Godwin moved again to the attack. He feinted with the knife, little used to this point, brought his wand into play and then tried a serious slash with his knife that missed. The miss was only by an inch and Villiers showed greater respect for the knife thereafter.
Then came the turning point. Passages are composed of questions asked and answered, improvisations on themes, the matching of common knowledge to build a bizarre duet. In the pure world of art, accidents, miscalculations, and desperate wildness are mars. In the painful world of reality, they may decide clearly what art cannot.
Godwin went in too low, came up a hair too fast, and was parried. But Villiers did not parry as sharply as he might have. He was the merest bit off-balance. Godwin turned his disengagement into a sideswipe at a hand out of place. It was nothing that could have been counted upon. The opening was an accident. The ploy was a harmless essay: nothing lost, the slightest of chances for gain.
But his wand tipped Villiers’ left hand. Villiers’ hand opened and he dropped the knife. The knife bounced on the floor and struck Villiers on the boot. Without looking he kicked it aside.
But his hand had been touched and he was missing an important weapon. His defense was that much less complete, and his offense was like a flying squirrel in stunt flying competition with a bird, good as far as it went, but lacking versatility. Godwin knew then that Villiers’ life was his—the only question was when he was to touch the balloon. He made no decision. Enjoying himself was the paramount requirement.
The crowd, too, knew that Villiers was in trouble. As the knife fell, they sat the straighter and breathed the harder.
Godwin took Villiers step by step back down the hall again. All the way this time. All the way to the end. Threat, threat answered. Threat, threat answered. Threat, threat answered. But every time Villiers responded, he was forced to give ground. His hand was apparently giving him trouble, too. He was shaking it.
The end of the hall marked the end of the possible. Godwin would not be forced back from it again. Villiers would stay here until he failed to answer a threat or left an opening, and that would be it. Between here and the end of the hall.
The fight, except for Godwin’s single comment, had been empty of conversation. Only a Cyrano fights and talks at the same time; most men lack both the lungs and the wit to compose as they fight, and as they conclude, thrust home.
Constant background rising and falling in volume. Slap and squeak of feet on floor. Clack and ring of weapons. Breaths, light and heavy. Above all, the one smell that Godwin loved and hated most, the smell of sweat.
He held Villiers at the end of his tingler, used his knife discretely, and then there was that final opening. Villiers was moving in with an attack, an act of desperation, and it was caught, of course. And there he was, open for the mot juste as he stepped back. Godwin delivered the perfect wand stroke, the ultimate criticism of Villiers. And in that instant he knew the title of the song in his mind.
The stroke did not connect. In a frisson-filled flash Godwin saw that he had made a mistake. Villiers was not moving back. He was moving forward, inside the stroke and past Godwin, and as he passed, with supreme delicacy he brought his tingler down across Godwin’s chest. Duels aren’t fair if the wrong people win them.
It was as though his chest were no longer part of him. It was a wooden block being chopped by an axman. Chips and splinters. And pain, too, but detached. He knew there was pain, but he didn’t feel it. He couldn’t think clearly. He thought about thinking, and felt afraid.
He wasn’t sure where he was. He was, and he was somewhere, but he couldn’t have said whether he was standing, sitting, or lying. He existed in a limbo where voices were, but where there was no sense in sound. There were colors moving in random kaleidoscopic patterns, but there was no coherence to them. Light hurt his eyes, and he wanted to ask for it to be turned down, but he couldn’t manage that.
Then there was a face in front of him, so close that against his will he had to recognize it. It was Shirabi.
He summoned himself and managed to say, “Wrong man.”
Shirabi said something in return, but the sound was fuzzy in his ears and he could make no sense of it. It seemed too much effort to try. But in that last moment of clear thought, he had known something he could no longer quite grasp. It seemed important that he should recapture it, however. Desperately, he tried. Words formed themselves in his mind and he struggled to articulate them.
“I’m a little teapot,” he said at last, smiled, filled his pants, and died.
