Again. Again. Again.
“What are you doing there, mister?” an unfriendly voice asked suddenly from a point just behind his right shoulder.
Theremon looked up, startled, dismayed. The first rule of survival in this forest was that you must never let yourself get so involved in anything that you failed to notice strangers sneaking up on you.
There were five of them. Men, about his own age. They looked as ragged as anyone else living in the forest. They didn’t seem especially crazy, as people went these days: no glassy eyes, no drooling mouths, only an expression that was grim and weary and determined. They didn’t appear to be carrying any weapons other than clubs, but their attitude was distinctly hostile.
Five against one. All right, he thought, take the damned graben and choke on it. He wasn’t foolish enough to try to put up a fight.
“I said, ‘What are you doing there, mister?’ ” the first man repeated, more coldly than before.
Theremon glared. “What does it look like? I’m trying to start a fire.”
“That’s what we thought.”
The stranger stepped forward. Carefully, deliberately, he aimed a kick into Theremon’s little woodpile. The painstakingly assembled kindling-wood went scattering, and the skewered graben toppled to the ground.
“Hey, wait a second—!”
“No fires here, mister. That’s the law.” Brusquely, firmly, bluntly. “Possession of fire-making equipment is prohibited. This wood is to use for a fire. That’s obvious. And you admit guilt besides.”
“Guilt?” Theremon said, incredulously.
“You said you were making a fire. These stones, they seem to be fire-making equipment, right? The law’s clear on that. Prohibited.”
At a signal from the leaders, two of the others came forward. One grabbed Theremon about the neck and chest from behind, and the other took the two stones he had been using from his hands and hurled them into the lake. They splashed and disappeared. Theremon, watching them go, felt the way he imagined Beenay must have felt at seeing his telescopes smashed by the mob.
“Let—go—of—me—” Theremon muttered, struggling.
“Let go of him,” said the leader. He dug his foot into Theremon’s fire-site again, grinding the bits of straw and stems into the dirt.—“Fires aren’t allowed any more,” he said to Theremon. “We’ve had all the fires we’re ever going to have. We can’t permit no more fires on account of the risk, the suffering, the damage, don’t you know that? You try to build another fire, we’re going to come back and smash your head in, you hear me?”
“It was fire that ruined the world,” one of the others said.
“Fire that drove us from our homes.”
“Fire is the enemy. Fire is forbidden. Fire is evil.”
Theremon stared. Fire evil? Fire forbidden?
So they were crazy after all!
“The penalty for trying to start a fire, first offense,” the first man said, “is a fine. We fine you this animal here. To teach you not to endanger innocent people. Take it, Listigon. It’s a good lesson to him. The next time this fellow catches something, he’ll remember that he oughtn’t try to conjure up the enemy just because he feels like having some cooked meat.”
“No!” Theremon cried in a half-strangled voice, as Listigon bent to pick up the graben. “That’s mine, you morons! Mine! Mine!”
And he charged wildly at them, all caution swept away by exasperation and frustration.
Someone hit him, hard, in the midsection. He gasped and gagged and doubled over, clutching his belly with his arms, and someone else hit him from behind, a blow in the small of the back that nearly sent him tumbling forward on his face. But this time he jabbed backward sharply with his elbow, felt a satisfying contact, heard a grunt of pain.
He had been in fights before, but not for a long, long time. And never one against five. But there was no running away from this one now. What he had to do, he told himself, was stay on his feet and keep on backpedaling until he was up against the rock wall, where at least they couldn’t come at him from the rear. And then just try to hold them off, kicking and punching and if necessary biting and roaring, until they decided to let him be.
A voice somewhere deep within him said, They’re completely nuts. They’re perfectly likely to keep this up until they beat you to death.
Nothing he could do about that now, though. Except try to hold them off.
He kept his head down and punched as hard as he could, while steadily pushing onward toward the wall. They crowded around him, battering him from all sides. But he stayed on his feet. Their numerical advantage wasn’t as overwhelming as he had expected. In these close quarters, the five of them were unable all to get at him at once, and Theremon was able to play the confusion to his own benefit, striking out in any direction and moving as quickly as he could while they lumbered around trying to avoid hitting each other.
Even so, he knew he couldn’t take much more. His lip was cut and one eye was starting to swell, and he was getting short of breath. One more good punch could send him down. He held one arm in front of his face and struck with the other, while continuing to back toward the shelter of the rock wall. He kicked someone. There was a howl and a curse. Someone else kicked back. Theremon took it on his thigh and swung around, hissing in pain.
He swayed. He struggled desperately for air. It was hard to see, hard to tell what was going on. They were all around him now, fists flailing at him from all sides. He wasn’t going to reach the wall. He wasn’t going to stay on his feet much longer. He was going to fall, and they were going to trample him, and he was going to die—
Going—to—die—
Then he became aware of confusion within the confusion: the shouts of different voices, new people mingling in the melee, a host of figures everywhere. Fine, he thought. Another bunch of crazies joining the fun. But maybe I can slip away somehow while all this is going on—
“In the name of the Fire Patrol, stop!” a woman’s voice called, clear, loud, commanding. “That’s an order! Stop, all of you! Get away from him! Now!”
Theremon blinked and rubbed his forehead. He looked around, bleary-eyed.
There were four newcomers in the clearing. They seemed fresh and crisp, and were wearing clean clothes. Flowing green neckerchiefs were tied about their throats. They were carrying needle-guns.
The woman—she appeared to be in charge—made a quick imperative gesture with the weapon she held, and the five men who had attacked Theremon moved away from him and went obediently to stand in front of her. She glowered sternly at them.
Theremon stared in disbelief.
“What’s all this about?” she asked the leader of the five in a steely tone.
“He was starting a fire—trying to—he was going to roast an animal, but we came along—”
“All right. I see no fire here. The laws have been maintained. Clear off.”
The man nodded. He reached down to take the graben.
“Hey! That belongs to me,” Theremon said hoarsely.
“No,” the other said. “You have to lose it. We fined you for breaking the fire laws.”
“I’ll decide the punishment,” the woman said. “Leave the animal and clear off! Clear off!”
“But—”
“Clear off, or I’ll have you up on charges before Altinol. Get! Get!”
The five men went slinking away. Theremon continued to stare.
The woman wearing the green neckerchief came toward him.
“I guess I was just in time, wasn’t I, Theremon?”
“Siferra,” he said in amazement. “Siferra!”