As he worked on it, it tilted forward, moved slowly about, pointed itself right at Myshtigo.
He'd done it quite neatly, I must admit that. It was during a period of over half an hour, and he'd advanced the barrel with almost imperceptible movements.
I snarled, though, when its position registered in my cerebrum, and I was at his side in three steps.
I struck it from his hands.
It clattered on some small stone about eight feet away. My hand was stinging from the slap I'd given it.
Hasan was on his feet, his teeth shuttling around inside his beard, clicking together like flint and steel. I could almost see the sparks.
"Say it!" I said. "Go ahead, say something! Anything! You know damn well what you were just doing!"
His hands twitched.
"Go ahead!" I said. "Hit me! Just touch me, even. Then what I do to you will be self-defense, provoked assault. Even George won't be able to put you back together again."
"I was only cleaning my shotgun. You've damaged it."
"You do not point weapons by accident. You were going to kill Myshtigo."
"You are mistaken."
"Hit me. Or are you a coward?"
"I have no quarrel with you."
"You are a coward."
"No, I am not"
After a few seconds he smiled.
"Are you afraid to challenge me?" he asked.
And there it was. The only way.
The move had to be mine. I had hoped it wouldn't have to be that way. I had hoped that I could anger him or shame him or provoke him into striking me or challenging me.
I knew then that I couldn't.
Which was bad, very bad.
I was sure I could take him with anything I cared to name. But if he had it his way, things could be different. Everybody knows that there are some people with an aptitude for music. They can hear a piece once and sit down and play it on the piano or thelinstra. They can pick up a new instrument, and inside a few hours they can sound as if they've been playing it for years. They're good, very good at such things, because they have that talent-the ability to coordinate a special insight with a series of new actions.
Hasan was that way with weapons. Maybe some other people could be the same, but they don't go around doing it-not for decades and decades, anyway, with everything from boomerangs to blowguns. The dueling code would provide Hasan with the choice of means, and he was the most highly skilled killer I'd ever known.
But I had to stop him, and I could see that this was the only way it could be done, short of murder. I had to take him on his terms.
"Amen," I said. "I challenge you to a duel."
His smile remained, grew.
"Agreed-before these witnesses. Name your second."
"Phil Graver. Name yours."
"Mister Dos Santos."
"Very good. I happen to have a dueling permit and the registration forms in my bag, and I've already paid the death-tax for one person. So there needn't be much of a delay. When, where, and how do you want it?"
"We passed a good clearing about a kilometer back up the road."
"Yes; I recall it."
"We shall meet there at dawn tomorrow."
"Check," I said. "And as to weapons…?"
He fetched his knapcase, opened it. It bristled with interesting sharp things, glistened with ovoid incendiaries, writhed with coils of metal and leather.
He withdrew two items and closed the pack.
My heart sank.
"The sling of David," he announced.
I inspected them.
"At what distance?"
"Fifty meters," he said.
"You've made a good choice," I told him, not having used one in over a century myself. "I'd like to borrow one tonight, to practice with. If you don't want to lend it to me, I can make my own."
"You may take either, and practice all night with it."
"Thanks." I selected one and hung it from my belt. Then I picked up one of our three electric lanterns. "If anybody needs me, I'll be up the road at the clearing," I said. "Don't forget to post guards tonight. This is a rough area."
"Do you want me to come along?" asked Phil.
"No. Thanks anyway. I'll go alone. See you."
"Then good night."
I hiked back along the way, coming at last to the clearing. I set up the lantern at one end of the place, so that it reflected upon a stand of small trees, and I moved to the other end.
I collected some stones and slung one at a tree. I missed.
I slung a dozen more, hitting with four of them.
I kept at it. After about an hour, I was hitting with a little more regularity. Still, at fifty meters I probably couldn't match Hasan.
The night wore on, and I kept slinging. After a time, I reached what seemed to be my learning plateau for accuracy. Maybe six out of eleven of my shots were coming through.
But I had one thing in my favor, I realized, as I twirled the sling and sent another stone smashing into a tree. I delivered my shots with an awful lot of force. Whenever I was on target there was much power behind the strike. I had already shattered several of the smaller trees, and I was sure Hasan couldn't do that with twice as many hits. If I could reach him, fine; but all the power in the world was worthless if I couldn't connect with it.
And I was sure he could reach me. I wondered how much of a beating I could take and still operate.
It would depend, of course, on where he hit me.
I dropped the sling and yanked the automatic from my belt when I heard a branch snap, far off to my right. Hasan came into the clearing.
"What do you want?" I asked him.
"I came to see how your practice was going," he said, regarding the broken trees.
I shrugged, reholstered my automatic and picked up the sling.
"Comes the sunrise and you will learn."
We walked across the clearing and I retrieved the lantern. Hasan studied a small tree which was now, in part, toothpicks. He did not say anything.
We walked back to the camp. Everyone but Dos Santos had turned in. Don was our guard. He paced about the warning perimeter, carrying an automatic rifle. We waved to him and entered the camp.
Hasan always pitched a Gauzy-a one-molecule-layer tent, opaque, feather-light, and very tough. He never slept in it, though. He just used it to stash his junk.
I seated myself on a log before the fire and Hasan ducked inside his Gauzy. He emerged a moment later with his pipe and a block of hardened, resinous-looking stuff, which he proceeded to scale and grind. He mixed it with a bit of burley and then filled the pipe.
After he got it going with a stick from the fire, he sat smoking it beside me.
"I do not want to kill you, Karagee," he said.
"I share this feeling. I do not wish to be killed.''
"But we must fight tomorrow."
"Yes."
"You could withdraw your challenge."
"You could leave by Skimmer."
"I will not."
"Nor will I withdraw my challenge."
"It is sad," he said, after a time. "Sad, that two such as we must fight over the blue one. He is not worth your life, nor mine."
"True," I said, "but it involves more than just his life. The future of this planet is somehow tied up with whatever he is doing."
"I do not know of these things, Karagee. I fight for money. I have no other trade."
"Yes, I know."
The fire burnt low. I fed it more sticks.
"Do you remember the time we bombed the Coast of Gold, in France?" he asked.
"I remember."
"Besides the blue ones, we killed many people."
"Yes."
"The future of the planet was not changed by this, Karagee. For here we are, many years away from the thing, and nothing is different."
"I know that."
"And do you remember the days when we crouched in a hole on a hillside, overlooking the bay at Piraeus? Sometimes you would feed me the belts and I would strafe the blaze-boats, and when I grew tired you would operate the gun. We had much ammunition. The Office Guard did not land that day, nor the next. They did not occupy Athens, and they did not break the Radpol. And we talked as we sat there, those two days and that night, waiting for the fireball to come-and you told me of the Powers in the Sky."