Silence is Deadly. Lloyd Biggle jr.

or apprentice priests, or student soldiers.

      In contrast to the relaxed crowds on the Mound of the Sun, few people came near the stark symbol of death. Those who did had a furtive air, as though they were paying off a blackmailer. They fumbled among their purchases and then approached the monument timorously. One of the apprentice priests handed out slender pointed sticks that looked like enormous toothpicks. On these the faithful impaled their offerings—pieces of meat, or bread, or cake, or other edibles. Bowing reverently with a queer, sidewise genuflection, they stepped into the black circle formed at the base of the pole by a mosaic of ebony-colored stones. They inserted the offering stick into one of the multitude of holes bored into the pole for that purpose. Then they backed away, hands raised pleadingly, eyes on the menacing Beast, until they reached their possessions.

      They scurried off like one who has had a death sentence repealed.

      Light and darkness; life and death.

      Darzek set down his shopping pot and climbed the life pyramid all the way to the top. Looking over at the soaring Winged Beast, he pondered the sinister darkness in a people’s soul that could call forth such a symbol, and he wondered what the missing Synthesis agents could have told him about that darkness.

      The city lay to the south. From Darzek’s vantage point he watched plodding nabrula pulling carts and wagons along the lanes; saw the scattered forums, the neighborhood markets, where women and children did their daily shopping or drew water from wells; saw the racks of wood curing behind the craft establishments; saw the hand-woven rugs airing; saw a thin haze of pollution rising from soap and candlemakers’ factories. He reflected again that the idea of a pazul being developed in such a society was preposterous.

      He moved around the pyramid and looked down on the harbor, where clumsy but colorful rectangular-sailed ships were maneuvering to their dockage. He asked himself whether even the most eccentric genius would waste time on death rays, or even conceive of such a thing, with the need for technological improvements everywhere evident. He muttered aloud, “Preposterous!” Then he winced and looked about him; but the female and three children seated nearby had of course heard nothing. They were looking out to sea—the wife and children of a sailor, perhaps, come to watch the absent one’s ship return to port. The two daughters were amusing little replicas of their mother, their hair dyed and put up in identical patterns. The son wore a green sailor’s garb. It was a charming family group, touchingly awaiting a reunion, and Darzek watched it with pleasure before turning away. A pazul? Preposterous!

      At least he now knew where he was. The harbor faced north, and there was only one such port on the island: Northpor, one of the five Free Cities that were the property of the powerful Sailor’s League.

      He circled back for another look at the city before descending. He suddenly had become worried about finding his way home, and he wanted to trace his route. He took one look at the street pattern and froze.

      He had thought all he needed to do was find a pink lane.

      But all of the surlanes, the main traffic arteries, were paved with pink stone.

      * * * *

      Wearily Darzek made his way down the pyramid. He was hungry and tired. His arms ached from carrying the shopping pot. He was ready to go home, wherever or whatever home was. He picked up his pot and walked away, trying to visualize the house he would have to find.

      Hands seized him and threw him to the ground. His pot shattered; the contents went sprawling. Looking up, he saw one of the black-caped assistant priests positioned over him with a multiple-thonged hand whip upraised.

      Darzek launched himself at the priest’s legs and sent him toppling backward. The same instant the priest crashed to the pavement, Darzek was on his feet. He leaped aside as the second black-cape’s whip came down. One lash struck his arm, sliced through the tunic, left a line of oozing blood. Stung by the pain, enraged at the unexpected, cowardly attack, Darzek seized the young priest, picked him up bodily, and hurled him at his fellow, who had just regained his feet and was advancing menacingly with whip upraised. Both crashed to the ground, and neither moved.

      Darzek looked about him, hand pressed to his bleeding arm. He stood in the black circle at the base of the soaring Winged Beast, and he was surrounded by black-caped, whip-armed priests. They advanced on him slowly, in a tightening circle. He saw no way through it, so he stood still and waited.

      Then one priest stepped out of the circle and approached him. Darzek acted before he could raise his whip. He charged, dove, knocked the priest backward. The two of them crashed through the circle, taking another pair of priests with them. The three priests landed heavily, with Darzek atop the one he had charged. He sprang to his feet at once and darted away.

      He did not look back until he had reached the first row of vendors; but the priests were not following him. They stood quietly in a group, and a male in sailor’s garb, wearing the high hat of a captain, was facing them.

      Darzek did not wait for the denouement. He quickly lost himself in the crowd of shoppers. A moment later he encountered the sign of a manipulator, a doctor of external medicine. (A doctor of internal medicine was called a purger.) He went in and for a copper coin had his wound dressed. The doctor applied a fragrant herbal liquid to the bandage and tied it expertly. He asked no question about the source of the wound, which was just as well—Darzek hadn’t been able to think of an answer. He preferred not to admit that he had absently—and stupidly—walked through the holy circle of the Winged Beast, and a priest had whipped him.

      He bought another pot and filled it with strongly scented merchandise. Then he left the mart, walking up one of the narrow lanes of artisans to the boulevard, where he seated himself in the park, bought a goblet of cider from a vendor, and in addition treated himself to a strange sort of sandwich which was a small loaf of pie-shaped bread with the meat filling intermixed and baked with the dough. It made a satisfying meal for him and gave him some fortification for the trek home.

      He walked along the boulevard, studying the pink cobblestoned surlanes that connected with it. He had no difficulty in picking out the one he had traveled that morning. He followed it for more than a kilometer, and suddenly it took a sharp zig he did not remember and widened into a flower bedecked oval he knew he had not seen before.

      He turned back immediately, found the boulevard again, and picked another surlane. This time he was certain he had the right one, but he walked all the way to the city gates without recognizing the house he was seeking.

      At dusk he was back at the boulevard again. He selected another lane and walked it until the darkness became total and he no longer could distinguish the color patterns of the houses.

      Not until then did he admit that he was hopelessly lost.