Flights of white-winged angels, their faces radiant, settled down about him and gently lifted him. He was not at all the least of God’s creatures, and they loved and respected him. They accepted him. And they carried him away in company to an altogether better world than any he had ever known. This last, of course, was unwitnessed by those others in the dueling hall who had the misfortune to still exist on a less exalted plane.
* * *
Murder. It was murder of the foulest sort. That Shirabi got away with it was extreme luck.
He opened the box of knives for the inspection of Srb and Chapeldaine. There was no danger in the knives. They were their own sharply discreet selves. However, for practice, just to see if he could do it, he forced single knives from an entire rack on the seconds.
Any practitioner of card tricks knows how to make someone take a particular card from the whole of fifty-two. It is nothing so crude as sticking one card a half-inch out from the others in a fan. In effect, forcing means that you hand over a card and convince the subject that he has made a choice, much like a one-party election. The trick, actually, is not so much to hand the card over as it is to keep the person from wondering about it afterwards.
They both reached into the box at the same time and their hands brushed. They immediately withdrew their hands. There was the briefest of pauses, what might be called a questioning silence.
Then Chapeldaine said, “After you, Padre.”
Srb dipped into the box and took knife the first. He stepped back and Chapeldaine took Shirabi’s second choice. It was done that neatly, and all that you saw was two men selecting knives. That was all they themselves saw. But they were explicitly given the knives they took. When and how did it happen? It can’t be explained; that would spoil one of the last bits of magic in the world. It happened, and it is very simple if you know what to do.
Shirabi turned then, closing the box, and set it in its place in the bottom of the weapons rack. With his back to the seconds, he looked over the racks of weapons.
“Tinglers were the other weapon?” he asked. He knew quite well that they were, of course.
“Yes,” Chapeldaine said.
Shirabi turned with tinglers in his hand. This was the important moment, the important test of his skill. One of the tinglers he held was a genuine weapon. The other, just as black, just as deadly looking, was only a practice wand. The worst it could deliver was an electric jolt. He had to put the first of these in the hands of Srb and the second in the hands of Chapeldaine at that moment in the proceedings when they both decided that the weapons they were holding were those they wished to keep.
He did it. He put them in their hands and took them away again. This demonstrated his impartial right to do such things. He switched them on and off. He moved them around. Each man got a touch apiece at both weapons, and then the tinglers were in their hands and they were on their way back to their principals.
Ask either Srb or Chapeldaine. Both would have declared themselves satisfied that they had examined both weapons in detail and made perfect free choice of the tinglers they held. Now Srb was whatever Srb was, and Chapeldaine was no fool. It is indeed unhappy that someone as able as Shirabi could be was also so limited in his ability to meet people. He was good.
Shirabi moved back and seated himself on the bench edge of the weapons rack. Bledsoe, the sober, saturnine man he had agreed to let run things, stepped forward and called for Godwin and Villiers.
Shirabi followed the course of the duel with heartfelt interest. The movement down the length of the hall found him wondering if he had made a mistake in what he had done. If Godwin was so good that Villiers was immediately overwhelmed, and Godwin attempted a finishing stroke and found he had none, then matters would become embarrassing.
But there had been the entry for Anthony Villiers deep in the volume of Martin and Morrison that he had taken from Godwin’s quarters, so deeply buried that it could have been easily overlooked. The description, as much as there was, could be this Anthony Villiers. But was it the same at this distance? And if it was, all it proved was that the man might have the training to deal with Godwin. And on that slim a chance, he had acted.
He didn’t want Godwin to live. He couldn’t work with him, he couldn’t work over him. Godwin was an offense in his eye. Godwin had ruined what he loved most and then acted as though nothing had happened. He wanted Godwin dead.
Shirabi smiled when the fight returned from the end of the hall. Ha!
He gasped and feared when Villiers’ hand was nicked. The knife dropped and that was as should be, but would anyone notice the difference? Could Godwin win? He did have a knife to kill with.
