D.K. KIRTS

ANGLER

The Luckiest Fisherman In The Universe

a science fiction novel

ANGLER is a work of fiction. All characters and locations are fictitious.

Any relation to actual people or places is accidental and coincidental.

ISBN 1-882639-10-3

CHAPTER ONE

THE STAR TOURNAMENT

The people, industries and military of Earth had polluted the land and oceans

of that planet until very little grew, and nothing worth catching swam in the waters.

Most of the people and all of the fishermen then migrated upwards.

Rita Resnick Ph.D.

from History of the Tournament

It was almost dawn on the 1st of June. As they had done for the past thirteen years, the Star Anglers had gathered at the Tidetable Chart House on Wexley Common to pay their entry fees. Old Johann Miller, the dour proprietor, still served breakfast and banked the money for the prize winners to claim when they returned after ten dangerous weeks of fishing their butts off.

The fee was 200,000 Confederation dollars payable in cash or credits, no checks. The Star Anglers was a very exclusive club. That many Confederation dollars was big bucks. The Confederation insisted on maintaining the platinum currency standard. And it cost much more than that to purchase and maintain a fishing boat, hire a crew for ten weeks, buy food and exotic fishing gear, and occasionally a new tooth brush. The filthy rich, of course, regard two hundred thousand as pocket change, but to a poor fisherman, the fee was a heavy weight tied around the neck. Life is like that everywhere, haves and haves not. Wheels and axles.

The Tidetable Chart House was the first dank, wharfside bar and grill to become an inter-galactic landmark. Old Johann owed the fame of his tavern to its central location in the Spiral Nebula, and to a handful of fishermen who enjoyed his greasy cooking and surly friendship. He had never refurbished and doubtless never would, and he seldom dusted. There were only minor changes in the place year to year. One was a photograph of each new Tournament winner hanging over the bar, in a cheap frame. A sneering head shot of Dresden Carthy, last yearÕs hero, hung in the place of honorÑcentered on the mirror behind the bar. That spot between the two blinking neon beer signs was a much prized eight by ten inches of real estate. Every fisherman in the Tournament hoped to drive Carthy off the mirror to the obscurity of a dark dining booth or even to the restroom corridor. The permanent placement of last year's Champion depended entirely on the whim of old Johann, and also perhaps on the condition of his lumbago when he changed the photos.

In a section of wall near the front door labeled ÒNot ForgottenÓ hung smiling photographs of Tournament fishermen unlucky enough to get themselves killed. That section kept growing.

Twenty-three fishermen huddled in the pre-dawn of opening morning. Most of them lounged at the long center table, looking out over the dank harbor and drinking coffee laced with the additive of their choice. The rest sat on stools at the bar. Everyone was waiting to see if Ira Fairborne would show up to make it twenty-four and deadlock the vote again. Ira was one of the six surviving charter members. None of the original fourteen had died of disease. Fishing the Star Tournament was dangerous, and threatened to become more so. A vote was pending to add two extra freshwater categories to next yearÕs schedule, both pitifully foolhardy to Pike ResnickÕs way of thinking. But then Pike had won the Tournament, twice, and was the most famous fisherman in the Galaxy. Some of the freshwater zealots, Baron Farouk Bardona among them, felt themselves to be disadvantaged, poor babies. So they had gone crazy. Crazy enough to demand Electric Batfish, and Giant Poison Chiclids from Orlando Seco be added to the circuit. And the necessary fifty-one percent for a rules change seemed to be present unless Ira showed. A very democratic club, the Star Anglers. In order to vote, a member must have fished in any previous Tournament and be fishing this year.

As a cloudy dawn broke outside the rather dirty windows, Pike sat on a bar stool with his back to the worn mahogany bar wishing that Rita Bardona, the BaronÕs daughter, would come in for breakfast; but, of course, she wouldnÕt. Crew, family and tourists were excluded from opening morning. That didnÕt stop Pike from wanting to see herÑshe kept getting more and more beautiful every yearÑand she was only a few hundred yards across the harbor on her fatherÕs para-yacht. Part of the reason Pike still enjoyed the Tournament was because he got to see Rita at the fishermen's waterholes most nights and at other social gatherings. But, of course, she was much too young for him. Very strange how he could be so fond of Rita, and detest her father.

Curiously, Richie Tourbo had not shown up, and that surprised Pike more then Ira being absent. The kid was a hot and lucky fisherman, so rumor had it, and was very wealthy. He had wanted to hire Pike as a guide during the off season. And he was a friend of RitaÕs from college. She had gone out of her way to tell Pike to be nice to him; but the lad hadnÕt arrived yet. He couldnÕt vote his first year anyway, but where was he?

PikeÕs friend, Ira, was no longer a serious fisherman. He attended mostly for the camaraderie, and to prove he was still hale and hardy at sixty-four. Ira could be a bull walrus without coughing up the price of a small planet to prove it, any of the old timers could, but they still liked to show up. Dresden Carthy another founding member and last yearÕs winner, was here, sitting in the corner with his beer, telling fishing stories as if they were truth, and so was Hardluck Harry Dolan. Like Farouk Bardona, Harry had never won a tournament in the thirteen years, but he had been second seven times. Harry was a great fisherman. Superb. But luck never seemed to smile on him. Not the big luck that gets it done.

The marine spacer radio behind the bar crackled to life. ÒBreaker, breaker..!!Ó Ira FairborneÕs electronically enhanced voice blasted through the speaker. ÒSucking pirate this quadrant. Fix.Ó A pause as his computer whirled up the information that pinpointed his exact position in hyper-space. ÒI may be late...Ó A sizzle as his laser cannon discharged. ÒBut I vote no on the new amendment.Ó More sizzle.

Pandemonium broke out in the Tidetable. Fishermen leaped up, already running, to assist Ira. At that precise moment, the door at the top of the short stairs jerked open to reveal a very small person with a weak, self-effacing grin. Rich Rodney Tourbo had arrived, in a new Abercrombie and Bean fishing vest. He stepped into the gloom, miscalculating the three stairs that led down to the bar room, and pitched airborne in a strangled swan dive into the arms of Mordachi Skinner, the first of the members to reach the stairs. MordachiÕs bulk absorbed the shock of Rich Rodney quite easily. He tossed the kid aside and lumbered outside, followed by a mob of Star Anglers.

ÒTournament suspended until noon..!!Ó Johann Miller shouted.

Pike set Richie on his feet. ÒNice to see you again, Tourbo. Remember me, Pike Resnick? You can ride to the rescue with me.Ó He pulled the kid out the door into the gauzy brightness of sunrise on the Commons.

