The fighting that Rod was trained in was not simply strenuous athletics. It did not matter whether they were armed; if he and Bruce fought bare hands or otherwise, someone would be killed or badly hurt. The only dangerous weapon was man himself.
Bruce stared sullenly. “Bruce,” Rod said, striving to keep his voice steady, “a long time ago I told you that people worked around here or got out. You and your brother didn’t believe me so we had to chuck you out. Then you crawled back with a tale about how Jock had been killed and could you please join up? You were a sorry sight. Remember?”
McGowan scowled. “You promised to be a little angel,” Rod went on. “People thought I was foolish—and I was. But I thought you might behave.”
Bruce pulled a blade of grass, bit it. “Bub, you remind me of Jock. He was always throwing his weight around, too.”
“Bruce, get up and get out of town! I don’t care where, but if you are smart, you will shag over and tell Art you’ve made a mistake—then start pumping that bellows. I’ll stop by later. If sweat isn’t pouring off you when I arrive…then you’ll never come back. You’ll be banished for life.”
McGowan looked uncertain. He glanced past Rod, and Rod wondered what expressions the others wore. But Rod kept his eyes on Bruce. “Get moving. Get to work, or don’t come back.”
Bruce got a sly look. “You can’t order me kicked out. It takes a majority vote.”
Jimmy spoke up. “Aw, quit taking his guff, Rod. Kick him out now.”
Rod shook his head. “No. Bruce, if that is your answer, I’ll call them together and we’ll put you in exile before lunch—and I’ll bet my best knife that you won’t get three votes to let you stay. Want to bet?”
Bruce sat up and looked at the others, sizing his chances. He looked back at Rod. “Runt,” he said slowly, “you aren’t worth a hoot without stooges…or a couple of girls to do your fighting.”
Jimmy whispered, “Watch it, Rod!” Rod licked dry lips, knowing that it was too late for reason, too late for talk. He would have to try to take him…he was not sure he could.
“I’ll fight you,” he said hoarsely. “Right now!”
Cliff said urgently, “Don’t, Rod. We’ll manage him.”
“No. Come on, McGowan.” Rod added one unforgivable word.
McGowan did not move. “Get rid of that joe sticker.”
Rod said, “Hold my spear, Cliff.”
Cliff snapped, “Now wait! I’m not going to stand by and watch this. He might get lucky and kill you, Rod.”
“Get out of the way, Cliff.”
“No.” Cliff hesitated, then added, “Bruce, throw your knife away. Go ahead—or so help me I’ll poke a joe-sticker in your belly myself. Give me your knife, Rod.”
Rod looked at Bruce, then drew Colonel Bowie and handed it to Cliff. Bruce straightened up and flipped his knife at Cliff’s feet. Cliff rasped, “I still say not to, Rod. Say the word and we’ll take him apart.”
“Back off. Give us room.”
“Well—no bone breakers. You hear me, Bruce? Make a mistake and you’ll never make another.”
“‘No bone breakers,’” Rod repeated, and knew dismally that the rule would work against him; Bruce had him on height and reach and weight.
“Okay,” McGowan agreed. “Just cat clawing. I am going to show this rube that one McGowan is worth two of him.”
Cliff sighed. “Back off, everybody. Okay—get going!”
Crouched, they sashayed around, not touching. Only the preliminaries could use up much time; the textbook used in most high schools and colleges listed twenty-seven ways to destroy or disable a man hand to hand; none of the methods took as long as three seconds once contact was made. They chopped at each other, feinting with their hands, too wary to close.
Rod was confused by the injunction not to let the fight go to conclusion. Bruce grinned at him. “What’s the matter? Scared? I’ve been waiting for this, you loudmouthed pimple—now you’re going to get it!” He rushed him.
Rod gave back, ready to turn Bruce’s rush into his undoing. But Bruce did not carry it through; it had been a feint and Rod had reacted too strongly. Bruce laughed. “Scared silly, huh? You had better be.”
Rod realized that he was scared, more scared than he had ever been. The conviction flooded over him that Bruce intended to kill him…the agreement about bonebreakers meant nothing; this ape meant to finish him.
