Three days after I last saw the prophet alive, a hunting party from Defiance found me at the base of Mt. Shaw: starving, barely conscious, more dead than alive. At least so I’m told; that part of my memory is a blank spot. The hunters fashioned a litter from tree branches, then tied me to it and dragged me back to their hidden settlement. I slept for the next two days, waking up only now and then, often screaming from nightmares that I don’t remember.

I went into the wilderness of Midland along with thirty-one people, including their leader, the Reverend Zoltan Shirow. I was the only one who came back out. So far as I know, the rest are dead, including the woman I loved. I tried to save them, but I couldn’t. Indeed, perhaps only God could have saved them . . . and if Zoltan is to be believed, then God had His own plans for him.

I begin my story here so you’ll know, from the beginning, that it ends in tragedy. This is a dark tale, no two ways around it. Zoltan’s disciples were in search of spiritual transformation; I wish I could believe that they achieved this, yet there’s no way of knowing, for when the time came for me to stand with them, I fled for my life. My motives were base and self-serving, and yet I’m the only one who survived.

Years have passed since then, but I’ve never spoken about what happened until now. Not just because what I endured has been too painful to recall, but also because I’ve had to give myself time to understand what happened. Guilt is a terrible burden, and no one who considers himself to be a decent person should ever have to shoulder the blame for betraying someone he loved.

This is my testament: the final days of Zoltan Shirow, God’s messenger to Coyote, as told by Ben Harlan, his last remaining follower. Or, as Zoltan liked to call me, Benjamin the Unbeliever.

The prophet fell from the sun on a cold winter morning, his coming heralded not by the trumpets of angels but by the sonic boom of an orbital shuttle. I was standing at the edge of the snow-covered landing field as the spacecraft gently touched down, waiting to unload freight from the starship that had arrived a couple of days earlier. I like to think that, if I had known who was aboard, I might have called in sick, but the truth is that it wouldn’t have mattered, because Zoltan probably would have found me anyway. Just as Jesus needed Judas to fulfill his destiny, Zoltan needed me . . . and I needed the job.

Good paying jobs were tough to find in Shuttlefield. I’d been on Coyote for nearly seven months, a little more than a year and a half by Earth reckoning. My ship, the Long Voyage–full name, the WHSS Long Voyage to the Galaxy in the Spirit of Social Collectivism–was the third Union Astronautica ship to reach 47 Ursae Majoris, following the Seeking Glorious Destiny Among the Stars for the Greater Good of Social Collectivism and the Traveling Forth to Spread Social Collectivism to New Frontiers. Together, they’d brought three thousand people to Coyote, which doesn’t sound like such a high figure until you realize that most of the population was living in poverty, with a privileged few taking up residence in the log cabins built by the original colonists from the URSS Alabama before they’d fled into the wilderness.

On the strength of a winning number on a lottery ticket and promises of a better life on the new world, I’d spent forty-eight years in biostasis to get away from the Western Hemisphere Union, only to find that the same people who ran the show back there were also in charge out here. And that’s how I found myself huddled in a leaky tent, eating creek-crab stew and wondering how a smart guy like me had been rooked so badly, when the fact of the matter is that I’m not very smart and the system is rigged to take advantage of losers. So screw social collectivism and the horse it rode in on. On second thought, let’s eat the horse–if we had one to eat, that is–and let the guys who came up with collectivist theory go screw themselves.

When it was announced, in the first week of Barchiel, c.y. 5, that the fourth Union ship from Earth–the WHSS Magnificent Journey to the Stars in Search of Social Collectivism, or the Magnificent Journey for short–had entered the system and would soon be making orbit around Coyote, I was the first person in line at the community hall in Liberty for the job of unloading freight from its shuttles. Literally the first; there were nearly three hundred guys behind me, waiting for a Union Guard soldier to open the door and let us in. During the warm seasons, we would have been working on the collective farms, but now it was the middle of Coyote’s 274-day winter and jobs were scarce, so I was willing to stand in the cold for three hours just for the chance to schlep cargo containers.

