whether the others did, but slowly the morning came.
Vara had changed. She no longer resembled an ineffec-
tive crazy woman. That guise must have been for the
benefit of the local villagers, who were rather like crazies
themselves in their dress, so that she could pass among
them freely. Now she wore a nomad smock, and her hair
was loose and long, falling down over her shoulders on
either side and curling about the soft mounds of her
breasts. She remained stunning by any definition.
She carried sticks—the twin thin clubs that Var had
used.
Neq felt another chill. He had buried Var's weapon
beside him, according to the normal courtesy of warriors.
Neq's sword had cut open the ground and scooped it out,
and his pincers had levered the stones into place: the work
of several hours. Yet these were Var's sticks, for they
carried the recent marks of the sword. Neq could recognize
the scars of a weapon as readily as he could a face.
"As you fought my husband," Vara said, "so shall I
fight you. As you slew him, so shall I slay you. As you
buried him, I'll bury you. With honor. Then will my
mourning begin."
"Neq will not fight a woman," Tyi said. "I know him,
even as I knew Var."
Vara lifted her sticks and stood beside the burial mound.
"He may fight or flee as he chooses. Here is the circle—
beside my husband's cairn. The world is the circle. I will
be avenged."
The words struck Neq like blows of the sticks. Her
sentiments were so similar to his own when Neqa died!
He could not have forgiven Yod and his rapist tribe; he
had not forgiven them now. The thrust of his vengeance
had changed, now applying to the entire outlaw society
and its roots in the ashes of Helicon, but vengeance it
remained. How could he say to her that a life for a life
was not enough?
"Var was my friend," Tyi repeated. "He shamed me
before my tribe when he was but a child, a wild boy of
the badlands, and I meant to take him to the circle when
he became a man. But Sola interceded on his behalf, and
when I came to know him—"
Vara gripped her sticks and moved purposely toward
Neq. He saw the savage grief in her eyes, the kind he had
had, the kind that cast aside all thought of honor and
permitted murder by stealth, the kind that was futile. But
he had done it; he had killed without cause. He would
not lift his sword to perpetrate further evil.
Tyi stepped between them. "Var was my friend," he
said once more. "In any other case I would avenge him
myself. Yet I forbid this conflict."
Vara did not speak. She whipped one stick at Tyi, a
lightning stroke, her eyes not leaving Neq. It was no feeble
womanish blow; lovely as she was, she did know the use
of her weapon.
Tyi caught it on his forearm. "Now you have struck
me," he murmured softly, though a massive welt was form-
ing. Had there been a man's weight behind the blow, or
had Tyi been unprepared for it, his arm could have been
broken. "Now give me leave to fetch my weapon, for
this conflict is mine."
Vara waited stonily. It was obvious she had not wanted
to battle Tyi, and did not wish to engage him now. But
she had struck him, and he had been unarmed—deliber-
ately, for Tyi always knew where his weapons were. She
was committed by the code of the circle.
Tyi fetched his sticks. Neq was relieved; had Tyi taken
the sword to her, that death would have been charged
to Neq's own conscience. Tyi intended only to interfere.
Yet why was he bothering? First he had balked Neq's
own attempt at suicide; now he balked Vara. He was pre-
serving Neq's life—when he should have been satisfied
to see it end.
Now Vara threw off her smock and stood naked but for
sturdy hiking moccasins, despite the chill of the air: as
fine a figure of a woman as Neq had ever seen. She was
yet quite feminine. Her black hair flowed proudly behind
her, almost to her hips.
Full bosomed . . . Neq was fascinated. Each breast
stood round and true, a work Of private beauty, an aspect
of passionate symmetry. He had serenaded a breast like
that, so long ago.. . .
It was fitting that such a breast now declared vengeance
against him.
But Tyi stood between, and if Vara thought to dazzle
him with her bodily attributes and so diminish his guard,
she had forgotten that he had a daughter older than she.
She fenced with him, impatient at the delay Tyi repre-
sented. She wanted only to get at Neq, who had not moved.
The sticks spun and struck, wood meeting metal. Tyi
had the advantage of superior Helicon weapons, and his
experience was more than Vara's whole life. He parried
her blows without effort.
