Sol shrugged, offering none. Sos turned about and spoke. "Four years ago you all served small tribes or traveled alone. You slept in cabins or in private tents, and you did not need anything that was not provided. You were free to go and to live as you chose.
"Now you travel in large tribes and you fight for other men when they tell you to. You till the land, working as the crazies do, because your numbers are too great for the resources of any one area. You mine for metals, because you no longer trust the crazies to do it for you, though they have never broken trust. You study from books, because you want the things civilization can offer. But this is not the way it should be. We know what civilization leads to. It brings destruction of all the values of the circle. It brings competition for material things you do not need. Before long you will overpopulate the Earth and become a scourge upon it, like shrews who have overrun their feed ing grounds.
"The records show that the end result of empire is-the Blast."
But he hadn't said it well.
All but Sav peered incredulously at him. "You claim," Tot said slowly, "that unless we remain primitive nomads, dependent upon the crazies, ignorant of finer things, there will be a second Blast?"
"In time, yes. That is what happened before. It is our duty to see that it never happens again."
"And you believe that the answer is to keep things as they are, disorganized?'
"So more men like Bog can die in the circle?"
Sos stood as if stricken. Was he on the right side, after all?
"Better that, than that we all die in the Blast," Sol put in surprisingly. "There are not enough of us, now, to recover again."
Unwittingly, he had undercut Sos's argument, since overpOpulation was the problem of empire.
Neq turned on Sol. "Yet you preserve the circle by deserting it!"
Sav, who understood both sides, finally spoke. "Sometimes you have to give up something you love, something you value, so as not to destroy it. I'd call that sensible enough."
"I'd call it cowardice!" Tyl said.
Both Sol and Sos jumped toward him angrily.
Tyl stood firm. "Each of you defeated me in the circle. I will serve either. But if you fear to face each other for supremacy, I must call you what you are."
"You have no right to build an empire and throw it away like that," Tor said. "Leadership means responsibifity."
"Where did you learn all this 'history'?" Neq demanded. "I don't believe it."
"We're just beginning to cooperate like men, instead of playing like children," Tun said.
Sol looked at Sos. "They have no power over us. Let them talk." ,
Sos stood indecisively. What these suddenly assertive men were saying made distressing sense. How could he be sure that what the master of the underworld had told him was true? There were so many obvious advantages of civilization-and it had taken thousands of years for the Blast to come, before. Had it really been the fault of civilization, or had there been factors he didn't know about? Factors that might no longer exist....
Little Soli appeared and ran toward Sol. "Are you going to fight now, Daddy?"
Tyl stepped ahead of him and managed to intercept her, squatting with difficulty since his knees were still healing. "Soli, what would you do if your daddy decided not to fight?"
She presented him with the round-eyed stare. "Not fight?"
No one else spoke.
"If he said he wouldn't go in the circle any more," Tyl prompted her. "If he went away and never fought again."
Soil burst out crying.
Tyl let her go She ran to Sol. "You go in `the circle, Daddy!" she exclaimed. "Show him!"
It had happened again. Sol faced him, defeated. "I must fight for my daughter."
Sos struggled with himself, but knew that the peaceful settlement had flown. He saw, in a terrible revelation, that this, not name, woman or empire, had been the root of each of their encounters: the child. The child called Soli had been there throughout; the `circle had determined which man would claim the name and privilege of fatherhood.
Sol could not back down, and neither could Sos. Bob, of the underworld, had made clear what would happen if Sos allowed the empire to stand.
"Tomorrow, then," Sos said, also defeated.
"Tomorrow-friend."
"And the winner rules the empire-all of it!" Tyl shouted, and the others agreed.
Why did their smiles look lupine?
They ate together, the two masters with Sola and Soli. "You will take care of my daughter," Sol said. He did not need to define the circumstance further.
Sos only nodded.
Sola was more direct. "Do you want me tonight?"
