“They’ll wait for their pal,” Joe said.
“No. This thing seems to be run by rules. I say that if there are two of us left they’ll only toss in two of them.”
The two warriors moved cautiously toward the ledge, their shields high, their swords held tightly.
In the beginning a vast planet called Thor was earmarked and set aside for the wars between the soldiers of Kane and the soldiers of the past.
In the beginning there was difficulty in selecting the proper period of the past. To go too far back resulted in poor warfare. To go too short a distance into the past, was dangerous. At last it was decided that the savages of the twentieth century were the best. They had the beginnings of a technology and they yet retained much animal cunning.
In the beginning of this mock warfare the soldiers of Kane used the most modem of weapons and the opponents were annihilated so rapidly that the technicians were hard pressed to maintain the supply of combatants.
Also, with such vast armies on Thor, when the available weapons were equalized the loss among the soldiery of Kane was too great. In addition the images of the conflict beamed to all planets were vast, dusty, confusing.
The great-grandson of Bannot, bored with this type of conflict, devised new rules. He changed the scene of the conflict from Thor to Lassa. Lassa was a lush Earth-size planet, circling the bright sun Delta Virginis.
He ordered the manufacture of small individual scanners. He ordered brought from the past young healthy persons of both sexes, savages who could be expected to adjust to the wild conditions of Lassa and put up respectable battle.
In addition his propagandists inculcated a horror of the savages in the minds of those selected to oppose them.
In the beginning, because billions sat entranced before the screens watching the combat, there was intense rivalry among the young men to be selected as they hoped thus to gain fame.
But Orn, the great-grandson of Bannot, was shrewd enough to realize that he could kill two birds with one stone by making combat with the savages a necessary stepping stone to rank and authority within his elite corps of space warriors.
In this manner he assured his forces of constant supply of bold officer material as hand to hand combat, obsolete for two thousand years, was a screen to sieve out the faint of heart.
It was discovered that, by arming his warriors with short broadsword, shield and battle axe, the thrill of the combat was intensified in close quarters.
And Orn was sufficiently wise to know that the periodic spectacles served to keep reasonably content a mass of humans who otherwise might think of the personal liberty which they lacked, of the restrictions of life under dictatorship.
Chapter VI
No Stage
As dusk came, as the last attempt ceased, Joe laid on his back on the sandy floor of the cave, completely exhausted.
Mary Callahan stared down into the valley, watched the shadows slowly mask the two bodies remaining.
During the bitter afternoon, during the silent combat, neither side had been able to gain any decisive edge.
The crucial moment had come when the dark-haired warrior had, for a moment, gained the flat place in front of the cave. A blow from the club held in Joe’s right hand had knocked his sword spinning into the valley. The warrior had left his axe behind so as to simplify the ascent.
He had blocked Joe’s further blows with the shield, had beat an orderly retreat back down the ledge.
Joe sighed, inched over to the sagging water-bag, drank deeply.
Mary said ruefully, “Paging DeMille. Only his makeup was never this good.”
Joe grunted. He said, “Always with the jokes, eh?”
“Either that or start screaming, laddie. Which’ll you have?”
He didn’t answer. She looked around, said, “Our best gadget was the rocks. And we’re down to three good-sized ones. Can you help me or do I go down and see if I can bring up a few lady-sized ones.”
Joe said, his voice oddly high, “Damn you, Johnny! You promised me that five bucks!”
Mary went over to him. She knelt and put the back of her hand against Joe’s forehead. It was like fire. She got some of the fetid water, tore a new strip from the hem of her dress and began to bathe his face.
Joe moaned, rolled from side to side and talked incessantly. At last he went to sleep. Mary suddenly realized that the last of the carefully guarded store of matches was gone and in the heat of combat they had let the last embers die.
The stars shone with hard brilliance. She sat in the cave mouth. For a time she sang softly to herself because it was good to hear the lift of a song. In the starlight she felt her way down the ledge, struggled painfully back up with stones. Four trips was all that she could manage.
And then she talked aloud to herself. She told herself that it was a stupid and empty thing she was doing, to resist. The second death might come as quickly as the first. But she felt the hard core of her courage, the will that would not give up. And she knew a sardonic amusement.
She gnawed on the strips of hard smoked meat until her hunger was gone. Joe shivered in his comatose state, his teeth chattering.
She lay down beside him, warming his body with hers, at last drifting off to uneasy sleep.
The shadow in front of the morning sun awakened her. Even as she rolled to her feet, backed slowly to the cave wall, she knew that she had been fighting to remain asleep, squinting her eyes against the sun.
It was the dark-haired one.
He walked lightly toward her on the balls of his feet. At first he was in silhouette and then he turned so that she could see his face where the light struck it, see the lip lifted away from white teeth.
He lifted the sword, his right arm held in front of his body for a backhand slash.
Mary Callahan lifted her chin, smiled at him and said softly, “A quick one right across this swanlike neck, honey-bun. A real quick one.”
The web of muscles stood out on his bronzed forearm. Dawn light shone on the crest of the helmet.
She shut her eyes and waited. But the slashing blow did not come. She heard the thud, the grunt of effort and opened her eyes to see the dark-haired one drop like a log.
Joe stood on his feet, the wildness gone from his eyes. He held the club in his left hand. The swelling had begun to leave his right arm.
He said, “He was a soft one, Mary. He couldn’t quite do it. And while he was making up his mind I got him.”
Joe dropped the club, picked up the sword, wedged his toe under the fallen one’s shoulder, rolled him over and aimed the point of the sword at the unprotected throat for a downward thrust.
“No!” Mary shouted. “Don’t do it, Joe.”
He gave her an odd look. “Why not?”
“Because… well, maybe we can use him for a hostage.”
The fallen man stirred. Joe shrugged, kicked him on the angle of the jaw, while Mary cut two strips from the empty water bag, tied the man’s wrists tightly, then his ankles.
As she finished his ankles, the man opened his eyes and stared calmly at her. Joe once again pressed the tip of the sword to the man’s throat. He looked as calmly up at Joe. The keen tip punctured the skin and a tiny rivulet of blood flowed down into the hollow of his strong throat.
Joe cursed. “I could have done it before, Mary, but I can’t do it with him looking at me.”