Farmer, Philip Jose - Father Carmody 00.1 Read online

  All were dressed in long black coats and white knee-length breeches. Only one wore a hat. This native seemed to be a ringmaster of some sort, or, as Tandem came to think of him, the Croupier. He was taller and thinner than the others and wore a miter with a big green eyeshade. He stood on one spot, arbitrated disputes about bets, and gave the signal for each play to start. It was the Croupier, Tandem realized, who would govern the tern- per of the crowd towards the newcomer.

  He breathed deeply, adopted the familiar rictus, and stepped out from behind the bush.

  He had been right about the attitudes of the Kubeians toward strangers. Those on the outer fringe looked up, widened their somewhat slanting eyes,' and pricked up their foxlike ears. But, after glances that assured them he was harmless, they returned to the game. Either they were following a cultural pattern of feigning indifference, or they actually were as adaptable as they seemed to be. Whatever their reasons, he decided to profit by them.

  He gently tried to work his way through the throng of spectators and found them quite willing to step aside. Before long he was in the front row. He looked squarely at the Croupier, who gave him an enigmatic but searching glance, and then raised both hands above his head. Two of his four fingers on each hand were crossed. The crowd gave a single barking cry and imitated his gesture. Then the Croupier dropped his hands; the game went on as if the Terran had always been there. Tandem, after a moment’s shrewd study, was convinced that he had found his element and that this was nothing other than a glorified version of Spin-the-Milk-Bottle.

  The center of attention was a six-foot-long statue of a Kubeian. Its two arms were extended at right angles on either side, and its legs were held straight out on a line with its body. It was face downward and whirled freely upon its navel, which was stuck on a rod whose other end was cemented firmly into a large block of marble.

  The figure’s head was painted white. Its legs were black. One arm was red; the other, green. The body was a steel gray.

  Tandem’s heart accelerated. The statue, he was sure, was platinum.

  He watched. A player took hold of one of the arms and crooned a liturgy to it in his exotic tongue, a chant whose tones matched exactly those used by a pleading Terran before he casts his dice. Then, after a signal from the Croupier, he gave the arm a vigorous shove. The figure spun around and around, the sun glancing off it in red and green and black and white and silver flashes. When it began to slow down, the players crouched in breathless anticipation or else held out their arms to it and pleaded invocations that were Galaxy-wide, no matter what the language.

  Meanwhile, both the players and the spectators were making side bets. Each had one or more smaller duplicates of the central statue. As it whirled around, they gesticulated at each other, chattered, then tossed their figures up in the air so they revolved around and around. Tandem was sure these statuettes were of platinum, also.

  The spinning figure stopped. Its green arm pointed at one of the players. A cry went up from the crowd. Many stepped forward and piled their figurines before the man. He gave the Whirligig — as Tandem now called it — another shove. Again, it spun around and around.

  The Earthman had now analyzed the game. You took one of your little whirligigs and tossed it in the air. If one of its limbs or its head sunk into the soft earth, and it happened to be the same color as the big Whirligig’s extension when it pointed to you, you collected the statuettes that had landed upon extensions of a different color.

  If the Whirligig singled you out, but your statuette had sunk an indicator of another color into the earth, you neither lost nor won but got another try. Otherwise, the person next in line tried his luck. Tandem rubbed his mental hands. He showed his watch to a neighbor and indicated he’d like to trade it for a whirligig. The naive native, after getting the high sign from the Croupier, readily accepted and seemed quite pleased that he was several thousand credits the loser.

  Tandem made several side bets and won. Armed with the whirligigs, he boldly pushed into the inner ring. Once there he coolly exerted his PK to slow the big Whirligig down and stop it at just the right person and on just the right color. He was clever enough not to have it indicate him over a few times; most of his rapidly building fortune was made on side bets. Sometimes, he lost on purpose; sometimes, by chance. He was sure that many of the Kubeians had an unconscious PK that was bound to work for them if enough happened to concentrate on the same color. l ie could detect little spots of emanations here and there but could not localize them. They were lost in the general shuffle.

