“True. But illogical. Patrolmen are more tolerant toward lawbreakers than local police.”

Slinh shook his scaly head in some bewilderment. “I never could figure out the Patrol,” he said. “Even its members of my own race I can’t understand. Officially it exists to coordinate the systems of the Galactic League and to enforce the laws of the central authority. But after a while I quit paying attention to the stories of fabulous raids and arrests by Patrolmen and began watching for myself and speaking to eyewitnesses. And y’know, I have not been able to verify one case of the Patrol acting directly against a crook. The best they ever do is give the local police some technical advice, and that’s rare. I’m beginning to suspect that the stories of the huge Patrol battle fleet are deliberate lies and the stereographs of it fakes—that though the Patrol makes big claims, it’s never yet really arrested a criminal. In fact”—Slinh’s claws tightened about his glass—“it seems one of the most corrupt organizations in the Galaxy. Voal’s speech today was—true! I know of more cases where it’s made alliance with crooks, or supported crooked governments, or engaged in crooked political deals, that I could easily count. Like in this case here—first the Patrol on the feeblest ‘right of discovery’ excuse, awards Lhing to the Marhalian System—Lhing, that was a Luanian development from the first—and then it seeks to overthrow the democratically elected Luanian government and set up some kind of revolutionary junta that’s sure to empty the public coffers before running for a distant planet. I don’t blame Luan for seceding from the League!”

“You could turn me in,” said Alak. “There must be a reward.”

“Not I,” said Slinh. He grinned evilly. “The police don’t approve of sivva or those who sell it. Also, what’s Luan to me? They could blow up the planet for all I care—once I’m off it. And finally—it’s barely possible we could make a deal.”

Alak ordered another beer and vurzin. “Pray continue,” he said. “You interest me strangely.”

* * *

Despite his purpose, despite the knowledge he had and the implacable hostility which seethed within him, Sharr felt a stirring of awe as he entered the cathedral. The long nave loomed before him, a dusky immensity lit with the wonderful chromatic sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass windows; the vaulted ceiling was lost in a twilight of height through which fluttered white birds like living benedictions; the heavy languor of incense was in the cool dark air, and music breathed invisible beauty about him from—somewhere. Here, he thought, was peace and security, rest for the weary and hope for the grieving—

Aye, the peace and security of death, the resting from duty, and a false cold-bloodedly manufactured hope which destroyed souls. The magnificent shell of the cathedral covered a cosmic rottenness that—

The archbishop stood waiting for him near the great altar, resplendent in the dazzling robes of the new church. He was of this planet, Crios, but tall and impressive, with the cold wisdom of the Galaxy behind his eyes—the upper clergy of the new god were all Crians educated on League planets. Sharr was acutely conscious of his own shabby dress and his own ignorance of the cynical science that made miracles to order. No wonder all Crios was turning from the old faith to this lying devil who called himself a new god.