Back Villiers went toward the end of the hall. It seemed that he would be trapped there, and unable to retreat, would be systematically stripped to pieces. The crowd hushed, watching, waiting for the right moment to fill the hall with a roar of heat. If only Villiers knew that he had nothing to fear from Godwin’s tingler, could allow himself to receive a blow for the chance to deal one!
And then the crowd did roar. Villiers came in and past Godwin and Godwin was dropping both tingler and knife, was going to his knees. The stroke itself was hidden from Shirabi and most of the onlookers, but there was no doubt. Godwin was finished. The duel was ended.
But then suddenly Levi Gonigle charged over the rail and down on the floor. He gave an inarticulate, bull-throated call. He seized Villiers from behind and crudely tried to break his neck. Villiers desperately tried to switch his tingler back on so he could remove the horrifying black presence that was bending and breaking him.
Shirabi had been moving toward the duelists. With Levi’s arrival, he broke into a run. He couldn’t allow Villiers to be killed here. If he was the entry in Martin and Morrison, he wasn’t an investigator and Star Well was in excellent shape. If Levi killed him, all that would be ruined.
He swept the tingler from the hands that were still struggling to turn it on. He put his hands on Levi’s shoulder and pulled with all his weight. It was not an attempt to dissuade Levi. He was not that strong. It was a bid for attention.
He yelled to Levi as he was shaken loose and fell in a purple heap. He rose from the floor and pounded Levi in the ribs, yelling all the while.
“Let him go! This is Shirabi. Let him go, Levi!”
Eventually the noise and swatting penetrated Levi’s consciousness. He let Villiers fall to the floor. Villiers crawled away, gasping for breath, and was helped to his feet by Srb.
Levi said, “But he hurt Mr. Godwin.”
“I know,” said Shirabi. “But it was a fair fight.”
Levi slowly shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. “Mr. Shirabi, don’t you care?”
“Of course I care,” Shirabi said. “I’ll find a way to settle things. Now, Levi, this isn’t good for you to see. Go along you know where and I’ll have something important for you to do later.”
Reluctantly, Levi departed. A few in the crowd had spoken, but most were uninvolved with the remnants of their entertainment now that it was over, and the galleries were being emptied. Villiers was coughing, sitting by the wall, but seemed to be recovering himself. Now what was it that Shirabi had to do? Oh, yes, the weapons.
Bledsoe had Villiers’ tingler in his hand and was idly looking at it. Shirabi had to get it back, needed them both. He began collecting weapons, starting with Godwin’s knife. At the least sign from Bledsoe, he meant to be a walking weapons rack and have it from his hand.
There was a yap behind him and he turned to see that yattering fool, Ellis Phibbs. He barely knew enough to stagger out when the ships arrived and that was fine with Shirabi. But he also wanted to put his finger in every other public pie. He, like most, wanted to be wanted, and affairs like this gave him the opportunity regardless of the feelings of anyone else present.
“I heard there was a duel. I want to know about this. I have my duty to do. If the Navy wants to know about this one, somebody has to be able to tell them.”
Then, abruptly, he caught sight of Srb, and just as abruptly he broke off. Shirabi saw that in a shocked moment. Others were busy, though Bledsoe did look up at Phibbs’ arrival. Chapeldaine and the doctor were trying to prop Godwin up. Most of the crowd had already left or were jockeying for the doors. Villiers’ attention was distracted. But Shirabi saw.
Phibbs said in a lowered voice to Srb, “If you’re here, Mr. Srb, I suppose I’m not needed.”
Srb said, in even tones, “I’m one of the seconds in the affair. If you have a duty to do, you had better do it.”
Phibbs turned with the sense of the occasion just beginning to break in his mind. It was three stages of “Oh?, Oh, Oh.” Then, officiousness recovered, but transparently, he said, “Who was in charge here?”
Bledsoe was caught, but not by the meaning of things as Shirabi was. He was caught by the grating quality of Phibbs’ manner.