Was this the woman he had longed for? Sos studied her, noting the voluptuous figure, the lovely features. She did not recognize him, he was certain-yet she had accepted an insulting alliance with complacency.
"She-loved another," Sol said. "Now nothing matters to her, except power. It is not her fault."
"I still love him," she said. "If his body is dead, his memory is not. My own body does not matter."
Sos continued to look at her-but the image he saw was of little Sosa of the underworld, the girl who wore his bracelet. The girl Bob had threatened to send in his place, should Sos refuse to undertake the mission . . . to work her way into Sol's camp as anybody's woman and to stab Sol with a poisoned dart and then herself, leaving the master of empire dead and disgraced. The girl who would still be sent, if Sos failed.
At first it had been Sol's fate that had concerned him, though Bob never suspected this. Only by agreeing to the mission could Sos arrange to turn aside its treachery. But as the time of training passed, Sosa's own peril had become as important. If he betrayed the underworld now, she would pay the penalty.
Sola and Sosa: the two had never met, yet they controlled his destiny. He had to act to protect them both-and he dared tell neither why.
"In the name of friendship, take her!" Sol exclaimed. "I have nothing left to offer."
"In the name of friendship," Sos whispered. He was sickened by the whole affair, so riddled with sacrifice and dishonor. He knew that the man Sola embraced in- her mind would be the one who had gone to the mountain. She might never know the truth.
And the woman he embraced would be Sosa. She would never know, either. He had not realized until he left her that he loved her more.
At noon the next day they met at the circle. Sos wished there were some way he could lose, but he knew at the same moment that this was no solution. Sol's victory would mean his death; the underworld had pronounced it.
Twice he had met Sol in battle, striving to win and failing. This time he would strive in his heart to lose, but had to win. Better the humiliation of one, than the death of two.
Sol had chosen the daggers. His handsome body glistened in the sunlight-but Sos imagined with sadness the way that body would look after the terrible hands of the nameless one closed upon it. He looked for some pretext to delay the onset, but found none. The watchers were massed and waiting, and the commitment had been made. The masters had to meet, and there was no friendship in the circle. Sos would spare his friend if he were able-but he had to win.
They entered the circle together and faced each other for a moment, each respecting the other's capabilities. Perhaps each still hoped for some way to stop it, even now. There was no way. It had been unrealistic to imagine that this final encounter could be reneged. They were the masters: no longer, paradoxically, their own masters.
Sos made the first move. He jumped close and drove a sledgehammer fist at Sol's stomach-and caught his balance as the effort came to nothing. Sol had stepped aside, as he had to, moving more swiftly than seemed possible, as be always did and a shallow slash ran the length of the challenger's forearm. The fist had missed, the knife had not wounded seriously, and the first testing of skill had been accomplished.
Sos had known better than to follow up with a second blow in the moment Sol appeared to be off-balance. Sol was n
ever caught unaware. Sol had refrained from committing the other knife, knowing that the seeming ponderosity of Sos's hands was illusory; Tactics and strategy at this level of skill looked crude only because so many simple ploys were useless or suicidal; finesse seemed like bluff only to the uninitiate.
They circled each other, watching the placements of feet and balance of torso rather than face or hands. The expression in a face could lie, but not the attitude of the body; the motion of a hand could switch abruptly, but not that of a foot. No major commitment could be made without preparation and reaction. Thus Sol seemed to hold the twin blades lightly while Sos hardly glanced at them.
Sol moved, sweeping both points in toward the body, one high, the other low. Sos's hands were there, closing about the two wrists as the knives were balked by protected shoulder and belly, and So! pinioned. He applied pressure slowly, knowing that the real ploy had not yet been executed.
Sol was strong, but he could not hope to compete with his opponent's power. Gradually his arms bent down as the vice-like grip intensified, and the fingers on the knives loosened. Then Sol flexed both wrists-and they spun about within the grip! No wonder his body shone: he had greased it.