And that’s why I was at the landing field in Shuttlefield that morning, stamping my feet in the snow and blowing on my hands, as I watched the gangway come down from the shuttle’s belly. The first people off were the pilot and co-pilot; perhaps they were expecting a brass band, because they stopped and stared at the dozen or so guys in patched-up parkas who looked as if they hadn’t eaten a decent meal in six months. A Guard officer emerged from the crowd, saluted them, murmured a few words, then led them away. Poor bastards–nearly a half-century in space, only to find starving peasants. I felt sorry for them, but envied them even more. As members of Magnificent Journey’s flight crew, they’d have the benefit of warm houses and good food before they reboarded the starship to make the long return-flight to Earth. They were just passing through; the rest of us were stuck here.

The passengers came next, a steady parade of men, women, and children, every one of them with the shaved heads and shuffling gait of those who’ve recently emerged from the dreamless coma of biostasis. Their duffel bags were stuffed with the few belongings they’d been allowed to bring from Earth, their parkas and caps were clean and new, and not one of them had any clue as to where they were or what they’d gotten themselves into. One by one, they stepped off the ramp, squinted against the bright sunlight, looked around in confusion, then followed the person in front of them, who didn’t have a clue as to where he or she was going either. Fresh meat for Coyote. I found myself wondering how many of them would make it through their first year. We’d already lost more than forty colonists to hunger, cold, disease, and predators, and the cemetery outside Liberty had room for more.

About thirty people had come down the gangway when there was a pause in the procession. At first, I thought everyone had disembarked, until I remembered that the shuttles had a passenger load of sixty. There had to be more; the shuttles wouldn’t fly down half-full. I had just turned to the guy next to me–Jaime Hodge, one of my camp buddies–and was about to say something like what’s the hold-up? when his eyes widened.

"Holy crap," Jaime murmured. "Would you look at that?"

I looked around to see a figure in a hooded white robe step through the hatch. At first I thought it was a Savant–just what we needed, another goddamn posthuman–but quickly realized I was wrong. For one thing, Savants wore black; for another, there was also a huge bulge on his back, as if he was carrying an oversize pack beneath his robe. He kept his head lowered, so I couldn’t see his face.

And right behind him, a long line of men and women, each wearing identical robes. A few had their cowls pulled up, but most had let them fall back on their shoulders; unlike the other passengers, they weren’t carrying bags. What really set them apart, though, was an air of implacable calm. No hesitation, no uncertainty; they followed their leader as if they knew exactly where they were going. Some actually smiled. I’d seen all kinds come off the shuttles, but never anything like this.

The first guy stepped off the ramp, stopped, turned around. Everyone behind him halted; they silently watched as he bent over. The shuttle’s thrusters had melted away the snow, exposing charred grass and baked mud; he scooped up a fistful of dirt, then he rose and looked at the people behind him. He said something I didn’t quite catch–"the promised land" was all I heard–before everyone on the ramp began to yell:

"Amen!"

"Thank you, Reverend!"

"Hallelujah!"

"Praise the Lord!"

"Oh, yeah. Go tell it on the mountain." Jaime glanced at me. "All we need now, a bunch of . . ."

Then his mouth sagged open, and so did mine, for at that instant the leader opened his robe and let it drop to his feet, and now everyone got their first good look at who–or what–had just come to Coyote.

Two great wings the color of suede leather unfolded from his back. They expanded to full length, revealing serrated tips and delicate ribbing beneath the thin skin. Then he turned, and now his face was revealed. Narrow eyes sunk deep within a skull whose jaw had been enlarged to provide room for a pair of sharp fangs; above his broad mouth, a nose shortened to become a snout. His ears were oversized, slightly pointed at the tips. Like everyone else, his body had been shaved before he had entered biostasis, yet dark stubble was growing back on his barrel chest. His arms were thick and muscular, his hands deformed claws with talons for fingers.

A murmur swept through the crowd as everyone shrank back, yet the gargoyle remained calm. Indeed, it almost seemed as if he was relishing the moment. Then he smiled–benignly, like he was forgiving us–and bowed from the waist, folding his hands together as if in supplication.

"Sorry," he said, his voice oddly mild. "Didn’t mean to shock you."

A couple of nervous laughs. He responded with a grin that exposed his fangs once more. "If you think I’m weird," he added, cocking a thumb toward the hatch behind him, "wait’ll you get a load of the next guy."

