Birthright

dogmas, and was in truth far more of an ethical doctrine than a religion in the established sense of the

word.

One of the unsolved mysteries about Man is why, at a time when the comfort of religion should have been so avidly sought after, it should have flourished for so short a time and gained so few advocates.... —Origin and History of The Sentient Races,Vol. 9 It was a dirty little village, surrounded by scores of other dirty little villages, all of them standing out like leprous sores on the surface of Raxar II. Crumbling stone structures surrounded what had once been a city square, and in the middle of the square was a dust-covered fountain which had not operated in decades.

Mihal scurried along, looking neither right nor left, trying not to think of all the filth he would later have to remove from his robes. He carried a number of books in his left hand; in his right hand was a finely embroidered white handkerchief with which he was constantly mopping the sweat off his face. He longed for a cigar or a pipe, anything to keep his mind off the oppressive heat, but tobacco had been increasingly hard to come by in recent years, and since its cost had risen correspondingly with its scarcity, he had broken himself of the habit, though not the desire for it. A little girl peeked at him from behind a decrepit building, and he smiled at her. “Can you tell me where I can find Rodat?” he asked. She wiped a runny nose with an unwashed forearm, then pointed to a nearby structure. Just before she ducked out of sight he thanked her and approached the building. He looked for a door on which to knock, but could find none and, with a shrug, he walked inside. “Hello?” he said. “Is anybody home?”

“In here,” came a hoarse voice. He followed it and soon found himself in a small room. A number of insects were flying in and out through the holes where windows had once existed, and the heat grew even more unbearable, if possible. Sprawled on the floor atop an exceptionally grimy blanket was an old, emaciated, bearded man, whose age Mihal estimated at eighty or thereabouts. “I am Per Mihal,” said Mihal, trying to avert his eyes from the man's naked body. “A new one, eh?” said the man. “What happened to Per Lomil?” “He was transferred to Spica II,” said Mihal, mentally adding: Lucky devil! “And Per Degos?”

“Dead,” said Mihal. “You are Rodat?”

The man nodded, and was suddenly wracked by a coughing seizure. “This is my first day on Raxar II,” said Mihal when the man sank weakly back on the blanket, “but I'll be here for quite some time. I was told that...” He paused, searching for a delicate way to phrase it. “That I was dying?” asked Rodat. “Well, they told you rightly, priest. What can I do for you?” “Forme ?” said Mihal in astonishment. “I am here to ease your suffering, to bring you peace and solace