“Well, he is a priest in the Jewish faith—except he has no mystical powers, real or imagined. Literally the term is ‘teacher’ and means that his education has specialized in Jewish law and culture so that he’s an expert—just as any other profession is the product of education. Each Jewish temple has a rabbi selected by the congregation for his knowledge of the faith— but there are numerous rabbis who have no congregation, who have other jobs, even, but who are considered experts and can instruct others. Many of these specialize in fine points of the law and live the faith, yet make their money in secular occupations. It’s really a fascinating thing. Do you know, for example, that there are three rabbis who are also freighter captains?”
She was surprised. “Captains? Religious teachers?”
“See what I mean? And yet it’s a triply good living, since it’s not only lucrative and provides a lot of time for study but also is the best way to reach the small congregations scattered across hundreds of worlds. Of the three, all have at one time or another worked jobs in which Brazil’s ship, as a private contractor, was also involved, so they all have met him. Two of them seem to have had extensive contact with Brazil over the years—decades, in fact—and may be considered close friends. But only one of them owns his own ship; the others work for shipping companies. I had encountered this before but had rejected the man because he was Hassidic—the strictest of the sects, or degrees, of Judaism, whose members are bound to rigid laws of dress, of eating, of religious form and observance. The Hassidim function in a modern world without compromising, basically keeping the laws that are thousands of years old. I had not expected to find Brazil in such a role since, clearly, he has observed very few of those laws himself. Also, this particular rabbi, is old; he’s already undergone two rejuves, and he’s taller and stouter than Brazil, with a full white beard. But, then, data that came in today persuades me of the logic of it all.”
Mavra frowned. “Well, I can see that it would be an easy disguise—some padding, a false beard, some lifts in the shoes like I use. Yes. But beyond that?”
“Well, I was able to reconstruct route descriptions of this man’s ship and Brazil’s Stehekin for a period of three decades. You would be shocked at how often their routes are congruent—and remember, they both owned their ships, so they weren’t bound by a traffic manager. Their side trips particularly interested me— they touched practically every strict Jewish community at some point in a two- to -three-year period. During the twenty years prior to Brazil’s disappearance, they had celebrated the highest of Jewish holy days together at one or another congregation. They knew each other very well over a very long time.”
“Doesn’t that rule him out, though? Wasn’t it Brazil’s M. O. to find a young man to replace?”
“This is just as good. An old man who has outlived all his contemporaries. A freighter captain of repute and reputation. But, more important, roughly six months before his disappearance Brazil and this man met on a small planet. Our man was old, he was having medical problems, his physical was coming up and he couldn’t possibly pass it without a rejuve— but medical records indicated that he just couldn’t stand another rejuve. Yet, some four months later, with no rejuve, he took and passed a complete examination with flying colors!”
Mavra looked puzzled. “But—four months? You said they met last six months before.”
“Sure! Don’t you see? They swapped identities way back then! Brazil used the time to get the last of whatever he needed to simulate his man properly and then became him, while the old rabbi went off in the Stehekin posing as Brazil, who’d just passed his own examination a year before and had three years before another.”
“Wouldn’t somebody notice that Brazil had turned into an old man?” she asked.
“Oh, sure. If they saw him. But if he served ports where he wasn’t known, and if he stayed on his ship for that time, there’d be no mystery. The Stehekin took no passengers during the period but did haul some freight. Then, two months after the switch, an ‘attack’ is arranged. Brazil is killed and that’s that.”
“But what happened to the man he replaced? Did he die or what?”
“Perhaps. It depends. Consider what Brazil could offer him. An old man who’d been everywhere and seen it all and was having his livelihood and love— you have to love space to work at it for two centuries —taken from him, with death shortly to follow. What Brazil could offer him was a new life in a new body, a renewal, new experience and adventure.”
Mavra cursed herself for a fool. “Of course! There are Markovian gates all around! Brazil could have told him how to use one, even brought him to one. He went to the Well World!”
Obie chuckled. “I wonder what sort of creature he is now? I should dearly love to see how he manages to keep kosher!”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. It’s not important. I’m sure that Nathan Brazil is now Rabbi David Korf, captain of the freighter Jerusalem.”
Mavra was genuinely excited at the news. “Then all we have to do is find out where the Jerusalem will make planetfall next and be there to meet it!”
“So it would seem,” Obie agreed. “Except for one thing. After the switch Korf totally changed his operational area—I suppose to minimize chances of running into people who knew the real Korf well. The trouble is, he’s an independent. It might be years before the relevant documentation for an independent gets filed. I’ve checked everything I could, but after about six years ago I have no sign that the Jerusalem ever made a contract or hauled cargo anywhere in our little corner of space. Brazil has not only pulled his disappearing act, he seems to have taken his ship with him this time.”
