“What for?” he asked, but set down his helmet and put his hand on the switch.
“Keep your eyes on me,” she directed. “Now turn out the light.”
The windowless room was plunged into blackness, but in that blackness appeared two faces. The luminous features of Peyton stared at the luminous features of Thora. In the darkness the glowing masks moved toward each other.
“What is this?” asked Peyton huskily. “Isn’t it pretty obvious?”
“Only one thing can make your skin shed light—Pit glow.”
“Which I’ve got, Pierce, just like you. I served three years in the Women’s Division down there. You never heard of the Women’s Division. I was sentenced for killing an Airman.”
“How?”
“He was head of the circus here before Argyle, and he saw me at a performance. He was drunk or drugged, got too friendly. I gave him a push. He fell into the arena and a tiger got him. Of course it was called murder.”
“How did you beat the rap?”
“General Argyle made a visit to the Pit. I was pointed out to him as the reason for his promotion. I was in rough clothes, ungroomed and haggard, but he thought he saw something worth developing. He needed an attractive woman for the publicity job I’ve been doing. He also needed a spy, someone who could attract men and hear their idle talk, keep him and other Airmen informed of what goes on here in town.”
“I see what makes you want to be a faithful employee.”
“But, Pierce, my heart goes out to someone who served time in the Pit!”
Peyton turned on the lights, picked up his helmet again.
“Go to Argyle,” he said. “Tell him that I kept quiet. I’m going to fight whatever he sends against me and try to do what Willie did. If I conquer whatever it is—”
“Of course!” breathed Thora. “The people will cheer you too enthusiastically for him to let you be destroyed at once. After that, though, there’ll be more questions.”
“I’ll talk to Argyle afterward,” promised Peyton. “If I know he can’t kill me, I’ll make some sort of trade on the information and slide out. Pull for me, will you?”
They were still close together. Suddenly Thora stood on tiptoe and kissed his savage mouth, then turned and ran out.
Alone, Peyton slid the helmet over his head and hooked it securely to his shoulder armor. The barred visor he drew down over his face. For a moment he regarded himself in the mirror. He looked like the personification of fighting manhood. Well, he’d tried to be smart, out-think the Airmen and the men who rallied behind Bengali. He’d put himself in a nasty mess. Now it was up to him to fight his way out. He thought he could do it.
“Fight!” he cried savagely at his own image.
His voice roared unrecognizably inside the closed helmet. Belting on his sword, he selected a shield from among several that hung on the wall. He went out and up the corridor toward the curtained entrance to the arena. An attendant waited there.
“Hurry, Peyton! You’re due out on the sand. They’re yelling their heads off for you.”
“They can stick their heads back on,” growled Peyton. “Here I come.”
Brushing the curtain aside, he tramped into the open, Thora’s kiss still on his lips as they tightened in the inverted fighting grin.
IX
PEYTON mitted himself to the bellowing masses and faced the door through which his unknown enemy would come. A sort of muffling fog seemed to settle down all around, just inside the line of the box-fronts. The great funnel of faces in the stadium became dimmed and unimportant. The multiple howl and cheer died away to an oceanic murmur. Peyton drew his sword. Inside his visor he grinned to himself. He didn’t feel the slightest possibility of defeat.
The door opposite him was opening. An armed and armored figure came out, much bigger than he and moving with slow, sure steps.
The armor of his adversary might have been stolen from a museum. A cuirass of rigid, gold-embossed plating caged the thick torso. The closed helmet, with comb atop, was connected to the shoulders of the cuirass by a jointed collar and a chain mail tag in front, like a jabot. The arms, forearms and wrists were similarly protected by cunning jointed pieces. Even the chain mail mitteps had backs of plating.
You didn’t see work like that in these days, mused Peyton appreciatively. The old-timers must have taken pride in every hammer-tap. The brawny legs wore skin-tight breeches of leather, faced on the front of thigh and shin with curved slips of steel. All told, it was as good armor as Peyton’s own, and maybe a trifle better.
