When John left, Father Ambrosius squeezed his eyes tight shut and pressed the knuckles of both hands to his forehead. Things _did_ change. Under the dispensation of the Old Testament, men had more wives than one. That was sinful now, but surely Abraham, Isaac and Jacob were in heaven? Paul wrote his epistles to little islands of Christians surrounded by seas of pagans. Surely in those days it was necessary for Christians to be bound closely together against the common enemy, whereas in these modern times, the ties could be safely relaxed a trifle? How could sinning have paid for the repose of Goodie Howat's soul, got a better price for brewer Thatcher's ale and saved the village hay crop? The Devil was tricky, but not _that_ tricky, surely. A few more such tricks and the parish would resemble the paradise terrestrial! Father Ambrosius dashed from his study to the altar of the little stone church and began furiously to turn the pages of the huge metal-bound lectern Bible. "_For the love of money is the root of all evil--_" It burst on Father Ambrosius with a great light that the words of Paul were in reference not to _John Goldsmith's_ love of money but to _Sir Baldwin's_ love of money. He dashed back to his study and his pen began to squeak over the parchment, obliterating the last dim trace of Tacitus' _Annals_, VIII i.v. The sermon would be a scorcher, all right, but it wouldn't scorch John Goldsmith. It would scorch Sir Baldwin for ruthlessly and against the laws of God and man refusing to turn Fallowfield over to the moneylender. There would be growls of approval in the church that Sunday, and many black looks directed against Sir Baldwin for his attempt to bilk the parish's friend and benefactor, the moneylender. * * * * * "And that," F. W. Taylor concluded, chuckling, "is how power passes from one pair of hands to another, and how public acceptance of the change follows on its heels. A strange thing--people always think that each exchange of power is the last that will ever take place." He seemed to be finished. "Uncle," Orsino said, "somebody tried to kill me." Taylor stared at him for a long minute, speechless. "What happened?" he finally asked. "I went formal to the theater, with five bodyguards. The chief guard, name of Halloran, took a shot at me. One of my boys got in the way. He was killed." Taylor's fingers began to play a tattoo on his annunciator board. Faces leaped into existence on its various screens as he fired orders. "Charles Orsino's chief bodyguard for tonight--Halloran. Trace him. The works. He tried to kill Orsino." He clicked off the board switches and turned grimly to Orsino. "Now you," he said. "What have _you_ been up to?" "Just doing my job, uncle," Orsino said uneasily. "Still bagman at the 101st?" "Yes." "Fooling with any women?" "Nothing special, uncle. Nothing intense." "Disciplined or downgraded anybody lately?"