“Your pardon, Master. Though the slave may not question, is it not written that he may pray for mercy and help? We are simple servants, possessing not the wisdom of the Sun and of the Moon. Are you not our father and our mother? Will you not, from your heights, instruct us?”
The Prince refrained from biting his lip. How had this happened? By some twist of words this barbarian had put him in the wrong again. It was not safe to let the man open his mouth! Still — this must be met; when a slave cries for mercy, honor requires an answer.
“We consent to instruct you in one particular; learn the lesson well and other aspects of wisdom will come to you of themselves.” He paused and considered his words. “The manner of address used by you and your lesser priests in greeting the Chosen Ones is not seemly. This afront corrupts the character of all who see it.”
“Am I to believe that the Chosen Race disdains the blessing of the Lord Mota?”
He had twisted it — again! Sound policy required that the ruler assume that the gods of the slaves were authentic. “The blessing is not refused, but the form of greeting must be that of servant to master.”
Ardmore was suddenly aware that he was being called with urgency.
Ringing in his head was the voice of Thomas: “Chief! Chief! Can you hear me? There’s a squad of police at every temple, demanding the surrender of the priests — we’re getting reports in from all over the country!”
“The Lord Mota hears!” It was addressed to the Prince; would Jeff understand also?
Jeff again — “Was that to me, Chief?”
“See to it that his followers understand.” The Prince had answered too quickly for Ardmore to devise another double meaning in which to speak to Thomas. But he knew something that the Prince did not know he knew.
Now to use it.
“How can I instruct my priests when you are even now arresting them?”
Ardmore’s manner changed suddenly from humble to accusatory.
The face of the Prince was impassive, his eyes alone gave away his astonishment. Had the man guessed the nature of that dispatch? “You speak wildly.”
“I do not! Even while you have been instructing me in the way that I must instruct my priests, your soldiers have been knocking at the gates of all the temples of Mota. Wait! I have a message to you from the Lord Mota: His priests do not fear worldly power. You have not succeeded in arresting them, nor would you, did not the Lord Mota bid them to surrender. In thirty minutes, after the priests have cleansed themselves spiritually and girded themselves for the ordeal, each will surrender himself at the threshold of his temple. Until then, woe to the soldier who attempts to violate the House of Mota!”
“‘At’s telling ’em Chief! ‘At’s telling ’em! You mean for each temple priest to hold off thirty more minutes, then surrender — is that right?
And for them to be loaded for bear, power units, communicators, and all the latest gadgets. Acknowledge, if you can.”
“In the groove, Jeff.” He had to chance it four meaningless syllables to the Prince, but Jeff would understand.
“O. K., Chief. I don’t know what you’re up to, but we’ll go along a thousand percent!”
The face of the Prince was a frozen mask. “Take him away.”
For some minutes after Ardmore was gone the Serene One sat staring at the chessboard and pulling at his underlip.
They placed Ardmore in a room underground, a room with metal walls and massive locks on the door. Not content with that, he was hardly inside when he heard a soft hissing noise and saw a point at the edge of the door turn cherry red. Welding! They evidently intended to make sure that no possible human weakness of his guards could result in escape. He called the Citadel.
“Lord Mota, hear thy servant!”
“Yes, Chief.”
“A wink is as good as a nod.”
“Got you, Chief. You are still where you can be overheard. Slang it up.
I’ll get your drift!”