The People Trap (short stories collection)

The Victim From Space

Hadwell stared at the planet below. A tremor of excitement ran through him, for it was a beautiful world of green plains and red mountains and restless blue-grey seas. His ship's instruments quickly gathered their information and decided that the planet was eminently suited for human life. Hadwell punched a deceleration orbit and opened his notebook.

He was a writer, the author of White Shadows in the Asteroid Belt, The Saga of Deepest Space, Wanderings of an Interplanetary Vagabond, and Terira — Planet of Mystery!

He wrote in his notebook, "A new planet looms below me, inviting and mysterious, a challenge to the imagination. What will I find here, I, the vagabond from beyond the stars? What strange mysteries lie beneath the verdant green cover? Will there be danger? Love? Fulfilment? Will there be a resting place for a weary wanderer?"

Richard Hadwell was a tall, thin, red-headed young man. He had inherited a sizable fortune from his father and had invested it in a CC-Class Space Schooner. In this elderly craft, he had voyaged for the past six years and had written ecstatic books about the places he had seen. But most of the ecstasy had been counterfeit, for alien planets were disappointing places.

Aliens, Hadwell had found, were remarkably stupid and amazingly ugly. Their foods were impossible and their manners deplorable. Nevertheless, Hadwell wrote romances and hoped some day to live one.

The planet below was cityless, tropical, beautiful. His ship was already homing on a small thatch-hut village.

"Perhaps I'll find it here," Hadwell said to himself as the spaceship began braking sharply.

Early that morning, Kataga and his daughter, Mele, crossed the bridge of vines to Ragged Mountain, to gather frag blossoms. Nowhere on Igathi did the frag bloom so lustily as it did on Ragged Mountain. And this was as it should be, for the mountain was sacred to Thangookari, the smiling god.

Later in the day they were joined by Brog, a dull-faced youth of no importance whatsoever, except possibly to himself.

Mele had the feeling that something very important was about to happen. She was a tall, slender girl, and she worked as though in a trance, moving slowly and dreamily, her long black hair tossed by the wind. Familiar objects seemed imbued with unusual clarity and significance. She gazed at the village, a tiny cluster of huts across the river, and with wonder looked behind her at the Pinnacle, where all lgathian marriages were performed, and beyond that, to the delicately tinted sea.

She was the prettiest girl in Igathi; even the old priest admitted it. She longed for a dramatic role in life. But day after day passed monotonously in the village, and here she was, picking frag blossoms under two hot suns. It seemed unfair.

Her father gathered energetically, humming as he worked. He knew that the blossoms would soon be fermenting in the village vat. Lag, the priest, would mumble suitable words over the brew, and a libation would be poured in front of Thangookari's image. When these formalities were concluded, the entire village, dogs included, would go on a splendid drunk.

These thoughts made the work go faster. Also, Kataga had evolved a subtle and dangerous scheme to increase his prestige. It made for pleasant speculation.

Brog straightened up, mopped his face with the end of his loincloth, and glanced overhead for signs of rain.

"Hey!" he shouted.

Kataga and Mele looked up.

"There!" Brog screamed. "There, up there!"

High overhead, a silver speck surrounded by red and green flames was descending slowly, growing larger as they watched, and resolving itself into a shiny sphere.

"The prophecy!" Kataga murmured reverently. "At last — after all the centuries of waiting!"

"Let's tell the village!" Mele cried.

"Wait," Brog said. He flushed a fiery red and dug his toe into the ground. "I saw it first, you know."

"Of course you did," Mele said impatiently.

"And since I saw it first," Brog continued, "thereby rendering an important service to the village, don't you think — wouldn't it be proper—"

Brog wanted what every Igathian desired, worked and prayed for, and what intelligent men like Kataga cast subtle schemes for. But it was unseemly to call the desired thing by name. Mele and her father understood, however.

"What do you think?" Kataga asked.

"I suppose he does deserve something," Mele said.

Brog rubbed his hands together. "Would you, Mele? Would you do it yourself?"

"However," Mele said, "the whole thing is up to the priest."

"Please!" Brog cried. "Lag might not feel I'm ready. Please, Kataga! Do it yourself!"

Kataga studied his daughter's inflexible expression and sighed. "Sorry, Brog. If it was just between us ... But Mele is scrupulously orthodox. Let the priest decide."

