Glory Road

Chapter 6

Singing birds are better than alarm clocks and Barsoom was never like this. I stretched happily and smelled coffee and wondered if there was time for a dip before breakfast. It was another perfect day, blue and clear and the sun just up, and I felt like killing dragons before lunch. Small ones, that is.

I smothered a yawn and rolled to my feet. The lovely pavilion was gone and the black box mostly repacked; it was no bigger than a piano box. Star was kneeling before a fire, encouraging the coffee. She was a cavewoman this morning, dressed in a hide that was fancy but not as fancy as her own. From an ocelot, maybe. Or from du Pont.

"Howdy, Princess," I said. "What's for breakfast? And where's your chef?"

"Breakfast later," she said. "Just a cup of coffee for you now, too hot and too black—best you be bad tempered. Rufo is starting the talk with Igli." She served it to me in a paper cup.

I drank half a cup, burned my mouth and spat out grounds. Coffee comes in five descending stages: Coffee, Java, Jamoke, Joe, and Carbon Remover. This stuff was no better than grade four.

I stopped then, having caught sight of Rufo. And company, lots of company. Along the edge of our terrace somebody had unloaded Noah's Ark. There was everything there from aardvarks to zebus, most of them with long yellow teeth.

Rufo was facing this picket line, ten feet this side and opposite a particularly large and uncouth citizen. About then that paper cup came apart and scalded my fingers.

"Want some more?" Star asked.

I blew on my fingers. "No, thanks. This is Igli?"

"Just the one in the middle that Rufo is baiting. The rest have come to see the fun, you can ignore them."

"Some of them look hungry."

"Most of the big ones are like Cuvier's devil, herbivorous. Those outsized lions would eat us—if Igli wins the argument. But only then. Igli is the problem."

I looked Igli over more carefully. He resembled that scion of the man from Dundee, all chin and no forehead, and he combined the less appetizing features of giants and ogres in ‘The Red Fairy Book'. I never liked that book much.

He was vaguely human, using the term loosely. He was a couple of feet taller than I am and outweighed me three or four hundred pounds but I am much prettier. Hair grew on him in clumps, like a discouraged lawn; and you just knew, without being told, that he had never used a man's deodorant for manly men. The knots of his muscles had knots on them and his toenails weren't trimmed.

"Star," I said, "what's the nature of the argument we have with him?"

"You must kill him, milord."

I looked back at him. "Can't we negotiate a peaceful coexistence? Mutual inspection, cultural exchange, and so forth?"

She shook her head. "He's not bright enough for that. He's here to stop us from going down into the valley—and either he dies, or we die."

I took a deep breath. "Princess, I've reached a decision. A man who always obeys the law is even stupider than one who breaks it every chance. This is no time to worry about that local Sullivan Act. I want the flame-thrower, a bazooka, a few grenades, and the heaviest gun in that armory. Can you show me how to dig them out?"

She poked at the fire. "My hero," she said slowly, "I'm truly sorry—but it isn't that simple. Did you notice, last night when we were smoking, that Rufo lighted our cigarettes from candles? Not using even so much as a pocket lighter?"

"Well...no. I didn't give it any thought."

"This rule against firearms and explosives is not a law such as you have back on Earth. It is more than that; it is impossible to use such things here. Else such things would be used against us."

"You mean they won t work?"

"They will not work. Perhaps ‘hexed' is the word."

"Star. Look at me. Maybe you believe in hexes. I don't. And I'll give you seven to two that Tommy guns don't, either. I intend to find out. Will you give me a hand in unpacking?"

For the first time she looked really upset. "Oh, milord, I beg of you not to!"

"Why not?"

"Even the attempt would be disastrous. Do you believe that I know more about the hazards and dangers—and laws—of this world than you do? Will you believe me when I say that I would not have you die, that in solemn truth my own life and safety depend on yours? Please!"

It is impossible not to believe Star when she lays it on the line. I said thoughtfully, "Maybe you're right—or that character over there would be carrying a six-inch mortar as a side arm. Uh, Star, I've got a still better idea. Why don't we high tail it back the way we came and homestead that spot where we caught the fish? In five years well have a nice little farm. In ten years, after the word gets around, we'll have a nice little motel, too, with a free-form swimming pool and a putting green."

She barely smiled. "Milord Oscar, there is no turning back."

"Why not? I could find it with my eyes closed."

"But they would find us. Not Igli but more like him would be sent to harry and kill us."

I sighed again. "As you say. They claim motels off the main highway are a poor risk anyhow. There's a battle-axe in that duffel. Maybe I can chop his feet off before he notices me."

She shook her head again. I said, "What's the matter now? Do I have to fight him with one foot in a bucket? I thought anything that cut or stabbed—anything I did with my own muscles—was okay?"

