Var left her there and began his descent. She would play dead until dusk, then make her way down the safest route as well as she cOuld. He worried, but she told him that she knew the way and anyhow would have plenty of time to be careful Certainly he couldn't wait for her. 'I'll start down before it's all the way dark,' she said. 'So i'll be past the killer slope before I can't see any more.'
He halted a few feet down and called up to her: 'If anything happens where can I find you?' He could not get rid of his morbid concern.
'Near the hostel, dummy,' she called back. 'hurry up. I mean down.
He obliged, not avoiding abrasions since they would make his supposed fight to the death seem more authentic. He would be telling a lie but at least he was doing the right thing, and he had also preserved his oath. He had learned the final lesson the Master had taught him.
'Var! Va-a-ar!' Soil was calling him, her dark head poked over the edge.
'What?'
'Your clothing!'
He had forgotten! He was wearing the stolen clothing. If he returned in that, everything would be exposed; ironically.
Embarrassed, he returned to the mesa and stripped to the skin. The material would help keep her warm, anyway.
There was jubilation that night at the Master's base camp, and Var was feted in a manner he was wholly unaccustomed to. He had to eat prodigiously, not daring to admit he was not hungry for the first time the women of the neighbouring camp, suspiciously quick to appear afterword of the victory had spread, found him attractive. But all he could think of was little Soil, struggling down the treacherous cliffs in the dark, carrying her bundle of food and clothing. If she fell, their ruse would become real. Pity....
The warriors assumed that he had fought a male sticker, and Var chose to avoid clarification of the matter. 'I killed,' he said, and stopped there. And fended off male congratulations and female attentions until finally Tyl saw the way of it and found him a private tent for the night.
In the morning the Master went to the hostel to talk to the television set, taking Var along. The Master had not questioned him, and seemed apprehensive. 'If Bob pulls a doublecross, this is when it will happen,' he muttered. 'He is not the type to yield readily, ever.'
Soli's own assessment of the underworld master seemed to concur. That must be a devil of a man, Var thought.
They entered the elegant cylindrical building, with its racks of clothing and sanitary facilities and its several machineries, and the Master turned on the set. As it warmed up, Var realized that once again they had blundered safely past disaster for if that set had been on when Soli came, the underworld would have known what was happening.
The picture that came on was not the random, vapid collection of costumed posturings Var had observed from time to time before. Nor was it silent. It was a room not like the hostel room, but certainly the work of crazy machines. It was square, with diagrams on the opposite wall, and airvents, and a ponderous metal desk in the center.
In fact, it was rather like a room in a building such as he had prowled through in the badlands. But clean and new, not filthy and ancient.
A man sat in a padded, bendable chair behind the desk. He was old, older than the Master, at least thirty and possibly more. Var did not know how long a man could live if he suffered no mishap in the circle. Perhaps even as long as forty years. This one had sparse gray-brown hair (actually, the picture was colorless, but that was the way it looked) and stern lines in his face.
'Hello, Bob,' the Master said grimly.
'Hello again, Sos. What's the word?' The man's tones were brisk, assured, and he moved his tong thin arm as though directing subordinates. A leader of men: yes. Var did not like him.
'Your champion did not return?'
The man merely stared coldly at him.
'This is Var the Stick our champion,' the Master said. 'He informs me that he killed your champion on the mesa of Muse yesterday.'
'Impossible. Surely you realize no lesser man than yourself could have defeated Sol of All Weapons in honest combat.'
