Free The Altar at Asconel by John Brunner

the shreds of his own temper. The abstract principles inculcated in him on Annanworld, though, were very hard to apply under present circumstances.
    “How long did you spend burrowing in your piles of stale knowledge?” Vix sneered. “Ten years, isn’t it? And does nothing you learned in all that time tell you how we—?”
    He was interrupted by a bang on the outer door of the lock. Hardly stopping to draw breath, he charged away on a new line of complaint: “Now our time’s up—they’ve brought this telepathic mutant along and the moment she’s aboard we’ve lost our last chance to figure out a way of staying on Delcadoré and tracking down Tiorin!”
    The idea struck Spartak that having a mind-reader close to him frightened Vix as much as being sent far away from Asconel. Superstitition, merely—or the fear of having some secret misdeed revealed? For himself, he knew he would welcome thin consolation in this opportunity to find out the truth behind all the rumors which he had heard; the policy of deportation which the Empire had instituted to insure itself against wild factors in the peoples it ruled by imposing statistical averages on them had worked well, but it had also fed the imaginations of the ignorant.
    He got to his feet. Somehow he wasn’t so sure as Vix that the mutant girl was waiting at the entrance. He would have expected a call from the port controller and perhapssome triggering command to reinforce the conditioning on their minds, not a simple knock without advance warning
    He unlocked the panel and slid it aside.
    The person who met his gaze was a little man, apparently very nervous, with protruding teeth and wide startled eyes. He held tight to the guardrail around the narrow platform, as though he was afraid of losing his balance and crashing to the ground.
    He said in a squeaky, eager voice, “Is this the ship from Asconel?”
    Spartak nodded, and the nervous man was infinitely relieved, even going so far as to take one hand from the rail he clutched.
    “Please! May I come inside and discuss a proposition with you?”
    Spartak hesitated, then stepped back and gestured that the other should pass him. Vix, from within the control room, called out fiercely to know what was going on.
    But the nervous man would not say anything further until he was safely in the control room himself. Then he drew himself up importantly.
    “My name is not of any consequence,” he commenced. “It is in fact Rochard, but I am representing a—uh—a third party who is very desirous of securing passage to your planet. For some time he has had his agents making inquiries at all the spaceports on Delcadoré, asking about ships from Asconel and nearby systems, offering a generous fee for a flight there. Yours is the first such ship to come to my notice since I was requested to assist him.”
    Vix and Spartak exchanged astonished glances. Then the redhead pursued his lips as if to spit.
    “Can’t help him,” he snarled.
    Rochard put his hand suggestively into his belt-pouch, and there was the mellow jingling noise of solid Imperial coin. He said, “I’m instructed to make a very liberal payment in advance, and then my—uh—principal will guarantee double the old commercial rate for the distance. You’d be well advised to—”
    “It’s nothing to do with money,” Vix broke in. His shoulders bowed, and he turned half away from Rochard. “Golook for some other vessel. If I could, I’d cheerfully take him to Asconel and not ask one circle for the flight—that miserable world needs outsiders to visit it and view its present plight! But it’s out of the question”
    Bewildered, Rochard renewed his original offer, his wide alarmed eyes seeking a clue to the refusal. Abruptly Vix whirled and clamped a hand on his wrist.
    “Out! Or I’ll throw you out. You can’t take no for an answer, can you? I guess you’re losing a fat bonus for finding us, hey? Well, have your argument with the woman who sits in the