Glory Road

by Robert A. Heinlein

  He stuck to Star’s story line but embroidered it. I listened with growing admiration, both for him as a poet and for good old Scar Gordon, the one-man army. I decided that I must be a purty goddam hot hero, so when he sat down, I stood up.

  The girls had been more successful in getting me drunk than in getting me fed. Most of the food was strange and it was usually tasty. But a cold dish had been fetched in, little froglike creatures in ice, served whole. You dipped them in a sauce and took them in two bites.

  The gal in the jewels grabbed one, dipped it and put it up for me to bite. And it woke up.

  This little fellow—call him “Elmer”—Elmer rolled his eyes and looked at me, just as I was about to bite him.

  I suddenly wasn’t hungry and jerked my head back.

  Miss Jewelry Shop laughed heartily, dipped him again, and showed me how to do it. No more Elmer—

  I didn’t eat for quite a while and drank more than too much. Every time a bite was offered me I would see Elmer’s feet disappearing, and gulp, and have another drink.

  That’s why I stood up.

  Once up, there was dead silence. The music stopped because the musicians were waiting to see what to improvise as background to my poem.

  I suddenly realized that I didn’t have anything to say.

  Not anything. There wasn’t a prayer that I could ad lib a poem of thanks, a graceful compliment to my host—in Nevian. Hell, I couldn’t have done it in English.

  Star’s eyes were on me. She looked gravely confident.

  That did it. I didn’t risk Nevian; I couldn’t even remember how to ask my way to the men’s room. So I gave it to ’em, both barrels, in English. Vachel Lindsay’s “Congo.”

  As much of it as I could remember, say about four pages. What I did give them was that compelling rhythm and rhyme scheme double-talking and faking on any fluffs and really slamming it on “beating on a table with the handle of a broom! Boom! Boom! Boomlay boom!” and the orchestra caught the spirit and we rattled the dishes.

  The applause was wonderful and Miss Tiffany grabbed my ankle and kissed it.

  So I gave them Mr. E. A. Poe’s “Bells” for dessert. Jocko kissed me on my left eye and slobbered on my shoulder.

  Then Star stood up and explained, in scansion and rhyme, that in my own land, in my own language, among my own people, warriors and artists all, I was as famous a poet as I was a hero (Which was true. Zero equals zero), and that I had done them the honor of composing my greatest work, in the jewels of my native tongue, a fitting thanks to the Doral and house Doral for hospitality of roof, of table, of bed—and that she would, in time, do her poor best to render my music into their language.

  Between us we got the Oscar.

  Then they brought in the pièce de résistance, a carcass roasted whole and carried by four men. From the size and shape it might have been roast peasant under glass. But it was dead and it smelled wonderful and I ate a lot of it and sobered up. After the roast there were only eight or nine other things, soups and sherbets and similar shilly-shallying. The party got looser and people didn’t stay at their own tables. One of my girls fell asleep and spilled my wine cup and about then I realized that most of the crowd had gone.

  Doral Letva, flanked by two girls, led me to my chambers and put me to bed. They dimmed the lights and withdrew while I was still trying to phrase a gallant good night in their language.

  They came back, having shucked all jewelry and other encumbrances and posed at my bedside, the Three Graces. I had decided that the younger ones were mama’s daughters. The older girl was maybe eighteen, full ripe, and a picture of what mama must have been at that age; the younger one seemed five years younger, barely nubile, as pretty for her own age and quite self-conscious. She blushed and dropped her eyes when I looked at her. But her sister stared back with sultry eyes, boldly provocative.

  Their mother, an arm around each waist, explained simply but in rhyme that I had honored their roof and their table—and now their bed. What was a Hero’s pleasure? One? Or two? Or all three?

  I’m chicken. We know that. If it hadn’t been that little sister was about the size of the little brown sisters who had scared me in the past, maybe I could have shown aplomb.

  But, hell, those doors didn’t close. Just arches. And Jocko me bucko might wake up anytime; I didn’t know where he was. I won’t say I’ve never bedded a married woman nor a man’s daughter in his own house—but I’ve followed American cover-up conventions in such matters. This flat-footed proposition scared me worse than the Horned Goats. I mean “Ghosts.”

