Sos the Rope

CHAPTER TEN

"My year is up," Sos said.

"I would have you stay," Sol replied slowly. "You have given good service."

"You have five-hundred men and an elite corp of advisors. You don't need me."

Sol looked up and Sos was shocked to see tears in his eyes. "I do need you," he said. "I have no other friend."

Sos did not know what to say.

Sola joined them, hugely pregnant. Soon she would travel to a crazy hospital for delivery. "Perhaps you have a son," Sos said.

"When you find what you need, come back," Sol told him, accepting the inevitable.

"I will." That was all they could say to each other.

He left the camp that afternoon, travelling east. Day by day the landscape became more familiar as he approached the region of his childhood. He skirted the marked badlands near the coast, wondering what mighty cities had stood where the silent death radiated now, and whether there would ever be such massive assemblages of people again. The books claimed that nothing green had grown in the centers of these encampments, that concrete and asphalt covered the ground between buildings and made the landscape as flat as the surface of a lake, that machines like those the crazies used today had been everywhere, doing everything. Yet all had vanished in the Blast. Why? There were many unanswered questions.

A month of hiking brought him to the school he had attended before beginning his travels as a warrior. Only a year and a half had elapsed, but already it had become a entirely different facet of his existence, one now unfamiliar to him and strange to see again. Still, he knew his way around.

He entered the arched front doorway and walked down the familiar, foreign hall to the door at the end marked "Principal." A girl he did not remember sat at the desk. He decided she was a recent graduate, pretty, but very young. "I'd like to see Mr. Jones," he said, pronouncing the obscure name carefully.

"And who is calling?" She stared at Stupid, perched a ever upon his shoulder.

"Sos," he said, then realized that the name would mea nothing here. "A former student. He knows me."

She spoke softly into an intercom and listened for th reply. "Doctor Jones will see you now," she said, an smiled at him as though he were not a ragged-bearded dirt-encrusted pagan with a mottled bird on his shoulder.

He returned the gesture, appreciating her attention though he knew it was professional, and went on through the inner door.

The principal rose immediately and came around the desk to greet him. "Yes of course I remember you! Clas of '107, and you stayed to practice with the-the sword wasn't it? What do you call yourself now?"

"Sos." He knew Jones knew it already, and was simply offering him the chance to explain the change. He didn't take it immediately, and the principal, experienced in such matters, came to his rescue again.

"Sos. Beautiful thing, that three-letter convention. Wish I knew how it originated. Well, sit down, Sos, and tell me everything. Where did you acquire your pet? That's genuine mock-sparrow, if I haven't lost my eye for bad lands fauna." A very gentle fatherly inflection came mt his voice. "You have been poking into dangerous regions warrior. Are you back to stay?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. I-I don't know where my loyalties lie, now." How rapidly he resumed the mood of adolescence, in this man's presence.

"Can't make up your mind whether you're sane or crazies eh?" Jones said, and laughed in his harmless way. "I know it's a hard decision. Sometimes I still wish I could chuck it all and take up one of those glamorous weapons and- you didn't kill anybody, I hope?"

"No. Not directly, anyway," he said, thinking of the recalcitrant dagger Nar and Tyl's execution of him. "I only fought a few times, and always for little things. The last time was for my name."

"Ah, I see. No more than that?"

"And perhaps for a woman, too."

"Yes. Life isn't always so simple in the simple world, is it? If you care to amplify-"

Sos recounted the entire experience he had had, the emotional barriers overcome at last, while Jones listened sympathetically. "I see," the principal said at the end. "You do have a problem." He cogitated for a moment- "thought" seemed too simple a word to apply to him- then touched the intercom. "Miss Smith, will you check the file on one 'Sol,' please? S-O-L. Probably last year, no, two years ago, west coast. Thank you."

"Did be go to school?" Sos had never thought of this.

"Not here, certainly. But we have other training schools, and he sounds as though he's had instruction. Miss Smith will check it out with the computer. There just might be something on the name."

They waited for several minutes, Sos increasingly uncomfortable as he reminded himself that he should have cleaned up before coming here. The crazies had something of a fetish about dirt: they - never went long without removing it. Perhaps it was because they tended to stay within their buildings and machines, where aromas could concentrate.

"The girl," he said, filling time, "Miss Smith-is she a student?"

Jones smiled tolerantly. "No longer. I believe she is actually a year older than you are. We can't be certain because she was picked up running wild near one of the radioactive areas a number of years ago and we never did manage to trace her parentage. She was trained at another unit, but you can be sure there was a change in her, er, etiquette. Underneath, I daresay, there is nomad yet, but she's quite competent."

It was hard to imagine that such,a polished product was forest-born, even though he had been through it himself. "Do you really get all your people from-"

"From the real world? Very nearly, Sos. I was a sword bearer myself, thirty years ago."

"A sworder? You?"

"I'll assume that your astonishment is complimentar Yes, I fought in the circle. You see-"

"I have it, Dr. Jones,"-the intercom said. "S.O.L.- Woul you like me to read it off?"

"Please."

"Sol - adopted code name for mutilated foundling testes transplant, insulin therapy, comprehensive manual training, discharged from San Francisco orphanage Bi 0' Do you want the details on that, Dr. Jones?"

"No thanks. That will do nicely, Miss Smith." He n turned to Sos. "That may not be entirely clear to you, seems - your friend was an orphan. There was some trouble I remember, about fifteen years ago on the west coast an well, we had to pick up the pieces. Families wiped out children tortured-this type of thing will happen occasionally when you're dealing with primitives. Your Sol was castrated at the age of five and left to bleed to death. well, he was one of the ones we happened to catch in time. A transplant operation took care of the testosterone and insulin shock therapy helped eradicate the traumatic memories, but, well, there's only in much we can do. Evidently he wasn't suited to intellectual stimulation, you were, so he received manual instead. From what you told me, it was exceptionally effective. He seems to have adjusted well."