ÒOf course, I remember you,Ó Rich Rodney managed to stammer as they ran to the quayside mooring of PikeÕs famous para-launch, The Jumper.

The first of the boats were already motoring to the harbor mouth as they scrambled through Pike's galley. ÒPirates, Lester..! WeÕre rolling..!!Ó Pike shouted at the cook, and then pushed Richie up the inside stairway to the flying bridge.

ÒBuckle down, kid,Ó he yelled, snapping on the radio and starting the engines. MordachiÕs big cruiser disappeared from mid-channel leaving empty ocean in its wake.

ÒWhatÕs going on?Ó Rich Rodney asked from his spot on the passengerÕs bench. ÒI didnÕt pay my fee...Ó

IraÕs voice crackled from the radio. ÒGot the bastard..!!Ó A long sizzle of cannon fire followed. ÒOkay, no problem. IÕm limping, but IÕll be there. And I repeat, I still vote no. Hey, Mordachi..!! Nice to see you! Had your coffee yet..? Okay, over and out!Ó

With a grin of relief, Pike cut the engines . ÒJust a normal day after all, Rich. LetÕs go sweeten the pot with your money.Ó

Johann Miller came on the radio. ÒThe Tournament will resume at 0900 hours. Is that late enough for you, Ira..?Ó

ÒFine,Ó Ira crackled. ÒI think IÕve still got light speed.Ó

Pike snapped off the radio and unbuckled. ÒSo you made it,Ó he said to young Tourbo. ÒKind of an exciting start to your new career, huh?Ó

ÒWhat was it..?Ó

ÒSpace pirates. They're after the technology. We try to help each other out. Come on, IÕll introduce you to the boys and girls.Ó

Lester Wunderman, Pike's cook and 1st mate, wiped his hands on his white apron, and stuck his grizzled head into the bridge cabin. ÒWhat the Sam Hill is going on?Ó he squawked. ÒI've got a cake in the over!Ó

A powerful Indian stood alertly behind Lester. His long, dark hair was wet and a little soapy, and a blue towel was wrapped around his waist as if he'd just stepped from a shower. The Indian, June Madrigal, was also the 1st mate. Job descriptions between the three men on The Jumper got a little hazy.

ÒFalse alarm. Go back to sleep,Ó Pike said, with a benign twinkle. They all grinned at each other. ÒThis is Richie Tourbo, our newest competition. HeÕs a friend of RitaÕs.Ó

Richie exchanged pleasantries with PikeÕs famous crew for a few minutes, then he and Pike trooped back to the Tidetable.

"That guy is very short," June commented, heading back to the shower.

Lester snorted derisively, and gimped into the galley.

Baron Farouk Bardona from the Starfleck System glowered. The Tidetable was still humming with excitement; but the object of Bardona's spleen was young Richie Tourbo, who was approaching Johann with his cash chits in hand.

ÒIÕm surprised to see you here, Tourbo,Ó the Baron blustered, loudly. ÒIÕm not sure we ought to let you enter, after all.Ó The room got suddenly quiet. Rich Rodney flushed. Evidently, there was some bad blood between them. ÒIn fact, now that I think about it,Ó the Baron went on, ÒisnÕt there a clause to disqualify somebody who is a clear and present danger. Nothing personal. I know my daughter likes you, but I appreciate your antics better from far away.Ó

ÒIsnÕt it a little early to be a horseÕs ass?Ó Pike inquired, with a pleasant smile. BardonaÕs ears reddened. It was a well known fact that bad blood did exist between Pike and the BaronÑhad for years.

ÒHey, kid,Ó Harry Dolan chimed in. ÒDonÕt listen to FaroukÕs sour grapes. The only way to get you out, once you make the down payment on a boat, is for you to quit or not catch a fish. So just hand over the cash, and have some breakfast.Ó

ÒThe asshole sank my power launch last year!Ó the Baron rumbled, appealing for support. ÒHe was on the bridge with me. I let him take the helm as a personal favor. I turned my back for one second and he put her on a perfectly visible rock. Ripped her guts out!Ó

ÒYou could run home with your toys, it you donÕt like our playmates,Ó Pike goaded. He wanted to add something like ÒButt wipe,Ó but refrained.

ÒJam it, Resnick. Maybe someday youÕll learn to keep your nose out of other peopleÕs business, and I vote no on his nomination.Ó

The gathered assembly laughed at him, knowing that Bardona had used the insurance money to buy a much better para-launch, one that heÕd wanted for two years, but had been too cheap to buy.

ÒNo reason to call a vote on this issue, I should think,Ó Johann Miller said, in his official position as referee. ÒWe already accepted your nomination, Mr. Tourbo, and now we accept your money.Ó Johann counted the cash and passed it to a Spiral Bank representative who sat at the end of the bar in a bullet-proof suit and tie. Accompanying the banker were two heavily armed guards. An attack dog lay quietly at his feet. The banker nodded and wrote a receipt.

ÒWelcome to the club, Mr. Tourbo,Ó Old Johann said. ÒDonÕt catch them all,Ó he observed dryly. ÒThe Rules will be sent to your computer whenever Ira gets here, so we can have some rules. You canÕt vote this year, sonny.Ó

ÒThatÕs all right,Ó Richie said. ÒIs there a good computer repairman in town for an AXZ-15. Mine got orange juice in it by accident when we splashed down.Ó

Everybody chuckled. It looked like they planned to accept Richie Tourbo, as they did everyone who could catch a fish and had the money. It was indeed a very democratic group.

ÒI vote no,Ó Ira Fairborne said loudly, limping down the stairs. White hair bristled uncontrollably under his greasy CommodoreÕs cap.

ÒNobody expected you to vote yes,Ó Johann Miller said, cordially, pouring a shot of his best cognac into a mug of coffee. He placed the mug at an empty seat at the bar, beside Pike.

Ira Fairborne toasted Johann, then the other members before taking a careful sip. ÒWhat you donÕt know is that I talked Mordachi into voting No also.Ó He grinned triumphantly. ÒOnly a fool would fish for batfish, especially without a boat.Ó

ÒVoting on the rules changes will now commence,Ó Johann said. He had observed Mordachi Skinner standing in the doorway, blocking out the morning haze. ÒTwenty-five members present. Twenty-four voting. A simple yes or no will suffice nicely. No poems, William, if you please.Ó

ÒItÕs my duty to keep up a certain literary standard,Ó Alaska Bill Bolen from Bixler-Bolen said, standing up. He put his hand on his breast in classical oratory style and spoke through his buck teeth:

ÒA yes is a guess

At a change from the known.

