The figures swayed in the darkness, chanting in a dialect not altogether
familiar to me, a monotonous wailing chant, with a single recurrent
phrase: "Kamaina! Kama-aina!" It began on a high note, descending in
weird chromatics to the lowest tone the human ear could resolve.
The sound made me draw back. Even the Dry-towners shunned the orgiastic
rituals of Kamaina. Earthmen have a reputation for getting rid of the
more objectionable customs--by human standards--on any planet where they
live. But they don't touch religions, and Kamaina, on the surface
anyhow, was a religion.
I started to turn round and leave, as if I had inadvertently walked
through the wrong door, but my conductor hauled on my arm, and I was
wedged in too tight by now to risk a roughhouse. Trying to force my way
out would only have called attention to me, and the first of the Secret
Service maxims is; when in doubt, go along, keep quiet, and watch the
other guy.
As my eyes adapted to the dim light, I saw that most of the crowd were
Charin plainsmen or _chaks_.
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