Part 27 (1/2)

Ingliss said in a voice that seemed oddly tight. ”Your planet must be a frightening one to live on. Perhaps if you had mojos of your own.... At any rate, you're correct about alternative weapons. In the early days of mojo domestication many people tried making them, with the result you've already deduced.”

”Uh-huh,” York nodded and settled down to watch.

It seemed to take a long time, but in actual fact the duel was over in just a few minutes, York couldn't tell offhand what it solved; but as the crowd closed in on the fighters, separating them as secondary ma.s.ses of seemingly happy well-wishers and friends formed around each, he decided that they all considered it to have been worthwhile. Maybe Nnamdi could sort out the sociology and psychology of it aboard s.h.i.+p; for York, it was a low-priority worry indeed.

Glancing around through the dispersing crowd, he located the islands of stability that were the rest of the contact team, Mayor Ingliss and the escorts-

And Moff.

York blinked, trying hard to keep any hint of surprise or chagrin out of his face. Despite his best efforts, the Qasaman had slipped back into the group unnoticed, just as he'd left it. It suddenly made the duel's timing suspicious... and if the duel was a fake it automatically raised the importance of Moff's secret errand; raised it uncomfortably high. Throwing together such a diversion required either a lot of people ready on a moment's notice, or else a smaller group capable of fooling the locals as well as the Aventinian visitors.

Either one implied a great deal of effort and-perhaps-a fair amount of advance planning.

Were the Qasamans on to them? And if so, for how long?

”I'm sorry you had to see that,” Moff said as the team and escort drew back together. ”It's a form of aggression we've been unable to eliminate completely.”

”It seems pretty mild compared to some I've seen,” Cerenkov a.s.sured him. Neither he nor the others showed any reaction to Moff's reappearance, and York quietly let out the breath he'd been holding.

”It's still more than a truly civilized society should have,” Moff said stiffly.

”Our strength of will should be turned outward, toward the conquering of this world.”

”And beyond?” Rynstadt murmured.

Moff looked at him, an intense look on his face. ”The stars are mankind's future,” he said. ”We won't always be confined to this one world.”

”Mankind will never be confined again,” Cerenkov agreed solemnly. ”Tell me, does this sort of duel happen very often? The whoever it was with the headband seemed to be right on top of things.”

”Each village and city has one or more judges, depending on its population,”

Moff said. ”They have many other duties besides overseeing duels. But come-we have a great many more places to visit here. Mayor Ingliss has yet to show you the local government center, and we should also have time to see a typical residential neighborhood before the krisjaw hunters return. At that point we'll be able to visit the farming areas.”

Cerenkov smiled. ”Point taken, Moff-we do have a busy schedule. Please, lead on.”

They turned a corner and headed for the cars Ingliss's people had driven around the marketplace area for them, and York decided to be cautiously optimistic.

Sticking to the tour at this point meant Moff believed his absence hadn't been noticed. Which meant whatever the Qasamans had planned would be going off on their original schedule.

Abruptly, he was aware of the gentle pressure of the calculator watch on his wrist, and of the similar feel of the star sapphire on his hand. Together with his pen, they were the sections of his palm-mate... a weapon neither the

Qasamans nor the mojos had ever seen before. One free shot, the words echoed in his brain. One free shot before the mojos can stop me. I'd d.a.m.n well better make that shot count.

It happened as they were driving back toward Sollas that evening, and their first warning was the sudden burst of static that replaced the hum of the

Dewdrop's radio link. At the front of the bus Moff stood up, steadying himself with his left hand. In his right hand was his pistol.

”You are under confinement,” a voice boomed from the man sitting beside him-or, rather, from the phone-sized box in the Qasaman's hand. ”You are suspected of spying on the people of Qasama. You will make no aggressive move until the final destination is reached. If you disobey your s.h.i.+p will be destroyed.”

”What?” Cerenkov barked, his voice a blend of shock, bewilderment, and outrage.