"Sos the advisor." The notion grew on him, and The name sounded better. "The men would not listen to me. I would need complete authority, or it would come to nothing. If they argued, and I with no weapon-"
"Who argues, dies," Sol said with absolute conviction. "By my hand."
"For one year-and I keep the name?"
"Yes."
He thought of the challenge of it, the chance to test his theories in action. "I accept the offer."
They reached across the table and shook hands gravely. "Tomorrow we begin the empire," Sol said.
The girl looked up. "I would come with you," she said. Sol smiled, not looking at her. "She wants your bracelet again, Sos."
"No." She was troubled, seeing her hints come to nothing. "Not-without-"
"Girl," Sol reminded her sternly, "I want no woman. This man fought well; he is stronger than many who still bear weapons, and a scholar, which I am not. You would not be shamed to wear his emblem."
She thrust out her lip. "I would come-myself."
Sol shrugged. "As you wish. You will cook and wash for us, until you take a man. We will not be staying in a cabin always, though." He paused, thinking of something. "Sos, my advisor-is this wise?"
Sos studied the woman, now petulant but still lovely. He tried, not to be moved by her cleavage. "I do not think so. She is excellently proportioned and a talented cook, but headstrong. She would be a disruptive influence, unattached."
She glared at him. "I want a name, as you do!" she snapped. "An honorable name."
Sol crashed his first against the table so hard the vinyl surface flexed. "You anger me, girl! Do you claim the name I give lacks honor?"
She retreated hastily. "No, man of all weapons. But you do not offer it to me."
"Take it, then!" He flung his golden bracelet at her. "But I need no woman."
Baffled but exultant, she picked up the heavy piece am squeezed it together to fit her wrist. Sos looked on, ill at ease.
CHAPTER TWO
Two weeks later they struck the red markers of warning in the open country to the north. The foliage did not change, but they knew there would be few animals and no men beyond the sinister line of demarcation. Even those who chose to die preferred the mountain, for that was a quick, honorable leavetaking, while the badlands were reputed to bring torture and horror.
Sol stopped, discommoded by the markers. "If it is safe, why are they still here?" he demanded. Sola nodded heartily, unashamed of her fear,
"Because the crazies haven't updated their maps in fifty years," Sos replied. "This area is overdue for resurvey, and one of these months they'll get around to it and set the markers back ten or fifteen miles. I told you radiation isn't a permanent thing; it fades away slowly."
Sol was not convinced, now that commitment was imminent. "You say this 'radiation' is something you can't see or hear or smell or feel, but it kills you just the same? I know you studied the books, but that just doesn't make sense to me."
"Maybe the books are lying," Sola put in, sitting down. The days of forced marching had tightened the muscles of her legs but diminished none of her femaleness. She was a good-looking woman and knew it.
"I've had doubts myself," Sos admitted. "There are many things I don't understand, and many books I've never had the chance to read. One text says that half the men will die when exposed to 450 Roentgen, while mosquitoes can survive over a hundred thousand-but I don't know how much radiation one Roentgen is, or how to spot it. The crazies have boxes that click when they get near radiation; that's how they know."
"One click to a Roent, maybe," she said, simplifying it. "If the books are honest."
"I think they are. A lot of it makes no sense at all, at first, but I've never caught them in an error. This radiation-as nearly as I can make it, it was put here by the Blast, and it's like fungus-light. You can't see the fungus glow in the daytime, but you know that light is still there. You can box it with your hands to shut out the sun, and the green-"
"Fungus-light," Sol said solemnly.
"Just imagine that it is poisonous, that it will make you sick if it touches your skin. At night you can avoid it, but in the day you're in trouble. You can't see it or feel it... that's what radiation is, except that it fills up everything where it exists. The ground, the trees, the air."
"Then how do we know it's gone?' Sola demanded. There was an edge to her voice which Sos put down to fear and fatigue. She had gradually lost the air of sweet naïveté she had affected the first evening at the hostel.
