He was lighting a cigarette, but he stopped and stared at me.
"You? Why?"
I laughed, glanced down at my foot.
"Complicated story. I wear a special shoe because this leg is shorter than the other. Also, I understand I was a very hairy baby-and then, my eyes don't match. I suppose I might have gotten by if that had been all, but then I went and got born on Christmas and that sort of clinched things."
"What is wrong with being born on Christmas?"
"The gods, according to local beliefs, deem it a bit presumptuous. For this reason, children born at that time are not of human blood. They are of the brood of destroyers, the creators of havoc, the panickers of man. They are called the kallikanzaroi. Ideally, they look something like those guys with horns and hooves and all, but they don't have to. They could look like me, my parents decided-if they were my parents. So they left me on a hilltop, to be returned."
"What happened then?"
"There was an old Orthodox priest in the village. He heard of it and went to them. He told them that it was a mortal sin to do such a thing, and they had better get the baby back, quick, and have it ready for baptism the following day."
"Ah! And that is how you were saved, and baptised?"
"Well, sort of." I took one of his cigarettes. "They came back with me, all right, but they insisted I wasn't the same baby they'd left there. They'd left a dubious mutant and collected an even more doubtful changeling, they said. Uglier too, they claimed, and they got another Christmas child in return. Their baby had been a satyr, they said, and they figured that perhaps some Hot creature had had a sort of human child and had abandoned it in the same way we do them-making a swap, actually. Nobody had seen me before then, so their story couldn't be checked. The priest would have none of this, though, and he told them they were stuck with me. But they were very kind, once they were reconciled to the fact. I grew fairly large fairly young, and I was strong for my age. They liked that."
"And you were baptised…?"
"Well, sort of half-baptised."
"Half-baptised?"
"The priest had a stroke at my christening. Died a little while later. He was the only one around, so I don't know that I got the whole thing done proper."
"One drop would be sufficient."
"I suppose so. I don't really know what happened."
"Maybe you had better have it done again. Just to be safe."
"No, if Heaven didn't want me then, I'm not going to ask a second time."
We set up a beacon in a nearby clearing and waited for the Skimmer.
We made another dozen or so kilometers that day, which was pretty good, considering the delay. The baby had been picked up and dispatched directly to Athens. When the Skimmer had set down, I'd asked in a large voice whether anyone else wanted a ride back. There'd been no takers, though.
And it was that evening that it happened.
We reclined about a fire. Oh, it was a jolly fire, flapping its bright wing against the night, warming us, smelling woody, pushing a smoke-track into the air… Nice.
Hasan sat there cleaning his aluminum barreled shotgun. It had a plastic stock and it was real light and handy.
As he worked on it, it tilted forward, moved slowly about, pointed itself right at Myshtigo.
He'd done it quite neatly, I must admit that. It was during a period of over half an hour, and he'd advanced the barrel with almost imperceptible movements.
I snarled, though, when its position registered in my cerebrum, and I was at his side in three steps.
I struck it from his hands.
It clattered on some small stone about eight feet away. My hand was stinging from the slap I'd given it.
Hasan was on his feet, his teeth shuttling around inside his beard, clicking together like flint and steel. I could almost see the sparks.
"Say it!" I said. "Go ahead, say something! Anything! You know damn well what you were just doing!"
His hands twitched.
"Go ahead!" I said. "Hit me! Just touch me, even. Then what I do to you will be self-defense, provoked assault. Even George won't be able to put you back together again."
"I was only cleaning my shotgun. You've damaged it."
"You do not point weapons by accident. You were going to kill Myshtigo."
"You are mistaken."
"Hit me. Or are you a coward?"
"I have no quarrel with you."
"You are a coward."
"No, I am not"
After a few seconds he smiled.
"Are you afraid to challenge me?" he asked.
And there it was. The only way.
The move had to be mine. I had hoped it wouldn't have to be that way. I had hoped that I could anger him or shame him or provoke him into striking me or challenging me.
I knew then that I couldn't.
Which was bad, very bad.
I was sure I could take him with anything I cared to name. But if he had it his way, things could be different. Everybody knows that there are some people with an aptitude for music. They can hear a piece once and sit down and play it on the piano or thelinstra. They can pick up a new instrument, and inside a few hours they can sound as if they've been playing it for years. They're good, very good at such things, because they have that talent-the ability to coordinate a special insight with a series of new actions.
Hasan was that way with weapons. Maybe some other people could be the same, but they don't go around doing it-not for decades and decades, anyway, with everything from boomerangs to blowguns. The dueling code would provide Hasan with the choice of means, and he was the most highly skilled killer I'd ever known.
But I had to stop him, and I could see that this was the only way it could be done, short of murder. I had to take him on his terms.
"Amen," I said. "I challenge you to a duel."
His smile remained, grew.
"Agreed-before these witnesses. Name your second."
"Phil Graver. Name yours."
"Mister Dos Santos."
"Very good. I happen to have a dueling permit and the registration forms in my bag, and I've already paid the death-tax for one person. So there needn't be much of a delay. When, where, and how do you want it?"
"We passed a good clearing about a kilometer back up the road."
"Yes; I recall it."
"We shall meet there at dawn tomorrow."
"Check," I said. "And as to weapons…?"
He fetched his knapcase, opened it. It bristled with interesting sharp things, glistened with ovoid incendiaries, writhed with coils of metal and leather.
He withdrew two items and closed the pack.
My heart sank.
"The sling of David," he announced.
I inspected them.
"At what distance?"
"Fifty meters," he said.
"You've made a good choice," I told him, not having used one in over a century myself. "I'd like to borrow one tonight, to practice with. If you don't want to lend it to me, I can make my own."
"You may take either, and practice all night with it."
"Thanks." I selected one and hung it from my belt. Then I picked up one of our three electric lanterns. "If anybody needs me, I'll be up the road at the clearing," I said. "Don't forget to post guards tonight. This is a rough area."
"Do you want me to come along?" asked Phil.
"No. Thanks anyway. I'll go alone. See you."
"Then good night."
I hiked back along the way, coming at last to the clearing. I set up the lantern at one end of the place, so that it reflected upon a stand of small trees, and I moved to the other end.
I collected some stones and slung one at a tree. I missed.
I slung a dozen more, hitting with four of them.
I kept at it. After about an hour, I was hitting with a little more regularity. Still, at fifty meters I probably couldn't match Hasan.
The night wore on, and I kept slinging. After a time, I reached what seemed to be my learning plateau for accuracy. Maybe six out of eleven of my shots were coming through.