It was light. Terry had been watching the darkness fade for about ten
minutes, fascinated, because the diffused glow grew as though from
nowhere, and he could not find the sun. At first he'd felt sort of
scared, but nothing happened, so he'd kept watching, trying to find it.
He was still in bed. It was when he became aware that it wasn't his
own bed that he sat up straight, wondering, trying to remember. He was
in a long, narrow place, and there were a lot of beds--bunks, like his
own, lining each side, end to end. Across from him somebody else was
sitting up. All the others were still asleep.
"Hey!" Terry called.
"Hey yourself! Who're you?" the other boy said.
"Terry Blair. What in the heck is this place? What's your name?" He had
a funny feeling in his stomach, and he was hot and sweaty. He wanted to
hear the other boy's voice again.
"Quit your kiddin'--Terry Blair's my brother!"
"What're you talking about, anyway?" Terry said, wondering if the
other boy was trying to pick a fight. "I'm Terry Blair all right, and
I know _my_ brother when I see him! He's Mike Blair, and he don't look
anything like you."
"Say who are you anyhow? Somebody tell you my name or something? You
aren't awful funny."
"Neither are you, tryin' to imitate the way Mike talks."
There were stirrings in some of the other beds, and somebody mumbled
"Pipe down!" Terry tried to be quiet getting out of the bunk. He stood
up, felt a little light-headed, and walked over to the other's bed. He
sat at its foot. The light feeling--and it seemed to be all over him
now--wouldn't go away.
"Come on, don't be wise. What is this place?"
"Don't be wise yourself! How should I know? Maybe it's a hospital.
I must've got sick down cellar or something when Dad turned on the
Contraption--"
"All that funny blue light," Terry said. "But how--"
Then they looked at each other. Hard.
"What d'you know about the blue light?" Mike asked.
"How d'you know about Dad and the Contraption?" Terry countered. "You
spying from someplace?" Terry was on his feet and had both small fists
clenched. "You get up out of there!"
"Wait up ... maybe it put us to sleep, so this is all a dream, like.
Nobody looks the same in dreams."
"You're crazy. They don't sound alike, and you're trying to sound like
Mike...."
"You sound like Terry, too. You could all right in a dream, just like
you know the same things. I'll tell you the first two numbers in the
address of our house. If you can give me the last two, then we will
know. And if you can't smart guy--"
"You don't even know the street we live on."
"It's Delaware, so how do you like that? And here's the first two
numbers--2, 6--"
"8, 1--"
"What'd I tell you? It sure is a dream. You're Terry all right I guess
and I'm me--Mike--but in a dream everybody always looks funny. You got
black hair, all straight and cut short."
"You too. But guess you're Mike though, as long as it's a dream. Only I
feel pretty real."
"Sure, me too. Sometimes dreams are like that. Just like for real."
"Well I hope we don't get into a nightmare. They make me sweat awful."
"I'm all sweaty now--so're you. It's sure hot around here. Where in
heck d'you suppose we are, anyway?"
"You don't think Dad's thing killed us, and--and we're--"
"Naw--they wouldn't have beds or anything. Anyhow, Dad told us all
about that once. There's no such place. It's got something to do with
state of mind, whatever that is."
"Well we've been kinda bad every now and then just the same."
"Dad says that hasn't got anything to do with it, don't you remember?
Nobody keeps books on you, like a report card, or anything. It's up to
you, and you know how you feel about it inside. That's what he said,
and I believe Dad. Dad's smart, Terry."
"Wish he was here too."
"Grown-ups got dreams of their own to worry about. You're not scared,
are you?"
"Who me? Heck, no. Hey, have a look at the funny clothes hanging up at
the side of our beds. Like riding pants, with wide black belts. Look,
some belts got three little silver things in each side. And have a look
at the boots! Hey, feel this one--light as anything."
"Who ever heard of blue riding pants? Besides you don't know how to
ride a horse any more than I do."
