"The voices?" Megan nodded. "It's true."

"Thank God!" Abruptly the man grew calm. Slowly he wiped the saliva from his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve. "I—I never thought that I'd get here." He swallowed. "My name is Sime. I've very little money but if you will help me I'll—"

"We ask no pay." Dumarest nodded to Megan and together they stooped over the box. It was over six feet long and shaped like a coffin. Megan grunted as he felt the weight.

"What's in here? Lead?"

"Just some things," said Sime. He looked anxious. "Just carry it from the field. I'll be able to manage it after I rest for a while. Just carry it from the field."

Slowly they moved toward the camp. Megan stumbled, swore as his ankle turned, and sprang clear as his end of the box fell with a thud. The vibration tore the box from Dumarest's hands. The lid, jarred by the fall, began to swing open.

"Careful!" Sime flung himself on the lid. His hands trembled as he secured the fastenings. "You'll hurt—" He caught himself. "Please be careful."

He hovered to one side as they carried the box into camp. Both men were sweating as they eased down their burden. A handful of travelers looked on with dull curiosity and Megan, straightening his back, glared at one who laughed.

"Something funny?"

"I think so." The old crone who had traveled with Sime cackled all the louder. "Why be so careful, dearies? You can't hurt what's in there."

"Shut your mouth!" Sime stepped forward. "You hear me? Now you just shut your mouth!"

"Try and shut if for me!" She cackled again at the thin man. "Maybe they'd like to enjoy your joke. Maybe they'd like to hear it."

"Tell us, mother," urged Megan. Immediately she flew into a rage.

"Don't you call me that! Do it again and I'll stab out your eyes!"

Megan recoiled from the long needle in her hand. "No offense, My Lady, but why did you say what you did?"

"About this?" She kicked at the box. "About this coffin?" She leered at Sime. "He's got his dead wife in there, dearie. You can't hurt the dead."

The monks had set up their church in the camp leaving Brother Angelo in charge. He sat in the close confines of the booth feeling the turgid heat from outside penetrate his rough, homespun habit, prickling his skin with a thousand tiny discomforts. He dismissed them as of no importance, thinking instead of the never-ending task of his order, the continual striving to turn men from what they were into what they should be.

He was, he realized, verging into the sin of pride and jerked himself back to the immediate present. Through the mesh he could see a pale face, wide-eyed, trembling with released emotion. The litany of sin was all too familiar, the human animal being capable only of certain emotions, certain acts which dull by constant repetition. But sin was too heavy a burden for any man to carry.

"… and, Brother, one time I stole a ration of food. I went to the pot twice and lied when questioned. It was fish stew, I ate what should have gone to another— but I was so hungry."

Hunger of the spirit more than that of the body—yet could a man be blamed for wanting to survive? Brother Angelo considered the question as the list of petty sins grew. If man was animal, as he basically was, then survival was all-important and yet if he was more than animal, which he undoubtedly was, then he should not yield to his base appetites.

And yet, if he died because of consideration to his higher self, what then?

Was the Universal Brotherhood only to be achieved in the communal negation of death?

Such thoughts verged on heresy and Brother Angelo recognized the insidious attraction of theological disputation. It was not for him to question—only for him to act. If he could ease the burden of one man then his life would not have been in vain. The Universal teaching of complete Brotherhood held the answer to all pain, all hurt, all despair. No man is an island. All belong to the corpus humanitatis. The pain of one is the pain, all hurt, all despair. No man is an island. All of the credo, there, but for the grace of God, go I, the millennium would have arrived.

He would never see it. Men bred too fast, traveled too far for that. But it was something for which to live, a purpose for his dedication.

The thin voice from beyond the mesh ceased its litany of sin. The pale face was tense, the eyes hungry with anticipation. Brother Angelo switched on the benediction-light. In the swirling kaleidoscope of colors the face seemed less animal, more ethereal.

"Look into the light of forgiveness," he said softly. "Bathe in the flame of righteousness and be cleansed of all pain, all sin. Yield to the benediction of the Universal Brotherhood."

The light was hypnotic, the subject subservient, the monk a trained master of his craft. The pale face relaxed, the eyes lost their hunger, peace smoothed the features. Subjectively the man was undergoing stringent penance. Later he would receive the bread of forgiveness.

Brother Benedict looked back as he reached the rise on which stood Hightown. He could see the pennant of the church and could imagine the file of men waiting to enter the booth. A younger monk would have been pleased at the display of religious fervor; Brother Benedict knew that the majority of them wanted only the wafer of concentrates which followed the communion.

Yet first they had to pass beneath the benediction-light. It was a fair exchange.

The streets of Hightown were wide, well-paved, free of dust and dirt. His sandals made little scraping noises as he trod the crushed stone surrounding the prefabricated hutments. A tourist, supine in a figure-chair, lifted a lazy hand in greeting.

"Welcome, Brother. Have you come to convert the heathen?"

"I come so that men may have the opportunity of indulging in the virtue of charity." Brother Benedict held out his symbolical begging bowl. It was of cheap plastic, chipped, scarred, as rough as his habit. "Of your charity, sir."

"Why?" The tourist was willing to be amused. "Why should I throw away what I have?"

"Men are starving within sight. Is that not reason enough?"

It wasn't and he knew it but he had played this game so often that he knew the expected responses by heart. His habit would command a certain amused indulgence. His request would stimulate jaded wits. His arguments were the prelude to reluctant disbursal. The trick was in making the hearer want to give. Therefore he must never be made to feel inferior, mean or small.

"Men are cheap," pointed out the tourist. "Tell me, Brother, is it just that the weak should live at the expense of the strong?"

"No, brother, it is not," agreed Benedict. His eyes were sharp as they examined the man. Smooth, rosily fat, dressed in luxurious fabrics. A glint of bright metal shone from a finger. A ring, curiously engraved, flashed in the sun. Benedict recognized the symbol. "You play, brother?"

"Gamble?" The tourist looked startled. Many had so looked before Benedict's direct gaze. They didn't realize how they betrayed themselves. "How did you—? Yes, I gamble."

"And therefore you believe in luck." The monk nodded. "Life is a lottery, my friend. We are born—in circumstances over which we have no control. Some inherit wealth, others poverty. Some have the gift of intelligence and the power of command. Others have nothing and die with what they were born. In the game of life not all can win."

"True." The tourist looked thoughtful. His expression deepened as Benedict continued.

"At the tables, when you win, do you not toss a chip to the croupier? Do you not spend a little so as to assuage the lady you worship? The Lady Luck."

"You know gamblers, Brother."

"Then, in this game of life in which you have been so fortunate, why not toss a little to those who have nothing?" Benedict extended his bowl. "To the losers, brother, to those who are born to fail."