"I'm sorry, Earl, I wish that it did but—" She shrugged. "If I were back home I could have the library searched, the records. If it was there I would find it."

  "Home," he said. "Where is that?"

  "Where my love is," she said and then, "Forgive me, Earl, I didn't mean to joke. But you look so solemn." She narrowed her eyes as if just thinking of something. "Earl, if you come from this planet Earth, then surely you must know the way back. Can't you simply go back the way you came?"

  Dumarest shook his head. "It isn't as simple as that. I left when I was a boy: young, scared, alone. Earth is a bleak place scarred by ancient wars, but ships arrive and leave. I stowed away on one. The captain was old and kinder than I deserved. He should have evicted me but he allowed me to live." He paused. "I was ten years old. I have been traveling ever since: moving deeper and deeper into the inhabited worlds, into the very heart of the galaxy, becoming, somehow, completely lost." He smiled into her eyes. "You find it strange?"

  "No," she said. "Not strange at all. Home," she mused. "The word holds a magic that is unique."

  "And your home?" His voice was soft, gentle—picking up the trail of her thought so that she responded automatically, without thinking, without restraint.

  "Solis."

  "Solis," he repeated, "where the library is, the clue to Earth you mentioned." He reached out and pinched a tress of hair between finger and thumb. "I think," he said gently, "that I had better take you home."

  Chapter Three

  BROTHER JEROME, High Monk of the Church of Universal Brotherhood, tucked thin hands within the capacious sleeves of his robe and prepared to enjoy his single hour of daily recreation. As usual he chose to walk alone, sandals noiseless on the smooth plastic of floors, ramps and stairs. Again, as usual, he varied his route: taking in a little more of the vast building which, like the Church, was under his direct control and authority. A monk skilled in topography had worked out that, if Brother Jerome maintained the area covered by his daily perambulations, it would take well over a year for him to fully inspect the entire building. Today he chose to walk beside some of the chambers of indoctrination, conscious in his sedate pacing of the quiet hum of ceaseless activity. It was a comforting sound and one he liked to hear. It reassured him that the Church was thriving and strong and growing as it must: expanding so as to carry the message to people everywhere that 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 humanite. The pain of one is the pain of all. And if all men could be taught to recognize the truth 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 any monk now alive to see the fruition of his work. But it was something for which to live, a purpose for their dedication. If a single person had been given ease of mind and comfort of spirit, then no monk had lived and worked in vain. The strength of the Church rested on the importance of the individual.

  He paused beside the door, shamelessly listening to the voice from within the chamber. Brother Armitage was giving a group of novitiates the initial address. They had passed the twin barriers of intelligence and physical ability; now he assailed their minds.

  "… this. Why do you wish to become monks? That question must be answered with frankness, honesty and humility. Is it in order to help your fellow man? No other answer can be accepted. If you hope for personal reward, for gratitude, power or influence, you should not be here. A monk can expect none of these things. If you seek hardship, privation, the spectacle of pain and anguish, then the Church does not want you. These things you will find, but they are not things to be sought. Man is not born to suffer. There is no intrinsic virtue in pain."

  True, thought Brother Jerome, grimly, Armitage was a good teacher: hard; tough; ruthless when it came to weeding out the unsuitables, the masochists, romantics, would-be martyrs and saints. Later he would show the class his scars and deformities, tell them in detail how the injuries had been inflicted and how, incredibly, he had managed to survive. Some would leave then. Others would follow, most after the hypnotic session in which they suffered a subjective month of degrading hardship. Simulated, naturally, but terrifyingly effective. Those remaining would progress to be taught useful skills, medicine, the arts of hypnosis and psychology, the danger of pride and, above all, the virtue of humility.

  One class among many, all working continuously, all doing their best to meet the constant demand for Hope-trained monks. There were other schools on a host of planets, but always those trained in the heart and center of the Church were in greatest demand. They carried the pure teaching, they had been taught the most modern methods and techniques; what they knew they could pass on.

