coming to us looking for a loan."

	"What's wrong with that?" Del asked.

	"Looks bad in the public eye," explained Norvis. "The people are pretty much sold on the Elders, and we don't want to appear to be showing them up too badly. Remember what happened to that prophet fellow in Gelusar."

	"The one they stoned? Well, they were right to stone him, I think," Del said. "What was he saying, after all? Wasn't it that the Grome should be abolished altogether?"

	Norvis nodded uneasily. He was sure Del was unaware that he was that very prophet, but he wanted to make sure Del never found out. Norvis peRahn Brajjyd was better off where he was.

	"Well," the captain said, "no wonder they stoned him. He was a false prophet to say the Grome should be abolished. That's an evil and stupid way of solving the problem. Give it to everyone! That's what he should have said."

	"It didn't occur to him," Norvis said. "The poor devil! He didn't have enough brains to see the right way to handle the stuff, and that's why they stoned him."

	"I don't know why you're so sympathetic," Del peFenn boomed. "After all, doesn't it say in the Scripture that a false prophet shall be stoned? Doesn't it? I think I'm right, this time."

	"You are," Norvis said. "Seventh Section, as I recall."

	Del was impressed. "You're quite the scholar, aren't you?" he asked.

	"I've done a little reading," Norvis told him casually. To change the subject, he got up and walked to the window. The factory was located on a hill in North Elvisen, and there was a nice view of the rolling farmland of the province of Pelvash. He stood there a long time, staring out. The fields were bright with blossoms of the peych plants. It was easy to see that the hormone was in active use among the local farmers.

	"They've got their fields all treated," he said.

	"Yes," Drosh peDrang said. "Sales have been tremendous—just tremendous."

	Norvis smiled. "It's going to surprise the Elders when that harvest starts coming up all over Nidor, isn't it? They're not going to like it at all."

	"I think we've finally broken their stranglehold," Del said. "And we've given those Earthmen something to think about, too."

	"I'll say." Norvis looked out at the spreading gray-green plains, the fertile hills with the tributaries of the Vash River wandering lazily among them. On every hill and every valley the golden blossoms of the peych shone, bright harbingers of the future.

	It occurred to Norvis as he stood there that a couple of men had engaged in blunt rebellion against the Elders and the Earthmen and succeeded. For the first time, possibly, in the history of the planet, a man, an ordinary man, had taken the course of action into his own hands. And the Great Light still smiled upon him.

	"Wait till those beans start coming up," Del peFenn said. "It's going to be a wonderful harvest."

	"Yes," Norvis echoed. "A wonderful harvest." His ringing voice sounded a note of triumph.

-

FROM: Duncan H. Macleod, Observer, Sugon Province.
TO: Gordon P. Smith, Anthropological Division, Bel-rogas School.

	I'm with you most of the way, Gordon. Brother! What this crop is going to do to Nidorian culture! But tell me—what does that have to do with young Norvis peRahn? Stuck out here in these accursed hills, I sometimes lose sight of the big picture. (That reminds me—tell Jones I want to get back to Bel-rogas soon; I'm tired of hiding here in Sugon.)

	Everything seems to be working out fine. After all these years of work, we've finally succeeded in setting up the forces that will smash the Nidorian cultural matrix. (That's the current phrase you Anthropology boys have been throwing around, isn't it?) We've ruined Nidor completely, though they don't know it yet. I suppose the Genetics Corps has something immediate in mind, but I can't quite follow it from here. The government, the religion, and the entire cultural system have been—or will be—completely demolished. But are the Genetics boys sure that young Brajjyd is the key man?

	As far as this Province is concerned, they haven't felt the full impact of what we've done yet; the crops aren't much better than last season because the hormone hasn't been imported in too big a quantity as yet. With only one seaport, there hasn't been much chance for really good distribution; your tame fire-breather, Del peFenn, was through here with a shipload, but that's been it. Will this affect the situation as a whole? I hope not; the whole Nidor Project succeeds or fails at this point. (Unless, of course, Jones and his planners out there in the hills have reversed themselves—which is unlikely, but not inconceivable. I sometimes suspect that I'm being suckered out, as well as the Nidorians.)

	I'd hate to think we'd miscalculated, though; the entire future of humanity is at stake on this insignificant little planet. I suppose I sound too dramatic, as usual, but I'm puzzled.

Hoping you are the same
MacLeod

-

FROM: Gordon P. Smith, Anthropological Division, Bel-rogas School.
TO: Duncan H. MacLeod, Observer, Sugon Province.

	Stop worrying. Genetics assures me that Norvis peRahn Brajjyd is the man. I've checked the whole thing through thoroughly with Jones, and the old man's given blanket approval of everything. According to Genetics, our entire eugenics program revolving around Bel-rogas has been definitely successful. We've bred, for once, a new type of Nidorian—even if he doesn't know it himself.

	As for the future of the human race, no cause for worry there either. If a galaxy-wide culture such as ours can't succeed in blasting one little, insignificant medieval planet, and wrecking its culture to suit our tastes, we ought to give up.

	Does that sound forceful enough?

	Smith

-

FROM: Duncan H. MacLeod, Observer, Sugon Province.
TO: Gordon Smith, Anthropological Division, Bel-rogas School.

	Sorry I didn't reply earlier, but things are starting to happen now that the crop is ripening. I'll give you the full report tomorrow, by full telefox.

	Jones sent elaborate comments direct from the Mountains of the Morning hideout, and between his letter and yours I'm well aware of the whole situation.

	Agreed: we ought to be able to smash this culture to order. I think we've done it—though, as you say, the poor folk won't be able to see why, not for a while, at least. Jones put it to me this way: "The problem," he said, "is not to smash the culture—but to see that it gets put back together the right way."

	I hope for everyone's sake that Norvis peRahn knows what the right way is, because when that crop comes up all over things will start to crack. Norvis is the only factor in doubt. The only thing I can predict for sure is—boy, how they're going to hate us when they find out! It'll be a generation before they've seen what we've done—and six more before they can see why!

Cordially, 
MacLeod

The End