"Bet I could though. Boy--"
"Hey, have a look out this window. You can see all over. Gosh, this
must be the same kind of place all the other long ones are."
* * * * *
The buildings were long and narrow with rounded, Quonset-type roofs.
They were built end to end in long, dull-blue rows, and the grass that
grew between them was of an exactly matching shade, tall, and lush. At
precise intervals, the rows of buildings were interrupted by uncurbed
streets of hard-packed, dull black dirt, and at the end of the widest
was a field-like expanse trimmed to a perfect circle. The massive,
glittering building in its center was immense. Varicolored banners flew
from a trio of spires rising antenna-like from a single point atop the
highest, oddly flat-topped turret. In the geometric center of the squat
structure's otherwise unbroken curving front was a balcony, molded
deftly into the severe sweeping architectural lines of which it was an
integral, although predominating part. Beyond were rolling hills, and
close above them, a foggy, blue-white sky.
Already waves of heat were beginning to shimmer from the triple turrets
of the gold-hued colossus in the center of the great circle, and the
banners above them were being whipped by stiff gusts that seemed to
blow from several directions at once. Once or twice, there were flashes
of lightning that split the low rolling bottom of the sky, but there
were no gathering storm clouds, nor was there rain.
"Gosh," Terry said. "It sure is funny grass--"
A high, shrill sound suddenly pierced the stillness, and at its signal,
youngsters, no older than themselves were stumbling from their narrow
cots, yawning, standing.
"They're putting on their pants and boots. We better--" Mike was
saying. Wide-eyed, they watched the others, carefully imitated them.
There were no shirts to cover the young, sweating torsos, and dressing
was simple. Just the crisply-cut breeches, the light snug-fitting
boots, and the black belts.
"You guys been assigned to a quadrant yet?"
Mike looked up. He was a taller boy, and looked a little older than the
rest. He wore a gold star in his belt, and there were still-red scars
across his chest and across one shoulder.
"I guess not," Mike said. "What's that? Quadrant, I mean?"
"How long have you been here, anyway? Thought you two came a couple of
weeks ago. On the _Mikol VI_."
The twins looked at each other, then back to the tall, blonde boy.
"What's your name?" Terry asked.
"I'm Jon Tayne. Son of Quadrate Larsen Tayne. Your father's a general
officer just like mine--that's why we can talk together out here.
Otherwise we couldn't--part of the training, you know. Teaches you the
undesirability of class-consciousness. I've been here two years--they
tossed me back. Insufficient conditioning. But it doesn't matter to
me--maybe you'll get as big a kick out of it as I do. I like it here.
Not many do, though."
"It's sure different," Mike said, "but we haven't been here any two
weeks, I don't think. Anyway it hasn't seemed like that long, has it
Terry?"
"Golly, I--"
"Terry? Thought you two were Kurt and Ronal Blair? Washington, western
hemisphere north?"
"We live in Washington, that's for sure," Terry said. "But I'm--"
"Hey I know, Terry. It's all like we said, and here that's us. You can
be Kurt. I'm Ronal. But don't get mixed up."
"Your father's Senior Quadrate Douglas Blair, isn't he?" the tall boy
said.
"He's the Douglas Blair part, anyway," Mike said. "Makes I guess over
thirteen thousand dollars a year, too."
"Say, you sure you're all right? I didn't think you were hit very hard
in practice yesterday, but you talk as if you were. Thirteen thousand
dollars is just about enough to buy a loaf of bread. Your father makes
what mine does and what every other adult does--thirty billion dollars
a year. Then after he contributes his dutiful share to the Prelatinate,
he has a billion dollars left. Didn't you know that?"
"Gosh no. Not exactly, I mean."
"What's Prelatinate?" Terry asked.
"What's--listen, fellows--any one of us, even a Quadrate's son, can
be turned into the Director for saying a thing like that, even as a
joke. Better watch it. If there's one thing you learn here, it's praise
and respect for your government. They're pretty rough on sacrilege, I
should think your father would have told you. My training was started
when I was four, but you sound almost as though you haven't had any
yet."
