Young Bleys - Childe Cycle 09 (41 page)

He fired a very brief burst. That, he knew, was a test also. Anyone without experience with a needle gun tended to fire long bursts. The briefest touch on the trigger was all that was necessary if the aim was correct. He blinked the lens back up into hiding under his lid and lowered the needle gun.

"Sure you don't want to take a second shot?" said Tremunde. But the sarcastic tone of his voice indicated that Bleys had scored on all tests so far. In the meantime Tremunde had pressed a button on the wall and the white target was off the backing and being slid along a runner rail up to them.

Three pairs of eyes looked at it as Tremunde took it off. The pattern of hits was no larger than Bleys' thumbprint, and in the very center of the bull's-eye of the target.

CHAPTER
34

"You're too good
to be true," said Tremunde, filling out a form and writing several lines near the bottom in a box that was obviously there for comments. Bleys could sympathize with him.

Bleys had done very well with a power pistol on one-tenth charge in an adjoining room, which had obviously been several hotel rooms before it had been opened out to make another, shorter range for the power weapons; and he had done exceptionally well, without any need at all for the hidden lens over his right eye, on the range in another such room with the pop-up targets.

In this final exercise, Bleys had held a needle rifle in one hand at his belt level and walked through the range, firing from that position. He was, both by inclination and training, a superb hip-shooter; and he suspected it was mainly this to which Tremunde was referring as he filled out the form.

The form filled out, Tremunde folded it and passed it to Boris, without giving Bleys a chance to read it.

"You've been a Soldier of God?" he asked. "No," said Bleys.

"Well, we're most of us former Soldiers, here," said Tremunde. He turned to Boris. "We'll take him on, anyway."

Bleys and Boris left the shooting gallery area and went down another floor, which turned out to have been remodeled into one huge gym. In charge down here was a little, brown man, no taller than the average twelve- or thirteen-year-old on Association, almost bald, but very brisk and gray-eyed and obviously in superb physical condition.

"He claims to be a wrestler," Boris said, jerking his thumb at Bleys. "The Great Leader tried him out and this man threw him. The Great Leader wants him checked out."

"Right," said the small man, sharply, in an accent that Bleys recognized as being Old Earth of some kind or another.

He made a wild guess that it might be Australian.

"I'm Jimmy Howe," said the little man, extending his hand to Bleys, "since Boris didn't think to introduce us. And you're—?"

"Bleys MacLean," said Bleys.

"Pleased to meet you, Bleys," said Howe. "This way, then." He led the way off about thirty feet to a wrestling mat, and stepped up on it. He was wearing high-laced gym shoes, Bleys noticed. Bleys had already begun to take his shoes off.

"That's right," said Jimmy Howe, approvingly.

Bleys stepped onto the mat and faced him a little more than reaching distance away.

"All right," said Howe, "see if you can throw me."

Bleys took a step toward him, reaching out, and clutched empty air. A moment later he was caught in almost the same hip throw that Darrel McKae had tried on him, but from his left side, when he had been expecting contact on his right. He went down. Howe was already back on his feet, fists on hips and looking down at him.

"Want to try again?" Howe asked. Bleys got to his feet, made a feint with his long, left arm to the little man's left and then caught him deftly behind the neck with his cupped right hand. The little man was obviously greased lightning, very much faster than Bleys. But Bleys' length of limb was something that almost everybody underestimated, and— probably just this one time—Howe had underestimated it too.

He stepped forward to get away from Bleys' hand cupped on his neck and Bleys spun himself in toward the little man, who was now off-balance, and flung his now released left arm about the other's waist. Howe was forced to move to keep from falling; and Bleys began to rotate them both, with himself as the center of a pivot and Howe on the periphery of the circle around it.

This was, in fact, one of Bleys' favorite throws. When it had first been demonstrated on him, he could not believe that simply a loose grasp and the continual circular movement could keep the other man captive and moving in the circular path, whether he wanted to or not. But the fact was it could. It was instinctive to try to keep from falling, and the result was to keep him running in a circle. Bleys spun Howe around a couple of times and suddenly reversed direction. Howe flew off at an angle from him like a stone off from a string that breaks as a boy swings it around his head.

He skidded across the mat onto the floor, was back up on his feet in a moment and back on the mat facing Bleys; but he held up a hand as Bleys was about to move toward him again once more.

