"You've made an impression, all right," I assured him with equal grimness.
He shrugged. "There are all kinds of impressions," he commented wryly, "and not all of them are good."
"Yours has not been," I said boldly. "I place my trust in Zard, not in the voice of Evil."
"That blank, sanctimonious stare!" he said acidly. "You Worders—gah! You're so filled with catechism and cant that you won't see a fact if it hits you in the face. Of all the possibilities on this benighted planet, the one with all the proper qualities turns out to be mentally defective." He glared at me. "I don't know why I waste my time. Ordinarily I'd condition you and let it go at that."
"But you won't," I said confidently.
He winced and I smiled. It wasn't often that I won an advantage over him, and the taste of it was sweet in my mouth.
"The power of Faith," I said sententiously, "is the greatest force in the universe. It even restrains you."
He looked at me with the pitying contempt an adult has for a not-too-bright child. "What you need is an education," he said slowly. "You've never had a chance."
I groaned inwardly. Always he tried to shake my faith—but he had failed before and would fail again for my course was unalterably clear. "Avoid the smooth tongue of Evil lest ye lose your immortal soul. For the Evil will come to judgment—and the tortures of Hell are everlasting." So said Zard in the days of his Teaching—and so we all believed. The Word of Zard was more than a symbol. It was a way of life, and Promised Land had bloomed and flowered under it.