"I don't even remember when I was four," Mike said.
"That doesn't matter. When an adult tells you something--"
The tall boy was interrupted then by a second sounding of the shrill
signal, and at once, he hurried to the end of the building. The others
fell in behind him in a column of threes. Mike and Terry took positions
at the end of the column.
"Where are we going?"
"Breakfast, I hope!" Terry said. The tall boy pressed a stud in the
wall, and the front door rolled back. Then he turned his head and
bellowed "Section, tench-_hut_! Forward _march_!" And he sounded as
though he enjoyed it.
They marched out, and, to Terry's gratification, it was to a huge,
diamond-shaped building in which they found breakfast waiting.
* * * * *
It was during the rest period after the half-hour session of
calisthenics that the _Mikol VII_ landed. Terry and Mike had been
laying prostrate on the thickly-matted, damp blue grass, a little out
of breath but strangely enough, little more fatigued than had they
just finished a short inning of sandlot baseball. They both had been
watching the milky-blue sky, and had chosen a place to rest somewhat
apart from the others. There were hundreds and hundreds of the others
in formations of their own, Terry had noticed, and all together he
could only guess at how many there were. There was one adult in charge
of all of them, but they had not seen him closely yet nor heard his
voice.
Before the first sounds of thunder, Mike had been puzzling a lot of
things at once.
"Did you ever jump so high before?"
"It really wasn't awful high. Higher, though I guess than ever before.
Felt kind of funny, huh?"
"Sure did. Is it hard for you to walk?"
"We never played soldier much--you know how Dad felt about that. The
other guys are pretty good at keeping the same step. We'll catch on,
though."
"I didn't mean that. I didn't feel--well, heavy enough, sort of. I
kinda bounce when I try to walk."
"Me too, but all dreams are funny. I suppose in a dream you could jump
clear over the buildings back there if you wanted to. Boy, wait'll we
tell Dad about dreaming we're in a military school. He'll have a fit!"
"He sure will. Remember that time we asked him about it? I guess even
Mom was surprised at how he flew up that way. He said if he hadn't
thought he could teach us himself how to grow up good without putting
us in uniforms to do it he'd never have had us. But it's kind of fun
though. So far--"
That was when they heard the thundering sound almost directly above
them, but it was like no thunder they had ever heard before. There was
a sudden swirling of the thick sky above them, and they jumped up,
rooted, watching.
The _Mikol VII_ burst suddenly through the heavy clouds, its stern
belching flame and rolling volumes of sound. The heavy air about them
vibrated as they watched.
It looked like a huge, shining artillery shell, dropping groundward as
though held in the grip of some great, invisible hand that slowed it,
held it in perfect balance as it descended wrong-end first, directly
above the circular place at the end of the long, broad street.
"Like a big V-2 going the wrong way!" Mike said.
"It's a space-ship, that's what it is!" Terry yelled. "Comin' in to
land. Just like in the movie we saw, Mike. Just like."
"Look, it's almost down--c'mon up on this little hill here. You can see
'em driving big trucks or something out to meet it. What do you suppose
it's got?"
"Wonder where it's from? Mars, I bet."
"Hi! Pretty sight, isn't it?" It was the tall boy who led their
section. He had his thumbs hooked in his belt just behind where the
gold stars were.
"Sure is," Terry said, eyes glued to the towering craft which had just
settled perfectly to the ground.
"It's the _Mikol VII_, and it's the last shipment before the games.
Guess there'll be another ten thousand or so guys, and then we can
start getting all our equipment issued. They don't give us our stuff
until everybody's here. That's to make it so that we all have an
absolutely equal amount of training. Watch--they're starting to come
out now. Just the way you guys did when you came."
