Mele grasped his arm. "Don't worry, Father. Some day you will have your reward."
"I hope so," Kataga said. "But how can I be sure? Look at Rii. A nicer, more pious fellow never lived. That poor old man worked and prayed all his life for a violent death. Any kind of a violent death! And what happened? He passed away in his sleep! What kind of a death is that for a man?"
"There are always one or two exceptions."
"I could name a dozen others," Kataga said.
"Try not to worry about it, Father," Mele said. "I know you'll die beautifully, like Brog."
"Yes, yes ... But if you think about it, Brog's was such a simple, ending." His eyes lighted up. "I would like something really big, something painful and complicated and wonderful, like the emissary will have."
Mele looked away. "That is presuming above your station, Father."
"True, true," Kataga said. "Oh well, some day ..." He smiled to himself. Some day indeed! An intelligent and courageous man took matters into his own hands and arranged for his own violent death, instead of meekly waiting for the priest to make up his feeble mind. Call it heresy or anything else; something deep within him told Kataga that a man had the right to die as painfully and violently as he pleased — if he could get away with it.
The thought of the half-severed vine filled him with satisfaction. How fortunate that he had never learned to swim! "Come," Mele said. "Let's welcome the emissary." They followed the villagers to the level plain where the sphere had landed.
Richard Hadwell leaned back in his padded pilot's chair and wiped perspiration from his forehead. The last natives had just left his ship, and he could hear them singing and laughing as they returned to their village in the evening twilight. The pilot's compartment smelled of flowers and honey and wine, and throbbing drums seemed to echo still from the grey metal walls.
He smiled reminiscently and took down his notebook. Selecting a pen, he wrote:
Beautiful to behold is Igathi, a place of stately mountains and raging mountain streams, beaches of black sand, verdant vegetation in the jungles, great flowering trees in the forests.
Not bad, Hadwell told himself. He pursed his lips and continued.
The people here are a comely humanoid race, a light tan in coloration, supple to behold. They greeted me with flowers and dancing, and many signs of joy and affection. I had no trouble hypnopeding their language, and soon felt as though this had always been my home. They are a lighthearted, laughter-loving people, gentle and courteous, living serenely in a state of near-nature. What a lesson there is here for Civilized Man!
One's heart goes out to them, and to Thangookari, their benevolent deity. One hopes that Civilized Man, with his genius for destruction and frenetic behaviour, does not come here, to turn these folk from their path of joyous moderation.
Hadwell selected a pen with a finer point, and wrote, "There is a girl named Mele who—" He crossed out the line, and wrote, "A blacklhaired girl named Mele, beautiful beyond compare, came close to me and gazed deep into my eyes—" He crossed that out, too.
Frowning deeply, he tried several possible lines: "Her limpid brown eyes gave promise of joys beyond—" "Her small red mouth quivered ever so slightly when I—" "Though her small hand rested on my arm for but a moment—"
He crumpled the page. Five months of enforced celibacy in space was having its effect, he decided. He had better return to the main issue and leave Mele for later. He wrote:
There are many ways in which a sympathetic observer could help these people. But the temptation is strong to do absolutely nothing, for fear of disrupting their culture.
Closing his notebook, Hadwell looked out of a port at the distant village, now lighted by torches. Then he opened the notebook again.
However their culture appears to be strong and flexible.
Certain kinds of aid can do nothing but profit them. And
these I will freely give.
He closed the notebook with a snap and put away his pens.
The following day, Hadwell began his good works. He found many Igathians suffering from mosquito-transmitted diseases. By judicious selection of antibiotics, he was able to arrest all except the most advanced cases. Then he directed work teams to drain the pools of stagnant water where the mosquitos bred.
As he went on his healing rounds, Mele accompanied him. The beautiful Igathian girl quickly learned the rudiments of nursing, and Hadwell found her assistance invaluable.
Soon, all significant disease was cleared up in the village. Hadwell then began to spend his days in a sunny grove not far from Igathi, where he rested and worked on his book.
A town meeting was called at once by Lag, to discuss the import of this.
"Friends," said the old priest, "our friend, Hadwell, has done wonderful things for the village. He has cured our sick, so they too may live to partake of Thangookari's gift. Now Hadwell is tired and rests in the sun. Now Hadwell expects the reward he came here for."
"It is fitting," said the merchant, Vassi, "that the emissary receive his reward. I suggest that the priest take his mace and go forth—"
"Why so stingy?" asked Juele, a priest in training. "Is Thangookari's messenger deserving of no finer death? Hadwell deserves more than the mace! Much more!"
"You are right," Vassi admitted slowly. "In that case, I suggest that we drive poisonous legenberry quills under his fingernails."
"Maybe that's good enough for a merchant," said Tgara, the stonecutter, "but not for Hadwell. He deserves a chiefs death! I move that we tie him down and kindle a small fire beneath his toes, gradually—"
"Wait," said Lag. "The emissary has earned the Death of an Adept. Therefore, let him be taken, tenderly and firmly, to the nearest giant anthill, and there buried to his neck."
There were shouts of approval. Tgara said, "And as long as he screams, the ancient ceremonial drums will pound."
"And there will be dances for him," said Vassi.
"And a glorious drunk," said Kataga.
Everyone agreed that it would be a beautiful death.
So the final details were decided, and a time was set. The village throbbed with religious ecstasy. All the huts were decorated with flowers, except the Shrine of the Instrument, which had to remain bare. The women laughed and sang as they prepared the death feast. Only Mele, for some unaccountable reason, was forlorn. With lowered head she walked through the village and climbed slowly to the hills beyond, to Hadwell.
Hadwell was stripped to the waist and basking under the two suns. "Hi, Mele," he said. "I heard the drums. Is something up?"
"There will be a celebration," Mele said, sitting down beside him.
"That's nice. OK if I attend?"
Mele stared at him, nodding slowly. Her heart melted at the sight of such courage. The emissary was showing a true observance of the ancient punctilio, by which a man pretended that his own death feast was something that really didn't concern him. Men in this day and age were not able to maintain the necessary aplomb. But of course, an emissary of Thangookari would follow the rules better than anyone.
"How soon does it start?"
"In an hour," Mele said. Formerly she had been straightforward and free with him. Now her heart was heavy, oppressed. She didn't know why. Shyly she glanced at his bright alien garments, his red hair.
"Oughta be nice," Hadwell said. "Yessir, it oughta be nice ..." His voice trailed away. From under lowered eyelids he looked at the comely Igathian girl, observed the pure line of neck and shoulder, her straight dark hair, and sensed rather than smelt her faint sachet. Nervously he plucked a blade of grass.
"Mele," he said, "I..."
The words died on his lips. Suddenly, startlingly, she was in his arms.
"Oh, Mele!"