"I can answer that," I said. "They didn't start it. It was human suspicion, with the Soviets thinking the Aliens had teamed up with us. Maybe folks in Washington thought the Aliens were working with the Reds, too."
Gwen gave me a look of betrayal. "There was more than that. They shot down all the missiles, which was the only favor they ever did us. Then they turned the war into a joke! A 'tribal squabble. Welcome chance to test repairs to anti-meteor system.' It was all a video game to them! And it brought the government down."
"Request, explain how," Dzhaz said.
"They didn't have enough time to accomplish anything," I said. The Alien's words had blasted me out of a mental rut, and things that should have been obvious all along were becoming clear now. I can't say that I felt any gratitude to Dzhaz for that. "Anyway, I think the governments are to blame. They failed, Gwen, they pushed the button. I doubt anyone would've let them have a second chance to blow us to hell, with or without the Aliens."
"We'll never find out," she said bitterly.
Dzhaz shifted around on his feet. "Request, continue talk at later time." After a moment of silence it left.
Gwen went to the window and watched it disappear into the rain. "They've done it again," she said, clutching the sill. "They're attacking our weaknesses. They won't be satisfied until we're all barbarians."
"I don't think that's what's happening," I said, feeling strangely bemused. "Or if they are trying that, Dzhaz just admitted it won't work."
She jerked around, startled. "When did it say that?"
"When it was talking about the zapper. What did it say? A single zap is ineffective against a member of a healthy society? Such people don't really enjoy getting zapped—right? It feels nice, but it's degrading, and you have better pleasures. Family. Work that means something. Accomplishment, hope, a future. When you have that you don't slip off into pipe dreams."
"What about the Colonel?" Gwen said. She still suspected an Alien trick, but she wanted to be convinced, to hear that there wouldn't be a second Collapse.
"The Colonel has his problems," I acknowledged. "But think about what he's like. A second Patton, the warrior incarnate. 'Duty, honor, country.' When he lost his first country, he set out to make a second one."
"The Republic didn't exist when he was zapped."
I nodded. "True, but his military unit did. He gave himself the responsibility of holding it together. He has a will that the zapper couldn't bend . . ."
Things clicked. Weyler had orchestrated the attack to get Washington zapped, assuming that it would break him. The spy at my house must have brought Weyler the impossible news that the zapper had failed with me and could not be trusted to work on the Colonel. If Weyler was going to remove Washington, it would have to be through other means.
And his warriors had a talent for sneaking around unseen—
I grabbed my coat and ran out the door. The path to the north slope and bivouac seemed all uphill in the rain, a waking nightmare. I was out of breath and my heart was pounding when I stumbled up to a sentry post. A soldier in a poncho kept me from falling over. I gasped out something about the Colonel and protecting him, and both sentries ran to his tent. I caught my breath and went after them.
The Colonel was in his tent, sitting up on his cot with the blanket over his legs. He was holding a revolver on a savage, although the look on Washington's face was deadly enough. "I cannot believe," he said in disgust, "that Weyler would try something so obvious."
I nodded absently at his soldierly esthetics. The savage glared at me. The rain had washed off his dirt and war-paint, revealing white skin and matted blond hair. It gave him an odd resemblance to a long-ago California surf bum. "Where's Weyler?" I demanded, as the sentries tied his hands behind him.
The savage—hell, the young man—spat at me. I noticed he had bad teeth. "Bring him with me," I told the sentries. I knew what I had to do now, risky as it was.
The rain had slacked off to a drizzle; the storm was passing. Weyler's camp had turned into mud, and the savages squatted under their lean-tos. "Weyler!" I shouted. "Get out here! Face me, you gutless wonder! Crawl out here, back-stabber!"
He came out into the open. He had to, with me calling him a coward in front of his advisors and warriors. He stood about ten feet from me. "What do you want, Renaissance Man?" he asked in contempt.
"You sent your boy to murder the Colonel," I said, as the sentries dragged the captive into the camp. "To kill him while he slept."
"What if I did?" he asked. Some of his men smiled at his cleverness. It was merely murder, an acceptable gambit to them—just as we had been ready to go to war to get what we want.
"You have no guts," I said. Using short, simple words is hell for a politician, but I wanted his men to understand me. They spoke English, yes, but only in a crude, limited way. I had to make certain that I left him no escape. "You are lower than a snake's belly. You are the dirt under the pile of crap. You send others to fight for you."
He spat. "So I fight the way you fight. Guns, cannons, airplanes. Your people hide behind them and kill at a coward's distance."
"We kill that way because you run from us," I taunted him. "You can only face unarmed villagers, and you are the biggest coward of all, hiding behind your warriors. You would not even fight me."
Weyler looked me over, up and down, and smiled. I was an old man, like him. I'd been zapped and I'd run a half-mile, and unlike him, I wasn't in prime condition. I was no hardy, hearty barbarian. "And you would not fight me with spear and knife."
"I would," I said.
The Colonel stepped up to my side. "Mr. Secretary, what in hell are you doing?"
