Looking around irritably, he saw that it was true: sure enough, everyone in sight was wearing some version of the belt and chains. He still didn't like it. "I don't understand. What's this for?"
"Jus' to keep the men from disagreeing so much among theyselves," said the gargoyle. "An' it protects the ladies a little, too. Now this is the stick, what we call the swagger stick -that's the only weapon you can have in Eagles, but I jus' show you that now; no use you to take it with you before you learn youseff how to use it the proper and correct way." He handed it across the counter to the other slob.
"But I do know how to use it," said Dick, reaching. "Damn!" The chain brought him up short; he couldn't extend his arm fully.
The gargoyle doubtfully put the stick in his hand. "You sure now, Misser Jones? With the chains, an' all?"
Dick balanced the weight of the thing across the ringers; there was about an ounce of lead in each of the padded knobs, he judged. The ones he had used at home were heavier; otherwise there was no difference, except, of course, the handicap of the chains. Evening after evening, ever since he was twelve, he had got his knuckles bruised and his nose bleeding -- to his intense disgust, since nobody ever fought with sticks -- down in the gymnasium with his father. Engage, thrust, cover, parry, chop, backhand, retire ... it was in his bones, and he had never suspected what it was for until now.
"I can handle it," he said, and thrust the stick into a spring clip at the side of his belt, where it seemed to belong.
The slob behind the counter had produced a thick loose leaf book and was turning the pages. "Jones," he said, "let's see ... "
"Nev' mind!" cried the gargoyle. "You don' have to tell me, I know where Misser Jones belongs. Come right this way, misser -- we fix you up in one, two, three time!"
The archway under which they passed was a single huge sheet of some white metal, intricately hand-chased in a design of running deer and oak-leaves. Silver light spilled down it from a trough-shaped reflector at the ceiling. Beyond that, the hall was brown translucent glass, lit from behind; the floor itself was heavy glass, under which water ran in a shallow channel.
They climbed three ivory steps and threaded their way through a gossiping crowd that half-filled a large hall. A peacock strutted across their path, tail-feathers spread like a many-eyed gossamer fan. Music murmured from somewhere, broken by the harsh shrieks of cockatoos, caged in a brilliant line down the farther wall.
Dick looked around disapprovingly as he walked. There were too many people -- all, to his way of thinking, ridiculously overdressed -- ; the place was too big and too gaudy, and in spite of the sickly sweet overtone of perfume, it smelled bad. Here they went down another shallow flight of steps and under another scrolled archway: the place seemed to be built on half a dozen levels, without plan or purpose.
Now they were in a narrow corridor whose golden walls and floor were as irregularly curved as a natural tunnel dug out of the earth. Down one side of it, swift and deep, flowed what must be the same stream he had seen before. Here it had no floor over it, and no guard-rail either. A dark shape flickered past, a young trout perhaps, but it was gone too quickly to see. Dick looked back over his shoulder; at the end of the corridor, the stream dived out of sight.
Just ahead, a young man was kneeling with one hand in the water, while a little knot of people -- two girls, another young man, a handful of slobs in wine silk -- looked on. As they approached, another dark shape hurtled down the stream; the kneeling young man moved convulsively, exclaimed, "Ha!" and held up his hand in triumph. In a soaked cloth bag of Kelly green -- his hat, evidently, since it matched his costume -- a fish squirmed and flopped. Laughing, he shook it out onto the floor. The spilled water splattered Dick to the knees.
Still kneeling, the young man looked up with a glint of humor. The fish, a speckled trout, arched itself once, twice, and toppled into the stream; it splashed and was gone.
"Good shot?" asked the young man, still smiling easily. He was blond and handsome; the fanciful lace-trimmed collar of his tunic was open over a strong brown throat. Behind him, the others watched silently.
"Misser," said the gargoyle, taking Dick's arm, "this corridor is too trafficky today -- better we go round by the South Promenade."
"Leave him alone, Frankie," said the young man without turning his head. "I asked him a question."
The cold water was soaking through Dick's trouserlegs to the skin. "It was a good shot," he said.
The gargoyle, Frankie, was whispering in his ear, "That's Jerry Keel, misser, be careful -- " Ignoring him, Dick leaned swiftly, scooped up a palmful of water and flung it at the other's face.
The blond man, Keel, was up instantly, nose and chin dripping, knobbed swagger stick in his hand. His smile was tight over his teeth. "Now, then, let's see," he said.
"Jer, he's a green calf," one of the girls murmured.
"He's wearing a stick, isn't he? Come on, you, don't keep me waiting."
Dick drew the staff free of its clip and closed his fist around one of the knobbed ends. Cautiously, he and Keel advanced toward each other, toeing toward the edges of the puddle of water. Dick found the elbow chain a little disconcerting; he would have to try to remember he couldn't make a full lunge ...
They engaged. Keel had a curious, negligent stance; he held the stick palm up, rapped it against Dick's with offensive gentleness. Angered, Dick feinted right, left, and swung for the other's knuckles. Wood met wood, jarringly; Keel's stick whirred with motion, grazed Dick's wrist, then hit his staff so shrewdly on the backswing that he nearly dropped it.
Both drew back for a moment, staring at each other. Then Keel stepped forward and Dick met him, each treading dangerously on the slick wet metal. Keel engaged with a flurry of beats, ending with a straight thrust which Dick answered by a back-parry and lunge. Keel made an assault on the elbow and hand; Dick double-parried, shifted his grip and cut over, narrowly missing Keel's face. They stepped back again, breathing a little heavily.
Dick's wrist was numb, and the inside of his elbow chafed from trying to lunge farther than the chain would permit. Keel grinned at him, swung his stick twice with a whit, whit, and stepped forward again.
They engaged a third time; Keel feinted twice, parried Dick's counter-thrust, and lunged. Dick saved himself by leaping back, but immediately closed again with a strong beat, chop and thrust. Keel parried; when his guard was high, Dick stepped across the puddle and closed in. Keel staggered, off balance; Dick hit him solidly with a body check. They lurched, grappling together; Dick fended off Keel's clutching hand and shoved again. With a wild yell and a splash, Keel went into the stream.
The crowd ohh-ed. Dick heard a thump; he turned in time to see Keel's head and one arm appear, haloed in spray, where the water arched down under the wall.
There was a scurrying of footsteps. "Fair play! Fair play!" boomed a sudden voice. Keel's friend and two or three slobs, hurrying toward him, stopped and drew back. Standing inside the corridor entrance was a stocky man in green and russet silks. His hair was iron-gray under a foolish, lemon-colored hat, but his eyes were black and brilliant. "You know the rules," he said, and turned to Dick with an ironic salute of his stick.
In the water a yard away, Keel's body was spread-eagled against the narrowing sides of the channel. The passage, Dick saw with horror, had no bars or grille across it: the only thing that kept Keel from being swept down with the current was the pressure of his hands and feel against the smooth metal. The elbow chains prevented him from taking a secure hold; the force of the falling stream was tremendous. He could not move, or he would lose his grip. Water and spray covered him above the chin: he was slowly drowning where he stood.