"Yes." Sos was beginning to understand things about Sol that had baffled him before. Orphaned at a vulnerable age by tribal savagery, he would naturally strive to protect himself most efficiently and to abolish all men and all tribes that might pose a personal threat. Raised in an orphanage he would seek friendship-and not know how to recogse it or what to do with it. And he would want a family his own, that he would protect fanatically. How much more precious a child-to the man who could never father one!

Couple this background with a physical dexterity an endurance amounting to genius, and there was-Sol.

"Why do you do all this?" Sos asked. "I mean, building hostels and stocking them, training children, marking off the badlands, projecting television programs. You get no thanks for it. You know what they call you."

"Those who desire nonproductive danger and glory are welcome to it," Jones said. "Some of us prefer to live safer, more useful lives. It's all a matter of temperament, and that can change with age."

"But you could have it all for yourselves! If-if you did not feed and clothe the warriors, they would perish."

"That's good enough reason to continue service, then, don't you think?"

Sos shook his head. "You aren't answering my question."

"I can't answer it. In time you will answer it for yourself. Then perhaps you will join us. Meanwhile, we're always ready to help in whatever capacity we are able."

"How can you help a man who wants a weapon when he has sworn to carry none, and who loves a woman who is pledged to another man?"

Jones smiled again. "Forgive me, Sos, if these problems appear transistory to me. If you look at it objectively, I think you'll see that there are alternatives."

"Other women, you mean? I know that 'Miss' you put on your receptionist's name means she is looking for a husband, but I just don't find it in me to be reasonable in quite that way. I was willing to give any girl a fair trial by the bracelet, just as I gave any man fair battle in that circle, but somehow all my preferences have been shaped to Sola's image. And she loves me, too."

"That seems to be the way love is," Jones agreed regretfully. "But if I understand the situation correctly, she will go with you, after her commitment to Sol is finished. I would call this a rather mature outlook on her part."

"She won't just 'go' with me! She wants a name with prestige, and I don't even carry a weapon."

"Yet she recognized your true importance in the tribe. Are you sure it isn't your own desire, more than hers? To win a battle reputation, that is?"

"I'm not sure at all," Sos admitted. His position, once stated openly, sounded much less reasonable than before.

"So it all comes down to the weapon. But you did not swear to quit all weapons-only the six standard ones."

"Same thing, isn't it?"

"By no means. There have been hundreds of weapons in the course of Earth's history. We standardized on six for convenience, but we can also provide prototype non standard items, and if any ever became popular we could negotiate for mass production. For example, you employed the straight sword with basket hilt, patterned after medieval models, though of superior grade, of course. But there is also the scimitar-the curved blade-and the rapier, for fencing. The rapier doesn't look as impressive as the broad sword, but it is probably a more deadly weapon in con fined quarters, such as your battle circle. We could-"

"I gave up the sword in all its forms. I don't care to temporize or quibble about definitions."

"I suspected you would feel that way. So you rule out any variation of blade, club or stick?"

"Yes."

"And we rule out pistols, blowguns and boomerangs- anything that acts at a distance or employs a motive power other than the arm of the wielder. We allow the bow and arrow for hunting-but that wouldn't be much good in the circle anyway."

"Which pretty well covers the field."

"Oh, no, Sos. Man is more inventive than that, particularly when it comes to modes of destruction. Take th€ whip, for example-usually thought of as a punitive instrument, but potent as a weapon too. That's a long fine thong attached to a short handle. It is possible to stand back and slash the shirt off a man's back with mere flicks of the wrist, or to pinion his arm and jerk him off balance, or snap out an eye. Very nasty item, in the experienced hand."

"How does it defend against the smash of the club?"

"Much as the daggers do, I'm afraid. The whipper just has to stay out of the club's way."

"I would like to defend myself as well as to attack." But Sos was gaining confidence that some suitable weapon foi him did exist. He had not realized that Jones knew so much about the practical side of life. Wasn't it really for some such miracle he had found his way here?

"Perhaps we shall have to improvise." Jones tugged piece of string between his fingers. "A net would be fine defensively, but-" His eyes continued to focus on the string as his expression became intent. "That may well be it!"

"String?"

"The garrote. A length of cord used to strangle a man. Quite effective, I assure you."

"But how would I get close enough to a dagger to strangle him, without getting disemboweled? And it still wouldn't stop a sword or club."

"A long enough length of it would, Actually, I am visualizing something more like a chain-flexible, but hard enough to foil a blade and heavy enough to entangle a club. A-a metal rope, perhaps. Good either offensively or defensively, I'm sure."

"A hope." Sos tried to imagine it as a weapon, but failed. "Or a bolas," Jones said, carried away by his line of thought. "Except that you would not be allowed to throw the entire thing, of course, Still, weighted ends-come down to the shop and we'll see what we can work up."

Miss Smith smiled at him again as they passed her, but Sos pretended not to notice. She had a very nice smile, and her hair was set in smooth light waves, but she was nothing like Sola.

That day Sos gained a weapon-but it was five months before he felt proficient enough with it to undertake the trail again.

Miss Smith did not speak to him at the termination, but Jones bid him farewell sadly. "It was good to have you back with us, if only for these few months, Sos. If things don't work out-"

"I don't know," Sos said, still unable to give him a commitment. Stupid chirped.