The struggle on the faces of the men left in line was painful to watch.
Three of them stepped forward at the same time. They looked at each
other until, with a puzzled expression on his face, one of them waved
the other two back.
MacFarland stepped up to the pole and grabbed a handle. Trying hard to
keep their faces blank, the three Belderkans grabbed the other handles.
One of them trembled.
Behind him the crowd murmured. He squeezed the handle. Pain shot up his
arms and thudded through his body. His eyes closed. His face twisted.
Holding back a scream, he made himself open his eyes and watch the
dials over his handle. The dial marked by a red light was his. The
other dials told him how much pain his opponents were enduring. Each
man could end his agony by releasing his handle. Each man squeezed
harder. Even as they screamed, they squeezed and made the needle move a
little further right.
No job, no promotion, no scientific enterprise or national need, could
have made him do this. Feeling the pain hammer through his bones, he
knew how weak all those motivations were.
Through slitted eyelids he saw two of his opponents fall away from the
post. His dial said he was enduring more than either of them.
* * * * *
He turned his face toward the other man. Clenching their handles, they
grimaced at each other. MacFarland's grip tightened. His needle moved.
The other needle edged past it. They hung there moaning and shaking.
Oh God, he thought. Oh God. He made himself squeeze.
Twin shrieks cut the air. Both men released their handles and fell away
from the pole. MacFarland staggered in circles, bent over, clutching
his stomach, trying to turn off the pain.
"Are you all right?" Crawford Bell asked.
"Look after him," he answered, still fighting the duel.
"Look after him," he heard the other man moan.
Hands grabbed him and he straightened up. When he saw the pole, he
flinched. He couldn't do that again.
He grabbed the mike. "You saw that," he mumbled. "Who's next? Who wants
to do that next?"
An aging man walked out of the line and took his position at the pole.
MacFarland stared at the old man's disciplined face. He had been
thinking no one would dare come forward now that they had seen a duel.
The old man looked tougher than any of the last group.
He stepped up to the pole and grabbed a handle.
"Relax," the Belderkan said. "This time you'll lose or the good thing
will happen, but whichever it is, this will be the last time. Good
luck."
Have you done this before? MacFarland squeezed to equal him. The old
man squeezed his handle and his needle jumped a quarter of the way
across the dial. MacFarland squeezed to equal him. Again pain hammered
his bones. Again his face twisted and he moaned over his tortured body.
But it was necessary. It had to be done. This odd form of duelling had
started twenty years before, when two groups of non-violent soldiers
faced each other in the streets of Rio and tension mounted on both
sides. Neither side could accept defeat. Neither side could return
home and admit it had surrendered to unarmed men because it lacked
patience. In wars fought with violence, men could lose with honor.
There was no honor for the loser in a non-violent battle.
Then a man had slashed his wrists and let his blood drip onto the
street. "I'll die before I'll leave here," he had said.
"I'll die before I'll give in to you," a man from the opposing group
had said, slashing his own wrists.
According to the UN psychologists who had studied the phenomenon,
duelling was a form of therapy for the people of the world, a necessary
transition from the days when men had earned their manhood by fighting
wars or belonging to groups which could be proud of their warriors. The
pride of nations demanded some sacrifice.
* * * * *
The needle was halfway around the dial. Still the old man hung on.
MacFarland squeezed harder. He was staying ahead. How much could he
take? Why didn't he die of shock? He hoped for that release and fought
to keep conscious and endure a little more.
His personal pride, the good of his country, and the safety of the
world, demanded that he drive the contest beyond the limit of his
endurance; that he lose, if he lost, not because _he_ had been afraid
but because his flesh could endure no more.
He screamed and moaned and squeezed. The men in the enemy line moaned
with him. He heard Crawford Bell shouting to him to let go. Was that
Doctor Umbana he heard? Wasn't that the calm Doctor Warren shouting and
pleading?
And the strangest of all sounds was his own voice mingling with the
voice of his opponent, two screams with exactly the same pitch and
intensity, the same rise and fall.
He was going to die. He wouldn't be the first. Sometimes the honor of
the nation demanded that and it was necessary nations not be shamed by
their citizens. Shamed nations were dangerous nations. And after all,
he was only one soldier and in previous generations the sacrifice had
been millions.
* * * * *
He lay on the cot. Crawford Bell and a medic worked on him with hypos.
Vaguely, he realized the aging Belderkan lay beside him.
"It's about time you opened your eyes," Crawford Bell said. "Can you
hear me?"
He nodded.
"We put you into therapeutic shock. You've been out an hour. You'll be
all right."
"How's my friend there?"
"He's coming around."
A jet screamed. Lifting his head, he watched it rise into the morning.
"Doctor Warren's on it," Crawford Bell said. "So's Doctor Umbana. The
Belderkans agreed to let any two of them through the line and Doctor
Warren decided he didn't need all the rest of them after all. Your
technique of persuasion isn't one I'd like to use, but it's effective."
He didn't have the strength to answer. It always worked out that
way. After a duel, what had seemed beyond compromise suddenly became
negotiable. That was the good thing the old man had spoken of. That was
the knowledge which had given him that strength to endure.