* * * * *
Mike and Terry weren't listening. They watched as a great opening
suddenly appeared near the ship's blunt stern, to which an inclined
ramp was being towed by a tiny surface-vehicle. Then they started
coming out, five abreast, in seemingly unending numbers.
"They're still wearing civvies," the tall boy said. "They'll get their
game issue tonight, though, and their equipment, along with us. Trucks
drop it off at each barracks, and then it's given out by each section
leader. I guess there must be tons of the stuff."
"Where they going now?"
As the youngsters poured from the _Mikol VII_ they were grouped into
formations by adults who had come from the huge, golden building.
"Why, to their barracks, just like everybody else does. They ate before
they landed, and their barracks assignments were made at headquarters
on Earth before they even took off."
"On Earth?"
"Sure, didn't you know that? Believe me, it has to be efficient. The
Quadrates and their staffs work all year at headquarters getting
things lined up for the games. They don't show up here until the day
things start. The Director's here, but you only see him once, at
the opening ceremonies. As far as the games are concerned, he ranks
everybody--except the Prelate General, of course. He signs the orders
that split us up into our quadrants."
"Hey, Jon...."
"You better call me lance-sergeant out here. Somebody could get the
wrong idea."
"Sure, sarge! Is that what the gold star means?"
"Uh huh. You get 'em if you volunteer. Like I did, before I was ten.
Sets a good example, you know."
"Gee. Is everybody here our age?"
"Nobody can be more than a month over ten. That's the law. That is
except for volunteers, who are younger, and those who get tossed back
for insufficient conditioning and have to stay for the games all over
again, like me. I was twelve a couple months ago. I like it though."
"But say, what'd you mean about Earth?"
"Well, that's where all the plans and everything are made before you
even leave. You didn't think all that stuff was done here on Venus, did
you?"
* * * * *
As Jon had said, the trucks came with the loads of equipment for each
barracks that night after supper. They were large, long trucks and
Terry wondered why they didn't make the awful racket that trucks always
made. There wasn't the stink of burned Diesel fuel. The huge vehicle
just rolled up outside soundlessly, and Terry watched for the driver to
get out. None did. He tried to look into the front of the vehicle, but
it was too dark to see what was on the other side of the long, narrow
windows.
"Nothing in there," Jon said. "Those are just for maintenance
inspection. It'd be a mess if the robot-control ever went out of whack,
believe me. Better start help unloading."
The unloading took less than fifteen minutes, and then the truck moved
on to the next barracks. The rude, wooden crates were heavy, but not
large. There were three for each of the hundred bunks.
When the last was placed at the foot of Jon's bunk, he stood on the
largest one and told them what to do.
"I'll distribute a chisel to each of you," he said, "and as you open
each box, place its contents on your bunk, so that it can be inspected
for fitness before use.
"You will open the smallest box first. In it you will find your helmet
and polishing kit. The helmet is to be kept shined at all times--if
anybody's isn't it's ten demerits. Fifty, as you've all been told, and
you get your records marked 'insufficient conditioning'. Your helmets
may look heavy--on Earth they'd weigh about five pounds, but here
they're just a little less than four. You'll get used to them.
"In the second box--the flat one--you'll find all your personal
maintenance equipment. You should have a whetstone, extra leather
thongs, a set of files, and a small can of oil. They're to be kept in
the condition which you find them, and will be worn at all times on the
shoulder equipment sling which is in the third box.
"In the third box--the long, flat one, are your most important pieces
of equipment. I'll show you how they attach to your arm belt. Needless
to say, they must be kept thoroughly polished--and sharpened--at all
times. Now I'll give out the chisels, and you can open the boxes."
They did. Terry and Mike helped each other when they got their chisels.
They followed Jon's directions perfectly. First the helmet and the
polishing kit. Then the whetstone, extra leather thongs, the set of
files, the can of oil, and the shoulder equipment sling.
Then the eight-inch dagger, the two-foot spiked mace, and the
double-edged broadsword....