All smart guys seek change

Or they go down alone.Ó

Alaska Bill smiled complacently as the crowd booed tolerantly. BolenÕs paternal grandfather still lived on Earth, in Alaska. Bill had been to visit him last year and reported the fishing was still poor, although BillÕs grandfather was not, thanks to Bixler-Bolen Mining.

ÒLovely,Ó Johann said, sarcastically. ÒYou're out of order, but I take it that was a yes vote?Ó

ÒYou take it correctly, Mr. Miller. Batfish are relatively harmless from a boat or from shore.Ó

He was greeted with a chorus of loud agreement and disagreement.

A para-yacht is a beautiful thing. It is equally at home in the air or in the water, a condition that few other man-made machines can claim, except perhaps Timex watches. All classifications from the three passenger fishing smack to the twelve berth pleasure craft are made to order for their original owners. Therefore, the sport fishing fleet fitted each member like a true mirror, reflecting whims and sensibilities, and the condition of the wallet. A fishing boat is by nature a working vessel, so it places a premium on stability in rough water, and must have enough open deck space to play and land a big fish. A Tournament fisherman must have a helmsman and one deck hand, at a minimum. Few fish over fifty pounds can be landed without help. And a guide in unknown waters is certainly useful. During the Tournament a judge is always on board, so most yachts sleep at least five. The crews become as addicted as the fishermen, in many cases staying on from year to year with whoever will hire them. Some even have partnership arrangements.

The problem of how to get a lumbering, deep-ballasted water craft airborne, so that the leap to hyper-space could be made, had plagued boat designers since the first hydrofoils were able to flit here and there through the galaxy. From their position above the waterÕs surface, hydrofoils, known as cigar boats, had been leaping into space for several generations, and in spite of their restricted payload, were the backbone of the intergalactic shipping industry for water mining. But hydrofoils were not really fully suitable for fishing.

Then one day sixteen years ago, a young marine biologist working on his dissertation, came across an odd property of water. It can become a solid launching platform for a split instant, if at that instant a magnetic mega-force is thrust downward. The force bonds the positive hydrogen molecules to form a grid for a nano-second. In that fraction of time, a boat (or any floating object) can squirt past the bonded surface like a cork held under water and then released. As an after effect, a quantity of free oxygen is released.

In the next instant, the hydrogen was rejoined with new oxygen molecules in that loose bond that is the magic of waterÑbut during that grid locked micro-second, the young man reasoned, the leap to para-space and then hyper-space should be possible.

That biology student was Pike Resnick, of course. At one time, fourteen years ago, Pike owned four/fifths of the universal patent on the Resnick Thruster. One tenth was owned by his patent attorney, Sidney Ulmann, and the other tenth was sold to Farouk Bardona in exchange for a development deal for the Thruster. This was before Bardona had taken the honorific Baronet, which he felt was somewhat modest considering his holdings. He could have been King Bardona of the Starfleck System if he had chosen. A small but significant portion of the BaronÕs possessions now consisted of seven/tenths of the Thruster patent, which he sat onÑnot allowing the Thruster to be used, except in boats for the Star Tournament. Sid Ulmann had bought an additional tenth from Pike to make one/fifth currently in his portfolio. And Pike had managed to retain a tenth. Like many inventors and fishermen before him, Pike was not much of a businessman. Luckily, he had won the Tournament twice out of the thirteen years and had finished in the money seven other times. He really was a heck of a fisherman. Most of his debts were paid off. He had no trouble sleeping, these days.

* * *

STAR ANGLERS TOURNAMENT

PRIZE LIST

and other expenditures

FIRST PLACE 40% of purse

SECOND PLACE 20% of purse

THIRD PLACE 12% of purse

FOURTH PLACE 8% of purse

FIFTH PLACE 5% of purse

1st Place Moon Halibut Entry fee returned

1st Place All Other Fish $10,000

25 Judges' Wages (174 man weeks) $174,000 Confederation

Burial Fund As needed

Contingency As needed

Interest on capital 10 weeks to Johann Miller

$ 200,000.00

x25

$ 5,000,000.00

-85% prizes

$ 750,000.00

-$ 200,000.00

$ 550.000.00

-$ 90,000.00

$ 460,000.00

-$ 174,000.00

$286,000.00

<><> RULES of the GALACTIC ANGLERS TOURNAMENT <><>

1. One keeper length fish must be caught in each category in order to proceed to the next planet.

2. There is a maximum time span of one week in each categoryÑDawn of the first day to Midnight of the last. But after having caught a species fish and properly registering it with an official judge, the contestant fisherman is free to pursue other events in his/her life; but may not land on the subsequent planets of the Tournament for any reason without permission of the Tournament Head Judge.

3. Category fish must be taken in proper sequenceÑduring the 7 days assigned to that species.

4. All fish will be caught on hook and line, and will be played only by the Tournament fisherman. Gaffing or netting may be accomplished by an assistant.

5. All local fish and game laws will be rigorously adhered to.

6. Points are awarded in each category:

5 pointsÑ1st Place; 4 pointsÑ2nd; 3 pointsÑ3rd; 2 pointsÑ4th and 1 pointÑ5th Place.

7. Chicanery of any form will result in ejection from the current Tournament and prizesÑand probable elimination from further Star Anglers Tournament competition.

<><><> SCHEDULE OF FISHING <><><>

DATES FISH SPECIES PLANET

JUNE 1 - JUNE 7 BLUE NOSED DELILAH - AMORA

JUNE 8 - JUNE 14 HOWLER - BETA TORGA XII

JUNE 15 - JUNE 21 TIGER MUSKY - ASHENDON A.R.

JUNE 22 - JUNE 28 DEEP WATER SCUT - GIEDON

JUNE 28 - JULY 4 PHANTOM TROUT - STREAMSIDE

JULY 5 - JULY 11 LARCHMONT BARRACUDA - NEW COLUMBUS

JULY 12 - JULY 18 GLANS SALMON - DELTA 5 TANGO

JULY 19 - JULY 25 RAZORFIN - BLIZWAK-HOJMER

JULY 26 - AUG 1 SWAMPFISH - SEGUMI 6

AUG 2 - AUG 8 MOON HALIBUT - WATER MOON SOLERI

AUG 9 TALLY DUE 0900 HRS - TIDETABLE - WEXLEY

CHAPTER TWO

BLUE NOSED DELILAHS

"Winning? Well, Rita, off the top of my head, I'd say that winning

is like a place to go to. A zone of contentment. All the cogs slide into place

magically, and suddenly everything you do is smooth and successful. And

your name is all over the leader board."

