No more attractive game could have been devised to snare credits from the Combatants. Kana measured the twisting finny fighters carefully, at last choosing a duelist with an excellent jaw spread and a green tail disc. He bought a credit chip from the house banker and knelt to insert the releasing coin in the lock of the pen.
A meaty, hair-matted hand splayed against his shoulder and Kana only caught himself from landing in the pool with a back-wrenching twist.
“Outta th’ way, little boy. This here’s for men—”
“Just what—!” Kana’s words ended in a cough as Mic’s fist landed between his shoulders and someone else jerked him away from the man who had taken his place and his fish. The fellow grinned up at him maliciously. Then, as if he expected no more trouble, he turned back to encourage the fighter released by the recruit’s chip.
All the good humor was gone from Mic’s face and even Rey’s dancing eyes were sober as they moved Kana away, holding him motionless between them in an “unarmed in-fighting” grip against which he knew better than to struggle.
“We blast—now—” Mic informed him.
“Just what”—he began again—“do you think—”
“Fella, you might have dug your own grave there. That was Bogate—Zapan Bogate. He has twenty duel notches on his sword—eats greenies for breakfast when he can get them.” Mic’s words were light but his voice deadly serious.
“Do you think I’m afraid—” Kana smarted.
“Listen, fella, there’s a big difference between being prudent and alive, and kicking a Zartian sand mouse in the teeth. You don’t last long after the latter heroic deed. You can’t be given a yellow stripe for ducking a run-in with Bogate—you’re just intelligent. Someday one of the big boys—Hansu or Deke Mills or somebody like that—is going to get annoyed with Bogate. Then—man, oh, man—you’ll be able to sell standing room at the fracas to half the forces and be a billion-credit man! Bogate is sudden and painful death on two crooked feet.”
“Besides being about the best scout who ever sniffed a trail,” cut in Rey. “Bogate at play and Bogate in the field are two different characters. The Blademasters tolerate the one on account of the other.”
Kana recognized truth when he heard it. To return and tackle Bogate was stupid. But he still protested until they were interrupted by Hansu. The veteran, followed by two base policemen, bore down upon them.
“Yorke men?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Report to Barracks—on the quick. Blast-off has been moved up—” He was already past them to round up more of the Horde.
The three started back to the Combat area at a trot.
“Now what?” Rey wanted to know. “Last I heard we launched at noon tomorrow. Why all the hurry? We haven’t even had muster line yet.”
“I told you,” grunted Mic, “that there was a smell about this—not perfume either. Octopods! That dinner we downed—and pressure chamber conditioning coming up! We’re going to be might sorry we ate, mighty sorry.”
With this dire prophecy still ringing in his ears Kana collected his war bag from the bunk he had not had a chance to occupy and took his place with Mic and Rey on the hoist platform to be slung on board the transport. Counted off by fours Kana found himself sharing a pressure chamber with his two new acquaintances and a supply man—the latter obviously bored by his juvenile company. They stripped to their shorts, submitted to shots from the medico. And then there was nothing left to do but strap down on the bunks and endure the ensuing discomfort.
The next few days were anything but pleasant. Slowly their bodies were forced to adapt to Fronn, since the planet was not going to adapt to them. It was a painful process. But when they landed on that chill world they were ready for action.
Kana still lacked a double. He clung to Mic and Rey as they had advised, but he knew that sooner or later that threesome must be broken and he would be assigned a partner. He was shy of the veterans, and the three or four other S-Threes who were not yet paired for muster-line were not the type he desired to know better. Most of them were older men with experience who were incorrigible enough to remain permanently in the lowest ranks. Good in the field, they were troublemakers in barracks and had shifted from one Horde to another at the end of each enlistment with the relieved sighs of those who had just served wafting them on their separate ways. Kana continued to hope that he would not draw one of them as a double.
The Terrans’ first sight of Fronn was disappointing. They planeted at dusk, and, since Fronn was moonless, marched through darkness to the squat, rough-hewn stone building which was to serve them as temporary barracks. There were no fittings at all in the long room and the three sat on their war bags, wondering whether to unroll sleeping bags or wait for further instructions.
Rey’s long nose wrinkled in disgust as he moved his boots from a suspicious stain on the dirty floor. “I’d say we got this place second hand—”
“Second hand?” Mic asked. “Closer fifth. And most of the others before us were animals. This is a Fronnian cow barn if my nose doesn’t deceive me.”
The call Kana had been dreading came at last, doubles were to register at the table a Swordtan had set up at the far end of the room. Rey and Mic, after a word of encouragement, got in line.
Kana hesitated, not knowing just what to do, when the harsh rasp of a new voice startled him. Zapan Bogate and another of the same type had fallen into line near him. A third of their pattern stood beside Bogate grinning.
“Jus’ a greenie—don’t know what to do next. Poor little lost greenie. You, Sim, go and take him by the hand. He needs his nurse—”
Kana tensed. With Bogate’s encouragement Sim shuffled forward, his brutal face twisted in a wry grimace he might have intended as a smile.
“Poor little greenie,” Bogate repeated, his voice rising so that half the line were turning to see the sport. “Sim’s gonna look after him, ain’t you, Sim?”
“Sure am, Zap. Come along, greenie—” His hairy paw caught Kana’s sleeve.
What followed was mostly sheer reflex action on the recruit’s part. The disgust which that touch aroused in him triggered his move. His hand chopped down across the other’s wrist, striking the hand from its hold. As Sim goggled, Bogate stepped out of line, his small eyes gleaming with sadistic joy.
“Seems like the greenie don’t favor you, Sim. Whatta we do to greenies who don’t know what’s good for them?”
Kana thought he was alert but Sim surprised him. He had not expected the hulking bully to follow code custom. Sim’s slap across his face had power enough to swing him half around, blinking back tears of pain. As he regained his balance Kana’s mind was working feverishly. Barracks duel—just the sort of encounter these bullies wanted—legal enough so no watching Combatant would dare to interfere.
He had a single advantage. They would expect him to choose the usual weapons—swords with shielded points. Thanks to his study of the record-pak on Terra he had an answer which would give him a chance to escape a nasty mauling.
He and Sim were now surrounded by a circle of expectant spectators. Kana tasted the sweet flatness of blood from the lip the other’s slap had scraped against his teeth.
“Meet?” Automatically he asked the proper question.
“Meet.”
“Give me your sword, Sim. I’ll cap it for you,” Bogate ordered genially.
“Not so fast.” Kana was glad that his voice sounded so even and unhurried. “I didn’t say swords—”
Bogate’s grin faded, his eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Guns is out—not on active service, greenie.”
“I choose bat sticks,” returned Kana.
A moment of utter and uncomprehending silence was his first answer.
3 — FORWARD MARCH
Those Archs who had been longer on Fronn began to understand, though Sim apparently did not. As he glanced to Bogate asking for direction, Hansu elbowed his way into the center of the circle. Behind him was another man, much younger, but bearing himself with the same unselfconscious authority.
“You heard him,” Hansu said to Sim. “He’s chosen bat sticks. And you’ll meet here and now. We want this over before we march out.”
Sim was still bemused and, seeing that, Kana began to hope. Blunted swords were one thing—a man could be maimed or even killed when he faced an expert in such warfare. But armed with one of those wands made of a highly poisonous wood which left seared welts on human skin—the whips used by Fronnian caravan men to subdue the recalcitrant guen—he had a chance, and maybe more than just an even one.