Brog nodded, completely defeated. Overhead, the shiny sphere dropped lower, towards the level plain near the village. The three Igathians gathered their sacks of frag blossoms and began the trek home.

They reached the bridge of vines which spanned a raging river. Kataga sent Brog first and Mele next. Then he followed, drawing a small knife he had concealed in his loincloth.

As he expected, Mele and Brog didn't look back. They were too busy keeping their balance on the flimsy, swaying structure. When Kataga reached the centre of the bridge he ran his fingers beneath the main supporting vine. In a moment he had touched the worn spot he had located days earlier. Quickly he sawed with his knife and felt the fibres part. Another slash or two and the vine would part under a man's weight. But this was enough for now. Well satisfied with himself, Kataga replaced the knife in his loincloth and hurried after Brog and Mele.

The village came alive at the news of the visitor. Men and women could talk of nothing but the great event, and an impromptu dance began in front of the Shrine of the Instrument. But it stopped when the old priest hobbled out of the Temple of Thangookari.

Lag, the priest, was a tall, emaciated old man. After years of service, his face had grown to resemble the smiling, benevolent countenance of the god he worshipped. On his bald head was the feathered crown of the priestly caste, and he leaned heavily on a sacred black mace.

The people gathered in front of him. Brog stood near the priest, rubbing his hands together hopefully, but afraid to press for his reward.

"My people," Lag said, "the ancient prophecy of the Igathi is now to be fulfilled. A great gleaming sphere has dropped from the heavens, as the old legends predicted. Within the sphere will be a being such as ourselves, and he will be an emissary of Thangookari."

The people nodded, faces rapt.

"The emissary will be a doer of great things. He will perform acts of good such as no man has ever before seen. And when he has completed his work and claimed his rest, he will expect his reward." Lag's voice fell to an impressive whisper.

"This reward is what every Igathian desires, dreams about, prays for. It is the final gift which Thangookari grants to those who serve him and the village well."

The priest turned to Brog.

"You, Brog," he said, "have been the first to witness the coming of the emissary. You have served the village well." The priest raised his arms. "Friends! Do you feel that Brog should receive the reward he craves?"

Most of the people felt he should. But Vassi, a wealthy merchant, stepped forward, frowning.

"It isn't fair," he said. "The rest of us work towards this for years and give expensive gifts to the temple. Brog hasn't done enough to merit even the most basic reward. Besides, he's humbly born."

"You have a point," the priest admitted, and Brog groaned audibly. "But," he continued, "the bounty of Thangookari is not only for the highborn. The humblest citizen may aspire to it. If Brog were not suitably rewarded, would not others lose hope?"

The people roared their assent, and Brog's eyes grew wet with thankfulness.

"Kneel, Brog," said the priest, and his face seemed to radiate with kindliness and love.

Brog knelt. The villagers held their breath.

Lag lifted his heavy mace and brought it down with all his strength on Brog's skull. It was a good blow, squarely struck. Brog collapsed, squirmed once, and expired. The expression of joy on his face was beautiful to behold.

"How lovely it was," Kataga murmured enviously.

Mele grasped his arm. "Don't worry, Father. Some day you will have your reward."

"I hope so," Kataga said. "But how can I be sure? Look at Rii. A nicer, more pious fellow never lived. That poor old man worked and prayed all his life for a violent death. Any kind of a violent death! And what happened? He passed away in his sleep! What kind of a death is that for a man?"

"There are always one or two exceptions."

"I could name a dozen others," Kataga said.

"Try not to worry about it, Father," Mele said. "I know you'll die beautifully, like Brog."

"Yes, yes ... But if you think about it, Brog's was such a simple, ending." His eyes lighted up. "I would like something really big, something painful and complicated and wonderful, like the emissary will have."

Mele looked away. "That is presuming above your station, Father."

"True, true," Kataga said. "Oh well, some day ..." He smiled to himself. Some day indeed! An intelligent and courageous man took matters into his own hands and arranged for his own violent death, instead of meekly waiting for the priest to make up his feeble mind. Call it heresy or anything else; something deep within him told Kataga that a man had the right to die as painfully and violently as he pleased — if he could get away with it.

The thought of the half-severed vine filled him with satisfaction. How fortunate that he had never learned to swim! "Come," Mele said. "Let's welcome the emissary." They followed the villagers to the level plain where the sphere had landed.