"Because it affects the plants and animals, too. They get at the fringe, and everything is dead at the center. As long as they look all right, we should, be safe. There should be several miles clear of it beyond the markers now. It's a risk-but a worthwhile one, in the circumstances."
"And no cabins?" she asked a little forlornly.
"I doubt it. The crazies don't like radiation any better than we do, so they'd have no reason to build here until they survey it. We'll have to forage and sleep out."
"We'd better pick up bows and tents, then," Sol said.
They left Sola to watch Sol's barrow while they backtracked three miles to the last hostel. They entered its heatpump interior comfort and selected two sturdy bows and arrow-packs from its armory. They donned camping gear: light plastic leggings, helmets and traveling packs. Each man placed three swift shots in the standing target near the battle circle, feeling out the instruments, then shouldered them and returned to the trail.
Sola was asleep against a tree, hiking skirt hitched up indecorously. Sos looked away; the sight of her body stirred him in spite of what he knew of her bad temper. He had always taken his women as they came and formed no lasting relationships; this continued proximity to another man's wife acted upon him in a way he did not like.
Sol kicked her. "Is this the way you guard my weapons, woman?"
She jumped up, embarrassed and angry. "It's the same way you take care of mine!" she retorted. Then, afraid, she bit her lip.
Sol ignored her. "Let's find a place quickly," he said, glancing at the nearest marker. Sos gave the woman the leggings and helmet he had brought for her; Sol hadn't thought of it. Sos wondered why they stayed together, when they evidently didn't get along. Could sex mean so much?
He forced his eyes away from her again, afraid to answer that.
They stepped across the line and moved slowly into the badlands. Sos repressed the nervous twinge he felt at the action, knowing that if he felt it, the others were struck much more forcefully. He was supposed to know; he had, to prove he was right. Three lives depended on his alertness now.
Even so, the personal problem preoccupied him. Sol had said at the outset that he needed no woman. This had sounded like a courteous deferral to the other man, since no second woman was available. But then he had given the girl his bracelet, signifying their marriage. They had slept together two weeks, yet she now dared to express open dissatisfaction. Sos did not like the look of it
The leaves and underbrush of the forest and field seemed healthy, but the rustle of wildlife faded out as they penetrated deeper. There were birds and numerous flying insects, but no deer, groundhogs or bear. Sos watched for the traces and found none. They would have trouble locating game for their arrows if this were typical. At least the presence of the birds seemed to indicate that the area was safe, so far; he did not know their tolerance, but assumed that one warm-blooded creature should be able to stand about as much as another. The birds would have to stay put while nesting, and would certainly have developed sickness if they were going to.
The trees, gave way to a wide-open field leading down to a meandering stream. They stopped to drink. Sos hesitated until he saw small fish in the water, quick to flee his descending hand. What fish could thrive in, man could drink.
Two birds shot across the field in a silent dance. Up and around they spun, the large one following' the small. It was a hawk running down some kind of sparrow, and the chase was near its end. Obviously
exhausted, the small bird barely avoided the outstretched claws and powerful beak. The men watched indifferently.
Suddenly the sparrow fluttered directly at them, as though imploring their protection. The hawk hovered uncertainly, then winged after it.
"Stop it!" Sola cried, moved by the fancied appeal. Surprised, Sol looked at her, then held up his hand to block off the hawk.
The predator sheered off, while the sparrow flopped to the ground almost at Sola's feet and hunched there, unable or afraid to rise again. Sos suspected that it was as much afraid of the people as the enemy. The hawk circled at a distance, then made up its mind. It was hungry.
Sot reached inside his barrow so quickly that his hand was a blur and whipped out a singlestick. As the hawk swooped low, intent on the grounded bird, he swung. Sos knew that the predator was out of reach and far too swift for such antics . . . but it gave a single sharp cry as the stick knocked it out of the air and hurled its broken body into the river.
