Free The Race for God by Brian Herbert Page A

everything I know about them.”
    “The power that brought those ships is able to get ’em off the ground,” Orbust said. “Just one’s all we need. The white one you’ve been admiring yourself.”
    Orbust was directly in front of McMurtrey now. Orbust’s pale blue gaze followed McMurtrey’s line of sight to the pistol. Then their gazes met, and Orbust’s expression seemed to say, “Go ahead and try for it, if you dare.’’
    McMurtrey tried to relax, took a deep breath. He looked everywhere except at the gun.
    With a soft, rapid slap of sound, Orbust drew a Babul from inside his coat, and began reading scripture aloud. McMurtrey didn’t pay attention to the words, so surprised and intrigued had he been by the maneuver. When Orbust replaced the Babul, McMurtrey saw that it went into a shoulder holster.
    Then Orbust grabbed McMurtrey by an arm, and Tully took the other. They jerked him toward the door. The disheveled man was quoting more scripture and making commentary, something about the prophesies of Divan.
    “I can’t do what you want,” McMurtrey said. “Whatever power I had is gone.”
    “We’re gonna wind your little battery up,” Tully said.
    The chicken rustled in its cage, hopped through the open cage door and fluttered ungracefully to the floor. It hopped toward Tully.
    “Keep that thing away from me,” Tully rasped, “or I’ll—” The chicken squawked.
    McMurtrey stepped toward the bird, felt the men release their grasps on him. With a wave of his hand, McMurtrey ordered No Name back to its cage.
    With a tremendous commotion of wings, it complied.
    “What kinda stinkin’ chicken izzat?” Tully asked, scowling.
    “There’s no need for language like that,” Orbust said.
    A pen and a small notebook fell from one of Tully’s pockets. The notebook lay open on the floor, revealing Babulical passages written in calligraphy. This rough little man appeared to have a talent.
    “I say what I want when I want,” Tully retorted. He leaned over and retrieved his belongings. They went into a pocket of his peacoat.
    Angrily, Orbust turned toward his associate, and the fingers of his gun hand twitched near the holstered weapon. Then he took a deep breath and looked away.
    “Izzat a rooster or a hen?” Tully asked.
    “Hen,” McMurtrey said.
    “What are you, some kinda chicken-hugger?”
    “Enough of this,” Orbust said. He pulled McMurtrey through the doorway and outside.
    Tully again took hold of one of McMurtrey’s arms when they reached the street, and McMurtrey held back a little, exerting just enough reverse inertia to provide him with precious additional seconds to think. The night air was cool, with a breeze blowing in from the ocean,
    Orbust had a flashlight, and he played its powerful beam ahead of them, illuminating hazardous areas of broken sidewalk that the town’s antiquated street lamps failed to reveal.
    They were going toward the nearest white ship, the one McMurtrey favored. It stood as a plump monolith in lights from the town, and beyond it were the stars of God’s firmament. One star that might have been a bright planet caught McMurtrey’s attention. It was high in the eastern sky, clean and sharp against an inky background. McMurtrey wondered if a force could be riveting his attention to it, and if so to what purpose.
    It struck him that everything, even the tiniest, seemingly insignificant incident or object, had a purpose. They were threads in a heavenly tapestry.
    He felt a sharp pain in the arm that Tully held, and someone pushed him rudely from behind with the admonition, “Quit dragging your heels.” It was one of the tall men. McMurtrey couldn’t tell which, and didn’t look back. A street light popped and fizzled with static electricity, went dark and then came back on slowly, producing a sickly yellow glow.
    When they reached the ship, Orbust played the flashlight beam on it. A coarse-surfaced metal ramp led to the entrance hatch, and it was open, its