It was a crude shelter built of scraps which shielded the interior from the sun and the infrequent rains. The air held the taint of sickness. On cots the ganni lay like creatures already dead. Weyer halted besides one, looking down at the round, blank face, the staring, empty eyes. A creature with the size and shape of a man, the features of an idiotic child, the hands of a laborer. The product of a world circling a violent sun, brought to Kaldar to tend and serve, to work at tasks too demeaning for those who ruled.

"Why do they die?" Nealon touched the fine down which covered the ganni like fur. "I know what you said but I don't understand. They are not that badly injured. A man would easily survive. Why don't they?"

Weyer shrugged. The universe was full of questions and, as fast as answers were found, more questions rose to make fresh demands. It was enough to know that, if hurt too badly or shocked too deeply, the ganni died. The ultimate defiance of a slave.

When he finally left the infirmary a thin wind from the distant hills was dispersing the last of the smoke and Weyer breathed gratefully at the air. The city had sent help. Overseers directed ganni to clear the charred wreckage. They were slow to obey. From a group gathered to one side rose a keening dirge spreading as others joined in. A death chant the monk had heard before and now, as then, it caused a sudden depression. A mood he fought as he made his way to where Mukerjee and the other two monks were hard at work.

Already they had cleared the site and were assembling struts which would be covered with plastic to form a small, enclosed chamber. A tent barely large enough to hold a monk and a suppliant, but it would serve.

"Brother?" Mukerjee straightened, easing his back with broad, scarred hands. Fire had seared one cheek leaving an ugly patch on his ebon skin. His robe was singed and half his hair had vanished. "How are the sick?"

"As well as can be expected. Brother Nealon is taking care of them. Now I want you to report to him so that he can take care of you." Weyer's tone precluded all argument. "He will give you an intravenous injection of saline and glucose together with antibiotics, a sedative and nutrients. You will need them under slowtime."

Mukerjee frowned, the drug was expensive. Weyer spoke before he could object.

"One hour." His smile softened the rebuke. "Pride is a sin, brother. Manga, see that he doesn't fall into it."

The old monk led Mukerjee to the infirmary, his step firmer than the younger man's. An hour of slowtime would cure that, the drug accelerating his metabolism to give him the equivalent of two days rest and normal recuperation. Time for the danger of shock and infection to be eliminated and to ease the pain of his burns.

Prinsloo joined him as Weyer turned to the carefully wrapped bundle lying to one side. It contained the benediction light which Mukerjee had saved at the cost of his injuries.

As he examined it the young monk said, "It isn't damaged. I've checked."

Good news; the instrument provided communication with the great seminaries of Hope and Pace as well as a more obvious function. Beneath the swirling light it projected in hypnotic splendor suppliants would kneel, confess their sins and suffer subjective penance. They would gain comfort and absolution – and be conditioned never to kill. The wafer of concentrate which was the bread of forgiveness was a fair exchange.

"Brother?" Prinsloo looked at his superior. "Have you decided who should be the first to serve once the church is open?"

Himself, he hoped, and Weyer could understand his yearning. To build held its own satisfaction. To ease the torment of crippled minds was something else. To watch as faces became smooth as guilt was erased and inner harmony established was reward enough for the ceaseless dedication demanded of all who wore the brown, homespun robe.

Gently he said, "First, all must be made ready. Then, brother, who would you select to be the first to serve?"

Prinsloo was worthy of his calling. Without hesitation he said, "Mukerjee has earned the right."

The right, the duty and the chance to sit and rest while his body healed.

Vargas was annoyed. Nadine heard the deep rumble of his voice as she entered the workshop, a blast of anger which sent echoes from the roof.

"Fool! You've exceeded the tolerances by three hundred percent! Do it again and I'll have you flogged!"

He came into sight as she passed the bulk of a machine, big, his apron soiled, arms and torso bared. The worker standing before him was young, banded with the collar of his servitude. He sidled away as Nadine approached, cradling a piece of equipment in his arms.

As he vanished from sight she said, "I assume you've checked the instruments he's using. It's possible they could be at fault.'

"What?" Vargas snarled, still dominated by his anger. "Damn it, woman, I know my business. If the fault is his he goes, but first he'll be flogged and branded."

"That will lower his value."

"As an engineer he won't have any." His tone warned her not to argue further. "Now, aside from telling me how to run my workshops, what do you want?" He pursed his lips as she told him. "Materials for construction? Sure, I'll have them delivered. Council charge?"

"Jumay's." She added, quickly, "Mel Jumay is responsible for the damage. It includes that done to the church. He and his family should pay for it."

"Do they agree?" Vargas frowned as she made no answer. "They won't like it. Suke is touchy about such things and he has no time for the monks. I can't blame him. Always whining, begging, trying to change things. They should be kicked off the planet. They should never have been allowed to come here. They don't belong."

An opinion she had heard before. Patiently she said, "You could be right, but see the materials are delivered as soon as you can. If we don't need the monks we need the ganni."

Some worked among the machines, sweeping, dusting, stepping aside as she left the workshop busy with her thoughts. Had the young engineer been genuinely careless or had he attempted sabotage? Producing a component holding a subtle flaw which would cause it to fail at a critical time. It was possible; none forced to wear the collar could be expected to love those who had put it there, but how to prove it? A man daring enough to commit sabotage would have the intelligence to alter the calibration of his instruments so as to appear innocent.

"Nadine!" A young man came running towards her. Nigel Myer, face flushed from recent exertion, sweat running over his naked torso. Behind him, on the exercise ground, other young men struck and weaved in simulated combat. "A moment. Please!"

She waited, knowing what he wanted, pretending ignorance as he fought to regain his breath.

"I heard what happened in the town. I'm sorry."

"Did you have a part in it?"

"I was with the crowd," he admitted, "but I had nothing to do with the fire. If there is anything I can do to help?" He paused, waiting for the expected rejection of the empty offer. One not meant and made as the part of a calculated design. "Nadine?"

She said, knowing his answer. "You could help with the construction."

"I'd like to but I can't. I'm hoping to get a place with Toibin," he explained. "I'll have to be in top condition when he makes his decision. It's important that I make his crew. I need action!"

And wanted her to speak for him. She could sympathize with his need. A man without reputation had little chance of selection and needed all the help he could get. Without it he would be lucky to be picked at all even if willing to take a minimum share or no share at all in order to gain experience.

"I'll do what I can," she promised. "But don't build up your hopes. Your best chance is to catch Toibin's eye. Draw his attention in some way. Do something spectacular." She anticipated his question. "I can't tell you what, Leese Toibin has his own standards, but I can tell you this – he won't look kindly on a man who needs a woman to speak for him."