According to the licensing board, Rabbi Korf had in fact returned and renewed his license only a year before. This was more puzzling than a total disappearance. The last renewal indicated that both Korf and the Jerusalem were still very much in service and, in fact, required recertification. But where? And for whom? There were no records to show.
“Strictly private, maybe? Perhaps illegal?” Mavra suggested.
Marquoz, who had arrived just a step ahead of the rest of the crowd, Temple and otherwise, was skeptical. “If that illegal, then why bother to recertify and reestablish his identity at all? If not, then he needs the cover—and that would also mean legitimate business. No, I think he’s still hauling cargo in the open and quite legally between Com worlds.”
“Impossible,” Obie responded. “As the Fellowship people will tell you, we have all worlds covered.”
Marquoz cocked a large reptilian head and his smile widened slightly in mock surprise. “No, you don’t. Not by a long shot. What your Fellowship covers is human worlds. The Acolytes are not very popular in the nonhuman sectors—which, it would seem to me, would be the very place to best avoid the cult.”
Obie was silent for a moment. Then he said, “My cost was astronomical, my builder perhaps mankind’s greatest genius. I can do any calculation in an amount of time so small that it is incomprehensible to the organic mind. So, tell me—why didn’t I think of that?”
“Too simple,” Mavra told him dryly. “Obie, your problem is that you think like a human being, only faster.”
“All right,” the computer retorted, trying to channel the argument away from his own failings. “So now what? There are a lot of nonhuman worlds out there in the Com and allied with it, and we don’t have the proper records for them or the proper personnel to get them.”
“I wouldn’t be concerned with the allied and associated worlds,” Marquoz said. “If he was dealing there exclusively, he wouldn’t need to recharter. No, he’s within the Com proper, which means one of a very few races. We can eliminate some right off— mine, for example, which is serviced entirely by a nationalized shipping company; the nonorganic boys, since their trade’s of a far different type; the non-carbon based, too, I think, are out—he’s avoided the human sector because he didn’t want to be stuck in his ship all the time. He wants to socialize, and that means a place where we can breathe the air and drink the booze without artificial aid. That narrows it down pretty well, doesn’t it?”
“I agree,” Obie replied. “The pattern’s consistent. In my files I find that he’s always had rather an affinity for Rhone centaurs—the ones called Dillians on the Well World. They meet all the other specifications, too—although this, in itself, is a problem since the Rhone is a spacefaring and expanding race itself, almost as large as humanity, possibly older and certainly more spread out. Without the Fellowship to do the legwork, it’s going to be hell to track him down. He’s chosen well.”
It was Mavra’s turn now. “I don’t think it ought to be that hard. I don’t know a damned thing about them or their culture—the closest I’ve come is being briefly in Dillia, which hardly counts—but if the Rhone are highly advanced then they have their own bureaucracy and central controls. They keep files and records someplace and they’re probably as efficient at that as humans are.”
“They could hardly be any worse,” Obie snorted.
She smiled and nodded. “So, let’s find those records.”
All eyes turned to Marquoz. He sighed and said, “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”
It took ten days and a minor burglary. The Rhone, far better organized than the Com proper, required ship listings at five central naval district offices so that ships could be traced if overdue. The human areas of the Com only required that the ship file a plan at two locations before embarking; in many cases even that wasn’t done, and the human area didn’t really care since the procedure was for the protection of the freighter anyway.
Disguised as Rhone, with nicely counterfeited orders, seven of the Nautilus crew were dispatched to each naval headquarters. They had to locate a middle-ranking naval officer, one with broad access to traffic files. The newer he was the better, although the operation’s headquarters for such large areas were so big that few people would know everybody and a complete stranger could probably walk through without being seriously questioned on his rights—as long as he knew the codes and passwords and had the right ID tags.
It was on the latter that the Rhone depended most for security; among the things preserved on the tags was an actual tissue sample from the wearer. A Rhone’s sample was unique, and an electronic comparison of it with living tissue—say, of the palm— would be an infallible method of making sure the wearer was who he or she claimed to be.
On the off-chance that there might be an energy-binding system not thoroughly detectable even by Obie’s absolute analysis, it was decided that only original-issue tags would be used. The system was simple: Lure the target officers someplace, drag them, transport them to Obie, then run them through the dish. Just as Yua and her supervisor had been reprogrammed by this process, so were the young officers. At some point during the next three days or so they would look at the shipping information and their minds would be able to retain all the information no matter how many ships were involved or how complex the routing. Later they would call a number and repeat that information. At no time would they be aware of what they were doing; they would have no memory of their kidnapping, of Obie, or of anything else. Once the compulsion had been carried out, they would go on about their business never knowing they had been used.