  I struggled to put my decision in poetic language.

  I didn’t manage it but I put over the idea of negative.

  The little girl started to bawl and fled. Her sister looked daggers, snorted. “Hero!” and went after her. Mama just looked at me and left.

  She came back in about two minutes. She spoke very formally, obviously exercising great control, and prayed to know if any woman in this house had met with the Hero’s favor? Her name, please? Or could I describe her? Or would I have them paraded so that I might point her out?

  I did my best to explain that, were a choice to be made, she herself would be my choice—but that I was tired and wished to sleep alone.

  Letva blinked back tears, wished me a hero’s rest, and left a second time, even faster. For an instant I thought she was going to slap me.

  Five seconds later I got up and tried to catch her. But she was gone, the gallery was dark.

  I fell asleep and dreamt about the Cold Water Gang. They were even uglier than Rufo had suggested and they were trying to make me eat big gold nuggets all with the eyes of Elmer.

  NINE

  Rufo shook me awake. “Boss! Get up! Right now!”

  I buried my head in the covers. “Go ’way!” My mouth tasted of spoiled cabbage, my head buzzed, and my ears were on crooked.

  “Right now! She says to.”

  I got up. Rufo was dressed in our Merry Men clothes and wearing sword, so I dressed the same way and buckled on mine. My valettes were not in sight, nor my borrowed finery. I stumbled after Rufo into the great dining hall. There was Star, dressed to travel, and looking grim. The fancy furnishings of the night before were gone; it was as bleak as an abandoned barn. A bare table was all, and on it a joint of meat, cold in congealed grease and a knife beside it.

  I looked at it without relish. “What’s that?”

  “Your breakfast, if you want it. But I shall not stay under this roof and eat cold shoulder.” It was a tone, a manner, I had never heard from her.

  Rufo touched my sleeve. “Boss. Let’s get out of here. Now.”

  So we did. Not a soul was in sight, indoors or out, not even children or dogs. But three dashing steeds were waiting. Those eight-legged tandem ponies, I mean, the horse version of a dachshund, saddled and ready to go. The saddle rigs were complex; each pair of legs had a leather yoke over it and the load was distributed by poles flexing laterally, one on each side, and mounted on this was a chair with a back, a padded seat, and arm rests. A tiller rope ran to each armrest.

  A lever on the left was both brake and accelerator and I hate to say how suggestions were conveyed to the beast. However, the “horses” didn’t seem to mind.

  They weren’t horses. Their heads were slightly equine but they had pads rather than hoofs and were omnivores, not hayburners. But you grow to like these beasties. Mine was black with white points—beautiful. I named her “Ars Longa.” She had soulful eyes.

  Rufo lashed my bow and quiver to a baggage rack behind my chair and showed me how to get aboard, adjust my seat belt, and get comfortable with feet on footrests rather than stirrups and my back supported—as comfy as first-class seats in an airliner. We took off fast and hit a steady pace of ten miles an hour, single-footing (the only gait longhorses have) but smoothed by that eight-point suspension so that it was like a car on a gravel road.

  Star rode ahead, she hadn’t spoken another word. I tried to speak to he
r but Rufo touched my arm. “Boss, don’t,” he said quietly. “When She is like this, all you can do is wait.”

  Once we were underway, Rufo and I knee to knee and Star out of earshot ahead, I said “Rufo, what in the world happened?”

  He frowned. “We’ll never know. She and the Doral had a row, that’s clear. But best we pretend it never happened.”

  He shut up and so did I. Had Jocko been obnoxious to Star? Drunk he certainly was and amorous he might have been. But I couldn’t visualize Star not being able to handle a man so as to avoid rape without hurting his feelings.

  That led to further grim thoughts. If the older sister had come in alone—If Miss Tiffany hadn’t passed out—If my valette with the fiery hair had showed up to undress me as I had understood she would—Oh hell!

  Presently Rufo eased his seat belt, lowered his back rest and raised his foot rests to reclining position, covered his face with a kerchief and started to snore. After a while I did the same; it had been a short night, no breakfast, and I had a king-size hangover. My “horse” didn’t need any help; the two held position on Star’s mount.

