Birthright

“A practical one. I've brought food for him. There's no sense leaving it here if he's dead. There's barely

enough to go around as is.”

“I see,” said Mihal, wondering whether an apology was called for and deciding against it. “He's just sleeping.”

She placed the basket by the old man's side. “My name is Pilar,” she said. “He's my uncle.” “I'm Per Mihal,” said Mihal, extending his hand. “Oh. The new priest?”

He nodded.

“Have you been here long?”

“I arrived this morning,” he said. “I have spent most of the day wondering how you can put up with these living conditions.”

“Nobody told us we had a choice,” replied Pilar. “As long as Rodat seems to be sleeping comfortably, would you care to go for a brief walk?” asked Mihal. “I haven't seen much of the village.” “All right,” she agreed. “Though there's not much to see.” They stepped outside, and Mihal felt the huge sun beating down on him again. He was amazed by the poverty surrounding him. Even for a ghetto it was bad. He wondered what some alien race, finding traces of Man here in the far future, would make of it. Would there be any sign that this hapless creature had once ruled the galaxy? He doubted it.

“How long will you be with us, Per Mihal?” asked Pilar as they wove their way in and out of the dilapidated buildings.

“Until I'm reassigned,” he said. “Which means anywhere from a week to a lifetime.” “Well, you won't be hurting for business,” she said. “I wish that weren't so.”

“Oh?”

“I suppose priests are like doctors,” he said. “Nothing would make us happier than a lack of patients.” “Not very likely in this day and age. Our empire is gone, our primacy is just a distant memory, we're hunted like animals on some worlds and shoved into ghettos on others. As long as things don't get any better, you can keep your shingle up.”

“We don't feed on misery,” said Mihal gently. “We fight it.” “You'd look pretty silly fighting empty air, wouldn't you?” Pilar laughed. “You'd be like a navy without