As the information came in, Marquoz had Obie make a printout for the rest of them to use. The third district showed what they wanted clearly, as Obie could have told them instantly if they’d asked. But, he understood people well enough to allow them some minor victories.
“There it is,” Marquoz said, pointing to a single line. “‘Jerusalem, HC-23A768744, M Class Modified, arrival Meouit 27 HYR.’ Must not be carrying anything valuable—no classification codes. Probably grain or beer or something like that.”
Mavra smiled slightly. “From what I’ve been told, a cargo of beer or ale would appeal to Nathan Brazil.”
“Me, too,” the little dragon retorted. “The date 27 HYR corresponds, I think, to June 24. That’s five days from now. Anybody know where this Meouit is?”
“Obie does,” Mavra responded confidently. “I think we’ll get there well ahead of him.” She sighed. “Well, I guess it’s time to call a war council. We now know where the man we think he is will be five days from now. We’ll have to be pretty damned sure we don’t blow it.”
They came to the Nautilus once more, to its beautiful gardens and Greco-Roman buildings, then down the elevator for the long ride to the asteroid’s core, down a twisting corridor and across a huge bridge that spanned the main shaft for the big dish— the giant projector that took up much of the underside of the asteroid and was capable not merely of destroying but of reshaping and redesigning whole planets.
On one side of the bridge was the almost never used main control room. Now Obie alone supervised himself and the vast machinery that was the Nautilus. On the other side of the bridge was the small chamber with the little dish and the heavily instrumented balcony. This had been Zinder’s original lab, transplanted here by the evil Trelig. Through monitors Obie could have addressed them anywhere, but he preferred this place for gatherings. It was his “office,” his true home.
Five Olympians assembled there in their great cloaks, three Aphrodites and two Athenes, plus Marquoz and Gypsy and Mavra. Of them all, only Mavra felt totally confident when in this place; it was her home, too, and she was Obie’s partner, not his possession. The others feared her a bit for that; the psychological effect was just right. Except for Yua, the Olympians were trying their best not to look terrified; they knew this was the seat of power—the place where their race was born, not by the act of a benevolent god but by the whim of an evil maniac.
When all were seated except Marquoz, who never sat on anything except his tail, Obie opened the conference.
“First, let me state the obvious,” he began. His voice, materializing from empty air, was unsettling. “We are about to head for Meouit by the most direct course. It would take weeks to get there by ship. I am awaiting word from the crew Topside that our other guests are properly secured for what we call the ‘drop.’ That is what it will feel like—as if you are falling down a deep shaft. Please do not be alarmed; the effect is temporary. Even I feel some discomfort, much more since that rip in space-time.”
The Olympians in the chamber looked apprehensive, but there was little they could do. They were at the mercy of the machine and could only pray that he trusted them enough not to do anything funny with their minds. They didn’t know, nor were they told, that Obie could not perform such tricks on or in the Nautilus unless you were under the little dish.
“First of all,” Obie continued, “remember that, for all our long hard months of work, we only suspect that Rabbi Korf is Nathan Brazil. There is a possibility, although I consider it low, that Korf is Korf. We must be prepared for this just in case.”
One of the Olympians spoke up. “You have powers —the power in some cases to pluck people here from wherever they may be. Why not simply do so with this Korf and avoid any problems? We could find out what we needed to know here, at little risk.”
“What you say is true,” Obie admitted, “but only to a degree. In order to pluck, as you say, individuals I must have a sensor down there actually focused on the object. Mavra has been that focus in the instances you know of, but we cannot be positive that we’ll be able to get close enough long enough for that to happen. Also, please remember, if this man is Nathan Brazil, he will look human but he will be something we are not—he will be a part of a different universal plan than we. We are all—all—by-products of the Markovian equations. Our reality is held firm by the great computer the Markovians constructed, the Well of Souls. Nathan Brazil’s is not. He is independent of that computer except that it aids him in retaining what form he chooses and protects him from death. It also might protect him from being snatched by me. It might severely damage me to attempt to transport him when he is not a part of the basic equations. We can’t risk it, not until we know more, anyway. No, it’s direct action that’s called for. We must convince him to come to us.”
“I foresee a great problem there, then,” Marquoz put in. “He has gone to great lengths to avoid detection. If he knows we’re on to him, he’ll flee and we may never find him again in time. Our approach must be subtle, gentle—but all avenues of escape must be blocked.”
“That is ridiculous!” one of the Athenes snorted. “If He is asked if He is in fact Nathan Brazil, His master plan will be fulfilled and He will show His true powers.”
