Rhapsody in Black by Brian Stableford

beliefs—inevitably has occasion to cast out or otherwise dispose of its misfits. The Splinter culture, being basically non-violent, would naturally choose expulsion. For the privileged, expulsion to Attalus. For the underprivileged, a simple get-lost-and-look-after-yourselves. Which couldn’t be easy, on a planet which lived so close to the survival line.
    There were half a dozen other men visible in the ramshackle village as we passed through its streets. If you can call the gaps in between stone tents ‘streets’. The lanky man gently prised my fingers from his shoulder. I’d been so taken up with first impressions of the place that I’d omitted to realise there was no further need of being led.
    He then ushered me into one of the largest of the dwellings—one which was more or less centrally placed. It was remarkable in that it was the first building in the warren I had seen which possessed windows. Inside, it was grim and grey, but it seemed more like a real house than the solid boxes of the town and the capital. It had only two rooms, but these were large and furnished adequately, if crudely. The bed was a strung frame like a spaceship bunk; the table was a cunningly balanced edifice of stone. The chairs were strung frames as well, and had apparently been improvised from various sources.
    â€˜Very nice,’ I commented to Tob. ‘Almost palatial, in fact. But a little more light would brighten it up considerably.’
    â€˜You can see, can’t you?’ he replied.
    â€˜After a fashion.’ But he, of course, was used to nothing more. He had never seen a sun.
    â€˜Wait here for Bayon,’ he said.
    â€˜Who’s Bayon?’ I asked.
    â€˜It’s his house. He’s the boss.’
    â€˜A priest?’ I guessed.
    He laughed. ‘Ain’t no Churchmen here. They get along without us, we get along without them. Now, you just sit. Bayon won’t be long. And don’t try to run away.’
    â€˜I’m quite well aware of the pointlessness of running away,’ I told him. ‘I’m on your side, remember?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ he drawled sarcastically. ‘I remember.’
    Then he left; presumably to talk to his friends. I looked out of the window for a while, but nothing of any consequence seemed to be happening. So I went back and sat down.
    I was very hungry. It was a considerable time since I’d last eaten, and that had only been gruel. Not that there was liable to be anything better available here. Normal worlds have fake food, and good worlds have real food. But Rhapsody only had converters. Probably obsolescent and inefficient converters at that. I tried to imagine anything more lifeless and unappealing than gruel. I found, somewhat to my surprise, that it was easy. Everyone complains about gruel, but everyone eats it. One could do a lot worse.
    My thoughts of hunger were interrupted by the arrival of Bayon. He came in, escorted by Tob and two other men, obviously prepared for a session of interrogation. Their manner was not exactly hostile, but it was determined.
    Bayon was a tall man, like Tob, but of thicker build. For a troglodyte, he was something of a giant. But his frame wasn’t fully fleshed out. He could have put on a lot more weight without beginning to look fat. Life must be hard for the refugees. He carried a power rifle—the only one I’d seen in the possession of the outcasts. The other men carried less sophisticated weapons.
    â€˜Well,’ I said, ‘have you decided whether to eat me yourselves or feed me to the crocodiles?’ The allusion was totally wasted.
    â€˜I’m Bayon Alpart,’ said the leader—the man I’d already tagged as the big cheese.
    â€˜My name’s Grainger,’ I told him. ‘I pilot starships. You, I take it, have no particular vocation except staying alive.’
    â€˜We’re outcasts,’ he said.
    â€˜I know’
    â€˜You’d