Neq the Sword

Still silence. Neq knew that the crazies kept track of all the nomad leaders, and had duplicate dossiers.

"Stand before the window," a voice called at last.

Neq walked to the shattered window. He saw that the rough sworders were stumbling away with their comrades.

"There is a Neq-sword listed," another voice said. "Ask him who his father is."

"Nem the Sword," Neq answered without waiting for the question. These crazies! "And my sister is Boma; she took Born the Dagger's band and bore two boys by him."

"We have no record of that here," the second voice said after a pause. "But it sounds authentic. Did he serve in the nomad empire of Sol of All Weapons?"

"Born? No. But if you saw my action of a moment ago, you know _I_ served."

"We have to trust him," the first voice said.

Neq returned to the door. There was the sound of laboriously shifting furniture. Keys. It opened.

Two old men stood within. They were typical crazies: cleanshaven, hair shorn, parted and combed, spectacles, white shirts with sleeves, long trousers with creases, stiff polished leather shoes. Ludicrous apparel for any type of combat. Both were shaking visibly, obviously unused to personal duress and afraid of Neq himself.

"How did you hold them off?" Neq asked, genuinely curious. A nomad in such decrepit condition would begin excavating his caim.

One crazy picked up a vaguely swordlike instrument. "This is a power drill, operating off house current. I turned it on and put it against any part of the body that entered the building. It was sickening but effective."

"And we do have weapons," the other said. "But we aren't adept at their use."

Obviously. "How long has this been going on?"

"For two days. We've had similar attacks recently, but our supply trucks were able to disperse them. This time the truck did not come."

"Probably ambushed, boarded and wrecked," Neq said. "I found three gutted hostels too. But those jackals never had the nerve to attack you before. What's the reason?"

"We don't know. Supplies have been short, and we have not been able to stock our hostels sufficiently. The nomads seem to have been making war against us."

"Not the nomads! Those were outlaws!"

They peered at him dubiously. "We don't question your values, but--"

"My values aren't hurting," Neq said. "You have evidence that regular warriors are rampaging against you?"

"It seems so."

"But that's suicidal! We are not completely dependent on the hostels, but. they do make possible a special way of life. Their sanctity has always been honored."

"So we thought. But as you have seen--"

Neq sighed. "I have seen. Well, I want you to know that I do not condone this destruction, and I'm sure most nomads' agree with me. How may I help you?"

The two exchanged timid glances. "Would you be willing to bear a message to our main depot?"

"Gladly. But the way things are going, you need protection here. If I go, you won't survive long."

"We can not desert our post," one man said sadly.

"Better that than death," Neq pointed out.

"It is a matter of principle."

He shrugged. "That's why you are called the crazies. You are crazy."

"If you will carry the message--"

"I'll take the message. But first I think I'd better see to your defenses. I can round up a few men--"

"No. We have never worked that way."

"Crazies, look," Neq exclaimed, exasperated. "If you don't work that way now, your post will surely and shortly be a smoking hole, and you buried under it. You have to take some note of reality."

"A compelling case," the man admitted. "You have obviously had tactical experience. But if we do not function according to our philosophy, we have no point in functioning at all."

Neq shook his head. "Crazy," he repeated, admiring their perverse courage. "Give me your message."

The main post was a school. The message was for one Doctor Jones, and he meant to deliver it personally to the man.

A blonde crazy girl sat at a desk as though guarding her master from intrusions. "And who is calling?" she asked, her professional eye analyzing him comprehensively. She was quite clean, and that was mildly annoying too.

"Neq the Sword."

"N E K or N E G?"

He merely stared at her.

"Oh, illiterate," she said after a moment. "Dr. Jones will see you now."

He entered the interior office and handed over the written message. The aged, balding crazy within broke the seal immediately and studied the scribbled sheet of paper. He looked grave. "I wish we had been able to install telephonic cables. So our trucks have not been getting through?" he obviously knew the answer.

"Those two men are probably dead by now," Neq said. "Crazies just won't listen to reason. I offered to protect them, but--"

"Our ways differ from yours. Otherwise we would be nomads ourselves--as many of us have been, in youth."

"You were a warrior?" Neq asked incredulously. "What weapon?"

"Sword, like you. But that was forty years ago." "Why did you give it up?" "I discovered a superior philosophy." Oh. "Well, those crazies at the outposts are dying by their philosophies. You'd better call them in." "I shall."

At least the crazy master had some sense! "Why is this happening? Attacks on your posts, hostels--it was never this way before."

"Never in your memory, perhaps. I could give you an answer, but not a completely satisfactory one." Dr. Jones sat behind his desk and made figures with his hands. He had long spindly wrinkled fingers. "We have been unable to supply the hostels properly in recent months. Normal attrition thus reduces some of these to virtual uselessness for travelers. When that happens, some men react adversely--and lacking the stability of civilization, they strike out senselessly. They are hungry, they want clothing and weapons--and none are available. They feel they have been unfairly denied."

"But why can't you supply them anymore?"

"Because our own supplies have been cut off. We are chiefly distributors; we do not manufacture the implements. We do have a number of mechanized farms--but food is only part of our service."

"You get the weapons and things from somebody else?" Neq had not realized this.

"Until recently, yes. But we have had no shipments for several months, and our own resources are practically exhausted. So we are frankly unable to provide for the nomads, with the unfortunate results you have noted."

"Didn't they tell you what happened? Your suppliers, I mean?"

"We have had ho contact Television broadcasts ceased abruptly, so there seems to have been a severe power loss. Our suppy trucks have not returned. I fear that now the very restlessness our lapse promotes is rebounding against us: a feedback effect. The situation is serious."

"Your whole hostel system will break down?"

"And, I am very much afraid, our schools and hospitals and farms. Yes. We cannot withstand the concerted attacks of so many armed men. Unless we are able to resolve this matter expeditiously, I have grave reservations about the stability of our society in its present form."

"You're saying we're all in trouble?"

Dr. Jones nodded. "You are succinct."

"What you need is someone to go find out what's wrong at the other end. Someone who can fight. If your truck drivers are like the men I met at the outpost--"

Jones nodded again.

"I'll go, if you like."

"You are most generous. But you would not be conversant with the details. We would require a written report--"

"I can't write. But I could guard a literate."

Jones sighed. "I will not claim your offer is unenticing. But it would be unethical for us to use you in this fashion. And you might have difficulty protecting a 'crazy'."

"You're right. I can't help a man who won't listen."

"So I thank you for your service in bearing this message." Jones stood up. "You are welcome to remain with us for as long as you desire. But I doubt that you are inclined toward the quiet life."