Richard Hadwell leaned back in his padded pilot's chair and wiped perspiration from his forehead. The last natives had just left his ship, and he could hear them singing and laughing as they returned to their village in the evening twilight. The pilot's compartment smelled of flowers and honey and wine, and throbbing drums seemed to echo still from the grey metal walls.

He smiled reminiscently and took down his notebook. Selecting a pen, he wrote:

Beautiful to behold is Igathi, a place of stately mountains and raging mountain streams, beaches of black sand, verdant vegetation in the jungles, great flowering trees in the forests.

Not bad, Hadwell told himself. He pursed his lips and continued.

The people here are a comely humanoid race, a light tan in coloration, supple to behold. They greeted me with flowers and dancing, and many signs of joy and affection. I had no trouble hypnopeding their language, and soon felt as though this had always been my home. They are a lighthearted, laughter-loving people, gentle and courteous, living serenely in a state of near-nature. What a lesson there is here for Civilized Man!

One's heart goes out to them, and to Thangookari, their benevolent deity. One hopes that Civilized Man, with his genius for destruction and frenetic behaviour, does not come here, to turn these folk from their path of joyous moderation.

Hadwell selected a pen with a finer point, and wrote, "There is a girl named Mele who—" He crossed out the line, and wrote, "A blacklhaired girl named Mele, beautiful beyond compare, came close to me and gazed deep into my eyes—" He crossed that out, too.

Frowning deeply, he tried several possible lines: "Her limpid brown eyes gave promise of joys beyond—" "Her small red mouth quivered ever so slightly when I—" "Though her small hand rested on my arm for but a moment—"

He crumpled the page. Five months of enforced celibacy in space was having its effect, he decided. He had better return to the main issue and leave Mele for later. He wrote:

There are many ways in which a sympathetic observer could help these people. But the temptation is strong to do absolutely nothing, for fear of disrupting their culture.

Closing his notebook, Hadwell looked out of a port at the distant village, now lighted by torches. Then he opened the notebook again.

However their culture appears to be strong and flexible.

Certain kinds of aid can do nothing but profit them. And

these I will freely give.

He closed the notebook with a snap and put away his pens.

The following day, Hadwell began his good works. He found many Igathians suffering from mosquito-transmitted diseases. By judicious selection of antibiotics, he was able to arrest all except the most advanced cases. Then he directed work teams to drain the pools of stagnant water where the mosquitos bred.

As he went on his healing rounds, Mele accompanied him. The beautiful Igathian girl quickly learned the rudiments of nursing, and Hadwell found her assistance invaluable.

Soon, all significant disease was cleared up in the village. Hadwell then began to spend his days in a sunny grove not far from Igathi, where he rested and worked on his book.

A town meeting was called at once by Lag, to discuss the import of this.

"Friends," said the old priest, "our friend, Hadwell, has done wonderful things for the village. He has cured our sick, so they too may live to partake of Thangookari's gift. Now Hadwell is tired and rests in the sun. Now Hadwell expects the reward he came here for."

"It is fitting," said the merchant, Vassi, "that the emissary receive his reward. I suggest that the priest take his mace and go forth—"

"Why so stingy?" asked Juele, a priest in training. "Is Thangookari's messenger deserving of no finer death? Hadwell deserves more than the mace! Much more!"

"You are right," Vassi admitted slowly. "In that case, I suggest that we drive poisonous legenberry quills under his fingernails."

"Maybe that's good enough for a merchant," said Tgara, the stonecutter, "but not for Hadwell. He deserves a chiefs death! I move that we tie him down and kindle a small fire beneath his toes, gradually—"

"Wait," said Lag. "The emissary has earned the Death of an Adept. Therefore, let him be taken, tenderly and firmly, to the nearest giant anthill, and there buried to his neck."

There were shouts of approval. Tgara said, "And as long as he screams, the ancient ceremonial drums will pound."

"And there will be dances for him," said Vassi.

"And a glorious drunk," said Kataga.

Everyone agreed that it would be a beautiful death.

So the final details were decided, and a time was set. The village throbbed with religious ecstasy. All the huts were decorated with flowers, except the Shrine of the Instrument, which had to remain bare. The women laughed and sang as they prepared the death feast. Only Mele, for some unaccountable reason, was forlorn. With lowered head she walked through the village and climbed slowly to the hills beyond, to Hadwell.

Hadwell was stripped to the waist and basking under the two suns. "Hi, Mele," he said. "I heard the drums. Is something up?"

"There will be a celebration," Mele said, sitting down beside him.

