He was nearing his destination now, and began checking the street names, inlaid attractively in mosaic at every crossing, in the pavement itself. He found his narrow street, found his number.
Guy Thomas hesitated before the stone arch and the door behind it. It was late, indeed. Perhaps he should have waited for another occasion. But he shrugged that off. What other occasion? For all he knew, there might not be any. He had to take what opportunity offered.
He thumped on the door as gently as was consistent with arousing those within. He waited and then put his hand up again to thump once more.
But the door opened inward. He peered, to be confronted with darkness.
“Don’t tread on me,” he said softly, self-consciously.
“The Sons of Liberty Arise,” a voice whispered back. “Come in.”
He moved forward. The door closed behind. And then there was light and a burly figure staring at him.
“Who in Zen are you?” the other rasped.
“I’m from Earth,” Guy said.
“Sarpedon got through!”
“Yes.”
“Good, good. Where is he? Still on Earth?”
“He’s probably dead.”
The other stared anew at the newcomer. “Dead?” he was blankly.
Guy said, “He disappeared. It’s impossible to disappear on Earth. Or all but impossible. Under the circumstances, we assumed he was dead.”
“Oh, the bitches,” the big man groaned.
“We have no evidence who was responsible.”
“I don’t need evidence. Here, come on in. Follow me.”
Guy followed him down a stone corridor, along the edge of a patio garden in the middle of which a, small fountain tinkled. These houses were well done. He looked sharply left and right, as he went. Across the patio, two men were talking, their voices low; on their hips they carried quick-draw holsters. They passed a room, door open; five men sat around a table, playing cards. Guy noted two rifles leaning against the wall.
He followed the other into another room which was comparatively nude of furniture in spite of its size. A large table dominated its center and there were possibly a score of straight chairs, some about the table, some against the walls. The table was piled with a confusion of papers, pamphlets and books. And there was another man seated at it.
The one who had given Guy entrance said, “I’m Zeke. We don’t use second names in our outfit. This is Teucer.”
“My name’s Thomas. Guy Thomas.”
Teucer was a slight, strained man, a hungry look about him. His voice was just this side of being shrill. He said, “Don’t tread on me.”
Guy Thomas said to them both. “Don’t misunderstand my position. I’m here to investigate. I don’t necessarily back the stand you Sons of Liberty people are taking. I’m here to gather information.”
“You’re a man, aren’t you?” Zeke said belligerently.
Guy eyed him.
Zeke said sourly, “Sit down. Did they only send one? We were hoping for a full landing of Space Marines.”
Guy took the proffered chair. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It doesn’t sound ridiculous to us,” Teucer said. “Maybe it wouldn’t be ridiculous to you, if you was a third-rate citizen on a world run by half-crazy mopsies.”
Zeke said, “Let me tell this, Tuecer. We haven’t got much time now. It’ll be dawn, before too long and Zen knows when we can get together with Damon and the others and have a real meeting.”
“Who’s Damon?” Guy said.
“The headman in the Sons of Liberty.”
“All right, obviously I’ll have to see him sooner or later. Before we go any further; somebody took a shot at me on my way over here. I think I winged him.”
Both Zeke and Teucer gawked at him. Though both wore the evidently universal tunic which came down, kilt-like, to approximately the knees, in other respect they could hardly have been much different. Zeke was a dark man, gruff and unhappy. Teucer was overly thin, pale of face, quick in nervous movement. They wouldn’t have impressed one as being a team.
Guy waited for their comment.
Zeke came to his feet, his face unbelieving, crossed to a niche set into the stone wall and brought forth a flask and three glasses. He brought the things back and set them on the table. He poured three drinks.
“Wine,” he said. He took his up. “Who could it have been?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Guy said reasonably. “A footpad? A common stickup man? But the thing is, he tried to kill me, not just roll me for my money.”
Teucer was shaking his head. “I’ve read about how things are on Earth, but there’s not what you’d call stickup men here in Themiscyra. For all practical purposes, there’s no crime. It’s all one big crime, maybe, but—”
Zeke cut in. “The thing is,” he told Guy, “that there’s no money. Not like you know it. So it’s not much use being a footpad, or whatever it was you called him. All he could get from crisping you would be your watch, your ring. It’s not worth it.”
Guy didn’t like this. It added a factor that simply shouldn’t have been here. It worried him. He said, “How many knew I was coming?”
Zeke scowled at him. “How do you mean? Nobody knew you were coming. How could we know you were coming?” Sarpedon had no way of getting a message back to us.”
Guy said, “Look. Let’s start at beginnings. Tell me, briefly, your position. I say briefly, because, of course, I heard your Sarpedon’s story.” He took up his glass and took a swallow. The wine was excellent, clean and fruity and similar to a Soave from that area of Earth once known as Italy.
Zeke took a deep draught of his own winea wiped his mouth with the back of a beefy paw and said, “All right. Here we go. It’s got to the point on Amazonia where we can’t stand it any longer, understand? Men I mean. You get to the point finally where you can’t stand it any longer, right?”
Guy said, “Go on.”
“All right. A guy here, a guy there, began talking, began studying up on history, especially the history of revolts, revolutions, armed rebellions. The mopsies can’t hide it all. If they want to be educated themselves, they’ve got to run the chance of us getting educated too. It’s too hard to hide books and reading tapes. Anyway, it started with a single man here and there and began to grow. The message began to spread. Then, suddenly, almost overnight, we found ourselves with an organization, and underground, the Sons of Liberty. It’s spread. It’s spread all over, not only in Paphlagonia but Lybia. The men over there are as fed up as we are here.”
“And how’s the movement going?” Guy said carefully.
“It’s all set to blow. There’s only one thing. Precious few men ever get the chance to work out with weapons, guns, explosives, that sort of thing.”
Guy Thomas thought of Podner Bates and nodded understanding.
“The moment our underground stuck its head up, it’d be a bloodbath. Well, I guess that part of it’s already obvious to you. At any rate, we decided to send a representative to United Planets. It wasn’t easy. It’s practically impossible for a man to leave Amazonia.”
“So I understand,” Guy nodded, sipping at the wine again.
Teucer filled all three of the glasses again. He began to say something but Zeke held up a hand.
“Sarpedon was one of our best. He was, well, one of the top male athletes in Paphlagonia—they let us participate in some sports.” He grunted disgust. “At any rate, he was tops. He and Damon were kind of like brothers. I knew him myself. He was our best.” He paused momentarily and bit out, “The bitches, oh the bitches!”
“Go ahead,” Guy said.
“Well, the way we did it, we smuggled him out to the artificial satellite where the United Planets embassy is. We plotted it thoroughly, taking lots of time, and we finally made it. Hippolyte’s gang never found out.”