Dresden Carthy

quoted in History of the Tournament

The Jumper, Pike ResnickÕs boat, was trolling slowly for delilahs along a coral head where Pike had often found the bad tempered wahoo-type fish in the past. Delilahs were not his strong suit, maybe because the big ones were all female. The males of the species never exceeded ten pounds, while the largest female ever caught was twenty-eight hundred pounds. An odd situation, Pike thought; although marine biology is so full of surprises that nothing is truly odd. At any rate, he had never caught the winning delilah; consequently the Jumper crew always left Amora somewhere back in the pack. But everybody caught a delilahÑthatÕs why the Tournament always began on Amora. Blues were plentiful, and while the big females were mean, they werenÕt a difficult species to entice to the hook. It got everybody at least two weeks of fishing and partying for their exorbitant entry fee.

The only real problem with blues was that their bad temper was mixed with strong jaw muscles and very sharp teeth. These traits had probably evolved because their primary diet was armored anchovies, a food species whose survival strategy was armor-plated skin. It evidently made the big hen delilahs peevish to spend every day chewing on the non-nourishing armor to get to the tiny filet of meat.

Pike would have been quite satisfied with a small keeper. On the first day of each category, he liked to establish his eligibility, then look for more poundage in a leisurely fashion during the remaining six days. Then on to the next planet and a repeat of the procedure. That was his method. Very pragmatic. And generally he was there at the Tidetable on Wexley Common to receive part of the prize money, if not all of it. ItÕs hard to knock success, but it had been several years since he had won. He needed to pull it off this year, before the money and lucrative endorsements evaporated permanently into a black hole.

The Star Tournament was a big deal in the Spiral Nebula. It was the one sporting event which bridged the chasm of space and touched a lot of planetary systems that no one else bothered with. And Pike Resnick was the most luminous of its luminaries. The fact that female sports reporters thought he was ruggedly handsome did not hurt his reputation.

ÒPike Resnick was born to be a fisherman.Ó That statement had been coined by a Spiral Download Magazine reporter as part of a lead story on this yearÕs Intergalactic Star Anglers Tournament. As somewhat of a confirmation, the philosopher priests on Aixi say that every man is born to the life he livesÑso Pike probably was born to be a fisherman.

In any case, thanks to product endorsements and articles about him in every type of sporting media, Pike was a famous guy. Not as famous as a Tri V actor; but people sometimes recognized him in the street. Smiling, carefree, swashbuckling, brave, trustworthy, mostly honestÑin short, a man that other men liked, and women sometimes chased. That was Pike ResnickÑor was it..?

Well, certainly that was a surface look at Pike. Beyond that he was an inventor of intergalactic importanceÑwho didnÕt have a dime to show for it. An unsuccessful father and divorced husband, he was not much of a star at relationships, at least not so far. But feeling bad about Alex and Annette didnÕt seem to help much, so he had given up feeling bad about them.

No woman had been deeply connected to Pike for a number of years. Pleasant companions came, and when they stopped being pleasant they went. No one had attained permanent status since Annette; and she hadn't cared for fishing, nor for a husband who thought of fishing as more than a hobby. Pike had met Annette while he was working on the thruster. Most of that two year period found him landlocked in his workshop in his parentÕs old beach house on Galatin Bay.

Annette had come on vacation from being a Senator's secretary on Alpha Alba. While sunbathing one day on the quaint beach in front of his workshop, she had ill-advisedly knocked on his door to borrow some ice cubes. Annette had foolishly insisted on believing that he was a scientist, rooted and stable. Pike told her he liked to fish, but she had allowed herself to get pregnant, then had allowed him to marry her. A year after Alex was born at the country hospital on Galatin Bay, the Tournament was born also. Pike was invited to be on the Rules Committee; since, after all, he had made the whole thing possible. And once the planets were chosen, he was gone most of the time.

Pike Resnick now had an ex-wife and a fourteen year old son whom he rarely saw since they had moved back to Alpha Alba. Pike didn't care for seats of government. But the kid was growing. Doing well at school. I should invite him over for the holidays, Pike thought for the billionth time. Fourteen is old enough to start fishing. Past old enough. But Alex never sounded like he was interested, not really. Maybe he hates fishing...or maybe heÕs not that fond of me.

On the other hand, the crew of the Jumper, which consisted of June Madrigal and Lester Wunderman were like PikeÕs family. He had listed both as first mate in his log because that's how he saw it. They were both first rate. Lester had been with him since before the Tournament began, and June had been enticed aboard eleven years ago from the Segumi Swamps, where his father was a chief. The three men got along superlatively in the tight quarters of the JumperÑa fact that Pike attributed to blind luck, and for which he was very grateful.

Like most humans, Pike didnÕt have a very clear picture of himself. This truth didnÕt worry himÑin fact, it escaped his attention.

A keeper delilah had to measure forty-six inches on Amora. One didnÕt jump onto the hook with every cast, but catching one was no great feat. Pike had already caught and released a forty inch specimen, just eight inches short of perfection, and was trolling up the back side of the coral ridge when lightening struck. An absolutely monster hen delilah whammed into the streamer, almost jerking the rod and reel out of PikeÕs hands as he stood at the stern rail.

ÒHook up..! Big one..!!Ó he yelled to June Madrigal, who was at the wheel. By instinct, the Indian feathered the engine and prepared for the battle. Pike jumped into the fighting chair, set the pole in the socket and strapped himself down. During those few lost seconds the 50 pound test line sang off his reel as the fish dove toward the coral reef. The line was too light even with the steel-core leader, but Pike settled down to play her. His lucky day, a delilah that size would certainly be close to winning him some points.

The judge, Howland Biggers, moseyed out of the galley with a cup of coffee and a handful of cookies. He liked blues. They always put up a terrific fight for their size.

ÒHow big..?Ó June Madrigal shouted down.

ÒFive, maybe six hundred..!Ó Pike grunted back. He was pumping up and down on the rod, trying to gain back a little of the lost line. ÒToo damned big for this rig, Chief, but we may as well try for her.Ó Pike wished heÕd eaten breakfast. It would probably take the rest of the day to bring the big nelly up.

ÒIs she in the reef yet..?Ó June yelled. The melodious intonations of his voice blended into nature, as many Indian voices do, so he talked loudly to make himself heard when he spoke to a non-Indian. ÒIÕm backing over her. Get some line in.Ó

ÒWait a minute..!Ó Pike shouted. ÒItÕs turning..!! Can you beat that..?Ó

ÒDumb fish. That line will snap like a string if she rubs it on a coral head.Ó

ÒWell, sheÕs coming up and sheÕs coming this way..!Ó Pike yelled, reeling like mad. ÒPush ahead, slow.Ó

ÒAhead slow,Ó June echoed. Judge Biggers peered over the side rail and took a sip of coffee.

