Unmolested, I walked through Wolverton's stronghold. I passed the Halsite whom I had struck down. He looked at me and grinned. There was no malice in him.
"You fool me," he said cheerfully. "I not very smart—but next time you try I run you down—bring you back. You no do that thing twice."
"If you can catch me," I answered.
"I catch, all right. You wear ring now. You no get away."
I sighed. He was right.
Later that day I saw Leslie—the Adept who tried to reach Wolverton last year. I waved to him, but he did not notice me. He was reading a book, and the glass wall that separated us prevented me from speaking to him. A silver ring gleamed around his neck—he too was a prisoner, and from the looks of it he, too, was learning forbidden things. I wondered at the unholy spell of Wolverton. What was the devilish power he had over the minds of men that made even an Adept ignore Zard's teachings? There was a tense earnestness to Leslie's bent figure, a driving air of concentration he had never shown when learning the writings of Zard. He was absorbed—fascinated—and looking at him I again felt the icy hand of terror grip my mind.
I shrugged it off. So far there had been no invasion of my thoughts. My beliefs were still mine, and although my body was trapped, my spirit was free. And if I could not reach him with my mind, there was always a weapon to rely upon—something that would fit my hand—something blunt to smash—something sharp to drive through skin and flesh into his blackened heart.
But despite my freedom I was watched by seen and unseen eyes. No weapon I could find remained long in my hand. It was the ultimate frustration. And finally I gave it up. I would have to mark the location of weapons and bide my time until Wolverton was close enough to one which I could seize and slay him before his minions could prevent me. Slowly I learned cunning—to dissemble—to hide my intent—to wait.
And while I waited Wolverton talked to me, and I listened, fascinated by the evil of the man. For not only did he mock the Word, he despised It, calling It a superstition-tainted mass of primitive Mumbo Jumbo—whatever that might be. But except for this flouting of the Word, Wolverton was not so evil as I thought. There was a gentleness about him that was strange. My own people had little of this. After all, Promised Land was not an easy world to tame, and our rise to greatness had been the product of unending struggle against an unfriendly if not inimical environment. But in the end, the Word and those who believed in It, were triumphant. Did we not tame and rule three-quarters of this world? Were we not the Chosen? Often I had to go back to basics after a talk with Wolverton. He disarmed me with his friendly voice and with his logic. It was getting harder to resist him—and I understood now how the others had fallen. Wolverton, if he tried, could charm the birds from the trees, make black look white, evil virtuous, and righteousness unrighteous. He was truly a terrible man and I looked forward to his daily visits with mingled dread and anticipation. There was something toward which he was leading me and I dreaded the revelation even while I enjoyed the trip.