He felt no pride as the tourist threw money into the bowl. The man had been generous but pride was a sin. And a beggar had no cause to be proud.

Piers Quentin, Resident Factor of Gath, moodily rubbed his pattern-shaved face and stared at the bloodshot orb of the sun. Slowly it was sinking toward the leaden waves of the ocean. Irritably he wished that it would hurry up.

It was always the same before a storm, this feeling he had of mounting tension and growing irritations. Bad traits for a man who had to soothe the rich and powerful. Worse when he had to tread the narrow path between ensuring their comfort and safety and risking their displeasure. Yet each time the storm came due and the ships began to arrive he felt the same: as if each storm was a crisis which had to be met and surmounted… as if one day the crisis would prove too great. He didn't like to think of what could happen then.

"You are troubled, brother." Brother Ely, old and shrewd in the ways of men, looked at the resident's rigid back from where he sat at ease in a padded chair. A cool drink stood by his hand, ice tinkling in the limpid depths. The resident, while not religious, was not ungenerous. "Is it the storm?"

"It's always the storm." Piers turned from the window and began to pace the floor. "Out there"—he gestured toward Hightown—"is probably the greatest assembly of wealth and power to be found in the uninhabited worlds. Traditional enemies, entrepreneurs, place-seekers and time-servers, opportunists and the rest, all crammed cheek to jowl, all waiting—all spoiling for trouble."

"Surely you exaggerate?" Ely picked up his drink and sipped the contents. His mouth constricted to the tart flavor of lime. "Are things so bad?"

"Worse." Piers halted beside the dispenser and poured himself a drink. It was almost pure alcohol. He swallowed it at a single gulp. "This storm is something special, Brother. Already the solar flare has closed the space lines. Above the atmosphere is a hell of naked radiation which would penetrate the strongest shield carried by a commercial vessel. That is why the ships arrived early. That is why the tension is so high."

"I hadn't noticed," said Ely. "But then, I lack your experience."

"You'll sense it soon enough," promised the resident, "The air is full of stray ions, heavy with undischarged electrical potential. Nerves are overtense and tempers are too thin. The Devil is loose among us." He helped himself to another drink. "Trouble," he mourned. "I stand on the brink of a volcano. A touch is enough to destroy me."

The monk said nothing. He had come to pay his respects; he had stayed to listen to the outpourings of a tormented soul.

"The satellites are moving into position," continued the resident. "Soon their juxtaposition will affect the stability of Gath and then—"

"The storm?"

"The storm." Piers swallowed his drink, poured another. He felt the impact of the monk's eyes, recognized their displeasure, and irritably set down the glass. "By that time everyone will be north, standing before the mountains. God knows what will happen then—I can only guess. We have never had a storm quite like this before. It is time for you to pray, Brother."

"Always it is time to pray," corrected the monk gravely. "The psychological effect of channeled thought cannot be overestimated." He hesitated. "Neither can adherence to the Supreme Ethic."

"I am not my brother's keeper," snapped Piers sharply. He took up his drink, looked at it, gulped it down. "You're thinking of Lowtown, of course."

"The camp? Yes."

"I didn't ask them to come here. Penniless travelers swept up by the vagaries of space. Do you think I want them around?"

He strode to the window and looked through it, staring toward the camp. He had never minimized the danger of starving men, the strength of desperation. On this planet wealth and poverty were too close; they had nothing but a little distance between them. One day, perhaps during a storm, that distance wouldn't be enough. Even now a strong man could… He shuddered at the prospect.

"They are a part of humanity," said Ely gently. He was accustomed to the sight of poverty. "Remember, brother, there, but for the grace of God, go you."

"Spare me the sermon, monk."

"Not a sermon, brother. Facts. They are here. You are the resident. They are your responsibility."

"No!" Piers was emphatic. "I refuse to accept your moral judgment. In law they are nothing. They came here by their own free will. They can leave the same way or stay until they rot. I am not responsible." Irritably he again paced the floor. He hesitated by the dispenser then moved away. He refused to meet Ely's eyes. "I do what I can," he protested. "Each storm I arrange for a passage and run a lottery. The winner gets the passage. Sometimes, if the money is enough, more can win the prize."

"Money?" Ely raised his eyebrows. "Here?"

"They can earn a little from the visitors." Piers didn't want to go into details. "Between storms I employ them at various tasks. I pay them in chemical concentrates."

"Charity, brother?"

Piers didn't miss the irony. "I do what I can," he insisted stubbornly. "I can do no more."

Brother Ely made no comment. He'd had long practice in hiding emotion; almost as long in learning how to read it. The resident would end a very rich man. But he was an unhappy one. The ice in his glass rattled as he held it to the spout of the dispenser. He had much about which to feel guilt.

"Damn it, Brother," he said plaintively. "I do my best."

Ely met Dyne as he left the resident's quarters. The monk stiffened as he saw the cyber. Both felt the reaction of strange cats to each other. The Universal Brotherhood had no trust for the Cyclan. The cybers had no love for the monks.

They looked at each other, Dyne in his rich scarlet, Ely in his drab homespun. One could feel no emotion, the other dealt with little else.

"A fine day, brother," said Ely gently. The silence once broken Dyne could not ignore the monk. It would be illogical to arouse irritation. Cybers made no enemies and tried to make everyone their friend.

"It is always day on Gath," he said in his soft modulation, the trained voice which contained no irritant factors. "You have just arrived?"

"On the last ship to reach this world before the storm." Ely sensed the other's dislike as a dog would scent anger or fear. "You are alone?"

"I serve the Matriarch of Kund."

"Naturally." Ely stepped to one side. "I must not detain you, brother. Go in peace."

Dyne bowed, a slight, almost imperceptible inclination of his head, then swept on his way. Two of his retinue guarded his private quarters, young, sternly molded men, novitiates to the Cyclan, officially his personal attendants.

"Total seal," ordered Dyne. Even command did not harden his voice. There was no need of aural emphasis. "No interruption of any kind for any reason."

Inside his quarters he rested supine on a narrow couch. Touching the bracelet locked about his left wrist he stepped up the power. The device ensured that no one could ever spy on a cyber, no scanner or electronic ear could focus in his vicinity. It was a precaution, nothing more.

Relaxing, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatchazi formulae. Gradually he lost the senses of taste, smell, touch and hearing. Had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. Locked in the womb of his skull his brain ceased to be irritated by external stimuli. It became a thing of pure intellect, its reasoning awareness its only thread of life. Only then did the grafted Homochon elements become active. Rapport soon followed.

Dyne became really alive.

Each cyber had a different experience. For him it was as if every door in the universe had opened to let in the shining light of truth. He was a living part of an organism which stretched across space in countless crystalline droplets each glowing with intelligence. Filaments connected one to the other so that it was as if he saw a dew-scattered web stretching to infinity… saw it and was a part of it; was it while it was himself, sharing yet owning the tremendous gestalt of minds.