However, the night was curiously unsatisfactory. For him--apparently not for the girl, because the next morning she indignantly refused his money. Evidently the experience had been something out of the ordinary for her. He could not feel it was her fault that it had been nothing for him; the lack was in _him_, he thought, some almost-felt emotion he could not recapture. Promising to call her, he left, went back to his hotel room and flung himself upon the resilient burim-moss couch. His body wasn't tired, but his head ached wearily. The liquor, naturally, on an empty stomach ... after all those years of Morethan qumesht. And then the trip. Even with the Shortmire engines--standard equipment now, of course--it had taken a long, tiring time, for Morethis was the most distant of all the civilized planets. Anyone would be exhausted after such a trip. Added to all this, the accident. There were no bruises on his body yet, but later, he knew, they would be visible. * * * * * At last he slept, or seemed to, and dreamed he was on Morethis again--or Morethis was there with him. The air thickened about him into the tangible atmosphere of the dark planet--the swirling aniline fog that never cleared. And in the midst stood Uvrei, the high priest, robed in amethyst and sable. The term _high priest_ was vulgar as applied to him, but the nearest terrestrial equivalent to what he was. The lips in the shockingly beautiful face parted. "How goes it, son of my spirit?" the familiar greeting rolled out, in the familiar voice, deep yet sweet, like dulcet thunder. "My head hurts, father of my soul." Emrys knew his voice was a petulant child's, yet he could not stop himself. "I was promised--" "You have not taken care," the ancient one said. How ancient he was, Emrys did not know. The priests of Morethis were, they said, immortal. And they did live for a long, long time, far longer than the common people, whom they resembled only vaguely. Terrestrial scholars said the ruling class was a variant of the Morethan race, inbred to preserve its identity, probably closer to the original world-shaking Morethans than their debased followers. The members of this group seemed young, as coin faces seem young, also old, like coins themselves. "I warned you it takes time for the final adjustments to be made. Wait, my son; haste means nothing to you." "But I've waited so long," Emrys complained. "Wait a little longer, then. You have all the time in the world."