Neq could not bring himself to care particularly about
the fight or its outcome. The twin shocks of this final
unjustified slaying of Var, and the identity and appearance
of Vara, had almost completely unmanned him. Discover
what had gone wrong with Helicon? He could not dis-
cover what had gone wrong with himself!
Meanwhile, man and woman fought. Vara ducked and
whirled about, her hair spinning about her breasts and
hips like a light cloak. From that floating coiffure her
sticks came up to rap sharply at Tyi's wrist, one side and
another. A deft maneuver! Vara was, if anything, a better
sticker than her husband had been.
But Tyi flicked his wrist out of the way and engaged in
a counter maneuver that sent her stumbling back far less
gracefully. "Very nice, little girl! Your father Sol disarmed
me with a similar motion and made me part of his empire,
before you existed. He taught you well!"
But there was more to the circle than good instruction,
obviously. Tyi had never since been defeated by the sticks.
Had Neq been fighting, even with no guilt-related in-
hibitions, he would have been bemused by those dancing
breasts playing peek-a-boo behind that black hair, and
completely unable to strike at Vara's lovely lithe body. In
fact he was bemused now. Her femininity was as potent
in combat as her sticks.
Suddenly she turned away and kicked back, her heel
striking for Tyi's knee. But again he moved aside in time.
"The Weaponless—your other father?—crippled me
with that blow when he was driving for the empire him-
self. But after my knees healed they became leary, and
have not been injured since."
If Vara had not realized she was sparring with the top
warrior of the old empire, she surely knew it now. Tyi
was no longer young, but nothing short of Neq's sword
had hope of moving him out of the circle. Vara was fifteen
and female; those were insurmountable obstacles.
Tyi was merely blocking, of
course. He had no interest
in hurting this beautiful girl; he only meant to convince
her that she could not have her way.
Vara required considerable convincing. She whirled,
she feinted, she sent a barrage of blows against the man.
She knew an astonishing variety of tricks—but there was
no trick that could overmatch Tyi's reach ami strength
and experience.
Finally, panting, she yielded far enough to speak.
"Warrior, what is it you want?"
"Neq slew Var in fair combat. Even as I could disarm
you now, so could Neq defeat Var. I would not face Neq
with the stick myself. Forswear your vengeance."
"No!" she cried, and launched another flurry of blows
at him.
"No!" Neq also cried. "It was not fair combat. Var
withheld his attack, he opened his guard, saying we had
no quarrel. Then I slew him."
Tyi retreated, dismayed by the words rather than by
the girl's offense. 'This is not like you, Neq."
"It is too much like me! I have slain innocent men
before. I did not understand in time. I thought it was a
combat mistake, or a ruse. My sword was there—"
"Desist, girl," Tyi said, just as though she were his
daughter playing a game. And Vara desisted. "Neq, you
place me awkwardly."
"Let her have her vengeance. It is fair."
"That I cannot."
"You admit you slew him unguarded!" Vara blazed at
Neq.
"Yes. As I have others."
"In the name of vengeance!" Tyi cried, as if proving a
point.
"In the name of vengeance." Neq was sick of it.
"In the name of vengeance," Vara repeated, and now
the tears showed on her cheeks.
"Yet you could have slain him fairly," Tyi said. "And
you thought you were avenging—her."
"I misunderstood. I did not let him explain. I slew him
without reason, and I am tired of slaying, and of the
sword, and of life." Neq faced Vara. "Come, widow.
Strike. I will not lift weapon against you."
"If you strike him thus," Tyi said to her, "you become
guilty of the same crime you avenge. Knowingly."
"Nevertheless," she said.
"Understand him first—only then are you justified.
Leam what he is, what he contemplates."
"What can he be, what can he plan, that will repay what
he has stolen from me!" she cried.
"Nevertheless."
She cried, she cursed in Chinese, she threw her sticks
at the ground; but she was already committed. As was
Neq.
"Melt that?" the smithy cried incredulously. 'That's
Ancient-technology steel! My forge won't touch it!"
"Then sever it," Neq said.
"You don't understand. It would take a diamond drill
to dent that metal. I just don't have the equipment."
No doubt an exaggeration, for Helicon had made the
weapon. But these northerners were closer to the past
wonders than were the nomads, having houses and heaters
and even a few operating machines, and so they stood in
greater awe of the Ancients. Neq himself stood in awe,
after learning what had been done at Helicon. Perhaps
this smithy was superstitious; at any rate, he would not
do the job.
