"times like this," said ferguson, narrowing his grey snake's eyes in a smile, "i almost believe in god."

father exarkos smiled courteously and said nothing. he and cudyk had been sitting in the back room of chong yin's since a half-hour after the meeting. seu had been with them earlier, but had left. a little after twelve, ferguson had strolled in and joined them.

"i mean it," said ferguson, laughing a little. "there was harkway, sticking his neck out, and there was little de grasse standing in the way. and rack backed down." he shook his head, still smiling. "rack backed down. now how would you explain that, gentlemen?"

it was necessary to put up with the gambler, who wielded more power in the quarter than anyone else, even seu; but sometimes cudyk found himself dropping his usual attitude of detached interest in favor of speculations about the specific variety of horrible fate which ferguson would most probably meet.

he was particularly irritating tonight, because cudyk was forced to agree with him. cudyk had still not solved the riddle of rack's failure to finish what he had started.

it was conceivable that de grasse should have acted as he did for reasons of sentiment; but to apply the same motive to rack was simply not possible. the man had emotions, certainly, but they were all channeled into one direction: the destiny of the human race and of lawrence rack. de grasse was at an age when the strongest emotions were volatile, when conversions were made, when a man could plan an assassination one day and enter a monastery the next. but rack was fixed and aimed, like a cannon.

ferguson was saying, "he must be going soft. going soft—old rack. unless it's the hand of god. what's your opinion, father?"

the priest said blandly, "mr. ferguson, since i have come to live upon this planet, my opinions have changed about many things. i no longer believe that either god, or man, is quite so simple as i once thought. we were too small in our thoughts, before—our understanding of temporal things was bounded by the frontiers of earth, and of eternal things by the little sky we could see from our windows.

"before, i think i would have tried to answer your question. i would have said that i think captain rack was moved by—a sudden access of human feeling—or i would have said that i think captain rack was touched by the finger of god. perhaps i would have hesitated to say that, because even then i did not believe that god interferes with the small sins of men like captain rack. or the small sins of anybody, for that matter."

ferguson grinned. "well, father, that's the best excuse for an answer i ever heard, anyway." he dragged on his cigar, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips, as if the cigar were a tube through which his brains were being sucked. "in other words," he said, "you don't think the big blowup back home was a judgment on us for our sins. you think it was a good thing, only more people should have got out the way we did. that right?"

"oh, no," said father exarkos. "i believe that the famines and the collapse were a judgment of god. i have heard many theories about the causes of the collapse, but i have not heard one which does not come back, in the end, to a condemnation of man's folly, cruelty, and blindness."

"well," said ferguson, "excuse me, father, but if you believe that way, what are you doing here? back there—" he jerked his head, as if earth were some little distance behind his right shoulder—"people are living like animals. chicago, where i come from, is just a stone jungle, with a few beast-like scavengers prowling around in it. if the dirt and disease don't get you, some bandit will split your head open, or you'll run into a wolf or some other hungry animal. if none of those things happen, you can expect to live to the ripe old age of forty, and then you'll be glad to die."

he had stopped smiling. ferguson, cudyk realized, was describing his own personal hell. he went on, "now, if you want to call that a judgment, i won't argue with you. but if that's what you believe, why aren't you back there taking it with the rest of them?"

he really wanted to know, cudyk thought. he had begun by trying to bait the priest, but now he was serious. it was odd to think of ferguson having trouble with his conscience, but cudyk was not really surprised. the most moralistic men he had ever known had been gangsters of ferguson's type; whereas the few really good men he had known, father exarkos among them, had seemed as blithely unaware of their consciences as of their healthy livers.

the priest said, soberly, "mr. ferguson, i believe that we also are being punished. perhaps we more than others. the mexican peon, the indian fellah, the peasant of china or greece, lives very much as his father did before him; he scarcely has reason to know that judgment has fallen upon earth. but i think that no inhabitant of the quarter can forget it for so much as an hour."

ferguson stared at him, then grunted and squashed out his cigar. he stood up. "i'll be getting along home," he said. "good night." he walked out.

cudyk and exarkos sat for a while longer, talking quietly, and then left together. the streets were empty. behind them and to their left as they walked to the corner, the ghostly blue of the niori beehives shone above the dark human buildings.

the priest lived in a small second-floor apartment near the corner of brasil and athenai, alone since his wife had died ten years before. cudyk had only to go straight across ceskoslovensko, but he walked down toward brasil with his friend.

near the corner, cudyk saw a dark form sprawled in a doorway. "one of your congregation, astereos?" he asked.

"it is probable," said the priest resignedly. "steve chrisudis has been drinking heavily again this past week; also the two moulios brothers."