Sos stared. It had been the quickest, most accurate motion with a weapon he had ever seen, yet the man had done it casually, in a fit of pique at a creature who disobeyed his warning. He had thought that it was merely the luck of the battle that had given Sol the 'victory in the circle, though the man was certainly able. Now he understood that there had been no luck about it; Sol had simply toyed with him until wounded, then finished it off quickly.
The little bird hopped on the ground, fluttering ineffectively. Sola retreated from it, perversely alarmed now that the action was over. Sos donned a gauntlet from his camping pack and reached down carefully to pinion the flapping wings and pick up the frightened creature.
It was not a sparrow after all, but some similar bird. There were flecks of yellow and orange in the brown wings, and the bill was large and blunt. "Must be a mutant," he said. "I've never spotted one like this before."
Sol shrugged, not interested, and fished the body of the hawk out of the water. It would do for meat if they found nothing better.
Sos opened his glove and freed the bird. It lay in his palm, looking at him but too terrified to move. "Take off, stupid," he hid, shaking it gently.
Its little claws found his thumb and clenched upon it.
He reached slowly with his bare hand, satisfied that the creature was not vicious, and pulled at a wing to see if it were broken. The feathers spread apart evenly. He checked the other wing, keeping his touch 'light so that the bird could slip free harmlessly if it decided to fly. Neither was damaged as far as he could tell. "Take off," he urged it again, flipping his hand in the air.
The bird hung tight, only spreading its wings momentarily to preserve its equilibrium.
"As you wish," he said, He brought the glove to the strap over his shoulder and jostled until the bird transferred its perch to the nylon. "Stupid," he repeated, not unkindly.
They resumed the march. Fields and brush alternated with islands of trees, and as dusk came the shrilling of insects became amplified, always loudest just a little distance away, but never from the ground. They crossed the spoor of no larger animals. At length they camped by the bank of the stream and netted several small fish. Sos struck a fire while Sola cleaned and prepared the flesh. The woman appeared to have had a good education; she could do things.
As the night advanced they opened the packs and set up the two nylon-mesh tents. Sos dug a pit downstream for offal while Sol did isometric exercises. Sola gathered a stock of dry branches for the fire, whose blaze seemed to give her comfort.
The bird remained with Sos all this time, moving from his shoulder when he had to get at the pack, but never straying far. It did not eat. "You can't live long that way, stupid," he reminded it affectionately. And that became its name: Stupid.
A white shape rose before him as he returned from the pit, spookily silent. One of the great hawk moths, he decided, and stepped toward it.
Stupid squawked unmelodiously and flew at it. There was a brief struggle in the air-the insect seemed as large as the bird, in this light-then the white collapsed and disappeared into the outsize avian mouth. Sos understood: his bird was a night feeder, at a disadvantage in full daylight. Probably the hawk had surprised it sleeping and run it down while in a befuddled state. All Stupid wanted was a safe place to perch and snooze by day.
In the morning they struck camp and advanced farther into the forbidden area. Still there was no animal life on the ground, mammal, reptile or amphibian, nor, be realized was there insect life there. Butterflies, bees, flies, winged beetles and the large nocturnal moths abounded but the ground itself was clean. It was ordinarily the richest of nature's spawning habitats.
Radiation in the earth, lingering longer than that elsewhere? But most insects had a larval stage in ground or water.. . and the plants were unaffected. He squatted to dig into the humus with a stick.
They were there: grubs and earthworms and burrowing-beetles, seemingly normal. Life existed under the ground and above it-but what had happened to the surface denizens?
"Looking for a friend?" Sola inquired acidly. He did not attempt to explain what was bothering him, since he was not sure himself.
In the afternoon they found it: a beautiful open valley, flat where a river had once flooded, and with a line of trees where the river remained. Upstream the valley narrowed into a cleft and waterfall, easy to guard, while downstream the river spread into a reedy swamp that neither foot nor boat could traverse handily. There were green passes through the rounded mountains on either side.
"A hundred men and their families could camp here!" Sol exclaimed. "Two, three hundred!" He had brightened considerably since discovering that the nemesis of the badlands had no teeth.