  It did not matter. The natives would not have his trained talents.

  He forgot about that and watched the temper of the crowd. He’d been alone among aliens and had seen them turn ugly when he began to win too steadily. He was ready to start losing so they would cool off, or, if that didn’t work, to run. How he expected to make any speed with the weight of his winnings dragging him down, he didn’t stop to think. But he was sure that, somehow, he’d come out ahead.

  Nothing that he waited for came to pass. The natives lost none of their vaguely vulpine grins, and their rusty-red eyes seemed sincerely friendly. When he won, he was slapped on the back. Some even helped him pile up his whirligigs. He kept an eye on them to make sure they didn’t conceal any under their long fuzzy black coats, so much like a Terran preacher’s. But, nobody tried to steal.

  The afternoon whirled by dizzily in flashing greens and reds and whites and silvers and dull blacks. Not too obviously, the whirligigs at his feet began to build to a small mountain.

  Outwardly cool, he was inwardly intoxicated. He was not so far gone that he did not glance occasionally at the watch strapped around the hairy wrist of the Kubeian he had traded it to. Always, he saw that he had plenty of time left to make another killing.

  Busy as he was, he noticed also that the crowd of spectators was increasing. This game was like any game of chance anywhere. Let somebody get hot and, through some psychological grapevine that could not be explained, everybody in the neighborhood heard of it. Natives by the dozens were loping through narrow passes into the little valley, pushing the watchers closer to the players, chattering loudly, whistling, applauding with strange barking cries, and building up a mighty stench under the hot sun with the accumulation of sweaty, hairy bodies. Slanting rusty-red eyes gleamed sharp pointed ears waggled; the auburn hairs of the neckruffs stood up; long red tongues with green bulb-tips licked the thin black-leather lips; everywhere, hands lifted to the skies in a peculiar gesture, each with two of its four fingers crossed.

  Tandem did not mind. He had heard — and smelled — crowds like this before. When he was winning, he reveled in it.

  Let the Whirligig spin! Let the statuettes soar! And let the wealth pile up at his fectl This was living. This was what even drink and women could not do for him!

  There came a time when only four natives were left with any whirligigs before them. It was Tandem’s turn to spin. He threw his figurine high up, saw it land with its black legs stuck into the soft earth, and stepped forward to give the big figure a whirl. He shot a side-glance at the Croupier and saw tears brightening the rusty eyes.

  Tandem was surprised, but he did not try to guess what caused this strange emotion. All he wanted to do was to play, and he had the go-ahead from the native.

  But as he laid his hands upon the hard green arm, he heard a cry that shot above the roar of the mob, stilled it, and seized him so he could make no move.

  It was Father John’s voice, and he was shouting, “Stop, Tandem! For the love of God, stop!”

  IV

  “What the hell are you doing here?” snarled Tandem. “Are you trying to queer the deal?”

  “I’ve come the second mile, son,” said Father John. “And a good thing for you, too. One more second, and you would have been lost.”

  Streams of sweat ran down his heavy jowls into his collar, now turning gray with dirt and perspiration. A branch must have raked a three-fingered red furrow across his
cheek.

  His blue eyes vibrated to the tuning fork deep-buried within his rotund body, but the note was not that of mirth.

  “Step back, Carmody,” said Tandem. “This is the last spin. Then I’m coming back. Rich!”

  “No, you won’t. Listen, Tandem, we haven’t much time . . . !”

  “Get out of the way! These people might want to take advantage of this and stop the game!”

  Father John threw a despairing look towards the sky. At the same time the Croupier left the spot on which he had stood during the game, and advanced with his hand held out towards the padre. Hope replaced despair on Father John’s face. Eagerly, he began making a series of gestures directed at the Croupier.