Revulsion gave way to laughter. "Hey, man!" Jaime yelled. "Can you fly with those things?"

Irritation crossed his face, quickly replaced by a self-deprecating smile. "I don’t know," he said. "Let me try."

Motioning for everyone to give him room, he stepped away from his entourage. He bent slightly forward, and now the bat-like wings spread outward to their full span–nearly eight feet, impressive enough to raise a few gasps.

"He’s never going to make it," someone murmured. "Air’s too thin." And he was right, of course. Coyote’s atmospheric pressure at sea level was about the same as that of Denver or Albuquerque back on Earth. Oh, swoops had no trouble flying here, nor did skeeters, or any of the other birds and bugs that had evolved on this world. But a winged man? No way.

If the gargoyle heard this, though, he didn’t pay attention. He shut his eyes, scrunched up his face, took a deep breath, held it . . . and the wings flapped feebly, not giving him so much as an inch of lift.

He opened one eye, peered at Jaime. "Am I there yet?" Then he looked down at his feet, saw that they hadn’t left the ground. "Aw, shucks . . . all this way for nothing."

Now everyone was whooping it up. It was the funniest thing we’d seen in months . . . and believe me, there wasn’t much to laugh about on Coyote. The batman’s followers joined in; they could take a joke. He let the laughter run its course, then he folded his wings and stood erect.

"Now that we’ve met," he said, speaking loudly enough for all to hear, "let me introduce myself. I’m Zoltan Shirow . . . the Reverend Zoltan Shirow . . . founding pastor of the Church of Universal Transformation. Don’t be scared, though . . . we’re not looking for donations." That earned a couple of guffaws. "This is my congregation," he continued, gesturing to the people behind him. "We refer to ourselves as Universalists, but if you want, you can call us the guys in the white robes."

A few chuckles. "We’re a small, nondenominational sect, and we’ve come here in search of religious freedom. Like I said, we’re not looking for money, nor are we trying to make converts. All we want to do is be able to practice our beliefs in peace."

"What do you mean, universal transformation?" someone from the back of the crowd called out.

"You’re pretty much looking at it." That brought some more laughs. "Seriously, though, once we’ve set up camp, you’re all welcome to drop by for a visit. Tell your friends, too. And we’d likewise appreciate any hospitality you could show us . . . this is all new to us, and Lord knows we could use all the help we can get."

He stopped, looked around. "For starters, is there anyone here who could show us where we can put ourselves? No need for anyone to haul anything . . . we can carry our own belongings. Just someone to show us around."

To this day, I don’t know why I raised my hand. Perhaps it was because I was charmed by a dude who looked like a bat and spoke like a stand-up comedian. Maybe I was just interested in finding out who these people were. I may have even wanted to see if they had anything I could beg, borrow, or steal. A few others volunteered, too, but Shirow saw me first. Almost at random, he pointed my way.

And that’s how it all began. As simple as that.

The Universalists had brought a lot of stuff with them, much more than they would have normally been allowed under Union Astronautica regulations. Their belongings were clearly marked by the stenciled emblem of their sect–a red circle enclosing a white Gaelic cross–along with their individual names. As I watched, each church member claimed at least two bags, and still left several large containers behind in the shuttle’s cargo bay. True to Shirow’s word, though, they politely declined assistance from anyone who offered to help carry their stuff; two members stayed behind to safeguard the containers until someone came back for them. And so I fell in with the Universalists, and together we walked into town.

It’s hard to describe just how awful Shuttlefield was in those days. Adjectives like "stinking," "impoverished," or "filthy" don’t quite cut it; "slum" and "hellhole" are good approximations, but they don’t get close enough. Bamboo shacks and patched-up tents and faux-birch hovels, arranged in rows along muddy paths pocked with frozen potholes that meandered from one camp to another; communal latrines that reeked of urine and feces, the air thick with smoke from trash-can fires; mounds of garbage over which stray dogs and creek-cats vied for what precious little scraps of food could be found in them; prostitutes and hustlers, con-men and drunks, and people like me. The third world reborn on the new world; hell of a way to conquer the universe.

