"I think they would be glad to help you. I shall ask them to go to you this coming week."
It wasn't a driving rain, just a gentle drizzle that made the lanes muddy and plastered Eckert's tunic against him. He didn't mind it; the rain was warm and the trees and grass smelled good in the wet.
"How would you classify the culture after seeing the ceremony, Ted?" Templin asked.
"About what you would expect. An Apollonian culture, simple and dignified. Nothing in excess, no striving for great emotional release."
Templin nodded soberly. "It grows on you, doesn't it? You find yourself getting to like the place. And I suppose that's dangerous, too. You tend to let your guard down, the way Pendleton must have. You—what was that?"
Eckert tensed. There was a gentle padding in the mud, several hundred feet behind them. Templin flattened himself in the shadows alongside a house. His hand darted inside his tunic and came out with the slim deadliness of a needle gun.
"Don't use it!" Eckert whispered tersely.
Templin's eyes were thin, frightened slits in the darkness. "Why not?"
Eckert's mind raced. It might be nothing at all, and then again it might be disaster. But there was still a chance that Templin might be wrong. And there were more immediate reasons.