Glory Road

by Robert A. Heinlein

  No, I didn’t scream. Star was behind me and she didn’t scream and she didn’t complain about her wounded arm—so I couldn’t scream. She patted me on the foot each time she inched forward, to tell me that she was all right and to report that Rufo was okay, too. We didn’t waste strength on talk.

  I saw a faint something, two ghosts of light ahead, and stopped and stared and blinked and stared again. Then I whispered to Star, “I see something. Stay put, while I move up and see what it is. Hear me?”

  “Yes, milord Hero.”

  “Tell Rufo.”

  Then I did the only really brave thing I have ever done in my life: I inched forward. Bravery is going on anyhow when you are so terrified your sphincters won’t hold and you can’t breathe and your heart threatens to stop, and that is an exact description for that moment of E. C. Gordon, ex-Pfc. and hero by trade. I was fairly certain what those two faint lights were and the closer I got the more certain I was—I could smell the damned thing and place its outlines.

  A rat. Not the common rat that lives in city dumps and sometimes gnaws babies, but a giant rat, big enough to block that rat hole but enough smaller than I am to have room to maneuver in attacking me—room I didn’t have at all. The best I could do was to wriggle forward with my sword in front of me and try to Keep the point aimed so that I would catch him with it, make him eat steel—because if he dodged past that point I would have nothing but bare hands and no room to use them. He would be at my face.

  I gulped sour vomit and inched forward. His eyes seemed to drop a little as if he were crouching to charge.

  But no rush came. The lights got more definite and wider apart, and when I had squeezed a foot or two farther I realized with shaking relief that they were not rat’s eyes but something else—anything, I didn’t care what.

  I continued to inch forward. Not only was the Egg in that direction but I still didn’t know what it was and I had best see before telling Star to move up.

  The “eyes” were twin pinholes in a tapestry that covered the end of that rat hole. I could see its embroidered texture and I found I could look through one of its imperfections when I got up to it.

  There was a large room beyond, the floor a couple of feet lower than where I was. At the far end, fifty feet away, a man was standing by a bench, reading a book. Even as I watched he raised his eyes and glanced my way. He seemed to hesitate.

  I didn’t. The hole had eased enough so that I managed one foot under and lunged forward, brushing the arras aside with my sword. I stumbled and bounced to my feet, on guard.

  He was at least as fast. He had slapped the book down on the bench and drawn sword himself, advanced toward me, while I was popping out of that hole. He stopped, knees bent, wrist straight, left arm back, and point for me, perfect as a fencing master, and looked me over, not yet engaged by three or four feet between our steels.

  I did not rush him. There is a go-for-broke tactic, “the target,” taught by the best swordmasters, which consists in headlong advance with arm, wrist, and blade in full extension—all attack and no attempt to parry. But it works only by perfect timing when you see your opponent slacken up momentarily. Otherwise it is suicide.

  This time it would have been suicide; he was as ready as a tomcat with his back up. So I sized him up while he looked me over. He was a smallish neat man with arms long for his height—I might or might not have reach on him, especially as his rapier was an old style, longer than Lady Vivamus (but slower thereby, unless he had a much stronger wrist)—and he was dressed more for the Paris of Richelieu than for Karth-Hokesh. No, that’s not fair; the great black Tower had no styles, else I would have been as out of style in my fake Robin Hood getup. The Iglis we had killed had worn no clothes.

  He was an ugly cocky little man with a merry grin and the biggest nose west of Durante—made me think of my first sergeant’s nose, very sensitive he was about being called “Schnozzola.” But the resemblance stopped there; my first sergeant never smiled and had mean, piggish eyes; this man’s eyes were merry and proud.

  “Are you Christian?” he demanded.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing. Blood’s blood, either way. If Christian you be, confess. If pagan, call your false gods. I’ll allow you no more than three stanzas. But I’m sentimental, I like to know what I’m killing.”

  “I’m American.”

  “Is that a country? Or a disease? And what are you doing in Hoax?”

  “‘Hoax’? Hokesh?”