"It is okay, milord. But it won't work."

"Why not?"

"Igli can't be killed. You see, he is not really alive. He is a construct, made invulnerable for this one purpose. Swords or knives or even axes will not cut him; they bounce off. I have seen it."

"You mean he is a robot?"

"Not if you are thinking of gears and wheels and printed circuits. ‘Golem' would be closer. The Igli is an imitation of life." Star added, "Better than life in some ways, since there is no way—none that I know of—to kill him. But worse, too, as Igli isn't very bright nor well balanced. He has conceit without judgment. Rufo is working on that now, warming him up for you, getting him so mad he can't think straight."

"He is? Gosh! I must be sure to thank Rufo for that. Thank him too much. I think. Well, Princess, what am I supposed to do now?"

She spread her hands as if it were all self-evident. "When you are ready, I will loose the wards—and then you will kill him."

"But you just said—" I stopped. When they abolished the French Foreign Legion very few cushy billets were left for us romantic types. Umbopa could have handled this. Conan, certainly. Or Hawk Carse. Or even Don Quixote, for that thing was about the size of a windmill. "All right. Princess, let's get on with it. Is it okay for me to spit on my hands? Or is that cheating?"

She smiled without dimpling and said gravely, "Milord Oscar, we will all spit on our hands; Rufo and I will be fighting right beside you. Either we win...or we all die."

We walked over and joined Rufo. He was making donkeys ears at Igli and shouting, "Who's your father, Igli? Your mother was a garbage can but who's your father? Look at him! No belly button! Yaaa!"

Igli retorted, "Your mother barks! Your sister gives green stamps!"—but rather feebly, I thought. It was plain that that remark about belly buttons had cut him to the quick—he didn't have one. Only reasonable, I suppose.

The above is not quite what either of them said, except the remark about the belly button. I wish I could put it in the original because, in the Nevian language, the insult is a high art at least equal to poetry. In fact the epitome of literary grace is to address your enemy (publicly) in some difficult verse form, say the sestina, with every word dripping vitriol.

Rufo cackled gleefully. "Make one, Igli! Push your finger in and make one. They left you out in the rain and you ran. They forgot to finish you. Call that thing a nose?" He said in an aside to me, in English, "How do you want him. Boss? Rare? Or well done?"

"Keep him busy while I study the matter. He doesn't understand English?"

"Not a bit."

"Good. How close can I go to him without getting grabbed?"

"Close as you like as long as the wards are up. But, Boss—look. I'm not supposed to advise you—but when we get down to work, don't let him get you by the plums."

"I'll try not to."

"You be careful." Rufo turned his head and shouted, "Yaaa! Igli picks his nose and eats it!" He added, "She is a good doctor, the best, but just the same, you be careful."

"I will." I stepped closer to the invisible barrier, looked up at this creature. He glared down at me and made growling noises, so I thumbed my nose at him and gave him a wet, fruity Bronx cheer. I was downwind and it seemed likely that he hadn't had a bath in thirty or forty years; he smelled worse than a locker room at the half.

It gave me a seed of an idea. "Star, can this cherub swim?"

She looked surprised. "I really don't know."

"Maybe they forgot to program him for it. How about you, Rufo?"

Rufo looked smug. "Try me, just try me. I could teach fish. Igli! Tell us why the sow wouldn't kiss you!"

Star could swim like a seal. My style is more like a ferryboat but I get there. "Star, maybe that thing can't be killed but it breathes. It's got some sort of oxygen metabolism, even if it burns kerosene. If we held his head underwater for a while—as long as necessary—I'll bet the fire would go out."

She looked wide-eyed. "Milord Oscar...my champion...I was not mistaken in you."

"It's going to take some doing. Ever play water polo, Rufo?"

"I invented it."

I hoped he had. I had played it—once. Like being ridden on a rail, it is an interesting experience—once. "Rufo, can you lure our chum down toward the bank? I take it that the barrier follows this line of furry and feathery friends? If it does, we can get him almost to that high piece of bank with the deep pool under it—you know, Star, where you dunked me the first time."

"Nothing to it," said Rufo. "We move, he'll come along."

"I d like to get him running. Star, how long does it take you to unswitch your fence?"

"I can loose the wards in an instant, milord."

"Okay, here's the plan. Rufo, I want you to get Igli to chasing you, as fast as possible—and you cut out and head for that high bank just before you reach the stream. Star, when Rufo does that, you chop off the barrier—loose the wards—instantly. Don't wait for me to say so. Rufo, you dive in and swim like hell; don't let him grab you. With any luck, if Igli is moving fast, as big and clumsy as he is he'll go in, too, whether he means to or not. But I'll be pacing you, flanking you and a bit behind you. If Igli manages to put on the brakes, I'll hit him with a low tackle and knock him in. Then we all play water polo."

