Things went gray for a moment. Even as Jirik shook his head to clear it, he swung a roundhouse left at the nearest face. The pain and the crunch felt through his hand told him that the blow had been effective. As the tide of brawling humanity swirled, Jirik suddenly found himself alone. He surveyed the bar for another likely opponent. As he started in the direction of the nearest fighters, a chair smashed over his back and shoulders, driving him to the floor. Slightly dazed, he grabbed the nearest leg and pulled, bringing its owner down with a "Whoof!" He followed up with a short jab. The man ducked his head, and Jirik's fist landed on the front of the man's skull, without apparent effect, except to Jirik. His hand felt broken. The pain made him look down at his hand, so he never saw the bottle that laid him out.
Jirik came around as the fight was winding down. The distant sirens of police skimmers added a sense of urgency that rendered his aches and pains unimportant. Looking around, he spied one of the brawlers whose tasteful clothing suggested middle class. The man was groaning, and seemed on the verge of regaining consciousness. Jirik grabbed the man's arm and dragged him toward the back door, out of the bar and into an alley rank with the odors of vomit and stale urine. Dizziness from his exertions made him collapse alongside his still-unconscious companion. The man groaned again, and his eyes opened, though they were unfocussed. "C'mon," Jirik grated, "We've gotta hide before the blues get here!"
"Aw right," the man muttered bemusedly, but he began to scrabble to his feet. Leaning on each other, the two staggered to a large waste bin, and fell into its shelter.
The back door of the bar banged open with a sound like an explosion in the echoing alley. Two policemen peered into the inky blackness of the alley.
"Hell, I can't see dreck!" said one.
"Yeah," agreed the other, "I don't see nobody."
"Well, the bartender said he thought a couple of 'em come this way," the first man insisted.
"Yeah, well, I don't see anybody, and I ain't about to go bouncin' out of a lighted doorway into a dark alley. If the bartender wants 'em arrested, he can look for 'em himself!" the other replied belligerently.
"Yeah, the hell with it," the second cop put in. Blackness returned as the door banged shut again.
During the cops' exchange, Jirik's companion had somewhat regained his senses. He shook his head, and immediately groaned. "What the hell happened? Who the hell are you?"
"My name's Jirik Jeffson. Do you remember the fight?"
The man groaned again. "Yeah, some of it. Did you drag me out of there?"
"Yeah," Jirik replied. The man looked at Jirik questioningly, and Jirik continued, shrugging, "I dunno, you just didn't look like most of those bozos. It seemed to me that you didn't deserve getting' arrested. Why? You want to go back in and surrender?"
The man started to shake his head, then stopped with a low moan. "No," he replied, "I don't." He levered himself to his feet. "Thanks. My name's Jak Rellis. Let's get the hell out of here." He started off unsteadily.
"Yeah," Jirik agreed, accompanying his new friend. They paused at the entrance to the alley, watching as the police cleared out the combatants from the bar. Most were walking, some were being supported, and a few were on stretchers. The bartender was talking excitedly with one of the police. Finally, the former patrons were deposited into various police skimmers, vans and ambulances, and whisked off into the night. The bartender watched them drive away. Then he turned, surveying the wrecked bar with a glum expression.
As soon as the bartender disappeared back into the bar to begin the monumental clean up effort, Jirik and his companion left the alley. They strolled down the street unconcernedly.
As they sized each other up in the light streaming from shop windows, Jirik decided that he had made a wise choice. Jak was in his late twenties. His speech patterns as well as his clothing confirmed Jirik's earlier impression; lower middle class. Probably a clerk or low-level tech, from his soft hands. Jirik's evaluation ended suddenly as the other said "Hey! I know you! You're the spacer that started all that!"
"Naw," Jirik replied offhandedly, "I was just having a quiet drink. That other guy started it. He knocked me off my chair!"
Jak looked thoughtful for a moment. "Yeah, that's right. I remember now. That damned miner. What'd you say to him, anyway?"
"Hell, I don't know." Jirik lied smoothly, "I just asked somebody about this guy Atmos I keep hearing about. Next thing I know, I'm flat on my back."
Jak looked amazed. "You don't know about Dr. Atmos? I thought everybody in the galaxy knew about him."
"I'm a spacer, remember?" Jirik asked. "Our usual runs are along the Alliance border with the Empire. I never heard of the guy 'til we grounded here. And the first time I ask about him, I get punched out. I can't figure out whether the guy's supposed to be a saint or a devil." He dabbed at a bleeding cut with a piece of torn cuff. "I should have known better than to ask about a local hero – or villain – on a new planet. One of these days learn to keep my big mouth shut!"
"But we need to teach people about Atmos," Jak replied, with the fervor of a true believer, "Especially spacers. Come on, let's find a quiet bar where we can talk; I could use some anesthetic alcohol. Then I'll tell you about Atmos."
"Why 'especially spacers'?" Jirik put in suspiciously. He allowed himself to be led into a slightly better class bar blocks from the scene of the fight.
Jak looked surprised. "Why, because spacers are the people to carry the word to other planets throughout the Alliance, and even the Empire."
Jirik snorted. "Spacers make lousy missionaries. You sound like you're pitching some new religion. Is this Atmos supposed to be another deity?"
"No, no," Jak replied in a concerned tone. "Nothing like that. Dr. Atmos was just a man, a scientist. He analyzed sociological trends from history." He paused as they seated themselves and ordered, then resumed. "By analysis of trends within the Empire, Dr. Atmos came to the realization that the Empire had passed it's 'golden age', and was in decline. By projecting known data into the future, he predicted that the Empire will fall apart within the next 200 years. The early signs are already discernable." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Cessation of new exploration. Loss of interest in outlying sectors, and retrenchment of borders. Outright release of some outlying sectors, the Alliance being the largest example. Lack of scientific progress, and subordination of the status of the 'hard' sciences relative to more 'artistic' pursuits. Tell me, uh . . . Jirik," He added parenthetically, "Can you name one basic scientific advance to come out of the Empire in the last century?"
Jirik thought for a moment. "No, I can't. But I understood that the pace of scientific advance had slowed throughout Man-settled space. That as we learn more, less remains to be found."
"Pah!" Jak exclaimed, "That may be the excuse, but it doesn't hold water. Knowledge of the universe and applications of that knowledge are infinite."
"How do you know that knowledge and applications are truly infinite? Besides, you said 'basic' advances, and the number of those is much more limited."
"True, but don't you see," Jak asked urgently, "That in a century, somewhere in the hundreds of trillions of people making up the Empire, any civilization that is even minimally dynamic would have produced at least a single advance? The Empire has come to denigrate scientific progress and creativity, even artistic creativity. That is very nearly the dictionary definition of decadence. When any society denigrates original thought and creativity, that society is dying. The Empire is dying."
Jirik had originally planned to get his chosen talker talking, then "turn off his ears," responding just enough to keep the man talking for the recorder he was carrying. Despite himself, however, he found himself listening attentively to Jak, and thinking.