  Tandem, though exasperated, could do little else than watch and hope that the meddling officious priest would be sent packing. It irritated him almost to weeping to have complete victory so close and now see it destroyed by this long-nosed puritan.

  Father John paid no attention to Tandem. Having snared the Croupier’s wet and rusty-red eyes, he then pointed to himself and to Tandem and indicated a circle around them. The Croupier did not change expression. Undaunted at this, Father John then pointed his finger at the natives and described a circle around them. He repeated the maneuvers twice. Abruptly, the slanting eyes widened; the rusty-red gleamed. He rotated his head swiftly, an action which seemed to be his equivalent of nodding yes. Apparently he understood that the padre was indicating that the two humans were in a different class from the Kubcians.

  Father John then stabbed his index finger at the Whirligig and followed that by pointing at the Croupier. Again the circle was drawn, this time clearly circumscribing the native and the face-downward statue. Then another circle around the two Earthmen. After which, Father John held up the crucifix hung from his neck so that all could clearly see it.

  A single-throated cry rose from the mob. Somehow it held tones of disappointment, not surprise. They pressed forward, but at a bark from the Croupier, they fell back. He himself came forward and eagerly inspected the symbol. When he was done, he looked at Father John for further signs. Tears streamed from his eyes.

  “What’re you doing, Carmody?” said Tandem harshly. “Is it going to hurt you if I win something valuable?”

  “Quiet, man, I’ve almost got it through their heads. We may be able to call off the game yet. I don’t know, though, you’re so deep in it now.”

  “When I get back to Earth or the nearest big port, I’ll sue you for interfering with my free will!”

  He knew that was an idle threat, for the law would not apply to this case. But it made him feel better to express it.

  Father John had not heard him, anyway. He was now struck into the attitude of a crucifixion, arms straight out, legs together, and an agonized expression on his face. As soon as he saw the Croupier rotate his head in comprehension, the padre pointed again at Tandem. The Croupier looked startled; his black boxing-glove nose twitched with some unknown emotion. He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that could only be interpreted in a Gallic fashion, and he lifted his hands up, palms turned upwards.

  Father John smiled; his whole body seemed to hum with the invisible tuning fork inside him. This time, it was a note of relaxation.

  “You were lucky, my boy,” he said to Tandem, “that, shortly after you left, I remembered an article I had read in the Interstellar Journal of Comparative Religions. This one was written by an anthropologist who had spent some time here on Kubeia, and . .

  The Croupier interrupted with some vigorous signs. Evidently Father John had mistaken his meaning.

  The priest’s lips and jowls sagged, and he groaned, “This fellow has heard of free will, too, Tandem. He insists that you make up your own mind as to whether you care to . . .”

  Tandem did not wait to hear the rest but gave a glad shout.

  “Gentlemen, on with the game!”

  He scarcely heard the padre’s cry of protest as he seized the Whirligig’s green arm and gave it a shove that sent it around and around upon its navel. Nor could he have heard any more from Father John, so rapt was he in waiting for the moment when it would slow down to the point where he could begin to exert the tiny shoves or pushes that would bring the black legs pointing straight at him.

  Around and around it went, and while it spun, the statuettes of the side- betters flashed in the sun. Fortunes were made or lost among the natives. Tandem stood motionless in a half-crouch, smug in the knowledge that he was not going to lose. The four who faced him did not, individually or collectively, have what he had on the ball. See! Here the Whirligig came, slow, slow, coming around for one more turn. The green arm swept by, then the legs passed him. A little push, a little push would bring them back in their circle, then a small pull, a small pull to keep their speed, and finally, a fraction of a shove to halt them entirely.

  This is the way they go. Here they come, long and black with the stylized feet stuck out in the same plane as the legs. Here they come, whoa, whoa, gently, gently . . . aah!

  Hah!

  The crowd, which had been holding its breath, released it in a mighty burst, a howl of surprise and disappointment.

  And Tandem was still frozen in his crouch, his mind not believing what his eyes saw, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as he detected the sudden and irresistible power that had leapt out and swung the legs enough to miss him and make the green arm point at one of his opponents.