"Water polo I nave never seen," Star said doubtfully.

"There won't be any referee. All it means this time is that all three of us jump him, in the water, and shove his head under and keep it there—and help each other to keep him from shoving our heads under. Big as he is, unless he can outswim us he'll be at a terrible disadvantage. We go on doing this until he is limp and stays limp, never let him get a breath. Then, to make sure, well weigh him down with stones—it won't matter whether he's really dead or not. Any questions?"

Rufo grinned like a gargoyle. "This is going to be fun!"

Both those pessimists seemed to think that it would work, so we got started. Rufo shouted an allegation about Igli's personal habits that even Olympia Press would censor, then dared Igli to race him, offering an obscene improbability as a wager.

It took Igli a lumbering long time to get that carcass moving but when he did get rolling, he was faster than Rufo and left a wake of panicked animals and birds behind him. I'm pretty fast but I was hard pushed to hold position on the giant, flanking and a few paces back, and I hoped that Star would not loose the wards if it appeared that Igli might catch Rufo on dry land.

However, Star did loose the wards just as Rufo cut away from the barrier, and Rufo reached the bank and made a perfect racing dive without slowing down, all to plan.

But nothing else was.

I think Igli was too stupid to twig at once that the barrier was down. He kept on a few paces after Rufo had gone left oblique, then did cut left rather sharply. But he had lost speed and he didn't have any trouble stopping on dry land.

I hit him a diving tackle, illegal and low, and down he went—but not over into the water. And suddenly I had a double armful of struggling and very smelly Golem.

But I had a wildcat helping me at once, and quickly thereafter Rufo, dripping wet, added his vote.

But it was a stalemate and one that we were bound to lose in time. Igli outweighed all of us put together and seemed to be nothing but muscle and stink and nails and teeth. We were suffering bruises, contusions, and flesh wounds—and we weren't doing Igli any damage, Oh, he screamed like a TV grunt & groaner every time one of us twisted an ear or bent back a finger, but we weren't really hurting him and he was decidedly hurting us. There wasn't a chance of dragging that hulk into the water.

I had started with my arms around his knees and I stayed that way, of necessity, as long as I could, while Star tried to weigh down one of his arms and Rufo the other. But the situation was fluid; Igli thrashed like a rattler with its back broken and was forever getting one limb or another free and trying to gouge and bite. It got us into odd positions and I found myself hanging onto one callused foot, trying to twist it off, while I stared into his open mouth, wide as a bear trap and less appetizing. His teeth needed cleaning.

So I shoved the toe of his foot into his mouth.

Igli screamed, so I kept on shoving, and pretty soon he didn't have room to scream. I kept on pushing.

When he had swallowed his own left leg up to the knee, be managed to wrench his right arm loose from Star and grabbed at his disappearing leg—and I grabbed his wrist. "Help me!" I yelped to Star. "Push!"

She got the idea and shoved with me. That arm went into his mouth to the elbow and the leg went farther in, quite a bit of the thigh. By, then Rufo was working with us and forced Igli's left hand in past his cheek and into the jaws. Igli wasn't struggling so hard by then, short on air probably, so getting the toe of his right foot started into his mouth simply required determination, with Rufo hauling back on his hairy nostrils while I bore down with a Knee on his chin and Star pushed.

We kept on feeding him into his mouth, gaining an inch at a time and never letting up. He was still quivering and trying to get loose when we had him rolled up clear to his hips, and his rank armpits about to disappear.

It was like rolling a snowball in reverse; the more we pushed, the smaller he got and the more his mouth stretched—ugliest sight I ever have seen. Soon he was down to the size of a medicine ball...and then a soccer ball...then a baseball and I rolled him between my palms and kept pushing, hard.

a golf ball, a marble, a pea...and finally there was nothing but some dirty grease on my hands.

Rufo took a deep breath. "I guess that'll teach him not to put his foot in his mouth with his betters. Who's ready for breakfast?"

"I want to wash my hands first," I said.

We all bathed, using plenty of soap, then Star took care of our wounds and had Rufo treat hers, under her instructions. Rufo is right; Star is the best medic. The stuff she used on us did not sting, the cuts closed up, the flexible dressings she put over them did not have to be changed, and fell off in time with no infection and no scars. Rufo had one very bad bite, about forty cents' worth of hamburger out of his left buttock, but when Star was through with him, he could sit down and it didn't seem to bother him.

Rufo fed us little golden pancakes and big German sausages, popping with fat, and gallons of good coffee. It was almost noon before Star loosed the wards again and we set out for our descent down the cliff.