“Bud Craney,” said Moe. It was no secret. Every man in the two sectors of the Ring knew just exactly what kind of spacecraft the other had.
“That’s right,” said Gus, “and I’m fixing to go over into Thirty-seven and yank Bud up by the roots.”
He took a jolt of liquor. “Yes, sir, I sure aim to crucify him.”
His eyes lighted on Miss Henrietta Perkins.
“Visitor?” he asked.
“She’s from the government,” said Moe.
“Revenuer?”
“Nope. From the welfare outfit. Aims to help you fellows out. Says there ain’t no sense in you boys in Twenty-three all the time fighting with the gang from Thirty-seven.”
Gus stared in disbelief.
Moe tried to be helpful. “She wants you to play games.”
Gus strangled on his drink, clawed for air, wiped his eyes.
“So that’s why you asked me over here. Another of your danged peace parleys. Come and talk things over, you said. So I came.”
“There’s something in what she says,” defended Moe. “You ring-rats been ripping up space for a long time now. Time you growed up and settled down. You’re aiming on going over right now and pulverizing Bud. It won’t do you any good.”
“I’ll get a heap of satisfaction out of it,” insisted Gus. “And, besides, I’ll get my injector back. Might even take a few things off Bud’s ship. Some of the parts on mine are wearing kind of thin.”
Gus took another drink, glowering at Miss Perkins.
“So the government sent you out to make us respectable,” he said.
“Merely to help you, Mr. Hamilton,” she declared. “To turn your hatreds into healthy competition.”
“Games, eh?” said Gus. “Maybe you got something, after all. Maybe we could fix up some kind of game. …”
“Forget it, Gus,” warned Moe. “If you’re thinking of energy guns at fifty paces, it’s out. Miss Perkins won’t stand for anything like that.”
Gus wiped his whiskers and looked hurt. “Nothing of the sort,” he denied. “Dang it, you must think I ain’t got no sportsmanship at all. I was thinking of a real sport. A game they play back on Earth and Mars. Read about it in my papers. Follow the teams, I do. Always wanted to see a game, but never did.”
Miss Perkins beamed. “What game is it, Mr. Hamilton?”
“Space polo,” said Gus.
“Why, how wonderful,” simpered Miss Perkins. “And you boys have the spaceships to play it with.”
Moe looked alarmed. “Miss Perkins,” he warned, “don’t let him talk you into it.”
“You shut your trap,” snapped Gus. “She wants us to play games, don’t she. Well, polo is a game. A nice, respectable game. Played in the best society.”
“It wouldn’t be no nice, respectable game the way you fellows would play it,” predicted Moe. “It would turn into mass murder. Wouldn’t be one of you who wouldn’t be planning on getting even with someone else, once you got him in the open.”
Miss Perkins gasped. “Why, I’m sure they wouldn’t!”
“Of course we wouldn’t,” declared Gus, solemn as an owl.
“And that ain’t all,” said Moe, warming to the subject. “Those crates you guys got wouldn’t last out the first chukker. Most of them would just naturally fall apart the first sharp turn they made. You can’t play polo in ships tied up with haywire. Those broomsticks you ring-rats ride around on are so used to second rate fuel they’d split wide open first squirt of high test stuff you gave them.”
The inner locks grated open and a man stepped through into the room.
“You’re prejudiced,” Gus told Moe. “You just don’t like space polo, that is all. You ain’t got no blueblood in you. We’ll leave it up to this man here. We’ll ask his opinion of it.”
The man flipped back his helmet, revealing a head thatched by white hair and dominated by a pair of outsize spectacles.
“My opinion, sir,” said Oliver Meek, “seldom amounts to much.”
“All we want to know,” Gus told him, “is what you think of space polo.”
“Space polo,” declared Meek, “is a noble game. It requires expert piloting, a fine sense of timing and. …”
“There, you see!” whooped Gus, triumphantly.
“I saw a game once,” Meek volunteered.
“Swell,” bellowed Gus. “We’ll have you coach our team.”
“But,” protested Meek, “but … but.”
“Oh, Mr. Hamilton,” exulted Miss Perkins, “you are so wonderful. You think of everything.”
“Hamilton!” squeaked Meek.
“Sure,” said Gus. “Old Gus Hamilton. Grow the finest doggone radiation moss you ever clapped your eyes on.”
“Then you’re the gentleman who has bugs,” said Meek.
“Now, look here,” warned Gus, “you watch what you say or I’ll hang one on you.”
“He means your rock bugs,” Moe explained, hastily.
“Oh, them,” said Gus.
“Yes,” said Meek, “I’m interested in them. I’d like to see them.”
“See them,” said Gus. “Mister, you can have them if you want them. Drove me out of house and home, they did. They’re dippy over metal. Any kind of metal, but alloys especially. Eat the stuff. They’ll tromp you to death heading for a spaceship. Got so I had to move over to another rock to live. Tried to fight it out with them, but they whipped me pure and simple. Moved out and let them have the place after they started to eat my shack right out from underneath my feet.”
Meek looked crestfallen.
“Can’t get near them, then,” he said.
“Sure you can,” said Gus. “Why not?”
“Well, a spacesuit’s metal and. …”
“Got that all fixed up,” said Gus. “You come back with me and I’ll let you have a pair of stilts.”
“Stilts?”
“Yeah. Wooden stilts. Them danged fool bugs don’t know what wood is. Seem to be scared of it, sort of. You can walk right among them if you want to, long as you’re walking on the stilts.”
Meek gulped. He could imagine what stilt walking would be like in a place where gravity was no more than the faintest whisper.
III
The bugs had dug a new set of holes, much after the manner of a Chinese checker board, and