"I don't have the time to explain." Across the muddy grounds, one of his warriors had produced a spear and knife. I sent one of the sentries to fetch it. "Think of it as the soldier's dream, Colonel. The leaders are going to slug it out."
"Single combat?"
"Just like David and Goliath." There'd been a time when armies sent out champions to do combat, allowing their gods to decide the outcome of battles through them. A good custom, I thought, peeling off my jacket. We couldn't have peace with Weyler, and we couldn't accomplish anything through full-scale war. This would give us a chance.
I looked at Weyler as he prepared for battle. He looked confident of victory, but he didn't know we were fighting according to my rules. To win, he had to kill me, but all I had to do was stay alive and wait for one opportunity.
Washington looked resigned, and far from optimistic. "Mr. Secretary, when fighting, keep your head down, to protect your throat. Face him sideways, to keep him from kicking you in the crotch. Keep your feet apart, so he won't knock you off balance easily."
"Okay, thanks." He'd taught me to fight years ago, when I'd joined him as a trooper, but it didn't hurt to hear that again. I removed my shoes and socks, and the sentry brought my weapons. The knife was poorly balanced, but I wasn't going to use it. The spear had a stone point, secured by sinew, and its shaft was good and solid. Fiber lacings served as grips. I tested them and decided they wouldn't slip or break.
"Weyler," I called. I had no right to make the Republic's foreign policy decisions, but I had to give Weyler a reason to fight without making him suspicious. "If you win, we will not attack your tribe, there will be no war. If I win, you will release, unharmed, all the captives taken on your last raid. Agreed?"
"Agreed," he said at once. Then he turned and faced Signal Hill, where the Alien force-field shimmered in the wet air. Several of the Aliens stood just inside the shield, watching us.
"Dark Gods!" Weyler shouted, raising spear and knife above his head. "Ottar-idle, hai! Give me victory!" Prayers said, he faced me and stepped forward, smiling.
I stepped forward. The long grass and mud squished under my toes. The mud was cold, but I'd never have kept my balance in my shoes. When I was within two or three paces of Weyler, I tossed the knife aside. I needed both hands for my spear.
He laughed as the knife splas
hed in the mud. "You won't win."
"Prove it." I circled slowly, waiting for him to make the first move. My feet grew numb in the cold mud, but as I moved around I tested the ground, noting which parts were slipperier than others, which might give decent footing. After a long moment I settled into a fairly solid patch of ground.
I heard grumblings from the barbarians. They wanted the warrior-king to prove himself in battle, and they disliked our dancing. Good. Every bit of pressure on my enemy helped.
He lunged at me with the spear. I parried it with mine, although the blow nearly knocked the spear from my hands. Gaunt as he looked, Weyler was stronger than me. Much stronger.
"Is that why you threw away your knife?" he asked. "To buy yourself more time?" He swung at me with the spear, twice, toying with me. He danced back, put his knife in his loincloth belt, lunged forward with his spear in both hands. He wasn't much faster than me, I saw. He was an old man, too.
I turned, and for a moment we were face to face, our spear shafts jammed together. "I'll never free any slaves," he whispered. "Even if you win."
"I know," I gasped. He kicked at my ankle and I tripped. I twisted away as he jabbed at me with the spear point. On my knees, I held the shaft above me as he brought his spear down on my head. The poles hit with a crack, jolting my shoulders. Weyler grabbed his spear with both hands and leaned forward, forcing me to support his weight.
"Still think you can kill me?" he asked.
"Don't want . . . kill you," I said.
You can't smile in a fight. Instead he grimaced. "You're soft, Civilized Man. Decadent. I'll free the world from your ilk."
"Really?" I grunted.
"You think me a fool." He could talk easily; he was in far better shape then me. "Your old world was a cancer. Build it again, and you'll bring another Collapse. I'll spare the world that suffering when I destroy you."
I was sagging under his weight. Suddenly I pushed up with one arm and let the other arm drop. He dropped as I twisted aside, shoving my spear against his. Weyler landed atop his spear, face down in the mud—and I had the opportunity I'd wanted.
Kill him? No, not with his shamans' prophecies, all ready to turn his death into martyrdom. Spare his life and trust him to keep his word, overawed by my mercy and fighting prowess? Come, now. There was only one way to defeat him.
He started to get up, groping for his spear with one hand, wiping mud from his face with the other. He wasn't worried about me; he'd decided I was weak, and he knew I was unarmed, so he was in no hurry to get up. That's when I kicked him in the ass, in full view of his entourage.
The pain made him yell. I'd hit him in one of the most sensitive parts of the human anatomy, right at the base of the spine. I kicked again, harder, and I felt something crunch. He sprawled in the mud, then tried to stand. Weyler fell down again, immobilized by the pain, and I took his knife. It was a good, pre-Collapse blade, and I put it into my own belt. Symbolism is important among savages. Disarming Weyler sealed my victory.
Gwen was standing next to Washington, her face flushed with anger. "Do you know what you've done?" she demanded as I joined them.
"I think I broke my toe," I said. It was just starting to throb.
"You didn't win anything," Gwen said, looking across the grounds. Two of Weyler's warriors had helped him up and were wiping away the mud. "He's down now, but what about tomorrow? He'll be out for revenge."