The big fellow was approaching lightly and surely, for all the metal he wore. But as he came near, he paused. He was somehow indecisive. Peyton felt his neck-hair bristle inside the brass-mounted gorget.
I don’t know who you are, he addressed the other in his heart, but I’m going to make you sick of the gladiator business.
He too moved in, tensing his muscles for action. If the crowd cheered any louder, he did not know.
Clang!
Peyton struck, heard the ring and felt the shock of his blade on the quickly interposed shield of the big gladiator. He set himself for the riposte. It did not come. His enemy was falling back warily. At last Peyton could hear the mob in the stadium. It was booing.
“Come on and fight,” Peyton taunted. His voice sounded big and hoarse inside the helmet. “I don’t usually speak to strangers, but we’ve got a show to give.”
He prodded tentatively with his point, seeking a way around the edge of the opposing shield. Forced to make a return, the touch stabbed, but without much strength. Peyton easily turned the attack with a flick of his shield wrist. He replied with a whacking cut that almost beat down the other’s guard and nicked the comb of the helmet.
“Are you here to fight or play patty-cake?” jeered Peyton. “I can’t do the work for both of us.”
HE FEINTED the other’s shield aside, cut under neatly and pricked the left arm at a point where the shoulder piece had momentarily slid away. A widening red stain appeared on the bright armor.
“First blood!” cried a woman.
He saw that his enemy’s retreat had brought them close to the wall, at a point near Argyle’s box. That had been Thora cheering him. Peyton felt his blood race. He was winning, and he was being cheered to victory by the only voice in all that crowd which mattered to him. If only this guy would make a scrap of it, give him a chance to show off, he’d be a hero! A thousand General Argyles wouldn’t dare to kick him around.
This was easy, Peyton thought, grinning. Your feet grew lighter instead of heavier in those iron shoes. The creak and jingle of your armor made a sort of music. Your hands did what you wanted, even before your mind was made up. And you moved and fought twice as flashily, daring to take showy chances because your big, lumbering opponent was dull or scared or sick, or all three.
Shield grated against shield. You felt the other’s strength. He did have that, though he didn’t seem to know how to use it. Better not hustle and heave against so much bulk, Blackie. Stay away. Fence and fool him. Make him look ridiculous. Ho! Another touch at the seam, where the front and back halves of the cuirass came together. More blood. And the big husk charged at last, because he had to.
Willie Burgoyne beat the rhinoceros. That was the way, he told himself. Peyton waited until the great, ironclad body was almost upon him, then sprang wide. For a moment the foe couldn’t wheel. Peyton made a sweeping cut with his sword, hard and wicked. The edge bit into the side of the helmet. Down clanged the big carcass, like an old wood stove collapsing. It quivered, rolled over on its back, sword flying one way, shield another. It didn’t get up.
What to do now? Oh, yes, Willie had told him that. The fallen giant was still breathing deep, painful whistles and stirring a little, but he must be badly hurt. Peyton shoved him back on the sand with an iron shoe. Sword-point resting on the arena floor, hands crossed on the hilt. Pose. Look toward General Argyle’s box, see what the crowd wants.
No doubt what
the crowd wanted. Fists were up and reversed, thumbs pointing down. Death for the man who was down. Argyle was making the motion imperatively. Thora wasn’t turning her thumb down. Her hands were clasped. She was smiling at Peyton.
No sane human being likes to kill in cold blood, but if he must, he must. Sword-point to that chain mail over the throat. Press hard. It goes in deep. Blood spurts like a fountain.
More cheers. Peyton frowned. Who was this fellow he’d killed? On impulse, he lifted a toe and roughly kicked up the visor.
“Willie!”
WILLIE’S flat, dark face was growing strangely bloodless, bruise-tinted. Peyton felt the mist close in, blinding and deafening. He dropped to his knees, felt the sand working up under the plates of his shin armor.
“So it was you, Mister Blackie . . . I didn’t want to fight . . .”
Different face now. Not gentle or hurt or anything at all. Just blank. That’s how your friend looks after you’ve killed him. Close those fixed eyes. Blood on your glove. Your friend’s blood. You’ve killed, Willie Burgoyne!
