Bulnes found his companion hanging on to the rail with his hands while his feet thrashed the water. He hauled the plump schoolteacher over the rail.
"Ouch!" said Flin. "You needn't be so blasted rough, you know. Oh, dear, my good clothes and passport and everything!"
"Clothes! How about my ship?"
"She's insured, isn't she?"
"Yes, but — I loved that little boat."
"Rotten luck, but I should think she could be raised."
"There is that." Bulnes blew his nose. "What worries me more ..." said Flin. "Yes?"
"This thing we're on is of antique design too. Just put your hand on these timbers; you can feel the adze marks. How shall we ever get out of this — this phantasmagoria?"
"We'll worry about that in the morning, comrade. Come on."
"Whereto?"
To find a place to sleep. Got your money?"
"Yes. That and our clothes and my pocket radio and your case knife are about our only worldly goods at the moment"
Bulnes felt his way to the opposite side of the ship and climbed over the rail to the pier. He found himself on a flat, stone-paved surface. Ahead, low structures loomed. From somewhere in the ambient darkness, human voices wafted faintly.
Bulnes led Flin a step at a time across the wharf until his groping hand found a wall, then along the wall to a corner. It seemed to be the beginning of a street.
The darkness lay thick ahead. Creeping along this street, they came to another intersection. A ruddiness in the fog to the right suggested a fire, and voices came from that direction.
"Shall we try 'em?" said Bulnes.
"I don't know. I suppose we might as well. If I could only get dry for once!"
They walked toward the light, and the ruddiness solidified into a red globe, like a planetary nebula contracting into a star. The red ball in turn became a wood fire crackling in an iron cage atop a stone pillar in the middle of a street crossing.
Bulnes saw four men squatting or kneeling in a circle, looking inward at the ground, while two others stood behind them watching. At the sound of footsteps, they looked around. All had beards. All were clad in shapeless pieces of cloth wrapped around their persons. Bare arms and legs protruded from these bundles. They stank of garlic, onions, olive oil, and unwashed human hide.
As the nearest man, who had had his back to them, swiveled around on his heels Bulnes saw a little group of white objects on the ground. He had interrupted a crap game.
"Pu ime?" he said in Greek, of which he knew a few phrases.
The men looked at one another. One made an unintelligible remark. Although the language sounded European, it had a curious singsong quality.
Bulnes repeated his question.
Again the interchange of unknown syllables, and a laugh. Six pairs of eyes focused on Bulnes.
Beside him, Flin burst out, "Knut! I'll swear they're talking Classical Greek!"
"Caray! Suppose you take over, then."
"I don't know ... I'll try, but we don't learn to use the stuff colloquially in school, you know." Flin addressed the men, "Chaire."
All the men were now up. The nearest was shorter than the others but very broad of chest and thick of biceps.
"Chaire," repeated this one, his pitch sliding up and down on the first syllable.
"Pos echeis?" said Flin.
"Agathon," grinned the stocky man. More remarks flew among the six. Bulnes asked, "What are they saying?"
"Can't quite make out, but I jolly well don't like it. I'll ask the way to an inn." Flin began piecing together a sentence, a word at a time.
Bulnes saw one of the men pick up a club he had left lying on the ground. This was going to be like that time in Bombay. He glanced at the sheath knife at his own waist. When Flin had finished his sentence, Bulnes murmured, "Got a knife in your pocket?"
"Y-yes, but ..."
"Get your hand on it, please. If they jump us, try to get your back to the pillar."
Bulnes and Flin stood about as far from the pillar as the strange sextet, who had been playing their game at some distance from its base because the fire did not illuminate the ground directly below itself. Flin started his sentence again, but the six seemed not to be paying attention. Instead they leaned toward the stocky one, listening to the words he muttered.
Bulnes quietly unsnapped the retaining loop that held the upper end of his knife handle, then started to peel off his greasy work jacket. He had it partly off when the burly man said something that sounded as if it began with "happy teeth."
At the same time that man's fist came out of his swathings with a knife.
Chapter Four
As the six, spreading out into a crescent with the horns forward, advanced with knives and cudgels, Wiyem Flin uttered a mouselike noise and ducked behind Knut Bulnes.
Bulnes, instead of backing, took a step forward and aimed a terrific kick at the crotch of the stocky leader. Though the kick flew a little short, the rope-soled espadrille sank into the paunch of the fellow. As Bulnes recovered, the stout man fell to his hands and knees with a feral grunt.
By this time Bulnes had his jacket off, coiled around his left forearm, his case knife in his other hand. As one of the men stepped forward, bringing down a knife-bearing fist in an overhand stab, Bulnes caught the point of the knife in the jacket. With an underhand outward thrust he stabbed the man in the solar plexus. The man screamed and fell.
Then Bulnes had his back to the pillar, his eyes flicking from man to man. He was dimly aware of Wiyem Flin beside him, making feints with a pocket knife.
Now that two of their comrades were down, the four remaining attackers seemed to have lost their elan. They danced in and out, arms upraised for a stab or a blow, crying: "Epitithete! Sphazete autous!" but not closing.
Bulnes caught another blow on his rolled-up jacket. Although his left arm was beginning to feel sore, each time they came in he drove them back with feints and thrusts. His task was lightened by the fact that these ladrones seemed not to know any way of using a dagger except the easily blocked overhand stab. The stout man Bulnes had kicked was not getting up.
A sound beside him drew the attention of Bulnes in time to see Wiyem Flin, having taken a cudgel blow on the pate, slide limply to the ground. Now Bulnes knew there was no chance for him. One man, be he ever so agile, cannot face in three directions at once ...
Another sound transpierced the foggy night: a whish of cloven air concluded by the sharp report of wood striking a human cranium. The burly man whom Bulnes had kicked in the belly staggered forward, plowing through the semicircle of his own people with head down as if to butt Bulnes in the midriff.
As the man came near, Bulnes brought his fist up in an underhand jab, sinking his knife blade into the fellow's throat. At the same time the noise from beyond the circle was heard again: whsht-thuck! whsht-thuck!, together with a hoarse yell.
The stoutish man collapsed across the inert Flin, while Bulnes sighted another figure leaping about behind his assailants, beating them over their heads with a stick or staff, and shouting. The remaining attackers turned in confusion to see who was taking them in the rear. Then the whole lot were gone.
As his rescuer came forward into the firelight, Bulnes saw a stocky, bearded man wearing what first looked like an outfit of modern working clothes. However, the firelight soon showed profound differences: trousers tucked into soft-leather boots; a jacket of coarse material whose hem dipped to a low point in front and which was held closed by a wide belt, without benefit of buttons. And on his head he wore a kind of gnomish felt helmet or cap that covered his ears and rose to a tall point, his long hair escaping from under its lower edge. The general effect was that of somebody dressed up to play a medieval Russian peasant in Prince Igor. His weapon was an unstrung bow, and from his belt a quiverful of arrows hung over one hip.