By reeling like a tornado, Pike made up half the line on the spoolÑthen the monster blue shot out of the water at his feetÑteeth like broad swords and a gaping mouth like the tunnel to hell! PikeÕs silver streamer hung on her lip like a hair.

ÒGet back..!!Ó the Indian screamed, kicking the cabin cruiser into fast forward. The judge stumbled backwards until he banged against the galley wall. His face was frozen in a look of horror.

For what seemed like an eternity, the delilahÕs terrible mouth hung suspended above Pike, who was strapped in the fighting chair. Then the sheer weight of the fish caused it to fall as the boat accelerated away from it. Instead of human prey, the great blue maw snapped down on the fantail, ripping a huge chunk of railing and side sheeting from the boat. Amid a shower of sparks, the delilah flopped back into the sea no longer attached to PikeÕs line. It flapped its tail in anger and sank from view.

ÒHoly shit,Ó Pike wheezed, still anchored in the chair. ÒDid you see the teeth on that thing..?Ó He unhooked his safety harness and stood up on weak legs, staying well back from the rail in case of a repeat sneak attack.

ÒSix hundred, my ass..! ThatÕs the biggest damn blue I ever saw..!Ó June Madrigal shouted. ÒAinÕt that right, Biggie..?Ó

The judge shook himself, as if trying to regain his equilibrium, and said nothing. He sat down on the deck next to the galley wall.

ÒHow much damage back there?Ó June yelled.

ÒA lot,Ó Pike answered, surveying the halo of sparks sputtering from the deactivated defense grid. He climbed the ladder to the bridge. ÒTake her back in.Ó

ÒBack in she is.Ó The Indian pushed the throttle forward. ÒWhooee..! Big sucker.Ó June was talking too much now that the terror was over. ÒI never seen nothing like that! Had to be a record blue! Had to be. Two thousand pounds easy. Maybe more. WasnÕt it..?Ó

Pike nodded.

ÒI never saw nothing like that! She tried to get you!Ó

Pike nodded again and stretched his back muscles. His back seemed to be knotted up for some reason.

ÒI guess weÕll be trying to catching her again..?Ó

ÒSeems like it,Ó Pike said. His knees were weaker than he could recall them ever being. Must be a sign of approaching infirmity, he thought. He was thirty-nine.

Pike checked to see that the laser cannon mounted on the back of the bridge was fully charged. It suddenly seemed like a good idea to make sure it was working properly, so he squeezed off a round. The gun sizzled. The ruby light beam sliced into the deep blue water.

ÒWhat the hell is going on out here..?Ó gimpy Lester Wunderman demanded, sticking his head out of the galley. ÒWhat is all the noise about..? You trying to make my biscuits fall..? I told you to go easy this morning. First the cake, and now this. You think I like ruined baking..? Well, I donÕt..!Ó He spied the hole in the railing and limped onto the fantail. ÒWhat the hell happened to that? You run into something, you damn Injun..? I thought I felt a tremor.Ó He looked at Judge Biggers, who was very pale.

June Madrigal grinned down at the bald cook.

ÒKind of,Ó Pike answered. ÒWeÕre going in.Ó

ÒGood,Ó Lester answered. ÒBreakfast is ready whenever you are.Ó

ÒYou might at least turn your hearing aid up to normal,Ó June Madrigal yammered happily at Lester. Heavy banter was usual between them. They were leaning on the JumperÕs rail as it lay berthed in the bright sunshine in AmoraÕs best and only boatyard. ÒYou might actually be useful sometimes. If you could hear what was going on.Ó

Pike and the yard master were surveying the wrecked boat. Part of the bantering was for PikeÕs benefit, so he didnÕt get too sad. Part of it was for fun.

ÒI could hear your crow-squawks even if I was deaf,Ó Lester Wunderman rejoined. ÒWhich I ainÕt.Ó His voice trailed off. June Madrigal had walked away from him to follow Pike and the yard master. Lester limped after them.

Lester was generally regarded as one of the best chefs afloat, although he mostly refused to fix anything but the simplest dishes. Poor folks food, he insisted, was much more nourishing. Like many great cooks, he was cantankerous whenever the bonded spirits moved him. Shoreside, he prided himself on being something of a fighter, although his bad leg was a disadvantage. Few people, even in the outworlds, like to beat the hell out of a belligerent cripple, but some do. Whenever possible, Pike and June Madrigal tried to keep an eye on their chef; but there were times when he shoved off to a drinking bout by himself, and those times often found him the next day nursing cuts and scrapes. Lester insisted that a hangover was something to be disregarded, especially when fish needed to be caught. That attitude made him a touch impatient with other peopleÕs hangovers and minor disorders.

ÒIt doesnÕt look real wonderful to me, Captain Resnick,Ó the grizzled boat builder apologized. Stopping on the fantail, he leaned against the live bait well. ÒThe two aft ribs are snapped at the tip, which is a terrible place because we canÕt laminate a patch, that I can think of. On the other hand, it could be worse. Another foot or so and youÕd have lost the third rib, then the keel would have warped for sure. But your keel seems straight as a fishermanÕs face. I guess you could call that lucky... We'll check it for sure when we haul the boat out."

ÒHow long to fix it?Ó Pike asked, respectfully. It was always a good idea to show massive doses of respect in a boat yard.

ÒWell, that depends. How many men do you want me to put on it? Probably take three days to build the ribs, if I can find the material. Like I said, these ainÕt really patchable, cause the ends are destroyedÑunless you can design a way to do it?Ó he asked, hopefully. While weÕre building the ribs, we could get another crew to strip out the old ones. Then installation. A couple more days, if it goes smooth. Call it seven or eight days.Ó

Pike calculated the time. Eight days put them halfway through howlers on Beta Torga XII, which was enough time, if this rustic builder could deliver on time. He couldnÕt fly to a better boat yard without a grid that worked.

ÒThen the painting. I imagine I could scout up a stink pot of some kind for you to rent, so you could go on fishing.Ó The reference to a stink pot meant that the old yard master was a purist. Wind sailors always refer to motor launches as stink pots. Perhaps rightly so, Pike thought. Sailing boats did not screw up harbors with fossil fuel sludge. Atomic powered boats eventually poisoned any world they were allowed on. ÒDonÕt fuck up space.Ó was kind of a motto. Most people adhered to it.