"That's nice. OK if I attend?"

Mele stared at him, nodding slowly. Her heart melted at the sight of such courage. The emissary was showing a true observance of the ancient punctilio, by which a man pretended that his own death feast was something that really didn't concern him. Men in this day and age were not able to maintain the necessary aplomb. But of course, an emissary of Thangookari would follow the rules better than anyone.

"How soon does it start?"

"In an hour," Mele said. Formerly she had been straightforward and free with him. Now her heart was heavy, oppressed. She didn't know why. Shyly she glanced at his bright alien garments, his red hair.

"Oughta be nice," Hadwell said. "Yessir, it oughta be nice ..." His voice trailed away. From under lowered eyelids he looked at the comely Igathian girl, observed the pure line of neck and shoulder, her straight dark hair, and sensed rather than smelt her faint sachet. Nervously he plucked a blade of grass.

"Mele," he said, "I..."

The words died on his lips. Suddenly, startlingly, she was in his arms.

"Oh, Mele!"

"Hadwell!" she cried, and strained close to him. Abruptly she pulled free, looking at him with worried eyes.

"What's the matter, honey?" Hadwell asked.

"Hadwell, is there anything more you could do for the village? Anything? My people would appreciate it so."

"Sure there is," Hadwell said. "But I thought I'd rest up first, take it easy."

"No! Please!" she begged. "Those irrigation ditches you spoke of. Could you start them now?"

"If you want me to," Hadwell said. "But—"

"Oh darling!" She sprang to her feet. Hadwell reached for her, but she stepped back.

"There is no time! I must hurry back and tell the village!"

She ran from him. And Hadwell was left to ponder the strange ways of aliens, and particularly of alien women.

Mele ran back to the village and found the priest in the temple, praying for wisdom and guidance. Quickly she told him about the emissary's new plans for aiding the village.

The old priest nodded slowly. "Then the ceremony shall be deferred. But tell me, daughter. Why are you involved in this?"

Mele blushed and could not answer.

The old priest smiled. But then his face became stern. "I understand. But listen to me, girl. Do not allow love to sway you from the proper worship of Thangookari and from the observances of the ancient ways of our village."

"Of course not!" Mele said. "I simply felt that an Adept's death was not good enough for Hadwell. He deserves more! He deserves — the Ultimate!"

"No man has been worthy of the Ultimate for six hundred years," Lag said. "Not since the hero and demigod, V'ktat, saved the Igathian race from the dread Huelva Beasts."

"But Hadwell has the stuff of heroes in him," Mele cried. "Give him time, let him strive! He will prove worthy!"

"Perhaps so," the priest mused. "It would be a great thing for the village ... But consider, Mele! It might take a lifetime for Hadwell to prove himself."

"Wouldn't it be worth waiting for?" she asked.

The old priest fingered his mace, and his forehead wrinkled in thought. "You may be right," he said slowly, "yes, you may be right." Suddenly he straightened and glanced sharply at her.

"But tell me the truth, Mele. Are you really trying to preserve him for the Ultimate Death? Or do you merely want to keep him for yourself?"

"He must have the death he deserves," Mele said serenely. But she was unable to meet the priest's eye.

"I wonder," the old man said. "I wonder what lies in your heart. I think you tread dangerously close to heresy, Mele. You, who were among the most orthodox."

Mele was about to answer when the merchant, Vassi, rushed into the temple.

"Come quickly!" he cried. "It is the farmer, Iglai! He has evaded the taboo!"

The fat, jolly farmer had died a terrible death. He had been walking his usual route from his hut to the village centre, past an old thorn tree, Without warning, the tree had toppled on him. Thorns had impaled him through and through. Eyewitnesses said the farmer had writhed and moaned for over an hour before expiring.

But he had died with a smile on his face.

The priest looked at the crowd surrounding Iglai's body. Several of the villagers were hiding grins behind their hands. Lag walked over to the thorn tree and examined it.

There were faint marks of a saw blade, which had been roughened over and concealed with clay. The priest turned to the crowd.

"Was Iglai near this tree often?" he asked.

"He sure was," another farmer said. "Always ate his lunch under this tree."

The crowd was grinning openly now, proud of Iglai's achievement. Remarks began to fly back and forth.

"I wondered why he always ate here."

"Never wanted company. Said he liked to eat alone."

"Hah!"

"He must have been sawing all the time."