"That's enough," said Howe. "You've had training. Want to tell me about it?"

"Oh, there was a neighbor of ours, back when I was on the farm and growing up," said Bleys. "He'd never wrestle himself, but he had a reputation of being able to beat anyone around with no trouble at all. Some of us, if he took a liking to us, he'd show a few things to. I was one of the lucky ones."

"I'll bet," said-Howe, and grinned unexpectedly. "Kind of a tall tale, that. But if it suits you it suits me."

He turned to Boris.

"I don't need to see any more," he said. "Take Bleys Ahrens here back to the Great Leader and tell him this is the best man he ever sent me. As far as wrestling goes."

Boris nodded, a little sourly it seemed to Bleys, who was now sitting down on the mat and putting his shoes back on. He got to his feet and went off with Boris.

"Drop by any time, Bleys MacLean!" Howe called from behind him. Bleys looked back and nodded.

Boris took him back up to McKae's office, tapped on the door and said his name, as before. This time a voice that was not McKae's answered back, telling him to wait another ten minutes, then knock again. Boris led Bleys off to the lounge and picked two chairs facing each other. He pointed wordlessly to one that Bleys took, and sat down opposite him, still without saying anything.

Ten minutes passed without Boris venturing on any conversation. At the end of that time he got to his feet, jerked his head to summon Bleys to follow him and went back to the door of McKae's office. This time when he rapped and gave his name it was opened to him. He and Bleys went inside. The room was empty except for McKae behind his desk. Boris went up to his desk and put down on it the unfolded form that Tremunde had filled out.

"Jimmy Howe says to tell you that this man is the best you've ever sent him."

"Does he indeed?" murmured McKae. He was busy running his eyes over the form. "I see he did well at the shooting, too."

He looked up at Bleys.

"Suppose we try something else. Boris, you can stand back." He handed Bleys a piece of paper from his desk, on which there was a list of numbers, totaled up at the bottom.

"Run your eye over that," McKae said.

Bleys did so.

"Now, hand it back," said McKae. He received the paper, put it down in front of him and looked up at Bleys once more.

"Now," said McKae, "repeat the numbers back to me in the order they are in the column and give me the total."

Bleys had been able to scan the column and total it the moment he had had it and it was all firmly in his memory. But for his purposes this was one test he decided to fail.

"The first number in the column," he said slowly, "is 49.20.

The second number is 13.00, the next number is 87.84, the next number is—" He hesitated.

"—The next number—" he hesitated again, "is 87.84—no, I just gave you that number, Great Leader. The one after that is—is—"

He stopped and looked helplessly across the table at McKae.

"I'm sorry, Great Leader," he said, "I just didn't have enough time to learn them all. I don't know what comes after 87.84."

"That's all right," said McKae, almost absently. "I wonder what gave Samuel the idea that you have what he calls 'a perfect memory.'"

"I think," said Bleys diffidently, "it was because I remembered your words of fire on the floor of the Chamber that day. I was able to tell the congregation word-for-word what you said."

"But you can't do it with numbers?" McKae said, looking back up at him.

"I remember only what the Lord bids me to remember. It comes with no effort when it comes, being the Lord's doing rather than my own," said Bleys. "In all other things I am no more than most people as far as memory goes."

"Is that so?" said McKae. He sat thinking for a second. "Have you read the Bible?"

"Of course, Great Leader," said Bleys.

"All of it?"

"Oh yes. All of it," said Bleys.

"And that's the sort of thing that the Lord would bid you remember, isn't it?" said McKae. "Oh yes. Absolutely," said Bleys.

"Very well, then," said McKae, throwing himself back in his chair, "begin at the beginning of the First Book of Samuel and tell me what it says. Keep telling me until I tell you to stop."

"Yes, Great Leader," said Bleys.

He let enthusiasm flow into him and radiate from his face and the way he stood, the way an actor might, in the wings before stepping out onto the stage in the character he was playing.

"Now there was a certain man of Ramathaim-zophim, of Mount Ephraim, and his name was Elkanah, the son of Jeroham, the son of Elihu, the son of Tohu, the son of Zuph, an Ephrathite:

"And he had two wives; the name of the one was Hannah, and the name of the other Peninnah: and Peninnah had children, but Hannah had no children.

