by Damon Knight
Dick ate a little of the venison, as ordered, and put it aside; he left the wineglass untouched. The next course was pheasant, with a golden Rhine wine—probably the Mohawk, he thought bitterly. The serving slob, who was some kind of relative of the chef’s, gave Dick a reproachful look as he cleared away the plates.
Then came domestic meats—duped, of course; nobody kept herds any more—with a claret. Then seafood, with a sauterne. Dick’s father touched his arm and nodded toward Uncle Orville. When Dick had attracted his attention, the Man said to them both, “Cashel is not eating. He has had nothing since the soup.”
Uncle Orville nodded and turned away. Dick’s mouth was suddenly dry.
The meal dragged on. The room, the diners, everything had taken on a dreamlike quality. Time was stifled. Course succeeded course with maddening slowness, and Dick carved the meat, chopped at vegetables with his fork, picked up his wineglass and set it down. The Buckhill Players, who in everyday life were body slobs, secretaries and the like, came on with a skit called “The Expert Eye”; Dick had seen it in rehearsal, and had thought it hilariously funny, but now it seemed vulgar and dull. Singers followed, then the magician, and then a pair of clowns—new ones; Uncle Glenn had brought them up from Newcastle. Heat waves swam under the ceiling; the sherbets began to melt almost as soon as they were set down.
Then the last of the long line of glasses was being filled with champagne; Uncle Orville, on Dick’s right, rose to give the first toast.
“To the boy that’s leaving us tomorrow—to spend four years away from his own fireside—learning good manners and wickedness—” Uncle Orville snorted. “May he come back none the worse for it—young Dick Jones!”
All over the room, the bright wineglasses winked as they swung up in salute. There were more tosts, endlessly, while the hot room swam in its own vapors, fumes of wine, greasy fragrance of departed meat, spices, sweat and perfumes.
Abruptly, it was all over. The guests were getting up, milling confusedly in the aisles, and slowly trickling out, leaving the sadly littered floor and the garbage-heaped tables behind them. The echoes grew hollow.
The women of the two Jones families were gone, taking the younger children with them. The last guests were out of earshot. Leaning on his elbows on the table, the Man turned and said, “Well, George?”
Uncle George’s face was pale. “Fred, you’ve pushed me too far. I want you to understand that. I never was jealous of you—”
The Man must have made some sound, for Uncle George stopped as if stung. “No, by God, I never was!” he said. “But you think you can sit here, manning it over the whole countryside—” His voice was shaking; he stopped again, stared at the dessert plate in front of him, with its monogram and the distinctive Jones pattern, then clutched it and broke the fragile thing over the edge of the table.
Next to him, Cashel started and glanced up, his heavy face surprised.
The Man’s voice seemed flat, almost colorless. “Do I understand by that gesture that Cashel is challenging Dick?”
“Unless he gets an apology, right here, right now!” Uncle George struck the table with his fist, making the silverware dance and ring.
The Man turned composedly. “Well, Dick?”
Down the table, the faces of the other men stared sullenly or angrily past him. Dick could see now, as he looked at them, what it was that was eating into Cashel and Uncle George. If he were only out of the way, it would be more than four years before Ad was sixteen; there would be a vacancy, and Cash could go to Colorado—get the training, meet the important people… .
For the first time he could remamber, sitting there beside his father, he felt that he and the Man were completely in harmony, each knowing the other’s feelings without a word or gesture.
This was what mattered, after all—not who was “right” or “wrong.”
He said, “I accept.” The words hung in the heavy air. Sunlight was pouring brilliantly in at the far end of the room, making the incandescents seem dim and sickly. For a long time no one spoke.