Now the daggers took on life of their own, flipping over together to center on the imprisoning manacles. The points dug in, braced against clamped hands, feeling for the vulnerable tendons, and they were feather-sharp.
Sos had to let go. His hardened skin could deflect lightning slashes, but not the anchored probing he was exposed to here. He released -one wrist only, yanking tremendously at the other trying to break it while his foot lashed against the man's inner thigh. But Sol's free blade whipped across unerringly, to bury itself in the flesh of Sos's other forearm, and it was not the thigh but the hard bone of hip that met the moving foot. It was far more dangerous to break with Sol than to close with him.
They parted, the one with white marks showing the crushing pressure exerted against him, the other with spot punctures and streaming blood from one arm. The second testing had passed. It was known that if the nameless one could catch the daggers, he could not hold them, and the experienced witnesses nodded gravely. The one was stronger, the other faster, and the advantage of the moment lay with Sol.
The battle continued. Bruises appeared upon Sol's body, and countless cuts blossomed on Sos's, but neither scored definitely. It had become a contest of attrition.
This could go on for a long time, and no one wanted that. A definite decision was required, not a suspect draw. One master had to prevail or the other. By a certain unvoiced mutual consent they cut short the careful sparring and played for the ultimate stakes.
Sol dived, in a motion similar to the one Sos had used against him during their first encounter, going not for the almost invulnerable torso' but the surface `muscles and tendons of the legs. Sol's success would cripple Sos, and put him at a fatal disadvantage. He leaped aside, but the two blades followed as Sol twisted like a serpent. He was on his back now, feet in the air, ready to smite the attacked. He had been so adept at nullifying prior attacks that Sos was sure the man was at least partially familiar with weaponless techniques. This might also explain Sol's phenomenal success as a warrior. The only real advantage Sos had was brute strength.
He used it. He hunched his shoulders and fell upon Sol, pinning him by the weight of his body and closing both hands about his throat. Sol's two knives came up, their motion restricted but not blocked, and stabbed into the gristle on either side of Sos's own neck. The force of each blow was not great, since the position was quite awkward, but the blades drove again and again into the widening wounds. The neck was the best protected part of his body, but it could not sustain this attack for long.
Sos lifted himself and hurled the lighter man from side to side, never relinquishing the cruel constriction, but his position, too, was improper for full effect. Then, as his head took fire with the exposure of vital nerves, he knew that he was losing this phase; the blades would bring him down before Sol finally relinquished that-tenacious consciosness.
It would not be possible to finish it gently.
He broke, catching Sol's hair to hold his head down, and hammered his horny knuckle into the exposed windpipe.
Sol could not breathe and was in excruciating pain.. His throat had been crushed. Still the awful daggers searched for Sos's face, seeking, if not victory, mutual defeat. It was not in Sol to lose in the circle.
Sos used his strength once more. He caught one blade in his hand, knowing that the edge could not slip free from his flesh. With the other hand he grabbed again for the hair. He stood up, carrying Sol's body with him. He whirled about and flung his friend out of the circle.
As quickly as he had possession of the circle, he abdicated it, diving after his fallen antagonist. Sol lay on the ground, eyes bulging, hands clasping futilely at his throat. Sos ripped them away and dug his fingers into the sides of the neck, massaging it roughly. His own blood dripped upon Sol's chest as he squatted above him. -
"It's over!" someone screamed. "You're out of the circle! Stop!"
Sos did not stop. He picked one dagger from the ground and cut into the base of Sol's throat, using the knowledge his training in destruction had provided.
A body fell upon him, but he was braced against it. He lifted one great arm and flung the person away without looking. He widened the incision until a small hole opened in Sol's trachea; then he put his mouth to the wound.
More men fell upon him, yanking at his arms and legs, but he clung fast. Air rushed into the unconscious man's lungs as Sos exhaled, and his friend was breathing again, precariously.
"Sav! It's me, Sav," a voice bellowed in his ear, "Red River! Let go! I'll take over!"
