“Good, we can talk.” The old priest turned to the guards and said a few words to them in their own language, then led Vorgens away from the tent.
“I find that walking stimulates my conversation,” Sittas said. “Walking and conversation are the only vices left to one of my age.”
Vorgens studied the old man’s face in the flickering irelight. On another world, at another time, Sittas might have been a teacher, or a physician, or even a planetary governor. His face had the natural dignity, the touch of good humor at the comers of the mouth, the impression of wisdom in the silver hair and wrinkled brow. But deep in his eyes was a sadness bom of many years and long experience of the failure of man’s grandest dreams.
“I was surprised,” Vorgens said finally, “to see so many Shinarians in camp.”
Sittas said nothing.
“I had thought. .. that is, Terran intelligence believes, that the Komani raiders have landed on your planet while you are in rebellion against the Empire—taking advantage of the confused situation to loot your people.”
“There was some looting,” Sittas agreed noncommittally.
“I don’t understand.”
Sittas stopped walking and looked up at the young Watchman”Perhaps it is not me you should speak with, but Merdon.”
“Who is Merdon?”
“A youth—very much like yourself. And yet, very unlike you.”
Vorgens shrugged. “All right, let’s talk to Merdon.”
Sittas led him through a maze of tents, and finally left him standing in front of one of the smaller bubbles. After a few minutes, the old priest reappeared at the doorway and gestured Vorgens inside.