Gray-haired old Vaughan, the Man’s body-slob, came at a tottering run through the doorway. The Man, Dick realized, must have signaled for him minutes ago. Leaning back casually over his chair, Dick’s father spoke to Vaughan, giving him instructions; the slob went out and returned shortly with a portable typewriter. One of the secretaries, being sent for, sat down at the machine and in a few minutes produced a document which he handed with a bow to the Man. By this time, Kunkle of Delaview had showed up, redder than ever in a hideous apple-green jacket and plus-fours. Kunkle was the district’s greatest sports and weapons enthusiast; he knew all the rules of every contest, and always refereed important matches. All the men, having seized the opportunity to stand up, gathered in an uneasy group to read the document—after which each sat down again in turn to sign it: first Dick’s father, then Uncle George, then the in-laws beginning with the eldest.
Down in the left-hand corner, almost as an afterthought, there were two lines: “Challenge offered,” followed by Cash’s blunt scrawl, and “Challenge accepted,” with an empty space. Dick signed, and then glanced over the paper before he handed it back: it began, “Know all men that on this 10th day of May, 2049, a quarrel arising between Richard Jones, eldest son of Frederick Jones of Buckhill, and Cashel Jones, eldest and only son of George Jones …” Under the last typed line, Dick’s eye caught the familiar, austere shape of his father’s signature, and the florid loops of Uncle George’s The capital G was small, but the J was enormous, and the last stroke of “Jones” whipped back into a descending curlicue that underlined the name.
“Well, men, it’ll have to be this afternoon, if you’re all agreeable,” said Kunkle. “Say, in half an hour?”
Chapter Six
Down the long green slope the crowd flowed in atoms of white and scarlet, lavender, dun, sky blue. Dick moved with it, protected by a little circle of relatives and servants: first the Man and Uncle Orville, walking silently together, then Blashfield the fierce little armorer on one side, and Uncle Glenn on the other; behind him, body-slobs, porters and the like. All around them, voices were subdued; no one shouted or laughed. The shadows of the great oaks and maples were heavily pooled at their roots; there was a melancholy freshness in the air. It was almost the magical twilight time of day, when all shapes blurred into a golden mist, and the ground seemed to glow faintly with its own light.
He was afraid.
It took all his will to conceal it, to walk steadily with his head up, hands at his sides. His gut was like ice, his knees were loose, his lips cold and dry.
He had played at duels a thousand times with Ad and the others, and had thought he understood what it was like: you drew yourself up, calm and cold; you waited for the word, you aimed and fired, and the other man fell down. Even when it was your turn to fall, you knew you would get up again in a moment.
But to fall, and never get up—to disappear into that blackness forever …
Now that it was ending, he could see the day as a whole. This was what it had been leading up to, all the time, from the very moment he had got out of bed. The frustration about breakfast, the Dixieland, Cash and himself coming together as inevitably as an axe and a tree …
He was going to die. His mind flinched back in horror from that, but it was still there, grinning, implacable. His body would rot under the ground, while delicious things were still happening in the sunlight … at Buckhill, Adam would be the Man; life would go on just the same, intolerably.
If only this feeling had come earlier, when there was still time … He could never go through with it. He’d disgrace himself if he had to, anything; but he wanted to live.
Down on the flat, a hundred yards from the rifle range, the ground slobs had finished measuring off the distance and had planted poles. Along both sides of the dueling ground, the crowd was gathering; the line of fire was approximately north and south, so that neither he nor Cash would have the sun in his eyes.
The crowd made way for them as they came up. Dick’s party moved to the north end of the ground, and he saw Cash taking his place, among the huddle of Twin Lakes men, at the other end. Cash looked unfamiliar in his white shirt, more hulking and awkward than ever.
“Give me the gun,” said Uncle Orville. Carrying it, he walked down to the center pole, to meet Kunkle and Uncle Floyd. They compared the guns, then conferred for what seemed an interminable time; evidently there was some troublesome point of procedure.
Dick felt the pressure of Blashfield’s hard fingers on his arm. The little man was like a gray-feathered pouter pigeon; the bristly top of his head came only to Dick’s shoulder. “Everybody feels same way by first time,” he said gruffly. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”
“Oh, Blashfield,” said Dick.
“You’ll do fine. It’s just like from high board diving, firs’time. Second time, nod so bad.”