  Like a continuous stream of healing antibiotics, thought Brother Jerome. The metaphor pleased him. An endless series of ripples, he thought, spreading, cleansing, widening to impinge on every planet known to mankind. A great flood of love and tolerance and understanding which would finally wash away the contamination of the beast.

  There was tension in the office. Brother Jerome sensed it as soon as he returned and he halted in the outer room, letting his eyes take in the scene. The wide desk with its normal office machinery. The waiting space with the seats for those who had appointments. The monks who acted as office staff and others—young, hard-bodied men born on high-gravity worlds, trained in physical skills and always found where there was need of care and protection. Brother Fran, of course, his personal secretary, and a man who stood with his back to a wall.

  Curiously the High Monk looked at him, guessing that he must be the cause and center of the tension. He was tall, wearing a transparent helmet and a full, high-collared cloak which covered him from shoulder to heel. The fabric was of a peculiar golden bronze color and glinted as if made of metal. Above the high collar the face was scarred, aquiline; the nose a thrusting beak between smoldering, deeply set eyes. He glanced at Brother Jerome as he entered the room, then looked away as if he'd seen nothing of interest.

  Fran came forward, his face calm above the cowl of his robe. "Brother," he said without preamble. "This man insists on seeing you. He has no appointment."

  "I insist on seeing the High Monk," grated the stranger. "I will stand here until I do."

  Brother Jerome smiled, appreciating the jest though it was obvious his secretary did not. He took two steps and faced the stranger. "Your name?"

  "Centon Frenchi. I live on Sard."

  "Is not that one of the vendetta worlds?"

  "It is."

  Jerome nodded, understanding. "If you wish you may discard your cloak," he said gently. "Such defensive clothing is unnecessary on Hope. Here men do not seek to kill each other for the sake of imagined insult."

  "Be careful, monk," warned Centon harshly. "You go too far."

  "I think not," said Brother Jerome evenly. He glanced to where two of the watchful attendants had stepped forward, and shook his head. He would not, he knew, have need of a bodyguard. "What is the nature of your business on Hope?"

  "I will tell that to the High Monk."

  "And if he does not wish to listen?" Jerome met the smoldering eyes. "You are stubborn," he said.

  "And you are also unrealistic. Why should you be permitted to jump the line of those who have shown the courtesy to make an appointment? Who are you to dictate what shall and shall not be?"

  "I am Centon Frenchi of Sard!"

  "Others too have names and titles," said Jerome smoothly. "Can you not give me one good reason why you should be given preference?"

  Centon glowered at the waiting monk. He glanced around the office, empty but for the watchful staff. "No one is waiting," he said. "How can I give preference over people who are not here?"

  "This is not a day for interviews and audiences," explained Brother Fran from where he stood to one side. "The High Monk has many other duties and you are keeping him from them."

  "Him?"

  "You are speaking to Brother Jerome, the High Monk of the Universal Brotherhood."

  Jerome saw the shock in the Sardian's eyes, the flicker of disbelief. It was a familiar reaction and went with love of pomp and insistence on privilege. His age and frailty they could accept, for it took time to mount the ladder of promotion. His sandals and rough, homespun robe, exactly the same as that worn by any other monk begging in the streets, were harder to swallow. The concept behind his lack of ornamentation was sometimes beyond their capacity to understand.

  And yet, he thought wearily, it was so very simple. He was a man no better, and he hoped no worse, than any other monk of the Brotherhood. Why then should he set himself apart? And to wear costly garments and gems would be to make a mockery of that in which he believed. But how could a man like Centon Frenchi understand that? Realize that to any monk the cost of a jewel to wear on his finger was to rob others of food…? Such baubles came expensive when measured in the price of suffering and pain which would otherwise have been negated.

  "I am waiting," he said patiently. "If you are unable to convince me, then I must ask you to leave. You can," he added, "make an appointment for a later time."

