Tunnel in the Sky (31 page)

   
“We weren't talking about that,” Rod explained. “Jackie said that she had no wish to go back to Terra and Jimmy was elaborating. Uselessly, as usual.”

   
Caroline stared. “Why would anybody want to go back?”

   
“Sure,” agreed Jimmy. “This is the place. No income tax. No traffic, no crowds, no commercials, no telephones. Seriously, Rod, every one here was aiming for the Outlands or we wouldn't have been taking a survival test. So what difference does it make? Except that we've got everything sooner.” He squeezed his wife's hand. “I was fooling about that big cigar; I'm rich now, boy, rich!”

   
Agnes and Curt had drawn into the circle, listening. Agnes nodded and said, “For once you aren't joking, Jimmy. The first months we were here I cried myself to sleep every night, wondering if they would ever find us. Now I know they never will- and I don't care! I wouldn't go back if I could; the only thing I miss is lipstick.”

   
Her husband's laugh boomed out. “There you have the truth, Rod. The fleshpots of Egypt . . . put a cosmetics counter across this creek and every woman here will walk on water.”

   
“That's not fair, Curt! Anyhow, you promised to make lipstick.”

   
“Give me time.”

   
Bob Baxter came up and sat down by Rod. “Missed you at the meeting this morning, Rod.”

   
“Tied up. I'll make it next week.”

   
“Good.” Bob, being of a sect which did not require ordination, had made himself chaplain as well as medical officer simply by starting to hold meetings. His undogmatic ways were such that Christian, Jew, Monist, or Moslem felt at ease; his meetings were well attended.

   
“Bob, would you go back?”

   
“Go where, Caroline?”

   
“Back to Terra.”

   
“Yes”

   
Jimmy looked horrified. “Boil me for breakfast! Why?”

   
“Oh, I'd want to come back! But I need to graduate from medical school.” He smiled shyly. “I may be the best surgeon in the neighborhood, but that isn't saying much.”

   
“Well. . .” admitted Jimmy, “I see your point. But you already suit us. Eh, Jackie?”

   
“Yes, Jimmy.”

   
“It's my only regret,” Bob went on. “I've lost ones I

   
should have saved. But it's a hypothetical question. 'Here we rest.'“

   
The question spread. Jimmy's attitude was overwhelmingly popular, even though Bob's motives were respected. Rod said goodnight; he heard them still batting it around after he had gone to bed; it caused him to discuss it with himself.

   
He had decided long ago that they would never be in touch with Earth; he had not thought of it for- how long?- over a year. At first it had been mental hygiene, protection of his morale. Later it was logic: a delay in recall of a week might be a power failure, a few weeks could be a technical difficulty- but months on months was cosmic disaster; each day added a cipher to the infinitesimal probability that they would ever be in touch again.

   
He was now able to ask himself: was this what he wanted?

   
Jackie was right; this was home. Then he admitted that he liked being big frog in a small puddle, he loved his job. He was not meant to be a scientist, nor a scholar, he had never wanted to be a businessman- but what he was doing suited him . . . and he seemed to do it well enough to get by.

   
“'Here we rest!'“

   
He went to sleep in a warm glow.

   
Cliff wanted help with the experimental crops. Rod did not take it too seriously; Cliff always wanted something; given his head he would have everybody working dawn to dark on his farm. But it was well to find out what he wanted- Rod did not underrate the importance of domesticating plants; that was basic for all colonies and triply so for them. It was simply that he did not know much about it.

   
Cliff stuck his head into the mayor's hut. “Ready?”

   
“Sure.” Rod got his spear. It was no longer improvised but bore a point patiently sharpened from steel salvaged from Braun's Thunderbolt. Rod had tried wrought iron but could not get it to hold an edge. “Let's pick up a couple of boys and get a few stobor.”

   
“Okay”

   
Rod looked around. Jimmy was at his potter's wheel, kicking the treadle and shaping clay with his thumb. Jim! Quit that and grab your pike. We're going to have some fun.”

   
Throxton wiped at sweat. “You've talked me into it.” They added Kenny and Mick, then Cliff led them upstream. “I want you to look at the animals.”

   
“All right,” agreed Rod. “Cliff, I had been meaning to speak to you. If you are going to raise those brutes inside the wall, you'll have to be careful about their droppings. Carol has been muttering.”

   
“Rod, I can't do everything! And you can't put them outside, not if you expect them to live.”

   
“Sure, sure! Well, we'll get you more help, that's the only- Just a second!”

   
They were about to pass the last hut; Bruce McGowan was stretched in front of it, apparently asleep. Rod did not speak at once; he was fighting down rage. He wrestIed with himself, aware that the next moment could change his future, damage the entire colony. But his rational self was struggling in a torrent of anger, bitter and self-righteous. He wanted to do away with this parasite, destroy it. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his mouth from trembling.

   
“Bruce!” he called softly.

   
McGowan opened his eyes. “Huh?”

   
“Isn't Art working his plant today?”

   
“Could be,” Bruce admitted.

   
“Well?”

   
“'Well' what? I've had a week and it's not my dish. Get somebody else.”

   
Bruce wore his knife, as did each of them; a colonist was more likely to be caught naked than without his knife. It was the all-purpose tool, for cutting leather, preparing food, eating, whittling, building, basketmaking, and as make-do for a thousand other tools; their wealth came from knives, arrows were now used to hunt- but knives shaped the bows and arrows.

