Tower of Zanid Read Free Page A

to the prefectural pavilion with me? There’s a man I should like you to meet.”
    Mystified, Fallon followed Mjipa. He knew perfectly well that he was not the sort of person whom Mjipa would exhibit with pride to a visiting dignitary as an example of an Earthman making good on Krishna.
    They passed the drill-field, where a company of the Civic Guard of Zanid was parading: platoons of pikemen and arbalestiers. These were a little ragged in their marching, lacking the polish of Kir’s professionals; but they made a brave showing in their scarlet tunics under shirts of blackened ring-mail.
    Mjipa looked narrowly at Fallon. “I thought you were in the Guard too?”
    “I am. In fact, I’m on patrol tonight. With cat-like tread…”
    “Then why aren’t you out there parading?”
    Fallon grinned. “I’m in the Juru Company, which is about half non-Krishnans. Can’t you imagine Krishnans, Terrans, Osirians, Thothians, and the rest all lined up for a parade?”.
    “The thought is a bit staggering—something out of a delirium tremens or a TV horror-show.”
    “And what would you do with our eight-legged Isidian?”
    “I suppose you could let him carry a guidon,” said Mjipa, and passed on. They came within range of the Terran missionary, who was still ranting.
    “Who’s he?” asked Fallon. “He seems to hate everything.”
    “His name is Wagner—Welcome Wagner. American, I believe, and an Ecumenical Monotheist.”
    “America‘s gift to interplanetary misunderstanding, eh?”
    “You might say so. The odd thing is, he’s a reformed adventurer. His name is really Daniel Wagner; as Dismal Dan he was notorious around the Cetic planets as a worse swindler than Borel and Koshay put together. A man of no culture.”
    “What happened to him? Get thrown in pokey?”
    “Exactly, and got religion—as the Americans say—while brooding on his sins in the Novorecife jail. As soon as he got out, the E. M.‘s, having no missionaries in the West, signed him on. But now he’s a bigger nuisance than ever.” A worried shadow flickered across the dark face. “Those fellows give me a worse headache than simple crooks like you.”
    “Crooks like me? My dear Percy, you wound me, and what’s more you wrong me. I’ve never, in my life…”
    “Oh, come on, come on. I know all about you. Or at least,” corrected the meticulous Mjipa, “more than you think I do.”
    They came to the big banner-decked tent. The African crisply acknowledged the salutes of the halberdiers who guarded the entrance to the pavilion, and strode in. Fallon followed him through a tangle of passages to a room that had been set aside for the consul’s use during the festival. There sat a stocky, squarish, wrinkled man with bristling, short-cut white hair, a snub nose, wide cheek-bones, innocent-looking blue eyes, and a white mustache and goatee. He was carelessly dressed in Terran traveling clothes. As they entered, this man stood up and took his pipe out of his mouth.
    “Dr. Fredro,” said Mjipa, “here’s your man. His name is Anthony Fallon. Fallon, this is Dr. Julian Fredro.”
    “Thank you,” Fredro murmured in acknowledgment, head slightly bowed and eyes shifting, as if with embarrassment or shyness.
    Mjipa continued: “Dr. Fredro’s here for some archeological research, and while he’s about it, he’s taking in all the sights. He is the most indefatigable sight-seer I’ve yet experienced.”
    Fredro made a self-deprecating motion, saying in Slavic-accented English: “Mr. Mjipa exaggerates, Mr. Fallon. I find Krishna interesting place, that’s all. So I try to make hay while cat is away.”
    “He’s run my legs off,” sighed Mjipa.
    “Oh, not really,” said Fredro. “I like to learn language of countries I visit, and mix with people. I am studying the language now. As for people—ah—Mr. Fallon, do you know any Balhibo philosophers in Zanid? Mr. Mjipa has introduced me to soldiers, noblemen, merchants, and workers, but no