ÒCan you get two shifts working on it?Ó Pike asked the yard master. Visions of disaster kept bracketing his fiduciary future. Eight days could easily take two weeks and that would mean disqualification. He could not afford to get shut out of the money again this year.

ÒI was figuring on two shifts, seeing as how itÕs you, Captain Resnick. Lots of fellows would like to say that they worked on your boat.Ó

ÒGood. My crew will do the clean up after the night shift. WeÕll fish until we catch one with your stink pot. Then weÕll scrape this old girl down. Might as well paint the hull while we got her up, hadnÕt we..?Ó

ÒMight just as well,Ó the old graybeard answered. ÒIÕll get to calling the men. Hopefully we can get started tonight.Ó

ÒWeÕll rig up some work lights,Ó Pike said. ÒAnd thank you, Cap. I appreciate the effort.Ó

ÒThank you. ItÕs a sorry story, but I can always use the business.Ó

Pike looked at June MadrigalÕs dark face as they walked outside. June had been with him since the unfortunate accident on Segumi. His former first mate, Sted Hjstum, had gotten them lost in a Segumi swamp with night coming on. A lot of nasty things live in the big mauette swamps. One of them managed to murder Sted before the night was over. Sted was not a man who feared night or anything. By refusing to sleep up in a tree for safety like the guide book suggested, Sted discovered that a little healthy fear is not such a bad part of a human inventory. Sted had been a good friend. Pike was grief stricken and ham-strung at the same time. He needed help to finish the Tournament. He and Lester couldnÕt fish for Moon Halibut alone. To say nothing of the swampfish which hadnÕt been caught yet.

The next evening, an Indian canoe had come paddling all the way over to Port Remalin on the other side of Shimapoi BayÑa long trip in a single canoe. June Madrigal had been the paddler. ÒI will guide you to a swampfish, if you will allow the son of Chief Nove Madrigal to help make up for the cowardly act of a dead Urobami.Ó Urobamoa were the rival tribe living in the swamp with the Piets and the swampfish and other very strange things. Evidently the chiefÕs son was saying that the Indian who killed Sted had met his reward. Piet justice, perhaps. Pike had never found out the whole story, but June Madrigal had come aboard as temporary first mate and had worked out splendidly from the start. Pike had taken a very respectable swampfish to win that category, and place third overall in the Tournament that year. And June had stayed on. He was an excellent deck hand, an excellent fisherman and an excellent friend. His father was ill now, and June was troubled that he might have to take the leadership of his tribe; but Chief Nove Madrigal was a tough old bird and so far he was hanging on.

ÒThat blue-nosed devil scared the peter off me,Ó Pike confided to June and Lester as they walked over toward the boat. ÒIÕd just as soon not go out in a stink pot with no grid; but what choice do we have? We have to catch a fish.Ó

ÒYouÕre the boss,Ó June replied, with a grin of relief. ÒThankfully youÕve got good sense.Ó He punched Lester on the shoulder. They were not a crew to give up at the first sign of disaster. When your only road to monetary fullness is fishing, it takes many signs of doom to get you to bury your head in the sand.

ÒItÕs a useful lesson, though,Ó Pike reflected. ÒWhen we get the Jumper back, weÕll keep the grid on whenever weÕre fishing. No sense being dead just to save a battery.Ó He smiled, and thought about the good men heÕd known who were dead from fishing the Tournament. Too many good men.

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

BEGINNERÕS LUCK

"When we first came out here, winning wasn't everything, like it is now. We

were all friends, weren't we? You were probably too young to remember, but

that's how it wasÑfriendly competition. It was fun to beat your dad and that

blowhard Carthy into a pudding. Now, I don't know.... It's becoming serious.

Ira Fairborne

quoted in History of the Tournament

At twenty-three years old, Rich Rodney Tourbo was the eighty-fifth richest man in the galaxy. His mother was the fifth richest man. When he someday inherited her vast real estate holdings, he would still only be the fifth richest man. Billions of Confederation dollars separated the Tourbos from Baron Farouk Bardona, the shipping magnate, who was currently the fourth richest. And no matter how rich he was, R.R. would still be a walking danger zone.

Rich Rodney Tourbo had just gotten his first passion other then sex. It was fishing. Early last autumn, Rita Bardona, his ex-college roommate, had invited him aboard her fatherÕs para yacht, and had shown him how to hold a rod and reel. She still wasnÕt his girlfriend exactly, but she was his best friend, and someday he intended to marry her. But fishing...! Glorious! He was good at it..! He was masterful. Skill oozed out of his fingertips as he held the rod, reeling up fish after fish. Big ones, too. One was over five pounds. Of course, heÕd slipped once or twice on the wet deck, but he hadnÕt been badly injured. The scabs had healed nicely. Then there was that little accident when he was steering the boat. Embarrassing, but he had offered to pay for the damage. It didn't look very serious. The boat didn't sink, or anything.

Buying into the Galactic Star Fishing Tournament had been relatively easy, given his social position; but keeping it from his mother was a little dicey. A career as a fisherman wouldnÕt please her too much. Mom hated sports and sportsmen, unless the sport or sportsman was making a real estate deal with her. She didnÕt like non-sportsmen either. The only things she liked were possessions, gorgeous young women and pomeranians, in that order. And she did not care for other peopleÕs yipping pomeranians. Young women and possessions were always warmly regarded, no matter whose they were. Women and possessions could often be enticed into changing hands.

And she doted on Rich Rodney, since the day she had been unable to break her deceased husbandÕs will, which left control of the corporation to their only child in the event of her death. That day, Mom Tourbo made up her mind to love the boy dearly. She suddenly regarded him as a precious possession.

Mom Tourbo did not believe strongly in education. She would have happily purchased a mail order doctorate for the boy at any university, but a stipulation in his fatherÕs will stated that he should earn a degree in Comparative Humanities from The University of Tesla, Reich and Hayden on Diston Prime before he inherited sixty-six million in Confederation dollars outright, and several dozen small planets. TR&H was a very tough school. After initially endowing a new research library, Richie had done splendidly. In matters of scholarship, he credited himself with being quite gifted, whereas in point of fact, he was lucky. What Rich Rodney attributed to genius level intelligence inherited from his father was really the result of computer generated testing where yes and no answers, or even multiple choice questions, had supplanted written examinations at the undergraduate level. Rich Rodney was very skilled at guessing. His luck consistently gave him something like ninety-one percent correct answers, and sometimes higher. Had he gone on to post-graduate work, the shock of his ineptitude would have been brutal; but luckily, he hadnÕt.