He backed away, more confused than ever…knowing that he must forget rules if he was to live through it…but knowing, too, that he had to abide by the silly restriction even if it meant the end of him. Panic shook him; he wanted to run.
He did not quite do so. From despair itself he got a cold feeling of nothing to lose and decided to finish it. He exposed his groin to a savate attack.
He saw Bruce’s foot come up in the expected kick; with fierce joy he reached in the proper shinobi counter. He showed the merest of hesitation, knowing that a full twist would break Bruce’s ankle.
Then he was flying through air; his hands had never touched Bruce. He had time for sick realization that Bruce had seen the gambit, countered with another—when he struck ground and Bruce was on him.
“Can you move your arm, Rod?”
He tried to focus his eyes, and saw Bob Baxter’s face floating over him. “I licked him?”
Baxter did not answer. An angry voice answered, “Cripes, no! He almost chewed you to pieces.”
Rod stirred and said thickly, “Where is he? I’ve got to whip him.”
Baxter said sharply, “Lie still!” Cliff added, “Don’t worry, Rod. We fixed him.” Baxter insisted, “Shut up. See if you can move your left arm.”
Rod moved the arm, felt pain shoot through it, jerked and felt pain everywhere. “It’s not broken,” Baxter decided. “Maybe a green-stick break. We’ll put it in sling. Can you sit up? I’ll help.”
“I want to stand.” He made it with help, stood swaying. Most of the villagers seemed to be there; they moved jerkily. It made him dizzy and he blinked.
“Take it easy, boy,” he heard Jimmy say. “Bruce pretty near ruined you. You were crazy to give him the chance.”
“I’m all right,” Rod answered and winced. “Where is he?”
“Behind you. Don’t worry, we fixed him.”
“Yes,” agreed Cliff. “We worked him over. Who does he think he is? Trying to shove the Mayor around!” He spat angrily.
Bruce was face down, features hidden in one arm; he was sobbing. “How bad is he hurt?” Rod asked.
“Him?” Jimmy said scornfully. “He’s not hurt. I mean, he hurts all right—but he’s not hurt. Carol wouldn’t let us.”
Caroline squatted beside Bruce, guarding him. She got up. “I should have let ’em,” she said angrily. “But I knew you would be mad at me if I did.” She put hands on hips. “Roddie Walker, when are you going to get sense enough to yell for me when you’re in trouble? These four dopes stood around and let it happen.”
“Wait a minute, Carol,” Cliff protested. “I tried to stop it. We all tried, but—”
“But I wouldn’t listen,” Rod interrupted. “Never mind, Carol, I flubbed it.”
“If you would listen to me—”
“Never mind!” Rod went to McGowan, prodded him. “Turn over.”
Bruce slowly rolled over. Rod wondered if he himself looked as bad. Bruce’s body was dirt and blood and bruises; his face looked as if someone had tried to file the features off. “Stand up.”
Bruce started to speak, then got painfully to his feet. Rod said, “I told you to report to Art, Bruce. Get over the wall and get moving.”
McGowan looked startled. “Huh?”
“You heard me. I can’t waste time playing games. Check in with Art and get to work. Or keep moving and don’t come back. Now move!”
Bruce stared, then hobbled toward the wall. Rod turned and said, “Get back to work, folks. The fun is over. Cliff, you were going to show me the animals.”
“Huh? Look R
od, it’ll keep.”
“Yes, Rod,” Baxter agreed. “I want to put a sling on that arm. Then you should rest.”
Rod moved his arm gingerly. “I’ll try to get along without it. Come on, Cliff. Just you and me—we’ll skip the stobor hunt.”
He had trouble concentrating on what Cliff talked about…something about gelding a pair of fawns and getting them used to harness. What use was harness when they had no wagons? His head ached, his arm hurt and his brain felt fuzzy. What would Grant have done? He had failed…but what should he have said, or not said? Some days it wasn’t worth it.
“—so we’ve got to. You see, Rod?”
“Huh? Sure, Cliff.” He made a great effort to recall what Cliff had been saying. “Maybe wooden axles would do. I’ll see if Bill thinks he can build a cart.”