   
But a knife had not been used by one colonist against another since that disastrous day when Bruce's brother had defied Rod. Over the same issue, Rod recalled; the wheel had turned full circle. But today he would have immediate backing if Bruce reached for his knife.

   
But he knew that this must not be settled by five against one; he alone must make this dog come to heel, or his days as leader were numbered.

   
It did not occur to Rod to challenge Bruce to settle it with bare hands. Rod had read many a historical romance in which the hero invited someone to settle it man to man, in a stylized imitation fighting called “boxing.” Rod had enjoyed such stories but did not apply them to himself any more than he considered personally the sword play of The Three Musketeers; nevertheless, he knew what “boxing” meant- they folded their hands and struck certain restricted blows with fists. Usually no one was hurt.

   
The fighting that Rod was trained in was not simply strenuous athletics. It did not matter whether they were armed; if he and Bruce fought bare hands or otherwise, someone would be killed or badly hurt. The only dangerous weapon was man himself.

   
Bruce stared sullenly. “Bruce,” Rod said, striving to keep his voice steady, “a long time ago I told you that people worked around here or got out. You and your brother didn't believe me so we had to chuck you out. Then you crawled back with a tale about how Jock had been killed and could you please join up? You were a sorry sight. Remember?”

   
McGowan scowled. “You promised to be a little angel,” Rod went on. “People thought I was foolish- and I was. But I thought you might behave.”

   
Bruce pulled a blade of grass, bit it. “Bub, you remind me of Jock. He was always throwing his weight around, too.

   
“Bruce, get up and get out of town! I don't care where, but if you are smart, you will shag over and tell Art you've made a mistake- then start pumping that bellows. I'll stop by later. If sweat isn't pouring off you when I arrive . . . then you'll never come back. You'll be banished for life.”

   
McGowan looked uncertain. He glanced past Rod, and Rod wondered what expressions the others wore. But Rod kept his eyes on Bruce. “Get moving. Get to work, or don't come back.”

   
Bruce got a sly look. “You can't order me kicked out. It takes a majority vote.”

   
Jimmy spoke up. “Aw, quit taking his guff, Rod. Kick him out now.

   
Rod shook his head. “No. Bruce, if that is your answer, I'll call them together and we'll put you in exile before lunch- and I'll bet my best knife that you won't get three votes to let you stay. Want to bet?”

   
Bruce sat up and looked at the others, sizing his chances. He looked back at Rod. “Runt,” he said slowly, you aren't worth a hoot without stooges. . . or a couple of girls to do your fighting.”

   
Jimmy whispered, “Watch it, Rod!” Rod licked dry lips, knowing that it was too late for reason, too late for talk. He would have to try to take him . . . he was not sure he could.

   
“I'll fight you,” he said hoarsely. “Right now!” Cliff said urgently, “Don't, Rod. We'll manage him.” “No. Come on, McGowan.” Rod added one unforgivable word.

   
McGowan did not move. “Get rid of that joe sticker”

   
Rod said, “Hold my spear, Cliff.”

   
Cliff snapped, “Now wait! I'm not going to stand by and watch this. He might get lucky and kill you, Rod.”

   
“Get out of the way, Cliff.”

   
“No.” Cliff hesitated, then added, “Bruce, throw your knife away. Go ahead- or so help me I'll poke a joe- sticker in your belly myself. Give me your knife, Rod.”

   
Rod looked at Bruce, then drew Colonel Bowie and handed it to Cliff. Bruce straightened up and flipped his knife at Cliff's feet. Cliff rasped, “I still say not to, Rod. Say the word and we'll take him apart.”

   
“Back off. Give us room.

   
“Well- no bone breakers. You hear me, Bruce? Make a mistake and you'll never make another.”

   
“'No bone breakers,'“ Rod repeated, and knew dismally that the rule would work against him; Bruce had him on height and reach and weight.

   
“Okay,” McGowan agreed. “Just cat clawing. I am going to show this rube that one McGowan is worth two of him.”

   
Cliff sighed. “Back off, everybody. Okay- get going!” Crouched, they sashayed around, not touching. Only the preliminaries could use up much time; the textbook used in most high schools and colleges listed twenty-seven ways to destroy or disable a man hand to hand; none of the methods took as long as three seconds once contact was made. They chopped at each other, feinting with their hands, too wary to close.

   
Rod was confused by the injunction not to let the fight go to conclusion. Bruce grinned at him. “What's the matter? Scared? I've been waiting for this, you loudmouthed pimple- now you're going to get it!” He rushed him.

   
Rod gave back, ready to turn Bruce's rush into his undoing. But Bruce did not carry it through; it had been a feint and Rod had reacted too strongly. Bruce laughed. “Scared silly, huh? You had better be.”

   
Rod realized that he was scared, more scared than he had ever been. The conviction flooded over him that Bruce intended to kill him . . . the agreement about bonebreakers meant nothing; this ape meant to finish him.

   
He backed away, more confused than ever. . . knowing that he must forget rules if he was to live through it . . . but knowing, too, that he had to abide by the silly restriction even if it meant the end of him. Panic shook him; he wanted to run.

   
He did not quite do so. From despair itself he got a cold feeling of nothing to lose and decided to finish it. He exposed his groin to a savate attack.

   
He saw Bruce's foot come up in the expected kick; with fierce joy he reached in the proper shinobi counter. He showed the merest of hesitation, knowing that a full twist would break Bruce's ankle.

   
Then he was flying through air; his hands had never touched Bruce. He had time for sick realization that Bruce had seen the gambit, countered with another- when he struck ground and Bruce was on him.

       
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