“Yes?” he said, and Shirabi snagged the tingler from his hands. “I was dueling master.”
The two began to talk. Shirabi quietly picked the weapons off the floor, the calm regular order of a day, and took them over to the racks. When he turned away again, there were two tinglers lying on the bench in front, one of them Villiers’, the other an exchange. Two tinglers, in perfect condition to destroy. He walked from there over to Godwin, an imminent fear within him.
The doctor said, “I can’t do anything for him. The best you can do is freeze him within the first minute of death. He can probably be brought back with proper facilities.”
Shirabi nodded and bent close to Godwin. Godwin recognized him.
With effort, he said, “Wrong man.”
Shirabi shot a look at Srb. “Yes. The wrong man.”
Godwin suddenly had a desperate look on his face. His heels kicked with the effort he made to speak. At last, he said, as though it had great significance, “I’m a little teapot.” And he died relieved.
“What was that?” the doctor asked.
“It’s a mystery to me,” Shirabi said. “Very strange.” Then he turned and waved. The cold cart was rolled onto the floor by two men in white and wheeled rapidly toward them.
“The last time we didn’t have a cold cart,” Shirabi said, “and the Navy investigated.”
The cart was opened with professional skill. There was a fluttering, a snowy flapping, and Godwin was totally covered. Then the two men bent, raised Godwin with tender care, and placed him within the cold haven of the cart. They closed the gates behind him, and bore him to his rest.
10
There is a good old expression down home—to cut and run. I was once told where it came from, but I don’t remember now. I do know that it makes sense to a man with a knife. It makes sense to a wallet-and-purse man. It makes sense to a cardplayer after a bad evening, and it makes sense to a sailor caught by an enemy forty-gunner with his anchor down. To all, it means prudence. Shirabi, being a sensible man, proposed to cut and run.
He sat in the secret basements of Star Well on a white cold cart. There was a large brown book open on his knees. He was thinking.
All around him were rows of white cold boxes identical to the cart he was sitting on but without the wheels. All were awaiting the arrival of the black freighter.
Star Well was the hub of the thumb-running traffic in the Rift. It was extremely profitable, both in money and in leverage. Politics were affected, and stock gaming, as well as the obvious market for arms, livers, and hair piece
s.
But Star Well was only the center of traffic for this comparative moment. The owners knew that eventually it would be discovered and Star Well would have to be run straight for a time.
Shirabi had his orders for the first sign of trouble, his private orders. Cut and run.
After Godwin’s jealousy of Villiers had become apparent, after Martin and Morrison had served him another explanation for Villiers, Shirabi had not thought it likely that Villiers was anything like a secret investigator. That had left him free to use Villiers.
But just when the game was closing, up had popped Ellis D. Phibbs and a priest of Mithra who apparently was no priest of Mithra. If Shirabi was a rabbit, his employers had no objection to it, in fact were just as happy for it. Shirabi was a rabbit and he felt that this was the time to run.
Now he was waiting for the ship to arrive. He had every intention of putting the load of thumbs aboard and riding away, never to return to Star Well.
He was also waiting for his helpers to arrive, and he had Levi Gonigle out watching the halls to keep him out of trouble. He hopped down from the cart and closed the book in his hands. It was Martin and Morrison’s Index.
He had cleaned his office, taking everything he wanted with him, everything he hadn’t wanted to leave behind. He had brought Godwin’s book with him for one last look. Now he didn’t know what to do with it. He looked around. It wouldn’t go with his own gear—he didn’t want it anymore. He couldn’t lay it on top of a cold box—shortly they would be carried out through an extendable corridor and into racks aboard the freighter. After a moment’s thought and hesitant gazing about, he opened the cold cart on which he had been sitting and looked down at the still features of Derek Godwin.
“You always wanted to be a gentleman,” Shirabi said, and laid it within Godwin’s folded arms. The field shocked Shirabi’s hands. It felt the way mint tastes.
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