“But besides a cart, we need—”
Rod stopped him. “Cliff, if you say so, we’ll try it. I think I’ll take a shower. Uh, we’ll look at the field tomorrow.”
A shower made him feel better and much cleaner, although the water spilling milk-warm from the flume seemed too hot, then icy cold. He stumbled back to his hut and lay down. When he woke he found Shorty guarding his door to keep him from being disturbed.
It was three days before he felt up to inspecting the farm. Nielsen reported that McGowan was working, although sullenly. Caroline reported that Theo was obeying sanitary regulations and wearing a black eye. Rod was self-conscious about appearing in public, had even considered one restless night the advisability of resigning and letting someone who had not lost face take over the responsibility. But to his surprise his position seemed firmer than ever. A minority from Teller University, which he had thought of wryly as “loyal opposition,” now no longer seemed disposed to be critical. Curt Pulvermacher, their unofficial leader, looked Rod up and offered help. “Bruce is a bad apple, Rod. Don’t let him get down wind again. Let me know instead.”
“Thanks, Curt.”
“I mean it. It’s hard enough to get anywhere around here if we all pull together. We can’t have him riding roughshod over us. But don’t stick your chin out. We’ll teach him.”
Rod slept well that night. Perhaps he had not handled it as Grant would have, but it had worked out. Cowpertown was safe. Oh, there would be more troubles but the colony would sweat through them. Someday there would be a city here and this would be Cowper Square. Upstream would be the Nielsen Steel Works. There might even be a Walker Avenue…
He felt up to looking over the farm the next day. He told Cliff so and gathered the same party, Jimmy, Kent, and Mick. Spears in hand they climbed the stile at the wall and descended the ladder on the far side. Cliff gathered up a handful of dirt, tasted it. “The soil is all right. A little acid, maybe. We won’t know until we can run soil chemistry tests. But the structure is good. If you tell that dumb Swede that the next thing he has to make is a plough…”
“Waxie isn’t dumb. Give him time. Hell make you ploughs and tractors, too.”
“I’ll settle for a hand plough, drawn by a team of buck. Rod, my notion is this. We weed and it’s an invitation to the buck to eat the crops. If we built another wall, all around and just as high—”
“A wall! Any idea how many man-hours that would take, Cliff?”
“That’s not the point.”
Rod looked around the alluvial flat, several times as large as the land enclosed in the city walls. A thorn fence, possibly, but not a wall, not yet… Cliff’s ambitions were too big. “Look, let’s comb the field for stobor, then send the others back. You and I can figure out afterwards what can be done.”
“All right. But tell them to watch where they put their big feet.”
Rod spread them in skirmish line with himself in the center. “Keep dressed up,” he warned, “and don’t let any get past you. Remember, every one we kill now means six less on S-Day.”
They moved forward. Kenny made a kill, Jimmy immediately made two more. The stobor hardly tried to escape, being in the “dopy joe” phase of their cycle.
Rod paused to spear one and looked up to speak to the man on his right. But there was no one there. “Hold it! Where’s Mick?”
“Huh? Why, he was right here a second ago.”
Rod looked back. Aside from a shimmer over the hot field, there was nothing where Mick should have been. Something must have sneaked up in the grass, pulled him down—“Watch it, everybody! Something’s wrong. Close in…and keep your eyes peeled.” He turned back, moved diagonally toward where Mick had disappeared.
Suddenly two figures appeared in front of his eyes—Mick and a stranger.
A stranger in coveralls and shoes… The man looked around, called over his shoulder, “Okay, Jake! Put her on automatic and clamp it.” He glanced toward Rod but did not seem to see him, walked toward him, and disappeared.
With heart pounding Rod began to run. He turned and found himself facing into an open gate…and down a long, closed corridor.
The man in the coveralls stepped into the frame. “Everybody back off,” he ordered. “We’re going to match in with the Gap. There may be local disturbance.”
15
In Achilles’ Tent
IT HAD BEEN A HALF HOUR SINCE MICK HAD STUMBLED through the gate as it had focused, fallen flat in the low gravity of Luna. Rod was trying to bring order out of confusion, trying to piece together his own wits. Most of the villagers were out on the field, or sitting on top of the wall, watching technicians set up apparatus to turn the locus into a permanent gate, with controls and communications on both sides. Rod tried to tell one that they were exposed, that they should not run around unarmed; without looking up the man had said, “Speak to Mr. Johnson.”