Yet Zoltan Shirow didn’t seem to notice any of this. He strode through Shuttlefield as if he was a papal envoy, ignoring the hard-eyed stares of hucksters selling handmade clothes from their kiosks, artfully stepping past whores who tried to offer their services. At first I marched with him, pointing out the location of bathhouses and garbage pits, but he said little or nothing; his dark gaze roved across the town, taking in everything yet never stopping. After a while I found myself unable to keep up with him. Falling back into the ranks of his congregation, I found myself walking alongside a small figure whose hood was still raised.

"Doesn’t speak much, does he?" I murmured.

"Oh, no," she replied. "Zoltan likes to talk. He just waits until he has something to say."

Glancing down at her, I found myself gazing into the most beautiful pair of blue-green eyes I’d ever seen. The girl wasn’t more than nineteen or twenty, only half my age, and so petite that it seemed as if she would wilt in the cold, yet she carried about her an air of calm that seemed to make her invulnerable to the winter chill. She met my eye, favored me with a delicate smile.

"Just wait," she added. "You’ll see."

"That’s assuming I hang around long enough." I didn’t mean it to sound insulting, but it came out that way.

She let it pass. "You’re with us now, aren’t you?"

"Well, yeah, but I’m trying to find a place for you to camp." We were near the middle of town. "We’re not going to find anything if we keep going this way."

"What about over there?" This from a man walking along behind us; like the girl, his hooded cloak lent him a monkish appearance. He pointed to a small bare spot of ground between two camps. "We could put . . ."

"Oh, no, you don’t." I shook my head. "That belongs to the Cutters Guild. And next to them is New Frontiers turf, the people who came on the second ship. Set up here and you’re in for a fight."

The girl shook her head. "We don’t wish to quarrel with anyone." Then she looked at me again. "What do you mean by turf ?"

That led me to trying to explain how things worked in Shuttlefield. You couldn’t just pitch a tent anywhere because various guilds, groups, and cliques had already staked out their territory; more likely than not, someone else had already laid claim to the spot you’d chosen. If you insisted on staying, they made sure you paid for the privilege through paying "taxes" or "rent," which were just polite terms for extortion.

"And what do the authorities have to say about this?" she asked. "We were told that there was a local government in place."

"Government?" I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. "It’s a joke. Shuttlefield’s run by the Central Committee . . . Matriarch Hernandez and her crew, Union Astronautica officers from Glorious Destiny. We rarely see them down here . . . they’re all in Liberty. So far as they’re concerned, everyone here is just a supply of cheap labor. As long as we don’t riot or burn the place down, they don’t give a shit how we live."

The girl blanched. "What about the Guard?" she asked. "Aren’t they supposed to protect the colony?"

"Look around." I waved a hand across the shanty-town surrounding us. "You think there’s law here? I’ve known guys who’ve had their throats cut just because they didn’t pay their rent on time, and the Guard didn’t do . . . um, squat about it. Same for the Proctors . . . the blue-shirts, we call ’em. They work for the Committee, and their main job is making sure the status quo is maintained."

"So why don’t you leave?" This from the man walking behind us. "Why stay here if it’s so bad?"

I shrugged. "Where would we go?" Before he could answer that, I went on. "New Florida’s big enough for another colony, and there’s a whole planet that hasn’t been explored . . . but once you get outside the perimeter defense system, you’re on your own, and there’s things out there that’ll kill you before you can bat an eye."

"So no one has left?"

"Oh, sure. The original colonists did. That was a long time ago, though, and no one has seen ’em since. Generally speaking, people who come here stay put. Safety in numbers. It ain’t much, but at least it’s something." I shook my head. "All hail the glories of social collectivism, and all that crap."

A look passed between them. "I take it you don’t believe in collectivist theory," the girl said, very quietly.

Back on Earth, publicly criticizing social collectivism could earn you a six-week stay in rehab clinic and temporary loss of citizenship. But Earth was forty-six light-years away; so far as most people in Shuttlefield were concerned, I could have stood on an outhouse roof to proclaim that Karl Marx enjoyed sex with farm animals and no one would have cared. "I’m not a believer, no."

"So what do you believe?"

Zoltan Shirow had stopped, turned to look back at me. I’d later learn that there was little that his ears couldn’t pick up. For now, though, there was this simple question. Everyone came to a halt; they wanted to hear my answer.

