"E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 17 - Prison of Night" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

stood before gates like this begging for alms.
 An essential duty but one which he no longer had need to perform but old habits died hard and, always,
it was necessary to guard against the sin of pride.

And to beg was to be humble.

A gust of wind caught his robe and drove it hard against his body, the damp material emphasizing the
chill of the dying day. From the distance came the shouts of men and the monotonous pounding of feet.
Raw recruits were at drill; men engaged on a scatter of worlds and transported here to Ilyard where their
contracts were sold at a profit. Those who had already been bloodied, who had been flung into combat
and who had managed to survive, fetched a higher price than the rest. Others, like Kars Gartok, long
freed of contractual restraint, sold their skills to any who would be willing to pay. Their skill and loyalty
for what it was worth, going out to fight, to kill, to bleed, to die if they must to live if they could even at
the cost of all they owned.

One day, thought the monk, he might be able to understand what drove men to act in such a manner, but
for now it was cold, the field was empty and work still waited to be done.

The shadows were lengthening as he reached the first of a litter of shacks and huts which sprawled away
from the town to the side of the field. Lowtowns were all the same no matter on which world they were
found. The refuge of the desperate, those stricken with illness, those cursed with poverty. The stench of it
rose like a miasma from the ramshackle dwellings; constructions of scrap and discarded plastic, of fabrics
salvaged from the garbage of the more fortunate, doing little but to keep out the rain and giving a scrap of
privacy.

The church was little better, but from intent rather than need. A building of brick or stone with solid walls
and barred windows, of thick doors and heated air would have been an affront to those it had been
designed to serve. As a monk wearing silk and gems would have insulted the wretch to whom he
preached the virtue of poverty. To gain the confidence of those in need they had to be met at their own
level.

Yet, even so, the church was bigger and better than others he had known. They had been the flimsy
shacks of portable churches: fabric and poles which could be carried on a back together with the
benediction light which was the heart of the structure. Yet tent or palace all were the same. All strove to
teach the same message. To persuade all who came to listen or who could be persuaded to pay attention
to accept the Universal teaching of complete Brotherhood. That no man was an island. That the pain of
one was the pain of all. That all shared the burden of a common heritage. That all belonged to theCorpus
Humanite . That once each could look at the other and say,there, but for the grace of God, go I , the
millennium would have arrived.

He would never see it. No monk now alive would ever see it. Men bred too fast and traveled too far for
that. They rested on too many worlds scattered throughout the galaxy and were subjected to too many
strains. But, eventually, it would come. It was an article of faith to believe that. The purpose of his being.

"Brother!" A man rose from where he'd been squatting in the dirt and mud at the side of the track. He
was thin, his face yellowed with jaundice, his teeth chattering with cold. He smelt of suppurating pus; the
sickly sweet odor of tissue-decay. The hand he extended was like a claw, thin, quivering. "Brother. For
the love of God help me!"

"Ask, brother, and if it is possible it will be given."