  The watchful monks moved a little closer, tense and ready for action. Centon looked at them, stared at Jerome. Breath hissed through his nostrils as he inflated his lungs. "I have supported the Church," he said tightly. "At times I have been most generous."

  "And now you want something in return," said Jerome. "It is a natural reaction. But what you want and what others are willing to give need not be the same. I suggest you make an appointment in the normal manner."

  He turned, feeling deflated, empty. Pride, he thought bitterly. A man makes a prison in which to live and calls it his pride. Sometimes the prison is so strong that he can never break out. Again he heard the hiss of inhalation. Something caught at his garment.

  "Brother!" Centon's voice was almost unrecognizable. "Help me, Brother! For the love of God, help me!"

  Jerome turned, smiling, waving off the guarding monks. His hand fell to the one gripping his robe. Centon's hand: big, scarred, the knuckles white as he gripped the fabric. "Of course, brother!" said the High Monk. "Why else am I here?"

  * * *

  The inner office was a sanctuary in which Brother Jerome spent most of his waking hours. It was a comfortable place, a curious blend of the ultra-modern and near-primitive. Books lined the walls, old, moldering volumes together with spools of visual tape, recording crystals, impressed plastic and molecularly-strained liquids which, when stimulated, resolved themselves into mobile representations in full, three-dimensional color.

  There were other things. Little things for the most part, for a monk has to carry what he possesses and weight and size are limiting factors. A fragment of stone, a shell, a plaited length of plastic wire. A piece of curiously carved wood, a weathered scrap of marble and, oddly, a knife made of pressure-flaked glass. Centon looked at it, then at the placid face of the monk seated behind his wide desk. "An unusual object," he said. "Did you make it?"

  "On Gelde," admitted Jerome. "A primitive, backward planet only recently rediscovered. The natives had forgotten much of what they knew and had developed a metal-worshiping religion. They confiscated my surgical instruments. I made that knife as a general purpose scalpel and used it during my stay." He dismissed the knife with a gesture. "And now, brother," he said gently, "you asked for my help. Tell me your problem."

  Centon approached the desk and stood before it, the reflected light gleaming from his protective cloak. "I need to find my daughter."

  Jerome remained silent.

  "She left home many years ago," said Centon. "Now I need to find her."

  "And you think that we can help you?"

  "If you cannot, then no one can!" Centon strode the floor in his agitation, his stride oddly heavy. "I belong to a noted family on Sard," he said abruptly, then immediately corrected himself.

  "Belonged." His voice was bitter. "Can one man claim to constitute a family? We held wide estates, owned factories, farms, a fifth of the wealth of the planet was ours. And then my younger brother quarreled with the third son of the family of Borge. The quarrel was stupid, something over a girl, but there was a fight and the boy died." He paused. "The fight was unofficial," he said. "Need I tell you what that means?"

  On the vendetta worlds it meant blood, murder, a wave of savage killing as family tore at family. "You could have admitted guilt," said the monk quietly. "Your younger brother would have paid the blood-price and ended the affair."

  "With his death? With each Borge coming and striking their blow, abusing his body, killing him a dozen times over? You think I could have stood for that!" Again the floor quivered as Centon strode in agitation. "I tried," he said. "I offered reparation to the extent of one-third of our possessions. I offered myself as a surrogate in a death-duel. They wanted none of it. One of their number had died and they wanted revenge. Three weeks later they caught my younger brother. They tied his feet to a branch and lit a fire beneath his head. His wife found him that same evening. She must have gone a little mad because she took a flier and dropped fire on the Borge estates, destroying their crops and farms. They retaliated, of course, but by then we were ready." He paused, brooding. "That was five years ago," he said. "That is why I need my daughter."

  "To fight and kill and perhaps to die in such a cause?" Brother Jerome shook his head. "No."

  "You refuse to help me find her?"