Up on your feet again, quick! Attendants coming, in clown suits, with big hooks to drag Willie away. Whirl your sword.
“Stand back, you rats! Nobody touches that body! Nobody, you hear?”
The clowns run. They look funny. Everybody in the stands is laughing, but the clowns don’t feel funny, you can bet. Now what’s the whopping about? Turn around, Blackie Peyton. They’ve sent something else in after you.
Ughhh!
What makes a sound like that? What a sickening brute! You’ve only seen pictures of such things, heard stories. It’s a gorilla, big, meaty-muscled, like Willie. Dark-faced, coming at you, lurching up on his short, bent legs, drumming his chest. That chest must be as hard as wood.
Gorillas aren’t born vicious, but this one had been caged and starved for months While men teased it. All it wants is a chance to get within grab-reach of a man. And you’re a man, Blackie. It’s going to get within grab-reach of you. Get that shield up, that sword up. You’re fighting for your life!
Over as quick and easy as that? Did it kill you before you knew it? No, you’re still standing. It’s the gorilla that’s down, about a dozen yards away from Willie, with your sword through it. Pull the sword out.
That was a fluke. It smacked at you. You ducked. It grabbed. Hugging you, it hugged your sword-point right through its own solar plexus. Your armor saved your ribs. No, no time for thinking about that! Here comes the next course.
A scampering, mousy-gray herd of pigs. Pigs? These are the peccary that Willie expected to fight. Bad medicine, these. If they get those thorny tusks into you, they’ll pull you down. Your armor won’t save you. Do what Willie planned to do. Stand ready, knees bent. Here they are, right onto you, twelve or thirteen—
Jump, Blackie!
You’re behind them. You got three in three slashes. Kill another as they form and rush. Jump again, free, kill two. Only half a dozen left. Wisely they stand off. Don’t wait for them to start trouble, rush them yourself. Six can be killed before they can rip through your leg armor. It’s pig-sticking. They’re easy to kill, if you don’t care whether you’re killed yourself or not . . .
They’re all down. Peccary, imported at great trouble and expense from the tropics. You’ve stuck them all in about ninety seconds. Listen to the crowd yell its ugly head off, because here we go again!
They’ve turned an elephant loose on you. No trappings, no tusks, and the only cruel eyes you ever saw in an elephant. You’ve heard of this one. They trained him to knock a man down and kneel on him. Well, why run and hide? Get it over with.
But the monster has stopped by Willie’s body. Sniff, sniff goes the trunk.
“You get up off him?”
It’s kneeling on Willie. Run at the big, doubled-down hunk of meat. It’s lifting its trunk. Slash—slash hard! Hundreds of muscles in an elephant’s trunk, but no bone. You’ve cut that trunk off with one blow. The elephant’s on his feet again, spouting blood. He’s dying, down on his knees, collapsing.
You’ve killed an elephant with a sword.
And now the crowd deafens you. Look, they’ve got their hands open, palm out! The mercy sign—General Argyle couldn’t have you killed, after all. The people won’t let you die. They want to save you for other shows. They love to watch men kill men in sport . . .
Argyle recognized the voice of the people, even if the people aren’t all Airmen. He signals mercy, too. Sudden silence. You can hear it. There’s a trapdoor opening in the sand. A microphone pole sprouts up.
You’re to talk, eh? Well, talk! Step up, Blackie, rip open your visor. You’ve got something to say.
“You should have killed me when you had the chance. You made me kill a friend, but his death is yours too. I’m still alive, and now I’m your enemy. The enemy of this circus and of the Airmen who run it. Of all who bow and scrape to the Airmen. Now I’m going to walk out of here. Stop me, anyone who dares. I’m as full of death as a drug store and some of it will rub off on the first one who touches me!”
Still the silence, like swamp water over your head. Walk toward the exit, Blackie. Your feet aren’t light in the iron shoes now. They’re like lead. Don’t be surprised if they drop off at the ankles.
Somebody may shoot you in the back as you walk out, but does it really matter?
X
AS PEYTON slouched into the dressing room, Gramp rose and came toward him. Peyton lifted a fending glove.