Only then did Sos lift bloodflecked lips and surrender to unconsciousness.
He woke to pain shooting along his neck. His hand found bandages there. Sola leaned over him, soft of expression, and mopped the streaming sweat from his face with a cool sponge. "I know you," she murmured as she saw his eyes open. "I'll never leave you-nameless one."
Sos tried to speak, but not even the croak came out. "Yes, you saved him," she said. "Again. He can't talk any more, but he's in better shape than you are. Even though you won." She leaned~ down to kiss him lightly. "It was brave of you to rescue him like that-but nothing is changed."
Sos sat up. His neck exploded into agony as he put stress upon it, and he could not turn his head, but he kept on grimly. He was in the main tent, in what was evidently Sola's compartment. He looked about by swiveling his body. No one else was present.
Sola took his arm gently. "I'll wake you before he goes. I promise. Now lie down before you kill yourself-again."
Everything seemed to be repeating. She had cared for him like this once long ago, and he had fallen in love with her. When he needed help, she was-
Then it was another day. "It's time," she said, waking him with a kiss. She had donned her most elegant clothing and was as beautiful as he had ever seen her. It had been premature to discount his love for her; it had not died.
Sol was standing outside with his daughter, a bandage on his throat and discoloration remaining on his body, but otherwise - fit and strong. He smiled when he saw Sos and came over to shake hands. No words were necessary. Then he placed Soli's little hand in Sos's and turned away.
The men of the camp stood in silence as Sol walked past them, away from the tent. He wore a pack but carried no weapon.
"Daddy!" Soli cried, wrenching away from Sos and running after him. -
Sav jumped out and caught her. "He goes to the mountain," he explained gently. "You must stay with your mother and your new father."
Soli struggled free again and caught up to Sol. "Daddy!" Sol turned, kneeled, kissed her and turned her to face the way she had come. He stood up quickly and resumed his walk. Sos remembered the time he had tried to send Stupid down the mountain.
"Daddy!" she cried once more, refusing to leave him. "I go with you!" Then, to show she underst
ood: "I die with you." -
Sol turned again and looked beseechingly at the assembled men.
No one moved.
Finally he picked Soli up and walked out of the camp.
Sola put her face to Sos's shoulder and sobbed silently, refusing to go after her daughter. "She belongs to him," she said through her tears. "She always did."
As be watched the lonely figures depart, Sos saw what was in store for them. Sol would ascend the mountain, carrying the little girl. He would not be daunted by the snow or the death that waited him. He would drive on until overwhelmed by the cold, and fall at last with his face toward the top, shielding his daughter's body with his own until the end. -
Sos knew what would happen then, and who would- be waiting to adopt a gallant husband and a darling daughter. There would be the chase in the recreation room, perhaps, and special exercise for Soli. It had to be, for Sosa would recognize the child. The child she had longed to bear herself.
Take her! he thought. Take her-in the name of love.
While Sos remained to be the architect of the empire's quiet destruction, never certain whether he was doing the right thing. He had built it in the name of another man; now he would bring it down at the behest of a selfish power clique whose purpose was to prevent civilization from arising on the surface. To prevent power from arising.
Sos had always been directed in key decisions by the action of other men, just as his romancing had been directed by those women who reached for it. Sol had given him his name and first mission; Dr. Jones had given him his weapon; Sol had sent him to the mountain and Bob had sent him back. Sol's lieutenants had forced the mastership upon him, not realizing that he was the enemy of the empire.
Would the time ever come when he made his own decisions? The threat that had existed against Sol now applied against Sos: if he did not dismantle the empire, someone would come for him, someone he would have no way to recognize or guard against, and hostages would die. Three of them, one a child...
He looked at Sola, lovely in her sorrow, and knew that the woman he loved more would belong to Sol. Nothing had changed. Dear little Sosa. Sos faced the men of his empire, thousands strong. They thought him master now-but was he the hero, or the villain?