  He shrugged only with his eyes, his point never moved. “Hoax, Hokesh—a matter of geography and accent; this château was once in the Carpathians, so ‘Hokesh’ it is, if ’twill make your death merrier. Come now, let us sing.”

  He advanced so fast and smoothly that he seemed to apport and our blades rang as I parried his attack in sixte and riposted, was countered—remise, reprise, beat-and-attack—the phrase ran so smoothly, so long, and in such variation that a spectator might have thought that we were running through Grand Salute.

  But I knew! That first lunge was meant to kill me, and so was his every move throughout the phrase. At the same time he was feeling me out, trying my wrist, looking for weaknesses, whether I was afraid of low line and always returned to high or perhaps was a sucker for a disarm. I never lunged, never had a chance to; every part of the phrase was forced on me, I simply replied, tried to stay alive.

  I knew in three seconds that I was up against a better swordsman than myself, with a wrist like steel yet supple as a striking snake. He was the only swordsman I have ever met who used prime and octave—used them, I mean, as readily as sixte and carte. Everyone learns them and my own master made me practice them as much as the other six—but most fencers don’t use them; they simply may be forced into them, awkwardly and just before losing a point.

  I would lose, not a point, but my life—and I knew, long before the end of that first long phrase, that my life was what I was about to lose, by all odds.

  Yet at first clash the idiot began to sing!

  “Lunge and counter and thrust,

  “Sing me the logic of steel!

  “Tell me, sir, how do you feel?

  “Riposte and remise if you must

  “In logic long known to be just.

  “Shall we argue, rebut and refute

  “In enthymeme clear as your eye?

  “Tell me, sir, why do you sigh?

  “Tu es fatigué, sans doute?

  “Then sleep while I’m counting the loot.”

  The above was long enough for at least thirty almost-successful attempts on my life, and on the last word he disengaged as smoothly and unexpectedly as he had engaged.

  “Come, come, lad!” he said. “Pick it up! Would let me sing alone? Would die as a clown with ladies watching? Sing!—and say good-bye gracefully, with your last rhyme racing your death rattle.” He banged his right boot in a flamenco stomp. “Try! The price is the same either way.”

  I didn’t drop my eyes at the sound of his boot; it’s an old gambit, some fencers stomp on every advance, every feint, on the chance that the noise will startle opponent out of timing, or into rocking back, and thus gain a point. I had last fallen for it before I could shave.

  But his words gave me an idea. His lunges were short—full extension is fancy play for foils, too dangerous for real work. But I had been retreating, slowly, with the wall behind me. Shortly, when he re-engaged, I would either be a butterfly pinned to that wall, or stumble over something unseen, go arsy-versy, then spiked like wastepaper in the park. I didn’t dare leave that wall behind me.

  Worst, Star would be coming out of that rat hole behind me any moment now and might be killed as she emerged even if I managed to kill him at the same time. But if I could turn him around—my beloved was a practical woman; no “sportsmanship” would keep her steel stinger out of his back.

  But the happy counterthought was that if I went along with his madness, tried to rhyme and sing, he might play me along, amused to hear wh
at I could do, before he killed me.

  But I couldn’t afford to stretch it out. Unfelt, he had pinked me in the forearm. Just a bloody scratch that Star could make good as new in minutes—but it would weaken my wrist before long and it disadvantaged me for low line: Blood makes a slippery grip.

  “First stanza,” I announced, advancing and barely engaging, foible-à-foible. He respected it, not attacking, playing with the end of my blade, tiny counters and leather-touch parries.

  That was what I wanted. I started circling right as I began to recite—and he let me:

  “Tweedledum and Tweedledee

  “Agreed to rustle cattle.

  “Said Tweedledum to Tweedledee

  “I’ll use my nice new saddle.”

  “Come, come, my old!” he said chidingly. “No stealing. Honor among beeves, always. And rhyme and scansion limp. Let your Carroll fall trippingly off the tongue.”

  “I’ll try,” I agreed, still moving right. “Second stanza—

  “I sing of two lasses in Birmingham,

  “Shall we weep at the scandal concerning them?”—

  —and I rushed him.

