Color was coming back into her lean, handsome face. She said: “Don’t you bother coming home, Fara. I’ll do everything neccessary. I’ll pack all that’s needed into the carplane, including a folding bed. We’ll sleep in the back room of the shop.”
Morning came palely, but it was ten o’clock before a shadow darkened the open door; and Constable Jor came in. He looked shamefaced.
“I’ve got an order here for your arrest,” he said.
“Tell those who sent you,” Fara replied deliberately, “that I resisted arrest — with a gun.”
The deed followed the words with such rapidity that Jor blinked. He stood like that for a moment, a big, sleepy-looking man, staring at that gleaming, magical revolver; then:
“I have a summons here ordering you to appear at the great court of Ferd this afternoon. Will you accept it?”
“Certainly.”
“Then you will be there?”
“I’ll send my lawyer,” said Fara. “Just drop the summons on the floor there. Tell them I took it.”
The weapons shop man had said, “Do not ridicule by word any legal measure of the Imperial authorities. Simply disobey them.”
Jor went out, and seemed relieved. It took an hour before Mayor Mel Dale came pompously through the door.
“See here, Fara Clark,” he bellowed from the doorway. “You can’t get away with this. This is defiance of the law.”
Fara was silent as His Honor waddled farther into the building. It was puzzling, almost amazing, that Mayor Dale would risk his plump, treasured body. Puzzlement ended as the mayor said in a low voice. “Good work, Fara; I knew you had it in you. There’s dozens of us in Glay behind you, so stick it out. I had to yell at you just now, because there’s a crowd outside. Yell back at me, will you? Let’s have a real name calling. But, first, a word of warning: the manager of the Automatic Repair Shop is on his way here with his bodyguards, two of them—”
Shakily, Fara watched the mayor go out. The crisis was at hand. He braced himself, thought: Let them come, let them—
It was easier than he had thought — for the men who entered the shop turned pale when they saw the holstered revolver. There was a violence of blustering, nevertheless, that narrowed finally down to:
“Look here,” the man said, “we’ve got your note for twelve thousand one hundred credits. You’re not going to deny you owe that money.”
“I’ll buy it back,” said Fara in a stony voice, “for exactly half, not a cent more.”
The strong-jawed young man looked at him for a long time. “We’ll take it,” he said finally, curtly.
Fara said, “I’ve got the agreement here—”
His first customer was old man Miser Lan Harris. Fara stared at the long-faced oldster with a vast surmise, and his first, amazed comprehension came of how the weapons shop must have settled on Harris’ lot — by arrangement.
It was an hour after Harris had gone that Creel’s mother stamped into the shop. She closed the door.
“Well,” she said, “you did it, eh? Good work. I’m sorry if I seemed rough with you when you came to my place, but we weapon shop supporters can’t afford to take risks for those who are not on our side.
“But never mind that. I’ve come to take Creel home. The important thing is to return everything to normal as quickly as possible.”
It was over; incredibly it was over. Twice, as he walked home that night, Fara stopped in midstride, and wondered if it had not all been a dream. The air was like wine. The little world of Glay spread before him, green and gracious, a peaceful paradise where time had stood still.
NERVES
Lester del Rey
1
The graveled walks between the sprawling, utilitarian structures of the National Atomic Products Co., Inc., were crowded with the usual five o’clock mass of young huskies just off work or going on the extra shift, and the company cafeteria was jammed to capacity and overflowing. But they made good-natured way for Doc Ferrel as he came out, not bothering to stop their horseplay as they would have done with any of the other half hundred officials of the company. He’d been just Doc to them too long for any need of formality.
He nodded back at them easily, pushed through, and went down the walk toward the Infirmary Building, taking his own time. When a man has turned fifty, with gray hairs and enlarged waistline to show for it, he begins to realize that comfort and relaxation are worth cultivating. Besides, Doc could see no good reason for filling his stomach with food and then rushing around in a flurry that gave him no chance to digest it. He let himself in the side entrance, palming his cigar out of long habit, and passed through the surgery to the door marked:
As always, the little room was heavy with the odor of stale smoke and littered with scraps of this and that. His assistant was already there, rummaging busily through the desk with the brass nerve that was typical of him; Ferrel had no objections to it, though, since Blake’s rock-steady hands and unruffled brain were always dependable in a pinch of any sort.
Blake looked up and grinned confidently. “Hi, Doc. Where the deuce do you keep your cigarettes, anyway? Never mind, got ’em…. Ah, that’s better! Good thing there’s one room in this darned building where the ‘No Smoking’ signs don’t count. You and the wife coming out this evening?”
“Not a chance, Blake.” Ferrel stuck the cigar back in his mouth and settled down into the old leather chair, shaking his head. “Palmer phoned down half an hour ago to ask me if I’d stick through the graveyard shift. Seems the plant’s got a rush order for some particular batch of dust that takes about twelve hours to cook, so they’ll be running No. 3 and 4 till midnight or later.”
“Hm-m-m. So you’re hooked again. I don’t see why any of us has to stick here — nothing serious ever pops up now. Look what I had today; three cases of athlete’s foot — better send a memo down to the showers for extra disinfection — a guy with dandruff, four running noses, and the office boy with a sliver in his thumb! They bring everything to us except their babies — and they’d have them here if they could — but nothing that couldn’t wait a week or a month. Anne’s been counting on you and the missus, Doc; she’ll be disappointed if you aren’t there to celebrate her sticking ten years with me. Why don’t you let the kid stick it out alone tonight?”
“I wish I could, but this happens to be my job. As a matter of fact, though, Jenkins worked up an acute case of duty and decided to stay on with me tonight.” Ferrel twitched his lips in a stiff smile, remembering back to the time when his waistline had been smaller than his chest and he’d gone through the same feeling that destiny had singled him out to save the world. “The kid had his first real case today, and he’s all puffed up. Handled it all by himself, so he’s now Dr. Jenkins, if you please.”
Blake had his own memories. “Yeah? Wonder when he’ll realize that everything he did by himself came from your hints? What was it, anyway?”
“Same old story — simple radiation burns. No matter how much we tell the men when they first come in, most of them can’t see why they should wear three ninety-five percent efficient shields when the main converter shield cuts off all but one-tenth percent of the radiation. Somehow, this fellow managed to leave off his two inner shields and pick up a year’s burn in six hours. Now he’s probably back on No. 1, still running through the hundred liturgies I gave him to say and hoping we won’t get him sacked.”