  It was Father John who shook him and said, “Man, come on. You’re wiped out.”

  Numbly, Tandem watched the weeping Croupier signal to natives who swarmed over his pile of figurines and carted them across the circle to the winner. Now, though he had not realized it, the rules had changed. It was winner take all.

  Before they could go, the Croupier stepped up to the padre and handed him one of the statuettes. Father John hesitated, then lifted the chain from around his neck and handed the crucifix to him.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Professional courtesy,” said the padre as he steered Tandem by the elbow through the mob of wildly howling and leaping Kubeians. “He’s a good man. Not the least jealous.”

  Tandem did not try to decipher that. His rage, sizzling beneath the crust of numbness, broke loose.

  “Damn it, those natives were hiding the power of their PK! But, even so, they’d not have been able to catch me off balance if you hadn’t stopped the game when you did and allowed them to gang up on me! It was only pure chance that they happened to be working together! If you hadn’t been such a puritanical dog-in-the-manger, I’d have won for sure! I’d be rich! Rich!”

  “I take full responsibility. Meanwhile, allow me to ex — Oops, watch it!”

  Tandem stumbled and would have fallen flat on his face if Father John had not caught him. Tandem recovered and was angrier than before. He wanted to owe the padre absolutely nothing.

  Silent, they made their slow way through the heavy vegetation until they came to a break. Here, at Father John’s gentle insistence of hand upon his elbow, Tandem turned. He was looking through an avenue in the trees at a full view of the valley.

  “You see, Roger Tandem, I had read this article in the Journal. It was titled ‘Attitudes,’ and a good thing for you, for our previous talk about wrong attitudes brought it back to my mind. I decided then and there, to — if you will pardon the seeming egotism of the statement — to go the second mile. Or a third, if need be.

  “You see, Roger, when you saw these people, you interpreted the scene in terms of the signs and symbols you are used to. You saw these natives around a device that seemed clearly to be for gambling. You saw further evidences: people on their knees, feverish betting, intent concentration upon the device, and you heard chanting, supplication to Lady Luck, grunts, exclamations, screams of triumph, moans of defeat. You saw a master in charge of ceremonies, the head gambler, the house master.

  “What you did not perceive were certain similarities between the postures and sounds adopted
during a gambling contest and those that mark the gatherings of certain types of frenetic religious sects in whatever area of the

  universe you happen to be. They are much the same. Watch the players in a hot crap game and then observe the antics of the less inhibited devout at certain primitive revival meetings. Is there so much difference?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Father John pointed through the break.

  “You almost became a convert.”

  The winner was standing proudly by the great pile of statuettes at his feet. He seemed to be exulting inwardly in his victory, for he stood straight and silent, his hands by his sides. But not for long. A number of the burly players seized him from behind. His arms were straightened out and tied to a beam of wood. Another beam, at right angles to the first, was applied to his back. His legs, waist, and head were strapped to it. Crucifix-wise, he was picked up and carried forward.

  At the same time, the Whirligig was taken off the post.

  Even then, Tandem did not see what his fate might have been until the native was poised face down over the post and its sharp point inserted into the navel. Then a worshiper seized the extended arm and pushed.

  If the living Whirligig gave any cry of pain, he could not have been heard above the howl of the assembled faithful. Until the tip of the post thrust into the wood beam on his back, he spun, and the mob chanted.

  Father John prayed half-aloud.

  “If I have interfered, I have done so through love for this man and because I must choose according to the dictates of my heart. I knew that one of them must die, Father, and I did not think that the man was ready. Perhaps the man of this world was not ready, either, but I had no way of knowing that. He was playing with full knowledge of what he must do if he won, and this man Tandem was not. And Tandem is a man like unto myself, Father, and I must presume that, unless I have knowledge or signs to the contrary, I must do my best to save him so that, some day, he may do his best to save himself.