  "If she were in the next room I would refuse to tell you," said the monk sternly. "We of the Church do not interfere in the social system of any world, but we do not have to approve of what we see. The vendetta may be good from the viewpoint that it cuts down great families before they can establish a totalitarian dictatorship but, for those concerned, the primitive savagery is both degrading and cruel." He paused, shaking his head, annoyed with himself. Anger, he thought, and condemnation. Who am I to judge and hate? Quietly he said, "If my words offend you I apologize."

  "I take no offense, Brother."

  "You are gracious. But is it essential that you find your daughter? Do you need her to end the vendetta?"

  Centon was curt. "It is ended."

  "Then—?"

  "The family must be rebuilt. I am the last of my name on Sard. The name of Borge is but a memory."

  Brother Jerome frowned. "But is your daughter necessary for that? You could remarry, take extra wives. You could even adopt others to bear your name."

  "No!" Centon's feet slammed the floor as he paced the room. "It must be my seed," he said. "My line that is perpetuated. The immortality of my ancestors must be assured. It would be useless for me to take extra wives. I cannot father a child under any circumstances. Aside from my daughter I am the last of my clan and I am useless!"

  Standing, facing the desk, he swept open his long cloak. Metal shone in the light: smooth, rounded, seeming to fill the protective material. Brother Jerome stared at half a man.

  The head was there, the shoulders, the arms and upper torso but, from just below the ribs, the flesh of the body merged into and was cupped by a metal sheath. Like an egg, thought the monk wildly. The human part of the man cradled in a metal cup fitted with metal legs. He took a grip on himself. Too often had he seen the effects of violence to be squeamish now. The cup, of course, contained the surrogate stomach and other essential organs. The legs would contain their own power source. In many ways the prosthetic fitments would be better than the fleshy parts they replaced but nothing could replace the vital glands. It was obvious that Centon could never father a child.

  "We miscounted," he explained dully. "I was to blame. I thought all the Borge were dead but I overlooked a girl. A child, barely fourteen, who had been off-planet when the vendetta had begun. She was clever and looked far older than her age. She gained employment as a maid to my nephew's wife. Mari was expecting a child, a son, and was two months from her time. We held a small dinner party to celebrate the coming birth—and the bitch took her chance!"

  Brother Jerome pressed a button. A flap opened in his desk revealing a flask and glasses. He poured and handed a glass to his visitor. Centon swallowed the brandy at a gulp.

  "Thank you, Brother." He touched his face and looked at the moisture on his finger. "I'm sorry, but each time I think about it—" His hands knotted into fists. "Why was I so stupid? How could I have been such a fool?"

  "To regret the past is to destroy the present," said the High Monk evenly. "More brandy?"

  Centon scooped up the replenished glass, drank, set it down empty. "The dinner party," he continued. "All of us around a table. All that were left of the Frenchi clan on Sard. Myself, Mari, her husband Kell, Leran who was eight and Jarl who was eleven. Five people left from almost a hundred. It had been a bitter five years."

  Brother Jerome made no comment.

  "The Borge bitch was waiting at table, in attendance in case Mari should need her aid. She dropped something, a napkin I think, and stooped beneath the table. The bomb had a short fuse. The fire spread and caught her as she was trying to escape. She stood there, burning, laughing despite her pain. I shall always remember that. Her laughing as my family died." Centon took a deep breath, shuddering. "They burned like candles. I too. The flame charred my legs, my loins, but I had risen and was leaning over the table pouring wine. The board saved me. Somehow I managed to reach the escape hatch. By the time help arrived the room was a furnace and I was more dead than alive."

  He wiped a hand over his face, dried it on his sleeve. "Often, when in the amniotic tank and later when relearning to walk I wished that they had let me go with the others. Then some of the pain died a little and I began to live again. Live to hope and plan and dream of the future."

  He stepped close to the edge of the desk and leaned forward, arms supporting his weight, hands resting flat on the wood. "Now you know why I need my daughter," he said. "Need her. I do not lie to you, monk. I pretend no great or sudden love. But, without the girl the family is ended."