Then Whitey joined in on the chorus, in a quiet, sad-but-satisfied judgment that the wilderness had passed, but that it had had to, as all things must. Then Lona took up the verse again, in lilting wonder that the same wilderness had greeted men anew, on distant planets, under suns unseen from Terra.
Then the chorus again, that these too had passed, as they’d had to; and another verse, another planet, a hundred more, each greeting humankind with wilderness, to tame and then destroy within the bars of hedges; then the chorus, and one final verse, in notes that soared with triumph—for bit by bit, men had learned to live within the wilderness, and preserve it—and yonder, past the marches, new planets beckoned with their forests—the ancient home of humans, which they must ever seek.
Dar sat, stunned. How could he have ever thought that poem was great when he’d read it without hearing its music?
Then the keyboard slashed out a great, jarring discord, and they were off into another bawdy song. And so it went—bits of poetry sandwiched in between carousing, continually taking the audience by surprise. When Whitey finally bade the audience give the singer time for a drink, Dar was on his feet with the rest of them, applauding wildly and shouting, “More! More!” Then Lona and Whitey came up to the table, she flushed and glowing, he smiling, grinning, and Dar felt very foolish.
“Sit, sit!” Whitey waved him into his chair. “And thousands of thanks, youngling. That’s the greatest praise a singer can get—that you forget yourself in the music.”
Lona didn’t say anything, but she answered with a look that set Dar’s blood thrilling through him and gave his teeth a tingle.
Then the waiter broke the spell by plunking glasses down in front of the singers.
“I can believe it!” Sam exploded. “I couldn’t believe such a distinguished poet would be playing in taverns—but I’ve heard you! I believe it!”
“Well—I’m glad to know I’m still myself,” Whitey said, with a twinkle in his eye. “And a poet I am—but ‘distinguished’ I most emphatically am not!”
“Don’t let him bother you,” Lona assured Sam. “You couldn’t have known it was an insult.”
“But what’re you doing, playing in a backwater bar on a boondock planet?”
“Looking for a clean breath of air.” Whitey’s mouth tightened a little. “The bars on Terra, now, they’re so damn polite you can’t get away with anything but poetry, and that takes all the fun out of it. Also, they don’t really listen—they just want you for background while they try to make time with each other. And say a word about politics, and wham! you’re out the door! They’ve gone effete, they’ve gone gloomy, they’ve gone hopeless, and the finest songs in the world won’t cheer ‘em! Things get better as you go away from Sol—but even here, though there’s some life, they’ve lost the sense of joy and wonder. They want to just sit back behind thick walls and taste fat meat, and they don’t want to hear about hunting dragons.”
“It’s true enough,” Lona agreed, “but you’re not so young any more, Grandfather.”
“That’s so.” Whitey nodded. “That’s why I need to seek for life and freshness.”
“But I am fresh,” Lona pointed out, “and fully alive, and no doubt of it! Just give me a try at being decadent, Grandfather—just give me a little try!”
Whitey sighed, and started to answer, but a huge slab of lard interrupted him, six feet four in height and three feet wide, four feet at the waist, with little, squinting, piggy eyes and an outhrust jaw. “Whatsa matter, singer? Don’t like progress?”
Whitey’s eyes kindled. “Progress? Just because you get more goods doesn’t mean your soul’s better!”
“So, who are you, my father confessor?” The thickened thug grabbed Whitey’s shirtfront and yanked him out of his chair. “Disgusting little bastard! First talking politics, and now religion! Why, I oughta paste you up on the wall.”
“Go ahead,” Whitey caroled, “try!”
The thug stared at him for a moment; then his eyes narrowed, and he wound up for a pitch with a snarl.
Whitey chopped down on his elbow, hard.
The beefy one dropped him with a howl, and two more slabs of meat waded in, reaching for Whitey. Someone yanked Dar out of his chair and flipped him around with a fist to his jaw. He slammed back against the tabletop and sat up, blinking, the roar of a full-scale brawl coming faintly through the ringing in his ears. Most of the patrons were squealing and clearing back against the walls, looking for an exit. A knot of thugs kept trying to form around Whitey, but Father Marco kept roaring in, yanking them out of the way by their collars and bumping them away with his back when they tried to swing back in. The ones who did get in kept popping back as Whitey caught them with undercuts.
Sam and Lona fought back-to-back, with clips to the chin, and kicks to the shin. So far, they’d yielded a lot of hoppers.
Then Dar saw the glint of steel swinging up at Sam’s belly.
He shouted and leaped forward, lurching in between Sam and her attacker. The blade slid along his side, opening the skin; he bleated in pain and anger, and pivoted to face the slice artist.
He was tall and fat, with a gloating grin. “You’ll do just as well.” The knife snaked out at his liver.
Dar swung to the side, grabbing the man’s wrist, cradling the elbow on top of his own, and snapping down. The thug yelled, high and hoarsely; his hand opened, and the knife fell out. Then a grenade exploded on the back of Dar’s neck.
He lifted his head, blinking blearily, and got a great view of feet kicking and lunging all around him. Through the singing in his ears, he heard the hoot of police horns. About time! Then it occurred to him that the tangling feet all around him might think he was part of the floor. He stumbled to his feet, and looked up into a breast-patch that said “Police.” He looked on up to a grinning face underneath a helmet, and noticed an electroclub swinging down at him. He spun away, to find a stun-gun level with his chest, with another police-patch behind it. He yelled and leaped to the side just as the club came crashing down and the stun-gun fired. The one cop was shocked, the other was stunned, and a third caught Dar around the middle. Dar slammed a fist down—right on a helmet. The cop dropped him and leveled a stun-gun. Then the cop dropped, period, and Father Marco grabbed Dar’s arm and yanked him over the scrambling uniform. “Follow me! Fast!” He turned away, and Dar stumbled after him. He bumped into Sam, coming up on his right, and caromed off Whitey on his left. Father Marco yanked open a door, and Lona darted through ahead of them. “Follow her!” the priest snapped.
Well, it went along with Dar’s natural inclinations; he just wished he hadn’t had so much company. He clattered down a set of narrow steps, following Lona’s slim form, and came out in a cellar surrounded by shelves of kegs and racks of bottles. The door slammed behind him, and the noise of the fight diminished to a far-off rumble.
“Quick! It won’t take them but a few minutes to think of the cellar!” Father Marco brushed past them, fumbled at a bolthead in the paneled wall, and swung open a hidden door. Lona darted through, and Dar followed.
Father Marco slammed the door behind Whitey, and Dar found himself suddenly in total darkness. Something soft and curved brushed against him. Lona sprang to his mind’s eye, and he wished she hadn’t brushed away so quickly.
“Dar?” Sam whispered, right next to him, and he fairly jumped. “Yeah, right here,” he whispered back through a whirl of emotions. She’d sounded shy and unsure of herself—feminine. It roused every protective reflex he had—and a full flood of hormones behind them. And the touch of her …