“But how can you be sure?” Mavra shot back. “Oh, everything’s panned out as your beliefs say so far—but, ah, perhaps more is required. Remember that he went public and was aboveboard until a dozen or so years ago. He must have been asked a million times by customs agents alone if he was indeed Nathan Brazil. You see? I think you have a problem —I think that, even under your own beliefs, logic dictates that you are going to have to ask him by his true name for him to admit it—and we don’t know his true name. If I’m right on that then you’ll panic him just as Marquoz warned.”
That concept seemed to disturb the Olympians slightly. It was a valid point within their faith—and one that simply had never occurred to them. Nathan Brazil was not his true name; it was a traditional first name coupled with the name of an Old-Earth country he’d once been associated with.
“You—you’re just trying to confuse us,” the Olympian accused. “It is the logic of the Evil One!” She made a sign and the others did the same, even Yua.
“Think of it logically,” Obie argued. “If you are right, then nothing is lost by using our methods. You will get your chance to ask. If we are right, then you will have lost that chance, probably for good, by refusing to do it our way. You don’t have a choice, really.”
One of the Athenes, the obvious leader, looked at her sisters and then back at the others. Though a fanatic, she was not stupid. They were about to plunge into some sort of abyss to reach this distant planet more quickly; it would be easy for this computer simply to exclude Olympians, leaving them in empty space.
“Very well,” she said at last. “Your way. But we will have full access to Him as soon as He is contacted?”
“As soon as we know he can’t get away, yes,” Obie assured them. “My word on that.” For all the good it’ll do you, he added silently, although he could tell from Mavra’s expression that she was thinking the same thing.
“He’ll have a spaceworthy ship,” Marquoz pointed out. “An easy getaway. He’ll have to be approached cautiously, taken by surprise but by subterfuge, as well, not by force. We want him as a friend. It worries me that, although you say he should have been immediately called back to the Well of Souls to repair the damage, he has not responded to those calls.”
“Agreed,” Obie responded. “Either his memory has deteriorated again or he has deliberately ignored the signals. If the former, we may be able to return him to his senses; if the latter, it may be something beyond our control. We must be careful. Any suggestions?”
Mavra nodded. “One, I think. You remember, Obie, when you replayed for me the memories of my grandparents’ odyssey with Brazil on the Well World?”
“Yes?”
“I think he really loved Wu Julee. Certainly she loved him. The Well World had turned her into a Dil-lian—a centaur—and you said he had a liking for centaurs. I wonder . . . . Suppose you transformed me into an exact duplicate of her as a centaur? It would mean nothing to anyone but Nathan Brazil. Even if his memory’s gone bad it should shake something loose. As far as everybody else on Meouit is concerned I’d be just another attractive Rhone. I’ve looked over the shipping records—he has no return cargo, so he’s going to be deadheading someplace unless he picks something up here. He’ll come down looking for cargo. Suppose I meet him as the representative of a cargo company? By his reactions to my appearance we’ll get a good idea of whether Korf is Brazil. I think he’d find an appointment with me emotionally and financially irresistible.”
“And we’d be waiting inside at the appointed spots,” Marquoz put in. “I like it.”
“Well, I don’t,” the Athene leader snapped. “By not asking the Holy Question immediately you risk him smelling a trap and not keeping the appointment.”
“Oh, we’ll have people on him the moment we spot him,” Mavra assured her. “If he makes to bolt we’ll move immediately. Remember, we can take him by force if he decides to go back to the Jerusalem; if he bolts in any other direction he’s going to be awfully conspicuous on a Rhone world.”
“And we’re going to have to sneak you down as it is,” Obie added. “The Rhone aren’t too fond of the Fellowship or the Olympians. Come on, you said you’d go along with us.”
The Olympian stood and seemed about to say something, then sat back down. “All right. You win.”
Marquoz turned to Gypsy. “You should be down there with us. You’ve seen him before.”
Gypsy shook bis head. “Nope. Sorry. I don’t want to be anything but what I am. But it sounds like a good scam; it should work. I’ll follow it from here.”
“Suit yourself,” the Chugach replied with a shrug. He turned and faced the empty air. “I, for one, do not wish to be a Rhone, though.”
“No need,” the computer told him. “The Olympians won’t, either. You can all wait together. We’ll send some crew down to rent a warehouse and establish a dummy company—this can be done in a day or so. They’ll also scout around. We’ll use one of the spare ships to get you in; disguise you as cargo or something and get you to the warehouse. Then we all wait.”
Marquoz sighed. “Yes, then we wait.”
“Drop’s coming!” Obie warned. Before anyone could react the world went out around them and they were engulfed in a blackness without end, dropping uncomfortably, dropping to a point far, far away.