"For months, probably. That's tough wood."

"Very clever of Iglai."

"I'll say! He was only a farmer, and no one would call him religious. But he got himself a damned fine death."

"Listen, good people!" cried Lag. "Iglai did a sacrilegious thing! Only a priest can grant violent death!"

"What the priests don't see can't hurt them," someone muttered.

"So it was sacrilege," another man said. "Iglai got himself a beautiful death. That's the important thing."

The old priest turned sadly away. There was nothing he could do. If he had caught Iglai in time, he would have applied strict sanctions. Iglai would never have dared arrange another death and would probably have died quietly and forlornly in bed, at a ripe old age. But now it was too late. The farmer had achieved his death and on the wings of it had already gone to Rookechangi. Asking the god to punish Iglai in the afterlife was useless, for the farmer was right there on the spot to plead his own case.

Lag asked, "Didn't any of you see him sawing that tree?"

If anyone had, he wouldn't admit it. They stuck together, Lag knew. In spite of the religious training he had instilled in them from earliest childhood, they persisted in trying to outwit the priests.

When would they realize that an unauthorized death could never be so satisfying as a death one worked for.

deserved, and had performed with all ceremonial observations?

He sighed. Life was sometimes a burden. A week later, Hadwell wrote in his diary:

There has never been a race like these Igathians. I have lived among them now, eaten and drunk with them, and observed their ceremonies. I know and understand them. And the truth about them is startling, to say the

least.

The fact is, the Igathians do not know the meaning of war\ Consider that, Civilized Man! Never in all their recorded and oral history have they had one. They simply cannot conceive of it. I give the following illustration.

I tried to explain war to Kataga, father of the incomparable Mele. The man scratched his head, and asked, "You say that many kill many? That is war?"

"That's a part of it," I said. "Thousands, killing thousands."

"In that case," Kataga said, "many are dead at the same time, in the same way?"

"Correct," said I.

He pondered this for a long time, then turned to me and said, "It is not good for many to die at the same time in the same way. Not satisfactory. Every man should die his own individual death."

Consider, Civilized Man, the incredible naivete of that reply. And yet, think of the considerable truth which resides beneath the naivete; a truth which all might do well to learn.

Moreover, these people do not engage in quarrels among themselves, have no blood feuds, no crimes of passion, no murder.

The conclusion I come to is: violent death is unknown among these people — except, of course, for accidents.

It is a shame that accidents occur so often here and are so often fatal. But this I ascribe to the wildness of the

surroundings and to the lighthearted, devil-may-care nature of the people. And, as a matter of fact, even accidents do not go unnoticed and unchecked. The priest, with whom I have formed a considerable friendship, deplores the high accident rate, and is constantly proclaiming against it. Always he urges the people to take more caution.

He is a good man.

And now I write the final, most wonderful news of all. (Hadwell smiled sheepishly, hesitated for a moment, then returned to his notebook.)

Mele has consented to become my wife! As soon as I complete this, the ceremony begins. Already the festivities have started, the feast prepared. I consider myself the most fortunate of men, for Mele is a beautiful woman. And a most unusual woman, as well.

She has great social consciousness. A little too much, perhaps. She has been urging me constantly to do work for the village. And I have done much. I have completed an irrigation system for them, introduced several fast-growing food crops, started the profession of metal-working, and other things too numerous to mention. And she wants me to do more, much more.

But here I have put my foot down. I have a right to rest. I want a long, languorous honeymoon, and then a year or so of basking in the sun and finishing my book.

Mele finds this difficult to understand. She keeps on trying to tell me that I must continue working. And she speaks of some ceremony involving the "Ultimate" (if my translation is correct).

But I have done enough work. I refused to do more, for a year or two, at least.

This "Ultimate" ceremony is to take place directly after our wedding. I suppose it will be some high honour or other that these simple people wish to bestow on me. I have signified my willingness to accept it.

It should be interesting.

* * *

For the wedding the entire village, led by the old priest, marched to the Pinnacle, where all Igathian marriages were performed. The men wore ceremonial feathers, and the women were decked in shell jewellery and iridescent stones. Four husky villagers in the middle of the procession bore a strange-looking apparatus. Hadwell caught only a glimpse of it, but he knew it had been taken, with solemn ceremony, from a plain black-thatched hut which seemed to be a shrine of some sort.

In single file they proceeded over the shaky bridge of vines. Kataga, bringing up the rear, grinned to himself as he secretively slashed again at the worn spot.