He found Mr. Johnson, tried again, was interrupted. “Will you kids please let us work? We’re glad to see you—but we’ve got to get a power fence around this area. No telling what might be in that tall grass.”
“Oh,” Rod answered. “Look, I’ll set guards. We know what to expect. I’m in ch—”
“Beat it, will you? You kids mustn’t be impatient.”
So Rod went back inside his city, hurt and angry. Several strangers came in, poked around as if they owned the place, spoke to the excited villagers, went out again. One stopped to look at Jimmy’s drum, rapped it and laughed. Rod wanted to strangle him.
“Rod?”
“Uh?” He whirled around. “Yes, Margery?”
“Do I cook lunch, or don’t I? All my girls have left and Mel says its silly because we’ll all be gone by lunch time—and I don’t know what to do.”
“Huh? Nobody’s leaving…that I know of.”
“Well, maybe not but that’s the talk.”
He was not given time to consider this as one of the ubiquitous strangers came up and said briskly, “Can you tell me where to find a lad named Roderick Welker?”
“Walker,” Rod corrected. “I’m Rod Walker. What do you want?”
“My name is Sansom, Clyde B. Sansom—Administrative Officer in the Emigration Control Service. Now, Welker, I understand you are group leader for these students. You can—”
“I am Mayor of Cowpertown,” Rod said stonily. “What do you want?”
“Yes, yes, that’s what the youngster called you. ‘Mayor.’” Sansom smiled briefly and went on. “Now, Walker, we want to keep things orderly. I know you are anxious to get out of your predicament as quickly as possible—but we must do things systematically. We are going to make it easy—just delousing and physical examination, followed by psychological tests and a relocation interview. Then you will all be free to return to your homes—after signing a waiver-of-liability form, but the legal officer will take care of that. If you will have your little band line up alphabetically—uh, here in this open space, I think, then I will—” He fumbled with his briefcase.
“Who the deuce are you to give orders around here?”
Sansom looked surprised. “Eh? I told you. If you want to be technical, I embody the authority of the Terran Corporat
ion. I put it as a request—but under field conditions I can compel co-operation, you know.”
Rod felt himself turn red. “I don’t know anything of the sort! You may be a squad of angels back on Terra but you are in Cowpertown.”
Mr. Sansom looked interested but not impressed. “And what, may I ask, is Cowpertown?”
“Huh? This is Cowpertown, a Sovereign nation, with its own constitution, its own laws—and its own territory.” Rod took a breath. “If the Terran Corporation wants anything, they can send somebody and arrange it. But don’t tell us to line up alphabetically!”
“Atta boy, Roddie!”
Rod said, “Stick around, Carol,” then added to Sansom, “Understand me?”
“Do I understand,” Sansom said slowly, “that you are suggesting that the Corporation should appoint an ambassador to your group?”
“Well…that’s the general idea.”
“Mmmm…an interesting theory, Welker.”
“‘Walker.’ And until you do, you can darn well clear the sightseers out—and get out yourself. We aren’t a zoo.”
Sansom looked at Rod’s ribs, glanced at his dirty, calloused feet and smiled. Rod said, “Show him out, Carol. Put him out, if you have to.”
“Yes, sir!” She advanced on Sansom, grinning.
“Oh, I’m leaving,” Sansom said quickly. “Better a delay than a mistake in protocol. An ingenious theory, young man. Good-by. We shall see each other later. Uh…a word of advice? May I?”
“Huh? All right.”
“Don’t take yourself too seriously. Ready, young lady?”
Rod stayed in his hut. He wanted badly to see what was going on beyond the wall, but he did not want to run into Sansom. So he sat and gnawed his thumb and thought. Apparently some weak sisters were going back—wave a dish of ice cream under their noses and off they would trot, abandoning their land, throwing away all they had built up. Well, he wouldn’t! This was home, his place, he had earned it; he wasn’t going back and maybe wait half a lifetime for a chance to move to some other planet probably not as good.