way here?
'Perhaps we shall have to improvise.' Jones tugged piece of string between his fingers. 'A net would be fine defensively, but-' His eyes continued to focus on the string as his expression became intent. 'That may well be it!'
'String?'
'The garrote. A length of cord used to strangle a man. Quite effective, I assure you.'
'But how would I get close enough to a dagger to strangle him, without getting disemboweled? And it still wouldn't stop a sword or club.'
'A long enough length of it would, Actually, I am visualizing something more like a chain-flexible, but hard enough to foil a blade and heavy enough to entangle a club. A-a metal rope, perhaps. Good either offensively or defensively, I'm sure.'
'A hope.' Sos tried to imagine it as a weapon, but failed. 'Or a bolas,' Jones said, carried away by his line of thought. 'Except that you would not be allowed to throw the entire thing, of course, Still, weighted ends-come down to the shop and we'll see what we can work up.'
Miss Smith smiled at hhn again as they passed her, but Sos pretended not to notice. She had a very nice smile, and her hair was set in smooth light waves, but she was nothing like Sola.
That day Sos gained a weapon-but it was five months before he felt proficient enough with it to undertake the trail again.
Miss Smith did not speak to him at the termination, but Jones bid him farewell sadly. 'It was good to have you back with us, if only for these few months, Sos. If things don't work out-'
'I don't know,' Sos said, still unable to give him a commitment. Stupid chirped.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As he had begun two years before, Sos set out to find his fortune. Then he had become Sol the Sword, not suspecting what his alliteratively chosen name would bring him to; now he was Sos the Rope. Then he had fought in the circle for pleasure and reputation and minor differences; now he fought to perfect his technique. Then he had taken his women as they came; now he dreamed of only one.
Yet there were things about the blonde Miss Smith that could have intrigued him, in other circumstances. She was literate, for one thing, and that was something he seldom encountered in the nomad world. True, she was of the crazies' establishment-but she would have left it, had he asked her to; that much had become apparent. He had not asked . . . and now, briefly, he wondered whether he had made a mistake.
He thought of Sola and that wiped out all other fancies.
Where was Sol's tribe now? He had no idea. He could only wander until he got word of it, then follow until he caught up, sharpening his skill in that period. He had a weapon now, and with it he meant to win his bride.
The season was early spring, and the leaf-buds were just beginning to form. As always at this time of year, the men brought their families to the cabins, not anxious to pitch small tents against the highly variable nights. The young single girls came, too, seeking their special conquests. Sos merged with these groups in crowded camaraderie, sleeping on the floor when necessary, declining to share a bunk if it meant parting with his bracelet, and conversing with others on sundry subjects: Sol's tribe? No-no one knew its present whereabouts, though some had heard of it. Big tribe-a thousand warriors, wasn't it? Maybe he should ask one of the masters; they generally kept track of such things.
The second day out Sos engaged in a status match with a sticker. The man had questioned whether a simple length of rope could be seriously considered a weapon, and Sos had offered to demonstrate, in friendly fashion. Curious bystanders gathered around as the two men entered the circle
Sos's intensive practice had left his body in better condition than ever before. He had thought he had attained his full growth two years ago, but the organs and flesh of his body had continued to change, slowly. Indeed, he seemed to be running more and more to muscle, and today was a flat solid man of considerable power. He wondered sometimes whether he had been touched by radiation, and whether it could act in this fashion.
He was ready, physically-but it had been a long time since he took the circle with a weapon. His hands became sweaty, and he suddenly felt unsure of himself, a stranger in this ring of physical decision. Could he still fight? He had to; all his hopes depended upon this.
His rope was a slender metallic cord twenty-five feet long, capped and weighted at either end. He wore it coiled about his shoulders when traveling, and it weighed several pounds.