"And this man went up out of his city yearly to worship and to sacrifice unto the Lord of hosts in Shiloh. And the two sons of Eli, Hophni and Phinehas, the priests of the Lord—"

"All right," said McKae, holding up a finger to stop him, "that'll do. It's a useful gift of the Lord but I think we'll regard it as something to be called upon only if needed. Meanwhile, there are Soldiers of God who've joined the Arise! Church. They've formed a special body of Defenders to protect me, so that I can safely continue to preach—for there are those who'd stop me. Would you like to be one of my Defenders?"

"I could think of nothing greater," said Bleys, with enthusiasm.

"All right," said McKae, "Boris'U take you down to the Leader of those men; and you can begin following his orders. You'll be in training. In spite of your skills with weapons and the fact that you're such a powerful wrestler"—McKae smiled just a little—"there'll be things you'll have to learn in order to work with the others. If you feel after some days that it isn't the work for you, simply tell the Leader, and you'll be given a chance to talk to me once more, when I have the time to spare you. Also, if the Leader should decide that you're not proper material, then he'll tell you you're not to be one of them; and again, you'll be given a chance to speak to me, before you leave us and go back to Godsarm's church."

"Thank you, Great Leader," said Bleys, "I don't know how to thank you enough."

"See how the training agrees with you," said McKae, waving his hand in dismissal.

Bleys and Boris went out and this time they went down only one floor and into another suite that had also been turned into an office; but one that was nowhere near as large as the one where McKae sat.

Behind the desk there was a man who also was very different from McKae. He wore a heavy, old, checked shirt and work pants stuffed into work boots. At first glance, Bleys had taken him for a farmer right off the farm; but a second look had told him the man was something more.

He obviously, however, had a background in the out-of-doors. Bleys was introduced to him by Boris, who after that immediately left them. The man's name was Herkimer Shone. And he was plainly a very informal sort.

"Pull up a chair." He indicated a straight-backed chair that was not far from the desk. "Sit down and I'll get the details on you."

"Well, that should take care of it," said Herkimer at last, having questioned Bleys about Henry's farm and church, and written down all the details. He put them in a file. He frowned at the file folder drawer, which was jammed, before closing it.

"Ordinarily, we'd want you in the hotel here," he said, "but we're overcrowded for space, and a lot of the churches are so new, so their tithes aren't yet much use to us. So we've got a financial problem, too. I'd like to keep you here for three days while you run through some of the group maneuvers with the rest of us. After that, if you're married, or even if you have someplace to stay elsewhere in town, at your own expense, we'll be satisfied if you'll drop in at the designated hours to practice with the rest of the guardians. Do you have such a place in Ecumeny?"

"Yes I have," answered Bleys, "you see I met this friend—"

"Never mind the details, give me an address."

Bleys gave him the address of the apartment. He was a little fearful that the other might recognize it as being a building in a part of the city that contained a number of luxury apartments; but evidently the man was either not acquainted with the city that much, or did not care. He put down the address and phone number.

The next three days Bleys slept in a temporary cot set up in the on-duty guard's room; and had nothing to do but kill time these days. He assumed what he had said on the application was being checked out. The third morning, he was awakened at five
a.m
. and hustled by the duty guard through a quick shower, a rather slim breakfast, and conducted to a meeting room at six.

"Just go on in," said the duty guard, and left him.

Bleys pushed through the door and stepped into a room that was already filled with people. They were of all shapes, sizes and ages. They had in common the deeply tanned, outdoor look Bleys had remarked on the men in the lobby when he had first entered the hotel yesterday; and which, thanks to the fierceness of the sunlight from Epsilon Eridani, he still had, also.

They were dressed, like Herkimer, in all sorts of comfortable work clothes, no two alike. He searched around, found a chair and sat down; while the lean-faced man in his fifties, up on the platform, dressed and looking very much like the rest of them, was still speaking. Needless to say, he drew the attention of more than a few of the audience while he was doing this.

He sat and waited for the man on the platform to finish what he was saying, which had something to do with the plans for the day. But shortly he came to the end of what he was saying. He looked out over the audience.

"I see the last of our recruits has shown up, finally," he said.

There was a small mutter of laughter, but it did not sound to Bleys at all derisive or antagonistic.