"It looks good," Sos admitted. "Provided there is no danger we don't know about." And was there?
"No game," Sol said seriously. "But there are fish and birds, and we can send out foraging parties. I have seen fruit trees, too." He had really taken this project to heart, Sos saw, and was alert for everything affecting its success. Yet there was danger in becoming prematurely positive, too.
"Fish and fruit!" Sola muttered, making a face, but she seemed glad that at least they would not be going deeper into the danger zone. Sos was glad, too; he felt the aura of the badlands, and knew that its mystery was more than what could be measured in Roentgens.
Stupid squawked again as the great white shapes of night appeared. There were several in sight on the plain, their color making them appear much larger than they were, and the bird flapped happily after them. Apparently the tremendous moths were its only diet-his diet, Sos thought, assigning a suitable sex-and he consumed them indefatigably. Did Stupid store them up in his crop for lean nights?
"Awful sound," Sola remarked, and he realized that she meant Stupid's harsh cry. Sos found no feasible retort. This woman both fascinated and infuriated him-but her opinion hardly made a difference to the bird.
One of the moths fluttered silently under Sol's nose on its way to their fire. Sol made that lightning motion and caught it in his hand, curious about it. Then he cursed and brushed it away as it stung him, and Stupid fetched it in.
"It stung you?" Sos inquired. "Let me see that hand." He drew Sol to the fire and studied the puncture.
There was a single red-rimmed spot in the flesh at the base of the thumb, with no other inflammation or swelling. "Probably nothing, just a defensive bite," Sos said. "I'm no doctor. But I don't like it. If I were you, I'd cut, it open and suck out any venom there may be, just to be sure. I never heard of a' moth with a sting."
"Injure my own right hand?" Sol laughed. "Worry over something else, advisor."
"You won't be fighting for at least a week-time enough for it to heal."
"No." And that was that.
They slept as they had before: the tents pitched side by side, the couple in one, Sos in the other. He lay tense and sleepless, not certain what it was that disturbed him so much. When he finally slept, it was to dream of mighty wings and enormous breasts, both images dead wh
ite, and he didn't know which frightened him more.
Sol did not awaken in the morning. He lay in his tent, fully clothed and burning with fever. His eyes were half open but staring, the lids fluttering sporadically. His respiration was fast and shallow, as though his chest were constricted-and it was, for the large muscles of limbs and torso were rigid.
"The kill-spirit has taken him!" Sola cried. "The radiation."
Sos was checking over the laboring body, impressed by the solidity and power of it even in illness. He had thought the man was coordinated rather than strong, but another reassessment was in order. Sol usually moved so smoothly that the muscle was hardly apparent. But now he was in grave trouble, as some devastating toxin ravaged his system.
"No," he told her. "Radiation would have affected us as well."
"What is it then?" she demanded nervously.
"A harmless sting." But the irony was wasted on her. He had dreamed of death-white wings; she hadn't. "Grab his feet. I'm going to try dunking him in the water, to cool him off." He wished he had seen more medical texts, though he hardly understood what had been available. The body of a man generally knew what it was doing, and perhaps there was reason for the fever-to burn off the toxin?-but he was afraid to let it rampage amid the tissues of muscle and brain any longer.
Sola obeyed, and together they dragged the sturdy body to the river's edge. "Get his clothing off," Sos snapped. "He may swing into chills after this, and we'll have to keep him from strangling in wet garments."
She hesitated. "I never-"
"Hurry!" he shouted, startling her into action. "Your husband's life is at stake."
Sos ripped off the tough nylon jacket while Sola loosened the waist cord and worked the pantaloons down. "Oh!" she cited.
He was about to rebuke her again. She had no cause to be sensitive about male exposure at this stage. Then he saw what she was looking at. Suddenly he understood what had been wrong between them.
Injury, birth defect or mutation-he could not be certain. Sol would never be a father. No wonder he sought success in, his own lifetime. There would be no sons to follow him.
Battle Circle 1 - Sos the Rope Page 2