"I . . . I don’t believe in anything," I replied, embarrassed by the sudden attention.

"Ah . . . I see." His eyes bored into mine. "Not even God?"

Silence. Even in the frigid cold, I felt an uncomfortable warmth. "I . . . I . . . I don’t know."

"So you believe in nothing." Shirow nodded almost sadly. "Pity." Then he turned to look around. "So tell me . . . where should we pitch our tents?"

So far as I could see, there was nowhere these people could set up camp. All the available turf had already been claimed. "There’s a few acres just south of here," I said, pointing in the direction I’d been leading them. "That’s where everyone from your ship is being put."

"Thank you, but we’d rather have some privacy. Is there any place else?"

The only vacant area left was out near the swamps where the tall grass hadn’t yet been cut down. Sissy Levin and Allegra DiSilvio lived out there, but Sissy was insane and Allegra was a hermit, so people tended to leave them alone. I figured that was as good a place as any for the Church of Universal Transformation.

"Over there," I said. "There’s only a couple of people out that way."

Shirow nodded. "Very well, then. That’s where we’ll go."

"You’re going to have a hard time. It hasn’t been cleared yet."

"We’ll manage. You know why?" I didn’t answer, and he smiled. "Because I believe in you." Then he turned to his followers. "Come on . . . that’s where we’re going."

As one, without so much as a single word of question, they turned and began to follow Shirow as he marched off in the direction I’d indicated. Astonished, I watched as one white-robed acolyte after another walked past me, heading toward a place I’d picked almost at random. So far as they knew, I could have sent them toward a boid nest, yet they trusted me. . . .

No. They trusted him. With absolute, unquestioning faith that what he said was right. I was still staring after them when the girl stopped. She turned, and came back to me. Once again I found myself attracted by those bright green eyes, that air of invulnerability.

"Do you want a better life?" she asked. I nodded dumbly. "Then come along."

"Why?"

"Because I believe in you, too." Then she took my hand and led me away.

The Church of Universal Transformation had come to Coyote well-prepared for life in the wild: thirty-one dome tents complete with their own solar heaters, with room for three in each; brand-new sleeping bags; hand and power tools of all kinds, along with a couple of portable RTF generators to run the electric lamps they strung up around the campsite; a ninety-day supply of freeze-dried vegetarian food; adequate clothing for both winter and summer; pads loaded with a small library of books about wilderness survival, homesteading, and craft-making; medical supplies for nearly every contingency.

All these riches were carefully packed inside the cargo containers; once I showed them the unclaimed marshland outside town, fifteen men went back to the landing field and unloaded them from the shuttle, lugging the crates across Shuttlefield past townspeople who watched with curiosity and envy. When I asked how they’d managed to get around the strict weight limitations imposed by the Union Astronautica, they merely smiled and gave noncommittal answers, and after a while I gave up, figuring that the church had greased a few palms here and there. Compared to the miserable living conditions endured by everyone else in Shuttlefield, the Universalists were ready to live like kings.

Yet they weren’t lazy. Far from it; as soon as they had all their gear, they took off their robes, put on parkas, unpacked their tools and went to work. A half-dozen men used scythes and hand-axes to clear away the spider-brush and sourgrass, while several more picked up shovels and began digging a firepit and the women erected tents and foraged for wood. Although they weren’t yet acclimated to Coyote’s thin air, they seldom rested and they never complained; they smiled and laughed as they went about their labors, and when one person needed to take a breather, another person simply picked up where he’d left off.

During all this, the Rev. Shirow walked among them, wearing a wool tunic with long slits on its back through which his wings protruded. Now and then he’d take a few whacks with an axe or lend a hand with a shovel, yet he didn’t do much work himself; instead he supervised everyone, instructing them where and how to do their jobs, sometimes pausing to share a few quiet words with one church member or another. Zoltan’s private tent was the first to go up, though, and once it was ready for occupancy it wasn’t long before he vanished into it. Yet no one seemed to mind; it was if he had the right to excuse himself while his followers busted their asses.

After a little while I found myself joining in. I told myself that I had nothing else worth doing that day, that I’d get paid for helping unload their stuff from the shuttle, yet the truth of the matter was that these people fascinated me, and I wanted to be with them. . . .