"I know, but right now I'm in control." I faced Weyler and raised my voice. "Weyler! Tomorrow the Legislature will meet in the Forum. Before you leave, you and your men will go to the meeting." I waved a hand at Signal Hill and the Alien watchers. "They will be there also."
One of Weyler's old men nodded to me. In the face of their leader's humiliation, they could do nothing but listen and obey—until they got over this. If tomorrow's events worked out right, though, they would never recover.
I turned to Washington. "Colonel, would you send a messenger to the Aliens? Inform them that if they want any cooperation from us they will have a representative at tomorrow's sessions."
"What's the idea?" Gwen asked, as the colonel left to carry out my orders.
"Gwen, you know that everything Dzhaz said was true. We're going to have to learn to live with it. If we can't, then we're just setting ourselves up for another Collapse."
"Peachy," she said. "What are you going to do? Get up in the Forum and say that the human race is decadent? Why make the Aliens' job easier for them?"
"They aren't here to provoke another Collapse," I said. "If I'm right, we're not in any danger of a Collapse. I can prove everything . . . and when I do, Weyler won't be a problem any more."
"If you're right."
"We'll have to handle things carefully," I said. I planned to play games with beliefs, both ours and the outlanders. That would present more dangers than my duel with Weyler.
While the camp medic came over to examine my foot, I looked at our savages. One of them was ministering to Weyler's injuries, by chanting and waving a gourd rattle over him. The others were on their knees, bowing and praying to the Aliens, hoping for a miracle. In my way I was doing the same thing, just as I'd done before the fight. My god was Reason, though, a much more demanding deity than any the savages worshiped. If it was going to deliver any miracles, I would have to work for them.
There was silence through the first part of my address. Shock, I suppose, at least among the other legislators. Weyler and his men seemed quietly pleased by my revisionist account of the Collapse. Perhaps it made up for yesterday's humiliation. They had chairs, but all of them were standing, no doubt because Weyler couldn't sit down. I was having trouble staying on my feet; willow-bark tea, our substitute for aspirin, wasn't doing much for the pain in my sprained toe.
Speaker Ryan had virtually handed control of the floor to me for the duration of my speech; only she and Gwen knew what I would say. Dzhaz had shown up, and he kept himself busy with his instruments while I talked about such things as decay, addiction, and the Collapse.
"So Scented Vine left and we started picking up the pieces," I said. "We never counted on a return visit from the Aliens, because Scented Vine was the equivalent of a tramp steamer, dropping anchor at a convenient port. We didn't think they'd tell anyone about their activities here. Even if they weren't responsible for the Collapse, they'd played a role in it, and some of their activities were criminal.
"Nevertheless, they talked. Word got around. A group of scholars heard about the incident. They interviewed Scented Vine's crew, purchased copies of their records. They came here to study the Collapse. Isn't that right, Dzhaz?"
The silvery suit turned to face me. "Correct."
I looked around the Forum. "Fascinating, isn't it? Scented Vine kept nothing secret, but only a few academics took any interest in their crimes. No galactic government or space patrol became curious. In any event, these scholars came to Earth, detected our radio station, and homed in on it. That brings up another strange point. Why investigate us?"
"Because we're rebuilding!" a legislator shouted. That got a scattering of applause.
"Exactly," I said. "They're interested in us because we're working to restore civilization—or to build a new one. But we have nothing to do with the Collapse; the Republic didn't arise until after things fell apart. Yet the Aliens were clearly, undeniably desperate to study us—us, not the savages or the warlords. Why?"
No one answered. "It must be vitally important; they even agreed not to carry their zappers among us. Does that mean they're willing to risk their lives to—what? Study a mishap on an obscure planet? Get information to write a footnote? What makes it worth their while?"
"Well, they're alien," someone suggested—an Expansionist legislator. I felt glad that a member of the opposition had suggested that. Let them look obtuse.
"I thought the same thing, at first," I said. "Dzhaz, one of the Aliens, visited my office the other day. We discussed one of my constituent's problems—two of his cats had been shot
by a neighbor's boy. The questions he asked proved that Dzhaz had trouble understanding that we wanted dissent and order, that there's a difference between discipline and brutality, the need to assume responsibility—" Light began to dawn on some of the faces in the amphitheater. "You see? What sort of society produces someone like that?
"And what sort of society produces people like Scented Vine's crew? Or lets them run rampant? Without assuming responsibility for their acts?" I had to raise my voice over a growing murmur. The savages looked angry; I was blaspheming against their gods. "They're not 'alien,' any more than the twentieth century was 'alien.' They came here to learn about themselves." I faced Dzhaz. "Your civilization is collapsing, isn't it?"
"Statement of fact," Dzhaz said. Odd, how the translator's flat voice could sound so reluctant. "As experts, self, others able to recognize disintegration of own society. Organize selves into unit, ultimate objective, formulate method to halt or reverse process. One of many techniques, study social disintegration this planet. Last known collapse three thousand local years prior to your collapse; you present opportunity to collect information from survivors, generate new insights, possible solutions."
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