Free Stewards of the Flame by Sylvia Engdahl

though people in each were holding on to its gunwales.
    The lifted object was long and evidently heavy. It seemed to be a bag of some kind, a stiff sack that retained its shape as they pushed it over the stern. It was about the size of a person’s body. Jesse stepped onto the rocks and leaned forward through willowy branches in order to see better.
    Oh, God. It was a body—it could be nothing else. The sack splashed and sank, sending out small waves that broke on the rocks at his feet. Incredulous, not wanting to accept the implications, Jesse knew that he’d witnessed a burial.
    The wet rocks were slippery. His mind was far from them. As his feet slid out from under him, he grabbed at a branch; it gave way. With an involuntary cry, he fell, and black water closed over his head.
     
     
    ~   10   ~
     
    The water was deep at this point. Deep enough even at low tide to hide bodies, Jesse realized, fighting panic. He sank through darkness, trying desperately to move as he’d learned while scuba diving, though he had too little swimming experience to get far without fins. There was no bottom. Nor was there any sensation of rising; having no sunlight above made a difference, perhaps. Ultimately he floundered, aware that his arms were breaking the surface. Then a spotlight hit, and Peter was pulling him toward the boats.
    He gulped air, gratefully. He should still be afraid, he thought. His suspicion of trouble had not been mere imagination; on no world could it be routine to dump a body overboard under cover of darkness. The mysteries here were a good deal more ominous than he had guessed.
    Carla had tried to keep him from learning them. Had her wish been to protect him? Was she herself in danger from what she knew? It was a reasonable speculation. Yet he could not bring himself to fear the others; Peter’s grip was, inexplicably, comforting. In spite of everything, he found he felt safe with Peter.
    Oars were stretched out to him. Strong hands helped him aboard. As he watched, the candles—fixed to buoyant bases—were put over the side to float away, evidently as part of the planned ceremony. Wet and shivering, dazed, Jesse huddled on a seat, wondering what he could possibly say to Carla.
    “Well, we didn’t suppose you lacked initiative,” Bernie told him, without anger. “But it was only fair to give you a choice about getting involved.”
    “What did you see, Jess?” asked Peter gravely.
    “You know, I think,” Jesse told him. “If I’m wrong—if it wasn’t the burial of a body—then set me straight. I know it’s not my business, but under the circumstances—”
    “You’re entitled to an explanation,” Peter agreed. “My guess is that you’ll find it easier to understand than our fellow-citizens would. I doubt if you’re a man to be unduly worried by the legalities of the situation.”
    “Maybe, maybe not.” And yet, Jesse thought, he was ready to believe any explanation that would let him keep trusting these people. He was as drawn to them as ever. It would take more than he’d seen tonight to make him doubt them.
    The boat carrying Carla had come alongside. It was too dark to see her face, but her voice was soft, steady. “Jesse, one of our friends died in her bed this morning. She was ninety-seven, and knew she was dying; she didn’t want the ambulance. Would you want to spend your last hours in this world’s Hospital?”
    “No,” Jesse admitted. “But why bury her here instead of in a cemetery?”
    “If the authorities knew she was dead, they’d wonder why no ambulance got to her,” Liz said.
    “That figures. I suppose if one wasn’t called, her family and friends could be accused of some crime.” As he spoke, it dawned on Jesse that what elsewhere would be ironic exaggeration was here, no doubt, the literal truth.
    The boats separated; people took up paddles. “You don’t have to keep so quiet now that I’m here,” he pointed out.
    “It’s best to be on the safe side,”