  It didn’t quite work. He had, as I hoped, relaxed the tiniest bit, evidently expecting that I would go on with mock play, tips of blades alone, while I was reciting.

  It caught him barely off guard but he failed to fall back, parrying strongly instead and suddenly we were in an untenable position, corps-à-corps, forte-à-forte, almost tête-à-tête.

  He laughed in my face and sprang back as I did, landing us back en garde. But I added something. We had been fencing point only. The point is mightier than the edge but my weapon had both and a man used to the point is sometimes a sucker for a cut. As we separated I flipped my blade at his head.

  I meant to split it open. No time for that, no force behind it, but it sliced his right forehead almost to eyebrow.

  “Touché” he shouted. “Well struck. And well sung. Let’s have the rest of it.”

  “All right,” I agreed, fencing cautiously and waiting for blood to run into his eyes. A scalp wound is the bloodiest of flesh wounds and I had great hopes for this one. And sword-play is an odd thing; you don’t really use your mind, it is much too fast for that. Your wrist thinks and tells your feet and body what to do, bypassing your brain—any thinking you do is for later, stored instructions, like a programmed computer.

  I went on:

  “They’re now in the dock

  “For lifting the—”

  I got him in the forearm, the way he got me, but worse. I thought I had him and pressed home. But he did something I had heard of, never seen: He retreated very fast, flipped his blade and changed hands.

  No help to me. A right-handed fencer hates to take on a southpaw; it throws everything out of balance, whereas a southpaw is used to the foibles of the right-handed majority—and this son of a witch was just as strong, just as skilled, with his left hand. Worse, he now had toward me the eye undimmed by blood.

  He pinked me again, in the kneecap, hurting like fire and slowing me. Despite his wounds, much worse than mine, I knew I couldn’t go on much longer. We settled down to grim work.

  There is a riposte in seconde, desperately dangerous but brilliant—if you bring it off. It had won me several matches in épée with nothing at stake but a score. It starts from sixte; first your opponent counters. Instead of parrying to carte, you press and bind, sliding all the way down and around his blade and corkscrewing in till your point finds flesh. Or you can beat, counter, and bind, starting from sixte, thus setting it off yourself.

  Its shortcoming is that, unless it is done perfectly, it is too late for parry and riposte; you run your own chest against his point.

  I didn’t try to initiate it, not against this swordsman; I just thought about it.

  We continued to fence, perfectly each of us. Then he stepped back slightly while countering and barely skidded in his own blood.

  My wrist took charge; I corkscrewed in with a perfect bind to seconde—and my blade went through his body.

  He looked surprised, brought his bell up in salute, and crumpled at the knees as the grip fell from his hand. I had to move forward with my blade as he fell, then started to pull it out of him.

  He grasped it. “No, no, my friend, please leave it there. It corks the wine, for a time. Your logic is sharp and touches my heart. Your name, sir?”

  “Oscar of Gordon.”

  “A good name. One should never be killed by a stranger. Tell me, Oscar of Gordon, have you seen Carcassonne?”

  “No.”

  “See it. Love a lass, kill a man, write a book, fly to the Moon—I have done all these.” He gasped and foam came out of his mouth, pink. “I’ve even had a house fall on me. What devastating wit! What price honor when timber taps thy top? ‘Top?’ tap? taupe, tape—tonsor!—when timber taps thy tonsor. You shaved mine.”

  He choked and went on: “It grows dark. Let us exchange gifts and part friends, if you will. My gift first, in two parts: Item: You are lucky, you shall not die in bed.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Please. Item: Friar Guillaume’s razor ne’er shaved the barber, it is much too dull. And now your gift, my old—and be quick, I need it. But first—now did that limerick end?”

  I told him. He said, very weakly, almost in rattle, “Very good. Keep trying. Now grant me your gift, I am more than ready.” He tried to Sign himself.