“Don’t touch me, Gramp. Right guys shouldn’t dirty their hands on rats.
“I seen it, Blackie. You didn’t know it was Willie till—”
“No, I didn’t.” Peyton unshipped his helmet and threw it clanging into a corner. He took a pitcher of water from the table, sloshed it over his head and down inside his body armor. “He didn’t know it was me, either. But I sailed in to kill a stranger, and he stood off. That was the difference.”
“You’re no rat,” Gramp said, helping to unlace the cuirass.
“I went with you to see the chief of the committee, Bengali. I declared myself in. Meanwhile, I figured to make a flash in the circus. I was going to ride both trains and figure which was the graviest for me.”
Gramp was silent for a time. Finally he said:
“You’ve made up your mind our way. I know, or you wouldn’t have admitted that much now.”
Peyton kicked off the iron shoes. Clad only in shorts, he reached for a towel.
“Listen, Gramp, I feel trouble coming. Bengali is in it, too. I’ll try to kick him free. But you’re in the clear. Stay that way.”
“I ain’t scared!” argued Gramp, his beard bristling.
Peyton rubbed himself down.
“No, but you’ll do more good if you aren’t scooped up.” He got into shoes, trousers and shirt. “I’m a rat, I said, but I’ve got right-guy blood in me somewhere. And these Airmen aren’t even rats. They’re cockroaches.”
The door opened.
“Oh, are we cockroaches?” General Argyle sneered.
He came in. Four Airmen, all big and fierce looking, followed him. Bengali walked last, drawn of face.
“Get out of here,” Argyle ordered Gramp.
“Guess I’d better, Blackie,” said Gramp.
He left. Argyle closed the door after him.
“Are we cockroaches?” asked Argyle again.
Peyton skinned his teeth in the inverted smile.
“You are. All the winds in the world won’t make butterflies out of you.”
An Airman clenched a fist like a twelve-pound show, but Argyle Khlted him with a gesture.
“Peyton, I asked you before the show if you knew Bengali.”
“I told you I did. He sat in your box with me last week.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“What would I be seeing him for?” Peyton’s eyes insulted Bengali. “I club with men, not orchids.”
“Bring in that other captive,” Argyle ordered.
&nb
sp; One of the Airmen opened the door and beckoned. The hook-nosed man who had met Peyton in the Underways bar came in. Argyle addressed the old sailor, pointing to Peyton:
“This is the man who drank with you and spoke against the Airmen?”
“Yes.”
Argyle pointed to Bengali.
“What about this one?”
The sailor studied Bengali and shook his head.
“Isn’t he the man who stays in the back office of that bar sometimes?”
“I’ve never been in the back office.”
“You can go,” said Argyle. “You, too, Bengali. But both of you stay within reach of me.”
AFTER they had left, Argyle locked the door.
“Peyton, you’re mixed up in some revolutionary plot. I tried to give you an easy out today, in the show, but—”
“Yes,” broke in Peyton harshly, “only I killed the things that were supposed to kill me. The crowd gave me life. I can’t be killed, right?”
“Right,” agreed the general. “But you can be half-killed.” He sat on the edge on the dressing table. The four Airmen drew together in a group, glaring at Peyton. “Talk, or else.”
“I’m through talking,” said Peyton. “Cockroaches don’t make good conversation. So come and try to ‘or else’ me.” Argyle looked at his companions and shrugged his shoulders. Two of them stepped forward on either side of Peyton, swung their fist at the same moment. He went into a ducking crouch, swift as a bobbin on a loom. Both swings missed. Peyton hit one of the attackers in the belly, kicked the other’s shin and jumped away.
As the nearest man turned toward him, Peyton lashed out with his left. The turning head spun hard against his knuckles and the Airman sat down with a grunt. At once Peyton leaped upon the other. His fists made blurs in the air. He planted eight blows in the body and two in the face. The second attacker sprawled across the first man, who was groggily trying to rise.
Peyton set his back to a corner and laughed. He was actually glad that the fight had started.
“I once dared any two Airmen to fight me,” he panted.
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