Well, no. Not quite. One of them fascinated me: the girl I had met earlier. Her name was Grier–no one used their last names, and I never learned hers–and when she shed her shapeless robe, I saw that she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. So, yeah, sex was on my mind, but if getting laid was my only consideration, I could have just as easily bargained an hour or two with one of the ladies at the Sugar Shack. Grier was different; she had accepted me without reservation, despite the fact that I was a stranger in dirty clothes, and had told me that she believed in me even though I’d already told her leader that I didn’t believe in God or, by extension, him himself.

When you meet someone like Grier, all you want to do is become part of her world. So I put aside my reluctance and picked up a shovel, and spent the better part of the day helping a few guys dig a couple of deep-pit latrines. It didn’t put me any closer to Grier, since she was one of the women erecting the tents, but I figured that I had to take this slowly, show her that I wasn’t just a creek-cat on the prowl.

And it seemed to work. Every now and then, when I paused to rest, I’d spot her nearby; she’d look in my direction, favor me with a shy smile, then go back to what she was doing. I considered crawling out of the pit and going over to chat with her, but none of the men with whom I was working–Boris, Jim, Renaldo, Dex–showed any sign of slacking off, so I decided that this would send the wrong signal. I dug and I dug and I dug, and got blisters on my hands and dirt in my teeth, and told myself that I was just helping out some newcomers when all I really wanted to do was look into those lovely eyes once more.

They didn’t stop working until Uma went down and twilight was setting in. By then, most of the land had been cleared; the tents were all up, and a bonfire was crackling in the stone-ringed pit in the middle of camp. This time of evening, most of the colonists would trudge down the road to Liberty, where they’d stand in line outside the community hall to be doled out some leftover creek-crab stew. The Universalists were serving stew, too, but it wasn’t the sour crap made from native crustaceans, it was a thick curry of rice and red beans. No one made a big deal of inviting me to join them for dinner; one of the women just handed me a bowl and spoon, and a couple of men moved aside to let me join the circle around the fire. Much to my surprise, a bottle of dry red wine made its way around the circle; everyone took a sip before passing it on, but no one seemed intent on getting drunk. Instead, it was done in a ritualistic sort of way, like taking communion in church.

Conversation was light, mostly about the trouble everyone had breathing the rarefied air, how hard it was to break ground in mid-winter. Soon the stars began to come out, and they all stopped to admire the sight of Bear rising above the horizon. Grier sat across the fire from me; she looked up now and then, smiling when she caught my eye, but no words were spoken between us. I was in no hurry to rush the matter. Indeed, it felt as if I were among friends.

"I think," he said, "the time has come to offer prayer."

His congregation put down their plates and spoons, bowed their heads and shut their eyes. I ducked my head a little, but didn’t close my eyes; I hadn’t prayed since I was a little kid, and didn’t see much reason to start then.

"Lord," Zoltan began, "thank you for bringing us safely to this world, and for allowing us to find a new home here. We thank you for this first day on Coyote, and for the blessing of our fellowship. We pray that you’ll let us continue in the spirit of the vision revealed during the Holy Transformation, and that our mission here will be successful."

Thinking that he was done, I looked up, only to find that everyone was still looking down. Embarrassed, my first impulse was to bow my head again . . . yet then I saw that Shirow’s eyes were open, and that he was gazing at me from across the firepit.

In that moment, there were simply the two of us: the preacher and the atheist, the chimera and the human, separated by flames and yet bound together in a conspiracy of silence. No one else was watching; no one else could see into the place where we had met.

"We thank you for your gift," Zoltan said, never taking his eyes from mine. "Benjamin Harlan, who claims to be an unbeliever, yet who has labored with us and now shares our company. We welcome him as a friend, and hope that he will remain with us through the days to come." My expression must have amused him, for he smiled ever so slightly. "For all these blessings," he finished, "we offer our devotion in your name. Amen."

"Amen," the Universalists murmured, then they opened their eyes and raised their heads. Many looked toward me, smiling as they did so. Uneasy by this attention, I hastily looked away . . . and found Grier gazing at me, her face solemn, her eyes questioning.