Dick managed to snort. “How do you know? You can’t swim, Blashfield.”
The armorer’s popeyed face was grave and dignified. “No, sir, but I fought for your grandfadder by Pimple Hill.”
Dick took a deep breath, and looked back down the line. Apparently the dispute had been satisfactorily decided; the two guns hung on the center pole, and Uncle Orville was walking leisurely back. Off through the crowd to the left, Dick could make out Dr. Scope and two white-coated house slobs working around the emergency cart. Two narrow cots on wheels were standing ready, and there was a plasma stand, and a pulmotor… .
Dick was thinking of the dive from the high board, the falling, and then the icy shock … Was that what death was like? A shock, and then nothing?
“Now, misser, det won’t be long,” said Blashfield affectionately. “Remember for aim by det spot right under his arm. Never de head. If you miss by head, you miss, but if you miss by heart, dere’s still his liver’n lights. How’s your nerves?”
“All right,” said Dick, from a dry throat.
“Good.” Blashfield patted his arm. “Now remember dis, too, misser. A fight is a fight, it don’t madder how you got into it or wedder you’re by right or by wrong. You’re here to kill your man if you can. Leave de sermons to de preacher.”
As he spoke, the Rev. Dr. Hamper was coming slowly forward to stand in the center of the ground. With his fine white head bared in the late sunlight, the Book in his long hands, he looked around slowly before he spoke.
“Men and ladies, before that thing is done here which cannot be undone, it is my duty to ask you humbly whether this dispute may not be peaceably resolved. Men, I beg you to search your hearts. Are you determined that this quarrel shall proceed?” He turned and looked earnestly, first at Dick as the challenged party, then at Cash. No one spoke. Everyone stood around patiently, waiting for him to get it over with. Hamper faced front again and bowed his head over his joined hands. “Let us pray. O Lord, who in Thy Mercy watcheth over us, grant that we may retire from this field with hands unsullied, and with true humility in our hearts. In Jesus’ name we ask it. Amen.” He straightened and walked back into the crowd. There was a hum of interrupted conversations.
“Blashfield,” Dick said hurriedly, “What do you think about religion? I mean—”
The little man looked at him gravely. “I dink we have all been here before, misser.”
Kunkle, who had been talking to Dr. Scope, walked out to the center and raised his arms. “Folks, your attention, please. This duel is going to be fought according to the Cleveland Rules. The boys are using thirty-eights, with three standard cartridges in each gun. The distance is one hundred fifty feet. The duel will go on to the first hit, or until both boys have used up their three shots. Now, will the contestants please come down to the center?”
Dick moved reluctantly forward, watching Cashel walk toward him down the green avenue. His palms felt sweaty. Cashel looked pale as death.
They reached Kunkle at the center pole and stopped. “Now, boys,” said the referee,” “I’m going to hand you your guns, and you take ‘em back to your positions. Just let ‘em hang in your hand. There won’t be any drawing from holsters. When you hear me say, ‘Ready,’ you take your place by the end pole, facing away from here. You understand, facing away. Then when I say, ‘Turn,’ you turn, and when I say, ‘Fire,’ you can fire at will.” He glanced at each of them in turn. “Any questions? No? All right, now go on back, and may the best man win.”
Dick trudged back up the line. The faces went past him, a blur. His teeth were chattering in his clenched face.
Blashfield stepped into his path, stopped and steadied him, then maneuvered him over to the end pole, beside it and about two feet away. Over the armorer’s head he saw his father and the two uncles, standing silently, with set, intent faces. “Take a deep breat’,” said Blashfield.
He sucked it in, held it, let it go. “Anodder.”
“Ready!” called the voice.
Blashfield gave him a final pat and stepped away. There was a long, breathless pause. Blashfield had moved back, out of sight, with his father and uncles. His heart was pounding, hard enough to hurt.
“Turn!”
He felt himself wheeling, coming to rest on the extended right foot as he had been taught. His arm swung up, heavy as a log.