"I must be rid of it," Neq said. As long as his sword
remained, he was a killer. Who would fall next—Vara?
Tyi? Dr. Jones? The sword had to go.
The smithy shook his head. "You have to cut off your
arm at the elbow. And that would probably kill you, be-
cause we don't have medical facilities in this town for such
an operation. Find the man who put that sword on you;
let him get it off again."
"He is three thousand miles away."
"Then you'll just have to wear it a while longer."
Neq looked at his sword-arm, frustrated. The shining
blade had become an anathema to him, for while he wore
it he was inseparable from his guilt.
He looked about the shop, unwilling to give up so
readily. Metal hung from all the walls—horse shoes, plow-
shares (so that was what the crazies had suggested he
make his sword into, facetiously!) axes, bags of nails. All
the products of the smithy's art. The man was evidently
competent; he must make a good living, in the fashion of
these people who worked for recompense. In one corner
dangled a curved piece of metal with a row of little panels
mounted along a center strand. Neq could envision no
possible use for it.
The smithy followed his gaze. "Don't you nomads be-
lieve in music?"
"A harp!" Neq exclaimed. "You made a harp!"
"Not I," the man said, laughing. He took it down fondly.
"This is no harp; it has no strings. But it is a musical
instrument. A glockenspiel. See—these are chimes—four-
teen plates of graduated size, each a different note. I traded
a hundred pounds of topgrade building spikes for this.
I'm no musician, but I know fine metalwork! I've no idea
who made it, or when—before the Blast, maybe. You play
it with a hammer. Listen."
The smithy had become quite animate as he described
his treasure. He fetched a little wooden hammer and struck
lightly on the plates. The sound was like bells, seldom
heard m the crazy demesnes. Every tone was clear yet
lingering, and quite lovely.
Neq was entranced. This evoked old and pleasant memo-
ries. There had been a time when he was known for his
voice as well as his sword . . . before the fall of the em-
pire and horrors thereafter. He had sung to Neqa. . . .
He could not make his sword into a plowshare, obvi-
ously, but it gave him an idea. He did not have to cut off
his weapon; he merely had to nullify it. To make it im-
possible for him to fight.
"The glock and spiel—fasten it to this sword so it won't
come off," he said.
"To the sword! A marvelous instrument like this?" The
smithy's horror was genuine.
"I have things to barter. What do you require for it?"
"I would not sell this glockenspiel for barter or for
money! Not when it is only going to be destroyed by a
barbarian with no appreciation for culture. Don't you
understand? This is a musical instrument'."
"I know music. Let me have your little hammer."
"I won't let you close to an antique like this! Get out of
my shop!"
Neq started to raise his sword, but caught himself. This
was the very reaction he sought to quell: sword before
reason. He had to convince the smithy, not intimidate
him.
He looked about again. There was a barrel of water
near the great anvil, and he was thirsty. He had walked
all day with Tyi and Vara, and come into this village on
sudden inspiration when he saw the smithy shop. If the
man could only be made to understand. . . .
All day I faced the barren waste
without the taste of water—
Cool, clear, water!
Dan and I with throats burned dry
and souls that cry for wa
ter—
Cool, clear, water!
The smithy stared at him, astonished. "You can sing! I
never heard a finer voice!"
Neq had not known he was going to sing. The need
had arisen, the mood fit—and a silence of six years had
been broken. "I know music," he said.
The man hesitated. Then he pushed the glockenspiel
forward. "Try it with this." <
Neq took the manner awkwardly in his pincers and
tapped a note. The sound thrilled him, more perfect than
any voice could be. He shifted key to match, striking the
same note steadily to make a beat.
The nights are cool and I'm a fool
each star's a pool of water—
Cool, clear, water!
The smithy considered. "I would not have believed it!
-You want this to play?"
Neq nodded. '•'
"Price was not my objection. I see you would have
trouble playing the glockenspiel in the wilderness, unless
it were attached. Yes. It could be done ... I would have
to coat the blade with an adhesive . . . but you would
never be able to fight again. Do you realize that?"
They bargained, and it was done. He became Neq the
Glockenspiel.
"A whatT' Vara demanded, surprised and suspicious.
"You have beaten your sword into a whatT'
"A glockenspiel. A percussion instrument. My sword
was too bloody."