“Tell those who sent you,” Fara replied deliberately, “that I resisted arrest—with a gun.”
The deed followed the words with such rapidity that Jor blinked. He stood like that for a moment, a big, sleepy-looking man, staring at that gleaming, magical revolver; then:
“I have a summons here ordering you to appear at the great court of Ferd this afternoon. Will you accept it?”
“Certainly.”
“Then you will be there?”
“I’ll send my lawyer,” said Fara. “Just drop the summons on the floor there. Tell them I took it.”
The weapon shop man had said: “Do not ridicule by word any legal measure of the Imperial authorities. Simply disobey them.”
Jor went out, and seemed relieved. It took an hour before Mayor Mel Dale came pompously through the door.
“See here, Fara Clark,” he bellowed from the doorway. “You can’t get away with this. This is defiance of the law.”
Fara was silent as His Honor waddled farther into the building. It was puzzling, almost amazing, that Mayor Dale would risk his plump, treasured body. Puzzlement ended as the mayor said in a low voice:
“Good work, Fara; I knew you had it in you. There’s dozens of us in Clay behind you, so stick it out. I had to yell at you just now, because there’s a crowd outside. Yell back at me, will you? Let’s have a real name calling. But, first, a word of warning: the manager of the Automatic Repair Shop is on his way here with his bodyguards, two of them—”
Shakily, Fara watched the mayor go out. The crisis was at hand. He braced himself, thought: “Let them come, let them—”
It was easier than he had thought—for the men who entered the shop turned pale when they saw the holstered revolver. There was a violence of blustering, nevertheless, that narrowed finally down to:
“Look here,” the man said, “we’ve got your note for twelve thousand one hundred credits. You’re not going to deny you owe that money.”
“I’ll buy it back,” said Fara in a stony voice, “for exactly half, not a cent more.”
The strong-jawed young man looked at him for a long time. “We’ll take it,” he said finally, curtly.
Fara said: “I’ve got the agreement here—”
His first customer was old man Miser Lan Harris. Fara stared at the long-faced oldster with a vast surmise, and his first, amazed comprehension came of how the weapon shop must have settled on Harris’ lot—by arrangement.
It was an hour after Harris had gone that Creel’s mother stamped into the shop. She closed the door.
“Well,” she said, “you did it, eh? Good work. I’m sorry if I seemed rough with you when you came to my place, but we weapon-shop supporters can’t afford to take risks for those who are not on our side.
“But never mind that. I’ve come to take Creel home. The important thing is to return everything to normal as quickly as possible.”
It was over; incredibly it was over. Twice, as he walked home that night, Fara stopped in midstride, and wondered if it had not all been a dream. The air was like ~vine. The little world of Clay spread before him, green and gracious, a peaceful paradise where time had stood still. The End