Night of Light

“That’d be one of the few vices you don’t have,” Yess said. He looked calmly at the Earthman, then smiled.”What do you want?”

“That reminds me of the story of the fairy prince,” Carmody replied. “I want you.”

Yess raised his feathery eyebrows. “Not really. It is obvious you’re a disciple of Algul. It shines out from every pore of your skin, it radiates with every beat of your heart. There is evil on your breath.”

Staring, Yess cocked his head. Then he closed his eyes.

“But yet... there’s something.”

He opened his eyes. “You poor devil. You miserable suffering conceited cockroach. You’re dying at the same time you boast you’re living as no other man dares to live. You. . .”

“Shut up!” Carmody shouted. Then he smiled and softly said, “You’re very good at needling, aren’t you? But you’d never have stung me if it weren’t for what I’ve gone through, for the hellish effects of this Night. Enough to drive many men mad.”

He pointed his gun at Yess. ”You’ll not get a rise out of me again. But you can congratulate yourself on having done what few have—although those few aren’t alive to brag about it.”

He gestured with the gun at the candlestick in Yess’ hand.

“Why in the name of insanity are you eating that? Church mice may be poor. But gods that live in temples are poor also?”

“You have never eaten such rich food,” Yess replied. “This is the most expensive candle in the world. It is made from the ground-up bones of my predecessor, a flour mixed with the wax excreted by the divine trogur bird. The trogur is sacred to my Mother, as you may know. There are only twenty-one of these most beautiful of all birds living on my planet, or anywhere in the universe, and they are tended by the priestesses of the temple of the Isle of Vantrebo.

“Every seven years, just before the Night begins, a little pinch of bone dust from the Yess who died 763 years ago is worked into the trogur wax. The candle fashioned from the god’s dust and the wax is set on this table, and the taper is lit. I sit here and wait while the billionfold Sleepers turn and toss and groan in their drugged Sleep. And while the nightmares howl and rave and kill on the streets of Kareen.

“When the candle has burned a little, I snuff out the flame. And, in accordance with the eons-old ritual, I eat the candle. By doing so, I commune with the dead god—who is at the same time living—and I partake of his divinity. I refresh myself with his godhood.

“Some time, perhaps this Night, I shall die. And my flesh will be stripped from my bones. My bones will be ground into a flour, and the flour will be mixed with trogur wax and made into a candle. Septe

“For an Algul does not eat a Yess, nor a Yess eat an Algul. Evil hungers for evil, and good for good.”

Carmody gri

“I know.”

“It’s all primitive magic,” Carmody said. “And you, a so-called civilized being, are hoodwinking your disciples, the poor, blind, superstition-staggered fools.”

“Not so. If I were on Earth, your accusation might be justified. But you’ve gotten this far through the Night—an ill omen for me—and you must know by now that anything is possible.”

“I’m sure it’s all explainable by physical means as yet unknown. I just don’t care. I’ll tell you one thing. You’re going to die.”

Yess smiled and said, “Who isn’t?”

“I mean right now!” Carmody snarled.

“I’ve lived 763 years. I’m getting tired, and a tired god is not good for the people. Nor does my Mother wish a feeble son. So, whether Yess or Algul triumph tonight, I must die.

“I’m ready. If you were not the instrument of my death, another would be.”

Carmody shouted, “I’m no one’s tool! I do what I want, and any plans I carry out are mine! Mine alone, do you hear!”

Yess smiled again. “I hear. Are you trying to drive yourself into a rage which will be strong enough to allow you to kill me?”

Carmody squeezed the trigger. Yess and the chair on which he sat slid backward from the impact of the stream of exploding bullets. Flesh and blood rose in little spurts, collected into tiny balls, drifted around him, and fell down in a shower on him. His head flew apart. His arms rose upward and over, and his legs kicked up. The motion carried him over backward, and he fell with a crash.

Carmody quit firing only when the clip was empty. Then he bent down and placed the light on the floor. By its illumination, he ejected the clip and replaced it with a fresh one.

His heart was beating savagely; his hands shook. This was the culmination of his career, his masterpiece. He liked to think of himself as an artist, a great artist in crime, if not the greatest. Sometimes he would laugh at the idea and sneer at himself. But he thought of it too often, therefore he must truly believe in it. If there were artists, he was one. No one could surpass him now. Who else had murdered a god?

It was, however, a little sad. What could he do now to top this?

He would think of something. In a universe this large, something even more superb waited for him. All he had to do was get out of this situation and look for another even more challenging.

For one thing, he could not count this as a complete success unless he got out alive and uncaptured. A true work of art had to be finished to the last and least detail. He would not be caught. He was no moth to burn himself in the flame for the beauty of the act.

Carmody took from his beltbag a small flat case. After uncapping it, he squeezed it, and its liquid contents squirted out over the body. Satisfied that the corpse was covered with a film of the fluid, he retreated from it. Another case, much smaller than the first, came out of his bag. He threw his cloak up to shield his face, aimed the case, and squeezed. The spray from a tiny nozzle at its end struck the film of liquid. Yess burst into flames. Smoke and the stench of burning flesh rose upward, then spread out.

Carmody smiled. The Kareenans would not be able to make a holy candle from the bone flour of their god. The panpyric would not stop oxidizing until the entire body was ashes.

But there was the half-eaten candle dropped by Yess when the bullets struck him. Carmody stooped and picked it up. At first, he intended to burn it, too. Then he gri

While he ate, he looked for exits by the glare of the fire, through the shifting windows afforded by the curls of smoke. He saw, behind the legs of Boonta, a hole in the wall. Somehow, he had missed it before when he had passed his flashlight beam over the wall. It was no higher than his head and very narrow. In fact, on walking to it he found that he would have to turn sideways if he were to get through it.

Now, he paid for past self-indulgence. His belly was too big; it caused him to jam in the hole like a slightly oversize cork in the neck of a wine bottle.

Even as he struggled and cursed, he wondered how others got through this hole. Then it came to him that many men just would not be able to use it. Therefore, this was not the usual door to whatever lay beyond. What kind of a door, then, was it?