“Then, when it’s over, we’d all be for the Converter. You, me, and your pals. No, it won’t wash.”
“But we’ve got to do something. We can’t just sit here and wait for them to burn you.”
“I know that.” Hugh studied Alan’s face. Was it a fair thing to ask? He went on, reassured by what he bad seen, “Listen. You would do anything you could to get me out of this, wouldn’t you?”
“You know that.” Alan’s tone showed hurt.
“Very well, then. There is a dwarf named Bobo. I’ll tell you how to find him—”
Alan climbed, up and up, higher than he had ever been since Hugh had led him, as a boy, into foolhardy peril. He was older now, more conservative; he had no stomach for it. To the very real danger of leaving the well-traveled lower levels was added his superstitious ignorance. But still he climbed.
This should be about the place—unless he had lost count. But he saw nothing of the dwarf.
Bobo saw him first. A slingshot load caught Alan in the pit of the stomach, even as he was shouting, “Bobo!”
Bobo backed into Joe-Jim’s compartment and dumped his load at the feet of the twins. “Fresh meat,” he said proudly.
“So it is,” agreed Jim indifferently. “Well, it’s yours; take it away.”
The dwarf dug a thumb into a twisted ear. “Funny,” he said, “he knows Bobo’s name.”
Joe looked up from the book he was reading—Browning’s Collected Poems, L-Press, New York, London, Luna city, cr. 35. “That’s interesting. Hold on a moment.”
Hugh had prepared Alan for the shock of Joe-Jim’s appearance. In reasonably short order he collected his wits sufficiently to be able to tell his tale. Joe-Jim listened to it without much comment, Bobo with interest but little comprehension.
When Alan concluded, Jim remarked, “Well, you win, Joe. He didn’t make it.” Then, turning to Alan, he added, “You can take Hoy-land’s place. Can you play checkers?”
Alan looked from one head to the other. “But you don’t understand,” he said. “Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
Joe looked puzzled. “Us? Why should we?”
“But you’ve got to. Don’t you see? He’s depending on you. There’s nobody else he can look to. That’s why I came. Don’t you see?”
“Wait a moment,” drawled Jim, “wait a moment. Keep your belt on. Supposing we did want to help him—which we don’t—how in Jordan’s Ship could we? Answer me that.”
“Why—why—” Alan stumbled in the face of such stupidity. “Why, get up a rescue party, of course, and go down and get him out!”
“Why should we get ourselves killed in a fight to rescue your friend?”
Bobo pricked his ears. “Fight?” he inquired eagerly.
“No, Bobo,” Joe denied. “No fight. Just talk.”
“Oh,” said Bobo and returned to passivity.
Alan looked at the dwarf. “If you’d even let Bobo and me—”
“No,” Joe said shortly. “It’s out of the question. Shut up about it.” Alan sat in a corner, hugging his knees in despair. If only he could get out of there. He could still try to stir up some help down below. The dwarf seemed to be asleep, though it was difficult to be sure with him. If only Joe-Jim would sleep, too.
Joe-Jim showed no indication of sleepiness. Joe tried to continue reading, but Jim interrupted him from time to time. Alan could not hear what they were saying.
Presently Joe raised his voice. “Is that your idea of fun?” he demanded.
“Well,” said Jim, “it beats checkers.”
“It does, does it? Suppose you get a knife in your eye—where would I be then?”
“You’re getting old, Joe. No juice in you any more.”
“You’re as old as I am.”
“Yeah, but I got young ideas.”
“Oh, you make me sick. Have it your own way—but don’t blame me. Bobo!”
The dwarf sprang up at once, alert. “Yeah, Boss.”
“Go out and dig up Squatty and Long Arm and Pig.” Joe-Jim got up, went to a locker, and started pulling knives out of their racks.
Hugh heard the commotion in the passageway outside his prison. It could be the guards coming to take him to the Converter, though they probably wouldn’t be so noisy. Or it could be just some excitement unrelated to him. On the other hand it might be—
It was. The door burst open, and Alan was inside, shouting at him and thrusting a brace of knives into his hands. He was hurried out of the door, while stuffing the knives in his belt and accepting two more.
Outside he saw Joe-Jim, who did not see him at once, as he was methodically letting fly, as calmly as if he had been engaging in target practice in his own study. And Bobo, who ducked his head and grinned with a mouth widened by a bleeding cut, but continued the easy flow of the motion whereby he loaded and let fly. There were three others, two of whom Hugh recognized as belonging to Joe-Jim’s privately owned gang of bullies—muties by definition and birthplace; they were not deformed.
The count does not include still forms on the floor plates.
“Come on!” yelled Alan. “There’ll be more in no time.” He hurried down the passage to the right.