  When I woke I felt better, aside from hunger and thirst. Rufo was still sleeping; Star’s steed was still fifty paces ahead. The countryside was still lush, and ahead perhaps a half-mile was a house—not a lordly manor out a farmhouse. I could see a well sweep and thought of moss-covered buckets, cool and wet and reeking of typhoid—well, I had had my booster shots in Heidelberg; I wanted a drink. Water, I mean. Better yet, beer—they made fine beer hereabouts.

  Rufo yawned, put away his kerchief, and raised his seat. “Must have dozed off,” he said with a silly grin.

  “Rufo, you see that house?”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “Lunch, that’s what. I’ve gone far enough on an empty stomach. And I’m so thirsty that I could squeeze a stone and drink the whey from it.”

  “Then best you do so.”

  “Huh?”

  “Milord, I’m sorry—I’m thirsty, too—but we aren’t stopping there. She wouldn’t like it.”

  “She wouldn’t, eh? Rufo, let me set you straight. Just because milady Star is in a pet is no reason for me to ride all day with no food or water. You do as you see fit; I’m stopping for lunch. Uh, do you have any money on you? Local money?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t do it that way, not here. Boss. Wait another hour. Please.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we are still on the Doral’s land, that’s why. I don’t know that he has sent word ahead to have us shot on sight; Jock is a goodhearted old blackguard. But I would rather be wearing full armor; a flight of arrows wouldn’t surprise me. Or a drop net just as we turned in among those trees.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Depends on how angry he is. I mind once, when a man really offended him, the Doral had this poor rube stripped down and tied by his family jewels and placed—no, I can’t tell that one.” Rufo gulped and looked sick. “Big night last night. I’m not myself. Better we speak of pleasant things. You mentioned squeezing whey from a rock. No doubt you were thinking of the Strong Muldoon?”

  “Damn it, don’t change the subject!” My head was throbbing. “I won’t ride under those trees and the man who lets fly a shaft at me had better check his own skin for punctures. I’m thirsty.”

  “Boss,” Rufo pleaded. “She will neither eat nor drink on the Doral’s land—even if they begged her to. And She’s right. You don’t know the customs. Here one accepts what is freely given…but even a child is too proud to touch anything begrudged. Five miles more. Can’t the hero who killed Igli before breakfast hold out another five miles?”

  “Well…all right, all right! But this is a crazy sort of country, you must admit. Utterly insane.”

  “Mmmm…” he answered. “Have you ever been in Washington, D.C.?”

  “Well—” I grinned wryly. “Touché! And I forgot that this is your native land. No offense intended.”

  “Oh, but it’s not. What made you think so?”

  “Why—” I tried to think. Neither Rufo nor Star had said so, but—“You know the customs, you speak the language like a native.”

  “Milord Oscar, I’ve forgotten how many languages I speak. When I hear one of them, I speak it.”

  “Well, you’re not an American. Nor a Frenchman, I think.”

  He grinned merrily. “I could show you birth certificates from both countries—or could until we lost our baggage. But, no, I’m not from Earth.”

  “Then where are you from?”

  Rufo hesitated. “Best you get your facts from Her.”

  “Tripe! I’ve got both feet hobbled and a sack over my head. This is ridiculous.”

  “Boss,” he said earnestly, “She will answer any question you ask. But you must ask them.”

  “I certainly shall!”

  “So let’s speak of other matters. You mentioned the Strong Muldoon—”

  “You mentioned him.”

  “Well, perhaps I did. I never met Muldoon myself, though I’ve been in that part of Ireland. A fine country and the only really logical people on Earth. Facts won’t sway them in the face of higher truth. An admirable people. I heard of Muldoon from one of my uncles, a truthful man who for many years was a ghostwriter of political speeches. But at this time, due to a mischance while writing speeches for rival candidates, he was enjoying a vacation as a free-lance correspondent for an American syndicate specializing in Sunday feature stories. He heard of the Strong Muldoon and tracked him down, taking train from Dublin, then a local bus, and at last Shank’s Mares. He encountered a man plowing a field with a one-horse plow…but this man was shoving the plow ahead of himself without benefit of horse, turning a neat eight-inch furrow. ‘Aha!’ said my uncle and called out, ‘Mr. Muldoon!’

