“I just can’t see,” Rod answered irrelevantly, “how I could be so wrong. It was a logical certainty.”
“Forget it,” Jack advised. “My analytics instructor says that all logic is mere tautology. She says it is impossible to learn anything through logic that you did not already know.”
“Then what use is logic?” Rod demanded.
“Ask me an easy one. Look, partner, I’m dead for sleep; I want to turn in.”
“All right. But, Jack, if this isn’t Africa and I’ve got to admit it isn’t what do we do? They’ve gone off and left us.”
“Do? We do what we’ve been doing. Eat, sleep, stay alive. This is a listed planet; if we just keep breathing, someday somebody will show up. It might be just a power breakdown; they may pick us tomorrow.”
“In that case, then”
“In that case, let’s shut up and go to sleep.”
6 “I Think He Is Dead”
Rod was awakened by heavenly odors. he rolled over, blinked at light streaming under the overhang, managed by great effort to put himself back into the matrix of the day before. Jack, he saw, was squatting by a tiny fire on the edge of the shelf; the wonderful fragrance came from toasting liver.
Rod got to his knees, discovering that he was slightly stiff from having fought dream stobor in his sleep. These nightmare stobor were bug eyed monsters fit for a planet suddenly strange and threatening. Nevertheless he had had a fine night’s sleep and his spirits could not be daunted in the presence of the tantalizing aroma drifting in.
Jack looked up. “I thought you were going to sleep all day. Brush your teeth, comb your hair, take a quick shower, and get on out here. Breakfast is ready.” Jack looked him over again. “Better shave, too.”
Rod grinned and ran his hand over his chin. “You’re jealous of my manly beard, youngster. Wait a year or two and you’ll find out what a nuisance it is. Shaving, the common cold, and taxes . . . my old man says those are the three eternal problems the race is never going to lick.” Rod felt a twinge at the thought of his parents, a stirring of conscience that he had not thought of them in he could not remember how long. “Can I help, pal?”
“Sit down and grab the salt. This piece is for you.”
“Let’s split it.”
“Eat and don’t argue. I’ll fix me some.” Rod accepted the charred and smoky chunk, tossed it in his hands and blew on it. He looked around for salt. Jack Was slicing a second piece; Rod’s eyes passed over the operation then whipped back.
The knife Jack was using was “Colonel Bowie.”
The realization was accompanied by action; Rod’s hand darted out and caught Jack’s wrist in an anger hard grip. “You stole my knife!”
Jack did not move. “Rod. . . have you gone crazy?”
“You slugged me and stole my knife.”
Jack made no attempt to fight, nor even to struggle. “You aren’t awake yet, Rod. Your knife is on your belt. This is another knife . . . mine.
Rod did not bother to look down. “The one I’m wearing is Lady Macbeth. I mean the knife you’re using, Colonel Bowie my knife.”
“Let go my wrist.”
“Drop it!”
“Rod.. . you can probably make me drop this knife. You’re bigger and you’ve got the jump on me. But yesterday you teamed with me. You’re busting that team right now. If you don’t let go right away, the team is broken. Then you’ll have to kill me . . . because if you don’t, I’ll trail you. I’ll keep on trailing you until I find you asleep. Then you’ve had it.”
They faced each other across the little fire, eyes locked. Rod breathed hard and tried to think. The evidence was against Jack. But had this little runt tracked him, slugged him, stolen everything he had? It looked like it.
Yet it did not feel like it. He told himself that he could handle the kid if his story did not ring true. He let go Jack’s wrist. “All right,” he said angrily, “tell me how you got my knife.”