The Pinnacle was a narrow spur of black rock thrust out over the sea. Hadwell and Mele stood on the end of it, faced by the priest. The people fell silent as Lag raised his arms.

"Oh great Thangookari!" the priest cried. "Cherish this man Hadwell, your emissary, who has come to us from out of the sky in a shining vehicle, and who has done service for the Igathi such as no man has ever done. And cherish your daughter, Mele. Teach her to love the memory of her husband — and to remain strong in her tribal beliefs"

The priest stared hard at Mele as he said that. And Mele, her head held high, gave him look for look.

"I now pronounce you," said the priest, "man and wife!"

Hadwell clasped his wife in his arms and kissed her. The people cheered. Kataga grinned his sly grin.

"And now," said the priest in his warmest voice, "I have good news for you, Hadwell. Great news!"

"Oh?" Hadwell said, reluctantly releasing his bride.

"We have judged you," said Lag, "and we have found you worthy — of the Ultimate!"

"Why, thanks," Hadwell said.

The priest motioned. Four men came up lugging the strange apparatus which Hadwell had glimpsed earlier. Now he saw that it was a platform the size of a large bed, made of some ancient-looking black wood. Lashed to the frame were various barbs, hooks, sharpened shells and needle-shaped thorns. There were cups, which contained no liquid as yet. And there were other things, strange in shape, whose purpose Hadwell could not guess.

"Not for six hundred years," said Lag, "has the Instrument been removed from the Shrine of the Instrument. Not since the days of V'ktat, the hero-god who single-handed saved the Igathian people from destruction. But it has been removed for you, Hadwell!"

"Really, I'm not worthy," Hadwell said.

A murmur rose from the crowd at such modesty.

"Believe me," Lag said earnestly, "you are worthy. Do you accept the Ultimate, Hadwell?"

Hadwell looked at Mele. He could not read the expression on her beautiful face. He looked at the priest. Lag's face was impassive. The crowd was deathly still. Hadwell looked at the Instrument. He didn't like its appearance. A doubt began to creep into his mind.

Had he misjudged these people? That Instrument must have been used for torture at some ancient time. Those barbs and hooks ... But what were the other things for? Thinking hard, Hadwell conceived some of their possible usages and shuddered. The crowd was closely packed in front of him. Behind him was the narrow point of rock and a sheer thousand-foot drop below it. Hadwell looked again at Mele.

The love and devotion in her face was unmistakable.

Glancing at the villagers, he saw their concern for him. What was he worried about? They would never do anything to harm him, not after all he had done for the village.

The Instrument undoubtedly had some symbolic use.

"I accept the Ultimate," Hadwell said to the priest.

The villagers shouted, a deep-throated roar that echoed from the mountains. They formed closely around him, smiling, shaking his hands.

"The ceremony will take place at once," said the priest. "In the village, in front of the statue of Thangookari."

Immediately they started back, the priest leading. Hadwell and his bride were in the centre now. Mele still had not spoken since the ceremony.

Silently they crossed the swaying bridge of vines. Once across, the villagers pressed more closely around Hadwell than before, giving him a slightly claustrophobic feeling. If he had not been convinced of their essential goodness, he told himself, he might have felt apprehensive.

Ahead lay the village and the altar of Thangookari. The priest hurried towards it.

Suddenly there was a shriek. Everyone turned and rushed back to the bridge.

At the brink of the river, Hadwell saw what had happened. Kataga, Mele's father, had brought up the rear of the procession. As he had reached the midpoint, the central supporting vine had inexplicably snapped. Kataga had managed to clutch a secondary vine, but only for a moment. As the villagers watched, his hold weakened, released, and he dropped into the river.

Hadwell watched, frozen with shock. With dreamlike clarity he saw it all: Kataga falling, a smile of magnificent courage on his face, the raging white water, the jagged rocks below.

It was a certain, terrible death.

"Can he swim?" Hadwell asked Mele.

"No," the girl said. "He refused to learn ... Oh, Father! How could you!"

The raging white water frightened Hadwell more than anything he had ever seen, more than the emptiness of space. But the father of his wife was in danger. A man had to act.

He plunged headlong into the icy water.

