hope?'
'No. Not directly, anyway,' he said, thinking of the recalcitrant dagger Nar and Tyl's execution of him. 'I only fought a few times, and always for little things. The last time was for my name.'
'Ah, I see. No more than that?'
'And perhaps for a woman, too.'
'Yes. Life isn't always so simple in the simple world, is it? If you care to amplify-'
Sos recounted the entire experience he had had, the emotional barriers overcome at last, while Jones listened sympathetically. 'I see,' the principal said at the end. 'You do have a problem.' He cogitated for a moment- 'thought' seemed too simple a word to apply to him- then touched the intercOm. 'Miss Smith, will you check the file on one 'Sol,' please? S-O-L. Probably last year, no, two years ago, west coast. Thank you.'
'Did be go to school?' Sos had never thought of this.
'Not here, certainly. But we have other training schools, and he sounds as though he's had instruction. Miss Smith will check it out with the computer. There just might be something on the name.'
They waited for several minutes, Sos increasingly uncomfortable as he reminded himself that he should have cleaned up before coming here. The crazies had something of a fetish about dirt: they - never went long without removing it. Perhaps it was because they tended to stay within their buildings and machines, where aromas could concentrate.
'The girl,' he said, filling time, 'Miss Smith-is she a student?'
Jones smiled tolerantly. 'No longer. I believe she is actually a year older than you are. We can't be certain because she was picked up running wild near one of the radioactive areas a number of years ago and we never did manage to trace her parentage. She was trained at another unit, but you can be sure there was a change in her, er, etiquette. Underneath, I daresay, there is nomad yet, but she's quite competent.'
It was hard to imagine that such,a polished product was forest-born, even though he had been through it himsel 'Do you really get all your -people from-'
'From the real world? Very nearly, Sos. I was a sword bearer myself, thirty years ago.'
'A sworder? You?'
'I'll assume that your astonishment is complimentar Yes, I fought in the circle. You see-'
'I have it, Dr. Jones,'-the intercom said. 'S.O.L.- Woul you like me to read it off?'
'Please.'
'Sol - adopted code name for mutilated foundling testes transplant, insulin therapy, comprehensive manual training, discharged from San Francisco orphanage Bi 0' Do you want the details on that, Dr. Jones?'
'No thanks. That will do nicely, Miss Smith.' He n turned to Sos. 'That may not be entirely clear to you, seems - your friend was an orphan. There was some trouble I remember, about fifteen years ago on the west coast an well, we had to pick up the pieces. Families wiped out children tortured-this type of thing will happen occasionally when you're dealing with primitives. Your Sol was castrated at the age of five and left to bleed to death. well, he was one of the ones we happened to catch in time. A transplant operation took care of the testosterone and insulin shock therapy helped eradicate the traumatic memories, but, well, there's only in much we can do. Evidently he wasn't suited to intellectual stimulation, you were, so he received manual instead. From what you told me, it was exceptionally effective. He seems to have adjusted well.'
'Yes.' Sos was beginning to understand things about Sol that had baffled him before. Orphaned at a vulnerable age by tribal savagery, he would naturally strive to protect himself most efficiently and to abolish all men and all tribes that might pose a personal threat. Raised in an orphanage he would seek friendship-and not know how to recogse it or what to do with it. And he would want a family his own, that he would protect fanatically. How much more precious a child-to the man who could never father one!
Couple this background with a physical dexterity an endurance amounting to genius, and there was-Sol.
'Why do you do all this?' Sos asked. 'I mean, building hostels and stocking them, training children, marking off the badlands, projecting television programs. You get no thanks for it. You know what they call you.'
