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others of the Waabee party cheered. The assassin shouted, “I am Astaroth! You’ll get to know me better! This dead man misled you all. He was the fool captain who destroyed our weapons. These natives here, these primitive dog-owners, are going to rise and kill us all if we don’t make a show of strength. We are a mere handful of humanity. There are who-knows-how-many millions of
them
! We must fight them, and no nonsense about it!”
    So it was, said Habander, that Astaroth had come to rule with his stern ascetic creed, calling himself the All-Powerful. He claimed to have secret orders from distant Earth, in particular from WAA. It was on these orders, he claimed, that he and his men began the killing of natives. Task forces were sent out from the city.
    “We Clandestines seek to overthrow Astaroth. We want to make peace with the natives—those who survive.”
    Habander fell silent. He then spoke quietly to Fremant. “So this woman you call Duskshine brought you here. We know who she is. We know you are a guard of Astaroth’s. Why would we trust you?”
    Looking into Habander’s face, Fremant felt some compassion. Here was a man wanting to be liked—in fact, a loser. A loser, yet correct in rejecting Astaroth’s policy of genocide.
    “In another life, I was peaceful, Habander. I was a writer. I wrote comic novels. The only job I could get here was as a guard. I assure you I have no affection for Astaroth.”
    Several Clandestines had gathered to listen, suspiciously, to the conversation. One of them, bearded and as pale as paper, now asked, challengingly, “What is the name of your god?”
    “Believe me, I’m too poor to afford a god.”
    The group muttered to itself at this answer. “So what about god?” Fremant asked, impatiently. “Who is your god?”
    The pale man now pushed himself forward, pointing a grimy finger at Fremant. “We have all been reconstituted. It is a resurrection. So we know our god is great and rules this insect-ridden world. His name may not be spoken—certainly not to you, a stranger.”
    Habander spoke reprovingly. “Please do not offend this man whose help we need.” Turning to Fremant, he said, in a lowered tone, “We do not dare mention the name of our god in case the insect world hears of it and so takes power over us. But you must believe, our god is great and rules the clouds and the seas of Stygia.”
    Fremant was tired of all the oratory and wished to get back to the Center before the Shawl had passed.
    “What’s all this to me?” he asked contemptuously.
    Duskshine touched his arm. “We need you to kill Astaroth,” she said. Her frail little hands made a downward chopping motion.
    The small community started clapping and cheering.
    Fremant took a deep breath. “Haven’t you Clandestines got the guts to kill Astaroth yourselves?” Later he reflected that it was at this moment that he ceased to be a loser and became something more formidable. He had fallen into the servitude of a man he hated and despised—yes, and feared. Astaroth was a dictator. Yes, it would purge his soul to assassinate him.
    A small bald man with a meager mustache answered him. “Three of our number tried to kill the hated Astaroth the All-Powerful in the past few months. All died trying. But you get close to him in your duties all the time.”
    “Yes, for that reason you are ideal,” another chimed in. “Ideal!”
    “Okay,
you
deal if you like, but
I
don’t play cards,” Fremant said, but no one present understood puns. “What’s your secret god doing about all this?”
    “Please,” said Duskshine, clutching his arm. “You are so brave, Fremant, dearest. Strike for being free of tyranny. Then I will be yours.”
    “All right. I’ll do it. I will kill him. I need no nameless god! I’m no coward.”
    He was made to swear on a homemade wooden sword. Anger rose in him. These poor homeless people hid out on this island. Although Stygia was no Paradise, they should be able to lead