"Hey, everybody, quiet." Scarf's spit-and-phlegm
bellow tamped the bar-room noise. It ground down.
Pointing at the solitary figure seated at the wall
table, Scarf smirked and barked, "Give us the magic
words, Drummer."
The crowd's eyes went from Scarf to Drummer and
back. No one spoke.
"Drummer knows," Scarf added sarcasm to his
tone, raising his finger to tap his temple. "The future
is open to him."
Drummer sat, transfixed, staring at Scarf. His free
hand closed into a tense fist, then opened to cap
his knee.
"C'mon, Drummer," Scarf went on, derisively, "tell
us what you're going to do to make things right
for all of us, and how we'll all be prosperous after
Slingshot cuts away."
His voice became harsher, gibing.
"You've been sittin' on that Plutonian Council for
years, Drummer, pushing your pet ideas to loosen
up controls here and give more civil liberties there.
You call yourself a Progressive, whatever the
hell that's supposed to mean. To me, you're a
revolutionist, undermining Narval's government,
and trying to cram your politics down our throats."
Scarf moved away from the bar, drink in hand.
Taking a long noisy swallow, he fixed his eyes on
Drummer from above the rim.
Lowering his drink, he belched again and wiped his
mouth with his sleeve. Placing the tumbler on a
nearby table he took another step toward Drummer.
"Being on the Council saves your neck for now,
Drummer," he said with venom. "Soon as Narval
gets wise to you, and kicks your tail off, I'll be
coming after you."
He reached Drummer's table.
"On second thought, why wait that long," his voice
changed to a snarl. "Now's as good a time as any."
He grasped the front of Drummer's cloak and jerked
him to his feet.
"Tell me, old man, what can you do that Narval
can't?"
The onlookers' silence hung heavily. The stale
incense rose in eddies and diffused the shadows
cast by the glowing wall sconces.
"Show's over, Scarf," said Drummer in a low voice,
trying to twist away. "I've got to be on my way."
He placed his hand over Scarf's huge paw to loosen
its grip.
They were of equal height, but Scarf, more than
twice Drummer's mass and build, would have none
of it.
"The hell you do," he growled, tightening his hold.
Scarf began to shake Drummer, at first slowly, then
with growing violence. Drummer, unable to maintain
balance, slipped to his knees. Scarf jerked upward,
raising Drummer on unsteady feet. Ramming his
face close, he cursed in a loud, coarse monotone,
swinging Drummer in one direction, then another.
Unable to disengage, Drummer was confused. His
cloak tore, his hair fluttered about his face, and
specks of spittle flew from his lips.
Brad and Hodak watched the action from where
they sat. Scarf's sudden outburst was of more
than passing interest. He had called his victim
"Drummer," a name familiar to Brad through the
many intelligence briefings he had been given during
indoctrination; also, "Scarf" was a name used in
the immigration clerk's call from the landing site.
Other than military, who and what was Scarf, and
why was he tormenting Drummer? More important,
could this bar-room brawl be exploited to the
Sentinels' advantage? They desperately needed
contacts within Narval's regime. Their mission did
not allow the luxury of time. An opportunity had
just fallen into his lap. Brad leaned toward Hodak.
"The bruiser," he said. "Take him down, but easy."
Hodak shot a quick glance at Brad, rose and
shambled between the tables until he was behind
the sledgehammer.
Tapping Scarf on the shoulder, he said quietly,
"Hey, c'mon, let the old geezer alone. He was just
minding his..."
Scarf reacted with incredible speed for his size.
Shoving Drummer away, he whirled, arm extended.
Powered by the force of his pivot, the edge of his
rigid hand aimed directly at Hodak's throat.
Hodak stepped back and to the side, gripped Scarf's
thick wrist in his muscle-corded hands. Using his
attacker's momentum, Hodak twisted and bent.
The Major's huge body catapulted through the air
and crashed on to a table and its several chairs,
sending the occupants spinning.
A hand appeared from nowhere and pulled Scarf's
pistol from its holster. In seconds, Brad was back
at his table. The bar-room went deathly silent.
Scarf bounded up, spitting saliva, floor dust and
curses. He reached for his weapon and gaped when
he felt emptiness.
Recovering, hunched forward, he charged Hodak,
murder in his eyes.
Freed, Drummer stepped back to the wall, shaken,
not understanding what was happening. He searched
for a safe place.
Focusing on the struggle he recognized Hodak as one
of the escaped prisoners he had been speculating
about. Taking a chance, he moved toward the table
from where Brad watched the action and the crowd.
Hodak, waiting for Scarf's charge, stood balanced
until the last fraction of a second, then stepped
aside. Scarf passed like a juggernaut and smashed
into the bar.
Leaning heavily over the bar, breathing in
convulsive gasps, Scarf turned his head to glare at
Hodak. Running his hand down his thigh he felt again
for his weapon. Eyes narrowed to slits, he searched
along the filth-strewn floor. Scanning, his eyes
passed the table where Brad sat, stopped, and
snapped back.
The weapon, distinctive by its red and black grip,
lay there. He saw Brad watching, and Drummer
nearby, back to the wall.
Scarf lunged at Hodak, arms grappling. Hodak danced
back and away. As Scarf passed, Hodak grasped his
wrist and elbow, twisted, and curved Scarf's arm
back and up between his shoulder blades.
Hodak was gentle. With his free hand he probed
and manipulated nerve centers in Scarf's neck and
shoulders. Scarf dropped to his knees, then slipped
back on to his rump, legs spread, arms slack, face
perplexed. It was enough.
He sat there, shaking his head to clear it. Looking
up, he saw Hodak standing a short distance away,
and beyond, a ring of faces, several grinning, others
frightened and wary. Shifting his eyes to where his
weapon lay, Scarf glared at Brad and Drummer.
The silence was broken by the shuffle of Scarf
groping upright, using a nearby table for support.
He lurched to the bar and leaned over it for
several seconds. Straightening, he grasped his
helmet with one hand, wrapped the other around
the flagon of Firehouse Red, and stalked out of
the Charnel Pit.