  “The farmer stopped and called back, ‘Bless you for the mistake, friend!’—picked up the plow in one hand, pointed with it and said, ‘You’ll be finding Muldoon that way. Strong, he is.’

  “So my uncle thanked him and went on until he found another man setting out fence posts by shoving them into the ground with his bare hand…and in stony soil, it’s true. So again my uncle hailed him as Muldoon.

  “The man was so startled he dropped the ten or dozen six-inch posts he had tucked under the other arm. ‘Get along with your blarney, now!’ he called back. ‘You must know that Muldoon lives farther on down this very same road. He’s strong.’

  “The next local my uncle saw was building a stone fence. Dry-stone work it was and very neat. This man was trimming the rock without hammer or trowel, splitting them with the edge of his hand and doing the fine trim by pinching off bits with his fingers. So again my uncle addressed a man by that glorious name.

  “The man started to speak but his throat was dry from all that stone dust; his voice failed him. So he grabbed up a large rock, squeezed it the way you squeezed Igli—forced water out of it as if it had been a goatskin, drank. Then he said, ‘Not me, my friend. He’s strong, as everyone knows. Why, many is the time that I have seen him insert his little finger—’”

  My mind was distracted from this string of lies by a wench pitching hay just across the ditch from the road. She had remarkable pectoral muscles and a lava-lava just suited her. She saw me eyeing her and gave me the eye right back, with a wiggle tossed in.

  “You were saying?” I asked.

  “Eh? ‘—just to the first joint…and hold himself at arm’s length for hours!”

  “Rufo,” I said, “I don’t believe it could have been more than a few minutes. Strain on the tissues, and so forth.”

  “Boss,” he answered in a hurt tone, “I could take you to the very spot where the Mighty Dugan used to perform this stunt.”

  “You said his name was Muldoon.”

  “He was a Dugan on his mother’s side, very proud of her he was. You’ll be pleased to know, milord, that the boundary of the Doral’s land is now in sight. Lunch in minutes only.”

&
nbsp; “I can use it. With a gallon of anything, even water.”

  “Passed by acclamation. Truthfully, milord, I’m not at my best today. I need food and drink and a long siesta before the fighting starts, or I’ll yawn when I should parry. Too large a night.”

  “I didn’t see you at the banquet.”

  “I was there in spirit. In the kitchen the food is hotter, the choice is better, and the company less formal. But I had no intention of making a night of it. Early to bed is my motto. Moderation in all things. Epictetus. But the pastry cook—well, she reminds me of another girl I once knew, my partner in a legitimate business, smuggling. But her motto was that anything worth doing at all is worth overdoing—and she did. She smuggled on top of smuggling, a sideline of her own unmentioned to me and not taken into account—for I was listing every item with the customs officers, a copy with the bribe, so that they would know I was honest.

  “But a girl can’t walk through the gates fat as a stuffed goose and walk back through them twenty minutes later skinny as the figure one—not that she was, just a manner of speaking—without causing thoughtful glances. If it hadn’t been for the strange thing the dog did in the night, the busies would have nabbed us.”

  “What was the strange thing the dog did in the night?”

  “Just what I was doing last night. The noise woke us and we were out over the roof and free, but with nothing to show for six months’ hard work but skinned knees. But that pastry cook—You saw her, milord. Brown hair, blue eyes, a widow’s peak and the rest remarkably like Sophia Loren.”

  “I have a vague memory of someone like that.”

  “Then you didn’t see her, there is nothing vague about Nalia. As may be, I had intended to lead the life sanitary last night, knowing that there would be bloodshed today. You know:

  ‘Once at night and outen the light;

  ‘Once in the morning, a new day a-borning’

  “—as the Scholar advised. But I hadn’t reckoned with Nalia. So here I am with no sleep and no breakfast and if I’m dead before nightfall in a pool of my own blood, it’ll be partly Nalia’s doing.”