Duane's hand tightened upon his gun. "A man don't talk fight. Want to
see how I fight?"
The little man shrugged his broad shoulders. "I only fight for money.
Perhaps we'll fight for different war lords some day."
* * * * *
The scuffling of boots through the undergrowth eased the tension
between the two. Two figures stumbled toward the fire. Two men in
tattered leather coats and ragged pants and worn boots stopped as one,
and stood there with downcast eyes as though awaiting an invitation.
"Space-nuts," said Captain none too softly.
One of the men looked up and patted a bulge in his coat. "I got a can
of tomatoes." He smiled timidly. He was a thin little man with a sunken
chest and a long pointed nose. His sunken eyes were black and dull.
Duane had seen hundreds like the two. There were men who cracked up
out there in space, men who broke under the strain of the screaming,
bellowing, fire-blasting wars.
"Throw the tomatoes in the pot," he said carelessly. "Sit down and
warm. My name's Duane. This is Captain--that's his name, he's not my
captain."
The man drew a can opener from his pocket and produced the tin of
tomatoes. As he sawed at the lid he said listlessly, "I'm Ted Shafer.
Used to have my own ship. But I lost it. 'Bout a year ago I was
shippin' on a freighter an' they marooned me here. Said I was nuts. I'm
not nuts. You can see that I ain't nuts. Well, I been livin' around
here for about a year--livin' off what I could find. There's a ruined
town over there. Then I run into this feller about a week ago. His name
is ... say, what's your name? I keep forgettin'."
The fourth man, a squat, paunched fellow with a red nose and a thick
unkempt beard, snorted. "The name's Belton. Bill Belton. You're gettin'
crazier and crazier. I been around here for about six months. Only I
wasn't marooned. I jumped ship. You guys got anything to drink?"
Captain swore. "Just a couple of bums. I oughta give 'em the toe of my
boot--"
Duane's eyes narrowed. "It's my fire," he said softly.
"O. K., O. K. But they're full of lice, I bet--"
Shafer and Belton sat by the fire, their shoulders slumped forward.
Duane reached behind him into the shadows and brought out a roll of
bedding. He produced four plates and four tin spoons and began to ladle
out the mulligan. When he served, Shafer and Belton were profuse with
their thanks. Captain was contemptuous.
"Mulligan," he swore. "Damn, I've sat at tables with war lords. Twenty
courses on silver dishes and wine and liquor enough for all. And
everybody dressed like hell."
Duane grinned. "Sorry I ain't a war lord. Maybe you'd like a punch in
the nose."
Captain took the proffered plate sullenly. "I'm sorry. I keep
forgettin'. Geez, I hope they dig up some more uranium soon. It's hard
to take this when you've been used to a monthly salary that runs into
four figures."
Duane looked up at the dark sky that was vacant save where a trailing
mist tangled with the smoke from the fire.
"They won't find any more uranium. Not soon, anyway. I've thought a lot
about it. We weren't ready to conquer space. We made a mess of it. Oh,
we had the ships and the guns. Mechanically we were perfect. It was us
who was wrong. We conquered space but we hadn't conquered ourselves.
That will come some day."
"You sound like a parson," Captain jeered.
* * * * *
Little Shafer mouthed his food wolfishly, now and then drawing the back
of his hand across his mouth and the tip of his long pointed nose.
"What makes you think we won't find any more uranium?" he asked slyly.
Duane looked at him. The little man's fingers were trembling.
"Oh, we might find it," Duane said, "but there's no organization any
more. It's been blown to hell. If we do find uranium, we'll lose it
again. We're all washed up--for the time being, anyway. We'll have to
dig in here on old Terra and start from scratch. Personally, I'm glad."