"Come with us now, space-devil," the black giant said. "The prophet wants to see you. We won't kill you if you cooperate."
Another Mohcan kicked the girl. "Get up!"
"Leave her alone!" Jan shouted. The African slapped him across the face with the barrel of his blaster.
"She'll get what the chorus girls got," the African said, speaking very slowly. "She'll get what they got if you don't obey. And you will be killed. Now march!"
They climbed the Peak again at a rapid pace. A heel came off the girl's shoe. Two burly Mohcans seized her arms and half-carried, half-dragged her to the top. Jan found it hard to keep pace with them. Whenever he slowed down, the African prodded him with the blaster.
The multitude was still singing. Their eyes were vacant with self-hypnosis as they swayed to the slow, sobbing chant. The girl was turned over to a party of women. The African marched Jan to a place apart from the crowd where a man with a long yellow beard sat crosslegged on a rock.
"This is the Prophet," the African said. "Sit on the ground and wait for him to speak. I will leave you now but I have you covered." He withdrew about twenty yards and squatted on his heels, his blaster across his knees.
Jan sat down and waited. The prophet sat abnormally still, his legs crossed like a yogi. He was staring upward, almost directly into the sun. He was a lean, youngish man with a beaked nose that give him a cruel, hawk-like look. The beard, yellow as young cornsilk, fluttered slightly in the breeze. Otherwise, there was no movement. Jan could not even see him breathe.
After a long time, during which Jan felt his face numbly aching from the African's blow, the Prophet suddenly fixed his eyes on him with the same unwavering stare he had devoted to the sky.
"Peace be with you."