Here came laughter that sounded more like a hoarse cough.
“He pulled one over on me; he challenged me to a knife fight in zero gravity. I accepted. Nobody handled a knife better than I did. But I don’t think any human ever made so many clumsy mistakes in a fight that his life depended on. I don’t know how it could have happened. Every time I was about to get him, something went wrong. I ended up with two wounds—I, who had never been touched by an enemy’s blade. One I gave myself, in my arm, when it cramped up inexplicably. The other was a disaster. My knife hit the metal wall, sparks flew, they blinded me temporarily—and just then he threw his dagger and hit my thigh, right in the femoral artery.”
The Old Man’s dim eyes flashed.
“At least I was lucky enough not to lose the leg. Incredible aim, skill, or luck. You know how hard it is to throw a knife in zero gravity and hit what you aim for?” He sighed. “I’ve never understood how I had so much bad luck that day. And there’s not much else to tell. Makrow 34 ran off with all the contraband while I was unconscious. Also, his stiletto was laced with poison. My doctors couldn’t even figure out what kind of venom he used. I had to spend a mountain of money and hire a Grodo biochemist, who finally identified it, though he was unable to counter it completely. All he could tell me was that it was a toxin from an exotic Rigelian anemone. A strange recombinant substance with no known antidote. Completely illegal throughout the galaxy. Not lethal, but insidious. Its curious effects have turned me into this thing that I am now.”
He waved his long, boneless limbs.
“Hypertrophic osteopathy and muscular degeneration, its primary effects, aren’t fatal if you take good care of yourself, though they are extremely inconvenient. But every sword has two edges: the effects of the genetic venom have also extended my life long enough for me to see the day when the aliens themselves avenge me.”
My pity for this man who had never forgotten his first, last, and only defeat prompted me to reveal the one piece of information I should have kept the most secret. “It wasn’t bad luck, Old Man. Makrow 34 had Psi powers.” And I explained what a Gaussical is while Vasily wrung his hands nervously and kept glancing sidelong at me.
“Ah.” The Romani centenarian’s eyes shined brighter than ever and his toothless mouth twisted into another parody of a grin. “A Psi. A damnable probability manipulator. Interesting, I didn’t know such things existed. That explains my clumsiness, his luck, his good aim, everything.” He cough-laughed again and ran his hand distractedly over another of his suits of armor. “That explains—everything,” he repeated.
For a few long seconds an uncomfortable silence hung over us all. At last Vasily broke it, nervous. “Well. It’s been a long time since we met, and I’m really sorry, Old Man,” he said simply. “But we’re in a rush. You wouldn’t want that monster to get away, would you? Rest easy. I won’t tell anybody about this, you know? And I’ll bring you his heart—if the Cetian has one.”
“Cetians have two, in their abdomens,” I explained, and felt ridiculous for having done so.
“Better—one for you, one for me,” Slovoban joked. “Good luck to you, kid, and to your positronic friend, too. And be careful with that Makrow. I knew he was dangerous, but if he’s a Psi, you’ll have to keep all your eyes on him—and more than four eyes would be better. I’d say, more like ten. May God and a loaded maser always be with you.” With that, the hatch reopened and the interview was over.
We retraced our entire route through the tunnel and the filthy labyrinths of the Romani space station back to our shuttle in silence. It was only when we had left the Estrella Rom behind us that El Ex-Afortunado spoke again. “Thanks, Raymond.”
“For what?” His thanks had taken me by surprise. My train of thought had already moved on to the idea of asking for reinforcements to take Asteroid G 7834 XC. Two police frigates should do it, but only if they were carrying at least a couple of anti-Psi field generators. I hadn’t done any….
“For what you did,” Vasily said. “For giving Slovoban back some of his pride. And especially for not telling him I’m a Gaussical too.” He gulped. “I never dared to tell him. I know it’ll sound weird, but if I’ve ever had anything like a father, it was him, and I’d hate it if he associated me in any way with the guy who reduced him to that.”
I looked at him with curiosity, but I guessed that this was not the right time to ask for explanations. The mysteries of human nature. Sometimes I think the more I know them, the less I understand them.
Seven
After stuff happens, any idiot with enough time to waste can analyze what went right, what turned out badly, the reasons behind each mistake, and which brilliant move could have made the difference at each point, turning failure into triumph. Any elementary school student could tell Napoleon when to move his artillery, when to call for Murat’s cavalry, and how to maneuver his troops so he could thumb his nose at Wellington in Waterloo. Any halfway competent amateur could advise Lee on how to defeat Grant in Gettysburg or tell Hannibal how to bring Rome to its knees with his elephants.
But in the whirlwind of events, generals not only don’t know where their enemies have their strongest troop concentrations, often they aren’t even very clear about where their own forces are. So a battle in real time is nothing like a chessboard with all the pieces moving