Kataga was almost unconscious when Hadwell reached him, which was fortunate, for the Igathian did not struggle when Hadwell seized him by the hair and started to swim vigorously for the nearest shore. But he couldn't make it. Currents swept the men along, pulling them under and throwing them to the surface again. By a strenuous effort, Hadwell was able to avoid the first rocks. But more loomed ahead.

The villagers ran along the bank, shouting at him.

With his strength ebbing rapidly, Hadwell fought again for the shore. A submerged rock scraped his side and his grip on Kataga's hair began to weaken. The Igathian was starting to recover and struggle.

"Don't give up, old man," Hadwell gasped. The bank sped past. Hadwell came within ten feet of it, then the current began to carry him out again.

With his last surge of strength, he managed to grab an overhead branch and to hold on while the current wrenched and tore at his body. Moments later, guided by the priest, the villagers pulled the two men in to the safety of the shore.

They were carried to the village. When Hadwell was able to breathe normally again, he turned and grinned feebly at Kataga.

"Close call, old man," he said.

"Meddler!" Kataga said. He spat at Hadwell and stalked off.

Hadwell stared after him scratching his head. "Must have affected his brain," he said. "Well, shall we get on with the Ultimate?"

The villagers drew close to him, their faces menacing.

"Hah! The Ultimate he wants!"

"A man like that."

"After dragging poor Kataga out of the river, he has the nerve ..."

"His own father-in-law and he saves his life!"

"A man like that," Vassi, the merchant, summed up, "damned well doesn't even deserve to die!"

Hadwell wondered if they had all gone temporarily insane. He stood up, a bit shakily, and appealed to the priest.

"What is all this?" Hadwell asked.

Lag, with mournful eyes and pale, set lips, stared at him and did not answer.

"Can't I have the Ultimate ceremony?" Hadwell asked, a plaintive note in his voice.

"You do deserve it," the priest said. "If any man has ever deserved the Ultimate, you do, Hadwell. I feel you should have it, as a matter of abstract justice. But there is more involved here than abstract justice. There are principles of mercy and human pity which are dear to Thangookari. By these principles, Hadwell, you did a terrible and inhuman thing when you rescued poor Kataga from the river. I am afraid the action is unforgivable."

Hadwell didn't know what to say. Apparently there was some taboo against rescuing men who had fallen into the river. But how could they expect him to know about it? How could they let this one little thing outweigh all he had done for them?

"Isn't there some ceremony you can give me?" he begged. "I like you people, I want to live here. Surely there's something you can do."

The old priest's eyes misted with compassion. He gripped his mace, started to lift it.

He was stopped by an ominous roar from the crowd.

"There is nothing I can do," he said. "Leave us, false emissary. Leave us, oh Hadwell — who does not deserve to die!"

"All right!" Hadwell shouted, his temper suddenly snapping. "To hell with you bunch of dirty savages. I wouldn't stay here if you begged me. I'm going. Are you with me, Mele?"

The girl blinked convulsively, looked at Hadwell, then at the priest. There was a long moment of silence. Then the priest murmured, "Remember your father, Mele. Remember the beliefs of your people."

Mele's proud little chin came up. "I know where my duty lies," she said. "Let's go, Richard dear."

"Right," said Hadwell. He stalked off to his spaceship, followed by Mele.

In despair, the old priest watched. He cried, "Mele!" once, in a heartbroken voice. But Mele did not turn back. He saw her enter the ship, and the port slide shut.

Within minutes, red and blue flames bathed the silver sphere. The sphere lifted, gained speed, dwindled to a speck, and vanished.

Tears rolled down the old priest's cheeks as he watched it go-

Hours later, Hadwell said, "Darling, I'm taking you to Earth, the planet I come from. You'll like it there."

"I know I will," Mele murmured, staring out of a porthole at the brilliant spear points of the stars.

Somewhere among them was her home, lost to her for ever. She was homesick already. But there had been no other choice. Not for her. A woman goes with the man she loves. And a woman who loves truly and well never loses faith in her man.

Mele hadn't lost faith in Hadwell.

She fingered a tiny sheathed dagger concealed in her clothing. The dagger was tipped with a peculiarly painful and slow-acting poison. It was a family heirloom to be used when there was no priest around, and only on those one loved most dearly.

"I'm through wasting my time," Hadwell said. "With your help I'm going to do great things. You'll be proud of me, sweetheart."

Mele knew he meant it. Some day, she thought, Hadwell would atone for the sin against her father. He would do perhaps next year. And then she would give him the most precious thing a woman can give to a man.

A painful death.