He knocked upon the third door to his left, and after a time it opened.
The man stared at him. “Yes?”
“May I come in? It is a matter of some urgency . . .”
The man hesitated a moment, then nodded abruptly and stepped aside.
The prince moved past him and into his chamber. A great sheet of canvas was spread out over the floor, before the stool upon which the man reseated himself. He motioned the prince into the only other chair in the room.
He was short and big in the shoulders; his hair was pure white, and the pupils of his eyes bore the smoky beginnings of cataract invasion. His hands were brown and hard, the joints of his fingers knotted.
“Yes?” he repeated.
“Jan Olvegg,” said the other.
“The old man’s eyes widened, then narrowed to slits.
He weighed a pair of scissors in his hand.
“‘It’s a long way to Tipperary,’ ” said the prince.
The man stared, then smiled suddenly. “‘If your heart’s not here,'” he said, placing the scissors on his workstand. “How long has it been, Sam?” he asked.
“I’ve lost count of the years.”
“Me too. But it must be forty — forty-five?—since I’ve seen you. Much beer over the damn dam since then, I daresay?”
Sam nodded.
“I don’t really know where to begin . . .” said the man.
“For a start, tell me—why ‘Janagga’?”
“Why not?” asked the other. “It has a certain earnest, working-class sound about it. How about yourself? Still in the prince business?”
“I’m still me,” said Sam, “and they still call me Siddhartha when they come to call.”
The other chuckled. “And ‘Binder of the Demons,'” he recited. “Very good. I take it, then, since your fortunes do not match your garb, that you are casing the scene, as is your wont.”
Sam nodded. “And I have come upon much which I do not understand.”
“Aye,” sighed Jan. “Aye. How shall I begin? How? I shall tell you of myself, that’s how. . . . I have accumulated too much bad karma to warrant a current transfer.”
“What?”
“Bad karma, that’s what I said. The old religion is not only the religion—it is the revealed, enforced and frighteningly demonstrable religion. But don’t think that last part too loudly. About a dozen years ago the Council authorized the use of psych-probes on those who were up for renewal. This was right after the Accelerationist-Deicrat split, when the Holy Coalition squeezed out the tech boys and kept right on squeezing. The simplest solution was to outlive the problem. The Temple crowd then made a deal with the body sellers, customers were brain-probed and Accelerationists were refused renewal, or . . . well . . . simple as that. There aren’t too many Accelerationists now. But that was only the beginning. The god party was quick to realize that therein lay the way of power. Having your brains scanned has become a standard procedure, just prior to a transfer. The body merchants are become the Masters of Karma, and a part of the Temple structure. They read over your past life, weigh the karma, and determine your life that is yet to come. It’s a perfect way of maintaining the caste system and ensuring Deicratic control. By the way, most of our old acquaintances are in it up to their halos.”
“God!” said Sam.
“Plural,” Jan corrected. “They’ve always been considered gods, with their Aspects and Attributes, but they’ve made it awfully official now. And anyone who happens to be among the First had bloody well better be sure whether he wants quick deification or the pyre when he walks into the Hall of Karma these days.
“When’s your appointment?” he finished.
“Tomorrow,” said Sam, “in the afternoon. . . . Why are you still walking around, if you don’t have a halo or a handful of thunderbolts?”
“Because I do have a couple friends, both of whom suggested I continue living—quietly—rather than face the probe. I took their sage advice to heart and consequently am still around to mend sails and raise occasional hell in the local bistros. Else”—he raised a callused hand, snapped his fingers—”else, if not the real death, then perhaps a body shot full with cancer, or the interesting life of a gelded water buffalo, or . . .”