At twenty-three years of age, Rich Rodney had completed his bachelorÕs degree, and now had the money and planets to start life with. He knew virtually nothing about Comparative Humanities, but was blithely unaware of it. He smiled a lot when he wasnÕt tripping over something.

His mother, who had always been the brains behind the real estate empire, suggested that his first act as a wealthy adult should be to fire his fatherÕs attorney, Clive McAndrews. Old McAndrews had somehow inserted that clause about earning a degree into the will, and had fought her through three courts, winning in each. She had behaved as if the willÕs corporation inheritance clause was incidental. Her well-mounted law suits were aimed at proving that her late husband was insane. Why would any sane man require a bewilderingly rich kid to earn a degree? After losing at the Inter-Confederation High Court of Appeal, she grudgingly paid the court cost and hired R.R. to work for her corporation. His job was to study Comparative Humanities at TR&H. Mom Tourbo, as she was affectionately known, loathed every living thing about Clive McAndrews. She had intense daydreams of sicking a hunting pack of pomeranians on McAndrews and, while she ate peach ice cream, the tiny dogs would yip unceasingly and tear him to bits in a blood frenzy. She invited him frequently to her estate on Talmage Heights, but he was always regretfully too busy.

But R.R. had a mind of his own, and so still retained his fatherÕs swashbuckling friend. At Rich RodneyÕs insistence, McAndrews had used his considerable old boy influence to obtain young Tourbo a membership invitation to the Star Tournament on the QT. McAndrews found it amusing to think that simply by taking the kid fishing, he would probably ensure his job as watchman to the billions.

Clive had accompanied young Tourbo to the G&G Boatworks to make sure that he didnÕt get schtupped on his para-yacht. The good Baron, so rumor went, was not above having glitches built into an opponentÕs boat. After satisfying himself that the warranty clause was fully binding on Thaddeus Golan, he and the boy adjourned to a nearby bistro, where R.R. inevitably knocked over the champagne caddy, then a small vase of flowers on the table. Clive once again marveled at how little like his father young Tourbo was. Nor like his mother, for that matter. McAndrews was convinced that thereÕd been a mix-up in the maternity ward.

While the boat was being built, McAndrews advertised for a captain and crew, and organized fishing trips for himself and the boy with the best guides that money could buyÑvirtually every famous fisherman except Pike Resnick, who had wanted to take their very generous offer, God knows, but couldnÕt work it into his schedule. ÒNext year..?Ó Pike had offered, almost tearfully, standing on his dock. McAndrews had left that option open. And Richie turned out to be a pretty damn good fisherman. At least, he always caught fish. Whether it was skill or not is every fishermanÕs secret. Clive McAndrews was content with that.

Rich Rodney had been sexually precocious since the age of three. His early nannies thought it was so cute when he made a fool of himself over pretty little girls in the park or at various other outings. But Richie knew even then that he also lusted after the little girlsÕ exotic mothers, and after each one of the nannies in turn as they rotated through the seasons. Like a never sated bee buzzing around an eternal supply of flower blossoms, he was drawn to gawk in adoration at shop girls, Tri V actresses, dancers of any variety, art tutors, his mother's friends and clientsÑin short, any female with a pretty face. He couldnÕt help it. He loved alluring females. Long hair of any color, curling limply gave him goosebumps. The strange, wonderful curve of a female flank tore his soul. And the bulge of a soft breast ripped his heart open. He adored pretty women and was simply powerless not to stare at them. Having no young males to compare himself to, R.R. thought that this rather normal behavior was aberrant and probably sinful.

Tragically, he was much too shy to follow through on his heart-felt staring. Occasionally one of his targets became self-conscious under his outrageous gaping. ÒWhy are you staring at me like that, Rich Rodney,Ó she might snap with annoyance. This direct confrontation would instantly plunge Richie into paroxysms of embarrassment. Exposed..! His disgusting lust for women burning his face red, he would cast his eyes down and creep away. Blessedly, he was too short and nerdy to be noticed very often.

Short people are often very well coordinated. Richie remembered running and skipping happily through his nursery as a child, normal in every way. Even swimming and riding horses. Then in a surprise back-stabbing surge, his feet began a period of rapid growth, while his body staunchly refused to follow suit. A decade of stumbling over throw rugs and other assorted carnival tricks followed. His astounding clumsiness made him the butt of innumerable jokes at prep school and through four years of college, and gained him the reputation of somewhat of a clown. In point of fact, Richie was far from being a clown. He was mortally chagrined at the antics of his big feet; however, he had learned to put a foolÕs smiling face on his frequent episodes in free-fall. Before he began studying his saving grace, Ken Pao Ri, his ego was a mass of scar tissue, an uneasy companion to the bloody knobs of his knees and elbows.

But the clumsiness was yet another aspect of his astounding luck, which Richie overlooked daily. Even discounting the vast luck of his birth into financial super-abundance as accidental, his day to day luck was astronomical. Never once, for instance, in any of his heart-chilling falls had he broken even one tiny bone, whereas a normal person would have been dead many times over from multiple broken necks. Unaware of his good luck, Richie assumed that his battle-scarred shins were the laughing stock of the universe, and a terrible retribution for his sexual deviation.

And to make matters worse, Rich Rodney had fallen madly in love with Rita Bardona the first instant he had seen her in the dorm room at the U of TR&H. But, so far, nearly three years later, he hadnÕt found the courage to mention it to a living soul.

So Rich Rodney Tourbo made his entrance to the Tidetable Chart House on Wexley Common, the morning of June 1st, and promptly fell down the three steps into the dark taproom. Tripping into a room was typical. He had been relieved that the big fisherman caught him before he made a total buffoon of himself.

The captain and crew that McAndrews had hired waited nervously aboard his boat, The Comparative Humanity. Captain James "Big Jim" Walen was a skilled fisherman, who had previously captained four seasons with Jean Santos. He wanted his own boat in the worst way. When Clive McAndrews offered him double the salary and double the points in any prize purse, Walen jumped for it.

McAndrews had also arranged for a local guide to be hired at every planet. And he had taken out a large insurance policy on Rich Rodney and all the members of his crew, listing himself as beneficiary.

By the evening of June first, Big Jim WalenÕs head was spinning. He had been the captain of The Comparative Humanity for one day, and that was already one day too long. The Tourbo kid was the single most clumsy person he had ever witnessed. He wanted to have a drink and laugh it off, but he had a sinking feeling that he and his crew were in real danger. Naturally, a novice fisherman can be risky until he learns the ropes, but this kid, his boss, was amazing. On the virtually empty boat he had sunk a treble hook into Brownie Samson, the deck hand. Just like a snake, the kid had whipped out a cast without looking behind, and had impaled BrownieÕs shoulderÑit could easily have been an eye or an ear. Brownie had howled with pain.