"Umm . . . amen," I mumbled. "Thanks. I appreciate it." I picked up my plate, started to rise. "Where should I take this? I mean, for it to . . . y’know, be cleaned."

"You mean no one told you?" Dex asked. "You’re doing the dishes tonight."

Everyone laughed, and that broke the moment. "Oh, c’mon," Zoltan said. "Don’t worry about it. You’re our guest. Stay with us a while."

"No, really . . . I’ve got to get back to camp."

"Why? Is there something else you need to do tonight?"

How did he know this? How had he come to the realization that there was nothing that required my urgent attention? I had been a drifter before I had come to Coyote, and little had changed since then. Home was a tent in the Long Voyage camp; no one would break into it because I had little that anyone would want to steal, save for a mildewed sleeping bag, some extra clothes, and a dead flashlight. My place in life was on the lowest rung of the ladder; I got by through doing odd jobs when I could find them and living off the dole when I couldn’t. If I froze to death tonight, no one would miss me; my body would be buried in the cemetery, my few belongings claimed by anyone who might want them.

"Well . . ." I sat down again. "If you insist."

"I insist on nothing. Anything you do should be of your own free will. But we’re new here and we need a guide, someone who’s been on Coyote for a while. You’ve already demonstrated a willingness to help us." He grinned. "Why not join us? We have enough to share with one more."

Indeed, they did. I’d seen their supplies, and had caught myself wondering now and then how I might be able to sneak something out of here without them noticing. Now that Zoltan was practically inviting me to move in with them, such larceny was unnecessary. All I had to do was play the friendly native, and I’d never have to cut bamboo or dig potatoes ever again.

Still, there was no question that this was a religious cult. Not only that, but they followed someone who looked like a bat. The whole thing was spooky, and I wasn’t ready to start wearing a white robe.

"And it doesn’t bother you that I’m not . . . I mean, one of you?" Several people frowned at this. "No offense," I quickly added, "but I’ve already told you that I’m not a believer. Hell . . . I mean, heck . . . I don’t even know what you guys believe in."

That eased things a bit. Frowns turned to smiles, and a few people chuckled. "Most of us weren’t believers when we joined," Renaldo began. "We soon learned that . . ."

"Whether or not you share our beliefs isn’t necessary," Shirow said, interrupting Renaldo with an upraised hand. "No one here will proselytize or try to convert you, so long as you neither say or do anything intended to diminish our faith. In fact, I enjoy the fact that we have an atheist in our midst." His face stretched into a broad grin that exposed his fangs. "Benjamin the Unbeliever . . . you know, I rather like the sound of that."

More laughter, but not unkind. I found myself laughing with them. I was beginning to like Zoltan; appearances notwithstanding, he seemed like an easy-going sort of guy. And his people weren’t all that weird, once you got to know them. Another glance at Grier, and I realized again that I’d like to get to know her most of all.

"Well, if it’s Gunga Din you’re looking for, I’m your man." I stood up, brushed off the back of my trousers. "I’ll come back tomorrow and bring my stuff with me."

"Just like that?" Zoltan looked at me askance. "Don’t you have any questions?"

Once again, I was being put on the spot. Everyone gazed at me, awaiting my response. It seemed as if Zoltan was testing me in some way, trying to find out where I was coming from. Oh, I had plenty of questions, all right, but I didn’t want to screw the deal. So I picked the most obvious one.

"Sure I do," I said. "How come you look the way you do?"

The smiles vanished, replaced by expressions of reverence. Some turned their eyes toward the fire; others folded their hands together, looked down at the ground. For a moment I thought I’d blown it. Grier didn’t look away, though, nor did Zoltan.

"A good question," he said quietly, "and one that deserves an answer." Then he shook his head. "But not tonight. Come back tomorrow, and perhaps we’ll tell you . . . if and when you’re ready for the truth."

He fell silent once more. My audience with him was over; I was being excused. I mumbled a clumsy goodbye, then left the warmth of the campfire and began trudging back through the cold to my squalid little tent. Yet I didn’t feel humiliated. The opposite, in fact. I had just stumbled upon the best scam since Abraham, and all I had to do was go along for the ride.

Or at least so I thought. What I didn’t know was where the ride would eventually take me.