Chapter VIII

When the bell sounded for the people to separate, preparatory to the hunt proper, the captain got up and buckled on his huge infantry sword. He had spent most of the night sharpening it.

He had after long hours of considering, decided that there was only one honorable course left to him. He would defend himself.

For if he were the Sole Survivor of the hunt, he would be Cast Off properly by the first mate. Otherwise...

The possibility that it might be done by a crewman was staggeringly humiliating. He would salvage his honor from that final indignity at all costs.

Of course, if he were captured by an officer, it would be a different matter entirely; he would surrender and submit like the gentleman he was. But a crewman...

He took the sword out of the scabbard and rubbed his thumb along the side of it.

He swung it, and it whistled in the air crisply, pleasingly.

He grasped it firmly in his right hand and walked to the door. He threw open the door and jumped back and away.

But it was safe; there was no one outside.

He stepped into the corridor.

Empty.

He looked both ways. He listened.

Then he began to run, swiftly, silently, on his toes.

At the first intersection, he stopped and surveyed the crossing corridor.

To his left, almost at the far bend, he saw a crewman; however, the man was not looking in his direction, and the captain felt that he could be reasonably safe from detection if he crossed quickly enough. He sprinted across the open space.

On the other side, he stopped and waited. After several minutes of silence, he knew that he could safely continue.

He ran for a long distance.

Finally, safely down in the second level, he slowed to a walk. He was breathing heavily; it was very loud, and his footsteps echoed hollowly.

He was alone down there. He could tell that.

At the Jonson bend, he breathed a sigh of relief. Ahead was the empty corridor that led to the dead end, Forward. He could see down it, clear to the bulkhead. And as he knew it would be, it was devoid of life and movement.

He sat down to wait out the long day.

He scratched his chin.

He would have nothing to do until the closing bell. At which time he would be forced to go to the assembly area.

As would anyone else, according to the rules of the Festival as laid down by Nestir, who had not yet been sent to his Reward.

That would be a dangerous time. For then there would be no esthetic consideration. It would be a fight amongst all assembling for the final honor of Sole Survivor. One could expect no mercy: clean, quick sword stroke, no more. No suffering at all.

It was not a pleasant prospect. But to be the coveted Sole Survivor compensated for the risk.

The captain laid the sword across his lap and petted it.

He would fight. And no crew member need expect to be the man Cast Off by the first mate; that was to be the captain’s fate.

The second bell called to the ship shrilly.

The hunt was on!

Martha and the first mate assembled the children in the large, comfortable hospital. The steward’s department had fixed them all a lunch. The children were silent, for the angry brow of the first mate was a complete damper on their usual animal spirits. There was no holiday happiness.

The children moved around and fell into little, shifting groups. Several of them began to game at marbles, but the first mate broke it up before it degenerated into a fist fight.

“Well, there goes the hunting bell,” Martha said.

“Yes,” the mate said, “hit do, don’t hit.”

“I think they could have a regular nurse for this sort of thing,” Martha said.

The mate grunted. “Humph. I shore hope they uns don’t raise no ruckus. I’ve got me a splittin’ haidache.”

“Shhhh. Listen. I thought I heard someone scream.”

“Yep,” the mate said. “I was sure afraid uv hit; won’t be able to heyar myself think all day long. I’m a-tellin’ ya, Martha, if these young uns start a-actin’ up, too, I’m jest a-gonna take a knife an’ split this here haid open, Reward or no Reward.”

“That’s not a nice way to talk,” Martha said.

“No, hit hain’t. But I’m a-sayin’ hit.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Martha said. “I’ll call all the children together and tell them nursery stories. That oughta keep them quiet. And you go over there and lay down where there won’t be anyone to bother you.”

“All right, Martha, an’ I shore do thankee.”

The first mate made his way to the farthest bed, sat down, took off his shoes, and stretched out on it. He reached up and felt his head tenderly.

“Children,” Martha called. “Oh, children! I want you all to come over here.”

Reluctantly, the children obeyed her.

“That’s right,” she said. “Now. You all sit down and make yourselves comfortable, and be still as mice so my husband can sleep, and I’ll tell you stories. And then, after a while, we’ll eat the nice lunch the steward fixed for us, and we’ll all have the bestest time.”

“I don’t like you,” one of the little boys said.

“Little boy,” Martha said, “I don’t like you, either.”

“Oh,” the little boy said.

“Now,” Martha said, “I’m going to tell you the wonderful story about a very pretty Princess and a very pretty Prince: Once upon a time, there was a land called Zont. It sank long ago under the big, salty sea of Zub...”

“My name’s Joey,” the little boy said.

“Well, Joey,” Martha said, “do you see that long, steel rod over there, where we hang clothing from?”

“Uh-huh.”

“If you don’t shut your little mouth, I’ll hang you on it by your thumbs.”

“Betcha ya won’t,” one of the little girls said.

“Once upon a time,” Martha said, “there was this handsome Prince and pretty Princess. But the father of the Princess, King Exaltanta, was a heathen and did not believe in the Prophet. Now. When a true believer, kind King Farko, captured King Exaltanta’s kingdom, the deposed king hid his daughter in the deepest dungeon.