Thomas and Howe were glad to be left alone. Being a “holy man” had disadvantages; they had had nothing to eat since leaving the Citadel.
Jeff dug sandwiches out from under his robes; they munched them. Best of all, there was a washroom adjoining Konsky’s office.
Three hours later they were in possession of a document, the English translation of which stated that the Heavenly Emperor was graciously pleased to grant to his faithful subjects etc., etc., — a lease paid up on the warehouse. In exchange for another unreasonable amount of money Konsky agreed to stir up enough labor to clean the place at once, that very day, and to provide certain repairs and materials. Jeff thanked him and with a straight face invited him to attend the first services to be held in the new temple.
They trudged back to the warehouse. Once out of Konsky’s earshot Jeff said, “Y’ know, Alec, we’re going to make lots of use of that character
— but when the day comes, well, I’ve got a little list and he’s at the top of it. I mean to take care of him myself.”
“Split him with me,” was Howe’s only comment.
The street urchin popped up from nowhere when they reached the warehouse. “Any more errands, grandpa?”
“Bless you, son. Yes, several.” After another financial transaction the boy left to find cots and bedding for them. Jeff watched his departure and said, ” I think I’ll make an altar boy out of that lid. He can go places and do things that we can’t — and the cops aren’t so likely to stop a person that age.”
“I don’t think you should trust him.”
“I won’t. So far as he will ever know we are a couple of crackpots, firmly convinced that we are priests of the great god Mota. We can’t afford to trust anybody, Alec, until we are sure of them. Come on let’s kill ail the rats in this place before the cleaners get here. Want me to check the setting on your staff?”
By nightfall the First Temple of Denver of the Lord Mota was a going concern, even though it still looked like a warehouse and had no congregation. The place reeked of disinfectant, the rubbish was gone, and the front door would lock. There were two beds of sorts and groceries enough to last two men a fortnight.
Their chaperone from the police force was still across the street.
The police guard stayed with them for four days. Twice squads of police came and searched through the place. Thomas let them; as yet there was nothing to hide. Their staffs were still their only source of power and the only Ledbetter communicator they had with them gave Howe a slightly hunch-backed appearance in the day time; he wore it while Thomas wore the money belt.
In the meantime through Konsky they acquired a fast and powerful ground car — and permission to drive it, or have it driven, anywhere in the jurisdiction of the Hand. The “charge for special services” was quite high. The driver they hired for it was root acquired through Konsky, but indirectly through Peewee Jenkins, the boy who had helped them on the first day.
The watch was withdrawn from them around noon on the fourth day. That afternoon Jeff left Howe to hold the place and went back to the Citadel by car. He returned with Scheer, who looked vastly uncomfortable and out of character in priestly vestments and beard but who bore with him a cubical chest enameled in the six sacred colors of Mota. Once inside the warehouse with the door locked Scheer opened the chest with great care and in a particular fashion which prevented it from exploding and taking them and the building with it. He got very busy on the newly constructed “altar.” He finished shortly after midnight; there was more work to do outside, with Thomas and Howe standing guard, ready to stun or kill if necessary to prevent the sergeant being interrupted.
The morning sun fell on a front wall of emerald green, the other walls were red and golden and deep sky blue. The temple of Mota was ready for converts — and for others.