  So I granted him grace, stood wearily up, went to the bench and collapsed on it, then cleaned both blades, first wiping the little Solingen, then most carefully grooming the Lady Vivamus. I managed to stand and salute him with a clean sword. It had been an honor to know him.

  I was sorry I hadn’t asked him his name. He seemed to think I knew it.

  I sat heavily down and looked at the arras covering the rat hole at the end of the room and wondered why Star and Rufo hadn’t come out. All that clashing steel and talk—I thought about walking over and shouting for them. But I was too weary to move just yet. I sighed and closed my eyes—

  Through sheer boyish high spirits (and carelessness I had been chided for, time and again) I had broken a dozen eggs. My mother looked down at the mess and I could see that she was about to cry. So I clouded up too. She stopped her tears, took me gently by the shoulder, and said, “It’s all right, son. Eggs aren’t that important.” But I was ashamed, so I twisted away and ran.

  Downhill I ran, heedless and almost flying—then was shockingly aware that I was at the wheel and the car was out of control. I groped for the brake pedal, couldn’t find it and felt panic…then did find it—and felt it sink with that mushiness that means you’ve lost brake-fluid pressure. Something ahead in the road and I couldn’t see. Couldn’t even turn my head and my eyes were clouded with something running down into them. I twisted the wheel and nothing happened—radius rod gone.

  Screams in my car as we hit!—and I woke up in bed with a jerk and the screams were my own. I was going to be late to school, disgrace not to be borne. Never born, agony shameful, for the schoolyard was empty; the other kids, scrubbed and virtuous, were in their seats and I couldn’t find my classroom. Hadn’t even had time to go to the bathroom and here I was at my desk with my pants down about to do what I had been too hurried to do before I left home and all the other kids had their hands up but teacher was calling on me. I couldn’t stand up to recite; my pants were not only down I didn’t have any on at all if I stood up they would see it the boys would laugh at me the girls would giggle and look away and tilt their noses. But the unbearable disgrace was that I didn’t know the answer!

  “Come, come!” my teacher said sharply. “Don’t waste the class’s time, E.G. You Haven’t Studied Your Lesson.”

  Well, no, I hadn’t. Yes, I had, but she had written “Problems 1-6” on the blackboard and I had taken that as “1 and 6”—and this was number 4. But She would never believe me; the excuse was too thin. We pay off on touchdowns, not excuses.

  “That’
s how it is, Easy,” my Coach went on, his voice more in sorrow than in anger. “Yardage is all very well but you don’t make a nickel unless you cross that old goal line with the egg tucked underneath your arm.” He pointed at the football on his desk. “There it is. I had it gilded and lettered clear back at the beginning of the season, you looked so good and I had so much confidence in you—it was meant to be yours at the end of the season, at a victory banquet.” His brow wrinkled and he spoke as if trying to be fair. “I won’t say you could have saved things all by yourself. But you do take things too easy. Easy—maybe you need another name. When the road gets rough, you could try harder.” He sighed. “My fault, I should have cracked down. Instead, I tried to be a father to you. But I want you to know you aren’t the only one who loses by this—at my age it’s not easy to find a new job.”

  I pulled the covers up over my head; I couldn’t stand to look at him. But they wouldn’t let me alone; somebody started shaking my shoulder. “Gordon!”

  “Le’me ’lone!”

  “Wake up, Gordon, and get your ass inside. You’re in trouble.”

  I certainly was, I could tell that as soon as I stepped into the office. There was a sour taste of vomit in my mouth and I felt awful—as if a herd of buffaloes had walked over me, stepping on me here and there. Dirty ones.

  The First Sergeant didn’t look at me when I came in; he let me stand and sweat first. When he did look up, he examined me up and down before speaking.

  Then he spoke slowly, letting me taste each word. “Absent Over Leave, terrorizing and insulting native women, unauthorized use of government property…scandalous conduct…insubordinate and obscene language…resisting arrest…striking an M.P.—Gordon, why didn’t you steal a horse? We hang horse thieves in these parts. It would make it all so much simpler.”

  He smiled at his own wit. The old bastard always had thought he was a wit. He was half right.