“Fire!”
Over the gun barrel, Cashel’s body seemed a tiny puppet shape; his head would have fitted easily into the notch of the rear sight. He was standing edge-on, his right arm up and almost invisible in foreshortening. Fighting the tremor in his forearm, Dick brought the sights into line at a point just above and to to the right of Cashel’s chest.
There was a sharp popping sound near his left ear, over riding the distant bark of the gunshot. He saw Cash’s hand flip and come down again. His arm was trembling again and his aim had gone wide: grimly he set to work bringing it back. Now the sights were lined up again; he squeezed the trigger gently as they wavered off, held, squeezed harder as they came back. The gun bucked and roared in his hand. His ears rang.
Cash was still there, still aiming.
Bringing the gun down, he heard the popping sound again, this time on the right.
He had perhaps a second to fire before Cash’s third shot. In the hush, he saw the sights drift on target. He squeezed gently, then harder. Sights and target came together with an instinctive rightness that made him think, A hit! The gun roared.
Under his hand, he saw the tiny doll-figure of Cashel shortening—leaning, doubling over, down in the grass.
He waited numbly, but the body did not move. The crowd flowed in on it.
As he turned away, somebody took the gun out of his hand. Somebody else tried to support him from behind, but he kept going until he bumped into a tree. Holding the rough bark, he bent over and vomited.
When he straightened, Uncle Glenn handed him a handkerchief. Blashfield was busy with the gun; he put in a new round, closed it smartly, reversed it and stuffed it back into Dick’s holster.
Beyond him, down at the end of the avenue, he saw Uncle George standing erect in the dispersing crowd, with Cashel’s body in his arms. Dr. Scope was beside him, talking, gesturing, but Uncle George paid no attention. Tears were shiny on his cheeks; he looked stunned and wild.
“Dead?” Dick asked, unbelievingly.
“Dead as mackerel,” said Uncle Orville.
He remembered Dr. Scope giving him a sedative, and then a long, formless, black period, something between waking and sleeping. Once he had opened his eyes, and the room had been filled with darkness; in the open window, the cold branches were skeletal against the faint star-glow. Then he must have fallen asleep again, because when he opened his eyes the second time the lights were on and his father was bending over him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked dizzily.
“Get your clothes on,” his father said. “Padgett, where’s that coffee?”
The gray-haired tutor came forward with a silver pot in his hand. “Drink this,” said the Man, shoving a filled cup at him.
He gulped it; it was scalding hot.
The lights in the room seemed sickly and thin. The blinds were drawn. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Just before six,” said Padgett. “If we hurry, we’ll get away before dawn.”
“What?” said Dick, sitting up. Sam came up with garments in his hands. He put a shirt over Dick’s head, and Dick held up his arms automatically.
“We think it best for you to leave early,” his father said. There were pouches under his eyes and he was wearing yesterday’s linen.
Dick stood up, swaying. The image of that falling body leaped into his mind, unbidden; he said, “Oh …”
It had rained during the night and all the lawns were slick and sodden; but now the early sun was out, golden against grayness, and the sky to the east was clear. Up behind the house, on the field leveled by Dick’s grandfather, there were two planes on the runway:a slim, two-engined Lockheed passenger-fighter, and a dumpy, gray Lippisch aerodyne. To Dick’s faint surprise, there was no activity around the Lockheed; Blashfield and a squad of the House Guard were standing near the open door of the dyne.
Still thinking it was a mistake, he kept walking past the dyne toward the Lockheed; but his father stopped him with a touch on the arm. “That one’s going later, as a decoy,” he said. “This is yours.”
Dick looked with distaste at the squat shape. The aerodyne was a dependable but ungainly old boat, built to a design that had been only half developed at the time of the Turnover, when all technological work had stopped. It was stable and strong, and about as safe to operate as anything but a Cub; but it had no style at all. Dick felt rebellious; it was as if he had been given the wind-broken old mare to ride.
“Couldn’t you pick something funnier-looking?” he demanded.
