“You should have seen him handle one a’ these when I first knew him,” said Bog Muller proudly to his subordinates. “Beat it to hell, he would, Via—bring her in with rock scrapes on both sides that he’d put on at the same time!”
The Kikuyu civilian touched a valve and lowered the rack. His hand caressed the sand-burnished skirt of the jeep as it sank past him. The joy-stick controls were in front of the left-hand seat. Finesse was a matter of touch and judgment, not sophisticated instrumentation. He waggled the stick gently, remembering. In front of the other seat was the powergun, its three iridium barrels poised to rotate and hose out destruction in a nearly-continuous stream.
“You won’t believe it,” continued the technician, “but I saw it with my own eyes—” that was a lie— “this boy here steering with one hand and working the gun with the other. Bloody miracle that was—even if he did give Maintenance more trouble than any three other troopers.”
“You learn a lot about a machine when you push it, when you stress it,” said Juma. His fingers reached for but did not quite touch the spade grips of the tribarrel. “About men, too,” he added and lowered his hand. He looked Muller in the face and said, “What I learned about myself was that I didn’t want to live in a universe that had no better use for me than to gun other people down. I won’t claim to be saving souls . . . because that’s in the Lord’s hands and he uses what instruments he desires. But at least I’m not taking lives.”
One of the younger techs coughed, Muller nodded heavily and said, “I know what you mean, Juma. I’ve never regretted getting into Maintenance right off the way I did. Especially times like today. . . . But Via, if we stand here fanning our lips, we won’t get a curst bit of work done, will we?”
The civilian chuckled without asking for an explanation of ‘especially times like today.’ “Sure, Bog,” he said, latching open the left-side access ports one after another.
“Somebody dig out a 239B harness and we’ll see if I remember as much as I think I do about changing one of these beggars.” He glanced up at the truncated mass of the plateau, wiping his face with a bandanna. “Things have quieted down since the sun came up,” he remarked. “Even if I weren’t—dedicated to the Way—I know too many people on both sides to like to hear the shooting at the mine.”
None of the other men responded. At the time it did not occur to Juma that there might be something about his words that embarrassed them.
“There’s a flag,” said Scratchard, his eyes pressed tight to the lenses of the periscope. “Blood and martyrs, Cap—there’s a flag!”
“No shooting!” Mboya ordered over his commo as he moved. “Four to all Thrasher units, stand to but no shooting!”
All around the mine crater, men watched a white rag flapping on the end of a long wooden pole. Some looked through periscopes like those in the command dugout, others over the sights of their guns in hope that something would give them an excuse to fire. “Well, what are they waiting for?” the captain muttered.
“It’s ben Khedda,” guessed Scratchard without looking away from the flag. “He was just scared green to go out there. Now he’s just as scared to come back.”
The flag staggered suddenly. Troopers tensed, but a moment later an unarmed man climbed full height from the Bordj. The high sun threw his shadow at his feet like a pit. Standing as erect as his age permitted him, Ali ben Cheriff took a step toward the Slammers’ lines. Wind plucked at his jellaba and white beard; the rebel leader was a patriarch in appearance as well as in simple fact. On his head was the green turban that marked him as a pilgrim to al-Meccah on Terra. He was as devotedly Moslem as he was Kabyle, and he—like most of the villagers—saw no inconsistencies in the facts. To ben Cheriff it was no more necessary to become an Arab in order to accept Islam than it had seemed necessary to Saint Paul that converts to Christ first become Jews.