A Stainless Steel Rat Is Born

At the thought of food my neglected stomach began to churn, rumble, and complain. I felt the same way. Food and drink were next in order. And what better place to find them than at this isolated farm? The question was the answer. I stumbled across the furrows to the back of the house, worked my way around the side to the front. No one. But there were voices coming from the open doorway, laughter-and the smell of cooking. Yum! I sauntered into the open, along the front and through the front door. "Hi, folks. Look who has come to dinner." There were a half-dozen of them grouped around the scrubbed wood table. Young and old, thick and thin. All with the same expression on their faces. Jaw-dropped astonishment. Even the baby stopped crying and aped its elders. A grizzled oldster broke the spell, scrambling to his feet in such a hurry his three-legged stool tumbled over.

"Welcome, your honor, welcome." He tugged his forelock as he bowed to show how grateftil he was for my presence. "How may we aid you, honored sir?" "If you could spare a bit of food..." "Come! Sit! Dine! We have but humble fare but willingly share it. Here!" 152 He straightened his stool and waved me to it. The others scampered away from the table so I wouldn't be disturbed. Either they were discerning judges of human nature and knew what a sterling fellow I was-or they had seen the sword and gun. A wooden plate was filled from the pot hung over the fire and put before me. Life here was a cut above the slavepens for I was also supplied with a wooden spoon. I tucked in with a great deal of pleasure. It was a vegetable stew, with the occasional shard of meat, garden fresh of course, and tasted wonderful. There was cool water to drink out of a clay cup and I could have asked for nothing more. While I shoveled it all into my fa. ce I was aware of low whispering from the farmers gathered at the far end of the room. I doubted if they were planning anything violent. Nevertheless I kept one eye on them, and my hand not far from the hilt of the sword laid out on the table.

When I had finished and belched loudly-they buzzed warmly at this gustatory approval-the old man detached himself from the group and shuffled forward. He pushed before him a shock-headed youth who looked to be about my age.

"Honored sir, may I speak with you?" I waved agreement and belched again. He smiled at this and nodded. "Ahh, you are kind enough to flatter the cook. Since you are obviously a man of good wit and humor, intelligent and handsome, as well as being a noted warrior, permit me to put a small matter to you." I nodded again; flattery will get you everywhere.

"This is my third son, Dreng. He is strong and willing, a good worker. But our holding is small and there are many mouths to feed, as well as giving half of what we produce to the so-wonderful Capo Doccia for our protection." He had his head lowered when he said this, but there were both submission and hatred in his voice. I imagine the only one that Capo Doccia protected them from was Capo Doccia. He pushed Dreng forward and squeezed his bicep.

"Like rock, sir, he is very strong. His ambition has, always been to be a mercenary, like your kind self. A man of war, armed and secure, selling his services to the gentry. A noble calling. And one which would enable him to bring a few· groats home to his family." "I'm not in the recruiting business." "Obviously, honored sir! If he went as a pikeman with Capo Doccia, there would be no pay or honor, only an early death." "True, true," I agreed, although I had heard this fact for the first time. The old boy's train of thought wandered a bit, which was fine by me since I was getting an education into life on Spiovente. Didn't sound nice at all. I sipped some more water and tried to summon up another burp to please the cook, but could not. Old dad was still talking.

"Every warrior, such as yourself, should have a knave to serve him. Dare I ask-we have looked outside and you are alone-what happened to your knave?" "Killed in battle," I improvised. He looked dumbfounded at this and I realized that knaves weren't supposed to fight. "When the enemy overran our camp." That was better, nodded agreement to this. "Of course I killed the blackguard who butchered poor Smelly. But that's what war is about. A rough trade." All of my audience murmured understandingly, so I hadn't put a foot wrong so far. I signalled to the youth.

"Step forward, Dreng, and speak for yourself. What is your age?" He peered out from under his long hair and stammered an answer. "I'll be four, come next Wormfeast Day." I wanted no details of this repulsive holiday. He was sure big for his age. Or this planet had a very long year. I nodded and spoke.

"A good age fora knave. Now tell me, do you know what the knavely duties are?" He better, because I certainly didn't. He nodded enthusiastically at my question.