He rolled up to his feet, laughing. “I didn’t look for that one! But can you see this coming?” He swept Gar up into a bear hug, which the smaller man slipped out of as though he were greased—and tripped over the foot Skorag swung up as his right arm swept around to push Gar over.
Gar dove and somersaulted, coming up to his feet, still grinning—and Alea stared, dazed by the glow that seemed to emanate from him, compounded of sweat and energy and sheer delight in physical contest. She heard Orla’s breath hiss in, and knew the bigger woman was experiencing the same stab of feeling that resonated deep inside. Why, Gar’s handsome, she thought, amazed. Why had she never noticed it before?
Then Gar caught Skorag around the neck with one hand, the other on the giant’s arm, but Skorag had caught him in the same hold, and for several minutes, they strained against one another, each shifting his weight to counter the other’s twisting, each striving for an advantage, an opening. Muscles bulged under sweat-shiny skin, virtually frozen, giving time for contemplation, and the two women stared, spellbound,
Suddenly the sculpture erupted into movement, and Gar spun out like a dancer’s skirt, flying ten feet to land on his side. Alea shoved her fist into her mouth to stifle a scream, but Gar pushed himself to his feet, still grinning, and went back toward Skorag, feet wide apart, crouching as he walked.
Garlon stepped forward. “Enough, enough, young men! Gar, you have fought bravely, and we’re all amazed that you could throw a giant three times—but he has tumbled you five, and will widen that margin if you persist.”
“He will indeed,” said a ten-foot giant with a grizzled beard, stepping forward to lift Skorag’s hand. “Hail the winner!”
The crowd shouted their approval.
“And hail the Midgarder who managed to give him a real bout!” the giant cried, raising Gar’s arm.
The shout turned into a roar.
Skorag grinned and lowered his hand, holding it out to Gar. Gar took it, grinning in return, and bowed. Surprised, Skorag imitated the movement. Then both turned away, to catch up their tunics.
Alea broke from Orla and ran at Gar, crying. “You idiot! You fool! My heart nearly stopped every time you struck the ground!”
“Did it really?” Gar stopped with his tunic about to go over his head, his eyes meeting hers—and for a moment, those eyes were all there was in the world.
Then Alea turned away, feeling her face grow hot, and said, “Of course! What would happen to me if anything happened to you?”
“I think that’s the second best reason I’ve ever heard for two people to protect each other,” Gar told her, then stepped closer and spoke softly. “But the bout was good strategy, you see. They’ll welcome us more warmly now.”
Alea thought of her sudden bond with Orla, but only said, “You didn’t say what the best reason was.”
Gar was looking off to the side, though, and grinning. “I thought your friend didn’t find any of the boys here very interesting.”
Looking up, Alea saw Orla talking with Skorag, and saw the extra inch to her smile, the gleam in her eye, as the giant woman tossed her head, chin tilting up, even though she was six inches taller than Skorag. He moved a little closer, his own grin widening as he looked up at her, saying something they couldn’t hear.
“It would seem both of us have succeeded in our purposes,” Gar said, “Skorag and I.”
“Oh? And your purpose was only to gain greater acceptance by these overgrown boys, was it?”
Gar gave her a heavy-lidded glance, but quickly looked away and said, “Well, there might have been an ulterior motive.” Then he froze, staring. “Is that what I think it is?”
Frowning and vaguely disappointed, Alea followed his gaze and saw one of the stone houses with a straight line slanting upward toward a nearby tree, shining in the late afternoon light. “It’s a cord running up to a branch—but why?”
“Because it’s an antenna.” Gar yanked his tunic over his head and stepped away to catch up his cloak. “Let’s go see what’s in that house, shall we?”
Alea started after him, but just then, Orla tossed her head again and turned away from Skorag, who watched her walk away with a very intent gaze. The giantwoman reached out to Alea. “Come, little sister! You must meet the women of my clan! ”
Alea knew better than to protest—it might seem rude and, somehow, she sensed that she was being honored. But she cast a backward glance at Gar as he strode toward the house with the cord, hoping that he would understand when she didn’t follow.
Gar followed his host, remembering his excitement when he and Herkimer had discovered that this lost colony hadn’t quite regressed to completely medieval culture.
“What could have sent this colony into back to the Middle Ages?” Gar wondered.
“That happened to quite a few colonies,” Herkimer reminded him, “when Mother Terra withdrew her economic and technological support.”
“True, but there are usually some signs of a high technology origin,” Gar said. “Is there any reason to think this colony hasn’t completely regressed?”
“Only some rather constant radio signals, Magnus.” Magnus sat up straight, eyes wide. “Radio? With horned helmets? Solid state war axes? just what is going on here?”
“Battles, as we know,” Herkimer replied. “Most of the radio messages seem to be tactical orders in Terran Standard Language, with a thick local accent—three of them, in fact.”
“One for each nation.” Magnus nodded. “What about the messages that aren’t military?”
“I would have to call it gossip, though perhaps it is news,” Herkimer said. “I confess that it makes little or no sense—the voices are discussing events and concepts that are totally foreign to me. Without knowledge of the cultural context, I can make no sense of them.”
“Then we need to learn something about their history and the way they live,” Magnus agreed, “more than we can find out from orbit. Brace yourself for a wild guess, Herkimer.”
“I am braced.” The computer sounded resigned; it was basically allergic to ideas that could not be proved by evidence. “It’s possible that the rulers of this society—of one of the three societies, I should say—have managed to hold onto their power by having kept knowledge of high technology to themselves and letting the majority of their people drift back into the Dark Ages.”
“They do dress like Teutonic barbarians,” Herkimer admitted, “and your hypothesis does account for a medieval civilization having radio. But it does not account for the informal conversations in so many of the transmissions.”
“Well, it was a try,” Magnus sighed. “Can you tell anything else from the messages?”
“There is an anomaly here,” the computer replied. “The chatty messages are in two accents and use only AM, though they also transmit some military information. The third accent, though, is transmitting in FM, and is communicating only battle orders, with the occasional message that has to do with apprehending fugitives.”
“Strange.” Magnus frowned. “At a guess, I’d say that one of the three nations doesn’t want to talk to the others. Beyond that…”
This nation of giants, however, seemed quite ready to talk—in fact, to chatter. As Garlon led Gar into the huge cottage, he saw half a dozen giants sitting at two long tables, one at either side of the room, all of them leaning back in cozy conversation with disembodied voices that ratted from large paper-coned loudspeakers. The giants spoke into microphones as large as Gar’s head, but their transceivers were miniature boxes not much bigger than Gar’s hand.