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accordingly. Of course, there’s always the possibility that I’ll have to kill you to keep you out of the way. Are you willing to take that chance?”
    “Life is the taking of calculated chances,” declared a voice from the hall. “The universe throws dice with predictable regularity.”
    “Please put your weapons on the floor,” requested a second voice. “Carefully.”
    The two padres had come up silently behind the intruders. One was even bigger than Peeler, and both gripped projectile weapons, one of which was aimed, directly at the back of Coerlis’s head.
    “Why, padre.” Coerlis spoke to Bateleur without turning. “This hardly seems in keeping with the tenor of a sanctuary.”
    The older man’s smile was wan. “This isn’t a sanctuary; it’s an office. Do as Father Goshen says.”
    The two heavies complied. Bateleur looked satisfied. “Now then, my sons, you may leave the building wiser and, I pray, somewhat chastened in spirit.” He steepled his fingers in front of him.
    “Otherwise,” rumbled Father Goshen softly, “we will be most regretfully compelled to preside over the releasing of your immortal souls.”
    “What?” Peeler sounded as unhappy as he looked.
    “I’ll blow your head off.”
    The other man needed no further clarification.
    For the barest instant Coerlis hesitated, and Flinx feared he was going to try something truly stupid. Then he smiled and gave a little shrug. “Sure, why not?” Eyes cold and flat as a shark’s glanced Flinx’s way. “I’ll be seeing you.”
    Bateleur nodded. “Father Goshen, Father Delaney, would you show our visitors the way back to the street? Unless they wish to remain in the sanctuary and pray. Properly supervised, of course.” Peeler grunted derisively.
    “With pleasure.” Using his gun, Father Delaney prodded the nearest intruder in the back of his neck. “Move it!”
    As soon as the uninvited visitors and their escort had departed, Father Bateleur rose and shut the door, this time latching it manually from the inside. Back in his chair, he smiled once more at Flinx.
    “It would seem you have made an enemy, young man.”
    “He wouldn’t be the first.” Flinx immediately regretted the comment, then discovered he didn’t really care. He was tired, so very tired. Tired of secrets and of searching, of inexplicable mysteries that seemed to lie teasingly forever beyond his ken. It would be wonderful to have someone to confide in besides the aged Mother Mastiff. So much of what he wanted to say and share was beyond the comprehension of her caring yet simple self.
    There were Bran Tse-Mallory and the Eint Truzenzuzex, but he hadn’t seen the philosopher-soldiers in years and didn’t even know if they were still alive. It was hard to envision either of them dead. Both man and thranx were a force of a nature.
    “Is there anything else I can do for you, my son?” Bateleur seemed earnest enough. “If not, there is a concealed and secure rear exit to the church which you may make use of whenever you feel the time is right. Will you be staying much longer in our city?”
    “I don’t think so,” Flinx told him. “Not under the circumstances.”
    Bateleur nodded approvingly. “A regrettable but probably wise decision.”
    “In fact,” his visitor added, “it looks like I’m going to have to leave Samstead itself now.”
    “I see. Do you need help in booking passage?”
    “No, thank you. I’ve already made arrangements.” Flinx wasn’t about to divulge to anyone, not even the sympathetic Father Bateleur, that at the ripe old age of twenty he was the master of his own KK-drive vessel.
    Rising to leave, he found himself hesitating. “Padre, what can you tell me about the nature of evil?”

 
    Chapter Three
     
     
     
    Bateleur’s heavy white eyebrows rose. “In what sense is the question posed, my son?”
    Flinx settled back into his chair. “Well, for example, what does the Church say about it? I’ve never been what you’d