L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

“No bon vivant , you,” muttered Shea. Belphebe, dismounting, said: “I’ll take a quick look inside and report.”

When she came out, she said: “At least it looks passably clean. Come on!”

* * *

The eatery served in automat style. Machines proffered dishes to patrons, who collected them on trays as they passed. Belphebe was ahead of her two men in the line, and next before her was a burly red Barsoomian, After her came Shea and Ras Thavas, The latter murmured:

“Have a care with that hoodlum in front of us, Doctor Shea. His metal says that he is one of Ur Jan’s personal guards, an old comrade from the assassins’ guild.”

Shea loosened his pistol in its holster. The assassin meanwhile moved so that his naked skin brushed lightly against that of Belphebe. When she turned a frowning face toward him, he muttered:

“Hey, you pretty spear-shaft! How about a little quick fucky-fucky? As you can see, I have the equipment! He glanced down to where he displayed the physical symptom of lust for all to see, since Barsoomian costume made no attempt to conceal the private parts. Angrily, Betphebe spat:

“Begone, sir! I am an honest wife?”

“Is that so?” said the assassin, loosening his longsword in its scabbard. “Is one of those two behind you wearing Heliumite metal, your husband? Tell me which, and I’ll make you an instant widow. Then I’ll show you some lovemaking, the like of which you have never enjoyed!”

Shea tapped the man’s shoulder, at the same time bringing up his revolver. He grated: “Sir. I am the husband in question. If you bother us, I shall shoot you dead!”

“Shea!” cried Ras Thavas, “Put that pistol away! You know not what you do! To use a gun is a capital offense, even in self-defense! I will take care of this jackanapes, and you must not interfere! Stand clear! The code does not permit you to help me.” Ras Thavas drew his own longsword, saying:

“Sir guardsman, anyone who confronts my friend here must answer to me. He is a foreigner who does not fully understand local customs, whereas you am a mannerless ulsio . Draw, scoundrel!”

The guardsman’s sword came out with a wheep . Slaves rushed out from behind the food counters and shooed people away to clear a space. The guardsman roared:

“Lay on!”

Ras Thavas and the guardsman crossed blades. In an instant they were at it, zip-whisht-clang!

Shea watched uncertainly, torn between a natural urge to help Ras Thavas and the command laid upon him not to interfere. He expected the guardsman to make mincemeat of the scientist, whom he persisted in viewing as elderly despite his youthful body. But to his surprise, after a few short passages, Ras Thavas nailed his opponent with a coupé and lunge, driving his sword through the guardsman’s beefy chest and out his back. The guardsman folded upon the floor.

Ras Thavas wiped his blade with a napkin that someone handed him and sheathed his sword. A couple of slaves picked up the corpse by wrists and ankles and bore it out, while another cleaned up a small puddle of blood with a mop. Another staff member chivvied people back into line at the serving tables.

Shea paid for their meals and said: “Doctor, I never expected to see you such a swashbuckler?”

“That was nothing,” said Ras Thavas. “I have listened to your words and practised with you at singlesticks, and I simply put my knowledge to use. Now, I trust, there will be no more aspersions on my courage!”

Evidently, thought Shea, his remarks about the incident of the pack of wild calots had rankled. Otherwise Ras Thavas might not have been so ready to take up Shea’s quarrel with the guardsman. Shea was tempted to twit Ras Thavas on displaying a common human weakness, despite his profession of lofty superiority to such sentiments, but thought better of it. Instead he said:

“You certainly picked up fencing skill in record time. On Earth it takes years of practice to attain that level.”

Ras Thavas smiled thinly. “I would attribute that accomplishment to my superior mind, did I not know that allusions thereto displease you. Let us assume that my youthful athlete’s body retains some reflexes from its former life.”

“What will be done about the guardsman’s death? Shall we be arrested?”

“Naught, since he met it in a fair fight. I have committed no legal offense. But if you had fired that gun, we should all have been in deep trouble.”

“Kindly explain. Why is it all right to puncture a man with a sword but illegal to do the same thing to him with a bullet?”

“That requires thought to make dear. For many centuries, slaves have been forbidden, for obvious reasons, to wear weapons. So a sword has, as it were, become the symbol of a free man — what one of you aliens would call a gentleman.

“At the same time, the tradition grew up that, to prove his free manhood, a man must be prepared to defend his honor with his sword. So sword fights to the death, like that between me and the late guardsman, were accepted as the normal order of things. Of course, there is an element of luck in the outcome of such a duel; but at least most Barsoomians accepted the notion that such a fight was mainly decided by the skill of the fighters.

“Then, a few centuries ago, they invented guns. This obviously enlarged the role of luck in the outcome. Hence death by shooting was no longer deemed a ‘fair fight’ and was considered illegal. I do not personally consider these fine distinctions logically sound. To me, courage is an irrational sentiment, even though my glands may force me betimes to attempt to display it. But that is how things now stand on Barsoom.”

“Seems to me,” said Shea, “that Barsoom has a strong case of class rule here: a majority of slaves, bossed around and bullied by a minority of sword-wearing free men.”

“True, O Shea. But from what I hear of Jasoomian — or perhaps I should say Earthly — social systems, all embody a similar distinction betwixt the ruling minority and the subject majority. Laws are passed and constitutions adopted to enlarge the power of the ruled majority over their own destinies, but the ruling minority somehow keeps a grip on power, whether they pass under the name of counts, colonels, capitalists, or commissars. It must be a tendency built into the species’ makeup.

“If the ruled revolt and expel or exterminate the ruling class, almost instantly the more aggressive and energetic members of the ruled class form a new ruling class, lording it over the rest. In theory, a free man is not supposed to use his sword on a slave, since that is obviously unfair. But every day we hear of cases where a free Barsoomian lost his temper with a slave and sworded him to death.”

“Is anything ever done to the swording bully?”

“Not unless the slave’s owner takes offense at the loss of his servitor and challenges the slayer. The result of the duel, of course, depends on the strength and skill of the combatants — and, inevitably, on luck.”

“So justice has nothing to do with it,” said Shea, rising to leave the eatery. Belphebe and Ras Thavas followed him out. The scientist said:

“What is justice? An ideal, which everyone interprets to his own advantage. Methinks the hostelry we are now passing might furnish us and our beasts with suitable accommodations.”

Belphebe said: “Darling your telling me what sexual puritans the Barsoomians were was a little premature.”

Shea sighed. “Live and learn.”

* * *

The following morning, Shea and Ras Thavas had to wait at the entrance to the hostelry for Belphebe to appear from the women’s half of the building. Ras Thavas pestered the clerk to draw him a map showing how to find the house where dwelt Mar Vas, his local informant.