“Let there be no haste; I intend for you to tell your tale in person to the Imperial Hand.”
The local Hand of the Emperor, military governor of that region which included Denver and the Citadel, was no more pleased than his junior.
“What possessed you to enter their holy place? These people are childlike, excitable. Your action could be the regrettable cause of assassinations of many more valuable than yourself. We cannot be forever wasting slaves to teach them lessons.”
“I am unworthy, sire.”
“I do not dispute that. You may go.” The lieutenant departed, to join, not his family, but his ancestors.
The Imperial Hand turned to his adjutant. “We will probably be petitioned by this cult. See that the petitioners are pacified and assured that their gods will not be disturbed. Note the characteristics of the sect and send out a general warning to deal gently with it.” He sighed. “These savages and their false gods! I grow weary of them. Yet they are necessary; the priests and the gods of slaves always fight on the side of the Masters. It is a rule of nature.”
“You have spoken, sire.”
Ardmore was glad to see Thomas return to the Citadel. In spite of his confidence in Jeff’s ability to handle himself in a tight place, in spite of the assurance that Calhoun had given him that the protective shield, properly handled, would protect the wearer from anything that the PanAsian could bring on it, he had been in a state of nerves ever since Thomas had set out to register a complaint with the Asiatic authorities. After all, the attitude of the PanAsians toward local religions might be one of bare toleration rather than special encouragement.
“Welcome home, old boy!” he shouted, pounding him on the back. “I’m glad to see your ugly face tell me what happened?”
“Give me time to get out of this bloody bathrobe, and I’ll tell you. Got a cigarette? That’s a bad point about being a holy man; they don’t smoke.”
“Sure. Here. Had anything to eat?”
“Not recently.”
Ardmore flipped the intercommunicator to Kitchen. “Alec, rustle up some groceries for Lieutenant Thomas. And tell the troops they can hear his story if they come around to my office.”
“Ask him if he has any avocados.”
Ardmore did so. “He says they’re still in quick freeze, but he’ll thaw one out. Now let’s have your story. What did Little Red Riding Hood say to the wolf?”
“Well — you’ll hardly believe it, Chief, but I didn’t have any trouble at all. When I got into town, I marched right straight up to the first PanAsian policeman I found, stepped off the curb, and struck the old benediction pose — staff in my left hand, right hand pawing the air; none of this hands folded and head down stuff that white men are supposed to use. Then I said, ‘Peace be unto you! Will the Master direct his servant to the seat of the Heavenly Emperor’s government?’
“I don’t think he understood much English. He seemed startled at my manner, and got hold of another flatface to help him. This one knew more English and I repeated my request. They palavered in that damned singsong tongue of theirs, then conducted me to the palace of the Emperor’s Hand. We made quite a procession — one on each side and me walking fast so that I kept about even or a little in front of them.”
“Good advertising,” Ardmore approved.
“That’s what I thought. Anyway, they got me there and I told my story to some underofficial. The results astounded me. I was whisked right straight up to the Hand himself.”
“The hell you say!”
“Wait a minute — here’s the pay-off: I’ll admit I was scared, but I said to myself ‘Jeff, old boy, if you start to crawl now, you’ll never get out of here alive.’ I knew a white man is expected to drop to his knees before an official of that rank. I didn’t; I gave him the same standing benediction I had given his flunkies. And he let me get away with it! He looked me over and said, ‘I thank you for your blessing,