Before Big Jim could get down from the bridge to help, stupid Tourbo had embedded another barb of the triple hook into his own thumb while trying to extract the one from Brownie. Big Jim had never seen anything like it. Both of them hopping around the deck stuck to each other, bleeding and yowling. Grabbing his diagonal cutters, Big Jim snipped the hook free of the boss and had silently apologized to Brownie. After a stern lecture on safety, he had flown immediately back to the harbor. While both men were at the hospital for serum tetanus shots and hook removal, he had gone in search of a big supply of barbless hooks. Better to miss an occasional fish than to have a repeat of that madness. Without a barb, hook removal is rather simple.

On the other hand, Tourbo was lucky as sin. No doubt about it. HeÕd caught a keeper blue in the Marina. While Big Jim was explaining how to cast the salt water reel, the kid had snagged a nice little blue, fifty inches long, and horsed him up to the gaff. The Comparative Humanity was in the running before theyÕd even baited a hookÑbut at what cost, Big Jim wondered with an uncharacteristic shiver. An ugly premonition kept forcing itself into his mind, and he kept pushing it back.

Now on the fourth day, they were leading the Tournament with a three hundred and sixty-seven pound blue, and Big Jim had a new deck hand. Brownie had recovered from the fish hook, but being tripped overboard by TourboÕs foot during the fight for the big delilah was too much for him. As he climbed up an emergency ladder dripping wet, he said heÕd rather be poor and alive, that dead or maimed for life. Big Jim felt the same way, but he needed the prize money for a boat of his own. He started hanging out on the flying bridge after that, simply shouting instructions down to Rich Rodney and the new deck hand.

The new guy, Silas Weathertal, was swarthy like a New Phoenician, where his sea papers said he hailed from, but Big Jim had a hunch that the guy was lying. Something about him didnÕt seem quite human. Well, he could dump Silas after Amora. But maybe he should keep him on. The guy really was an excellent deck hand. He was giving the boss all kinds of fishing tips, and he seemed able to stay out of harmÕs way. And Silas hadnÕt seen Wiggins, the local guide, take that crack on the jaw with the butt of TourboÕs rod. Wiggins couldnÕt tell him the tale now, because he couldnÕt talk. His jaw was wired shut and he was recovering on the beachÑpaid off to keep quiet. Sport fishing can be a hazardous business.

Well, three more days here. Then they could get on to safer waters. He chuckled to himself at the insanity of that statement. But at least, they might win this leg. That would be a plum. Winning any category provided a nice subsidiary purse, like lap winners got in motor racing. Big Jim Walen needed that plum.

Fishing was harder work than Rich Rodney had realized. Sun up to sundown they were out on the crystal water. So far heÕd caught forty-two keeper blue delilahs, not to mention the small ones and the hundreds of other species that they werenÕt looking for. Truthfully, Richie had been a little dismayed when Captain Walen kept ordering the fish released. Only the first one and the huge prize fish had been kept. Richie had wanted to show off those other fish in the Marina, too. It seemed a pity to toss them back so somebody else could catch them.

And by golly, he was leading the Tournament! That seemed like an incredible longshot with all the great fishermen here. But he felt like he really was getting the hang of fishing. There was nothing that difficult about it. So really, why shouldnÕt he be leading? Between Captain WalenÕs skill and his own, they were a match for anyone.

ThatÕs why he had nixed the idea of staying in port, even if it was protocol to stay in when you had the biggest fish. Captain Walen was just being considerate. HeÕs always worried that IÕm going to get hurt. Well, I guess it is his job to see that IÕm safe. He seemed to understand when I told him that bruised ribs might keep a cry baby at home, but they certainly wouldnÕt stop me.

R.R. rocked gently in his fishing chair. Ouch...! The ribs definitely were tender. He still didnÕt quite see how the rod butt could have slipped out of the socket like that. And poor Wiggins was so brave. I knew right away that his jaw was broken from the way it cracked, then sagged, when the reel hit it. I know I shouldnÕt blame myself. Okay, so it wasnÕt my fault. Like Silas said, thereÕs no way a rod can slip out of the cup. And Wiggins could have been any other place on the boat, instead of standing right there waiting to get smashed. It wasnÕt even a very big fish, nothing like my big blue beauty. Richie eased his ribs against the back of the padded fishing chair. Maybe I should ask Rita about the various protocols, he thought.

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

RED SNAPPER

ÒActually, among us boys, winning is pretty much the thingÑotherwise

you'd just go fishing by yourself. I would.Ó

Mordachi Skinner

quoted in History of the Tournament

The hot afternoon sun found Pike in the marina boatyard, scraping barnacles underneath the hull of the Jumper. He had caught a delilah in the rented boat yesterday morning and was very qualified. If the Jumper got fixed in time to go to Beta Torga XII for the howler fishing, everything would be normal. The nagging premonition that all was not well could probably be attributed to heartburn.

Besides being hot, the day was very humid. Sweat dripped off him as he worked, sticking his sodden blue work shirt to his back. The boat rested on an I-beam cradle. A crew of boat wrights swarmed over her, torching and sawing the hole in the stern into proper shape for a laminated patch. The repair job would be as strong as new, Pike wasn't worried about that. He wasn't worried about rewiring the grid either, it was just a question of paying attention. What he was worried about was the little pink rubber dingy which had just tied up to the nearest dock. Seeing it, is pulse rate climbed steeply.

The dingy belonged to Rita Bardona, and it was her getting out of the little boat; and she didn't seem to be wearing any clothes. Her long dark hair hung to her shoulders, and her erogenous zones were spectacularly visible, even at fifty yards. What the heck was she up to? Pike had known Rita since she was a little girl. She clearly was not little anymore.

A pleasant surge of blood tingled through Pike's lower extremity at the sight of her. She really was naked. Far fucking out! Her father did not deserve a daughter like Rita, that much was clear. Pike speculated that perhaps the Baron was not Rita's real father, even though there was a strong family resemblance.

The peculiar fact that he and the Baron were business partners in the Resnick Thruster patent complicated his natural tendency to bed the girl, and had for several years. Pike had been naive enough to permit an option clause in the original development contract which allowed Bardona first refusal on share sales. To date, he had not refused on the any of the shares that Pike had been forced to sell during poor seasons with the rod and reel.

Having gained control of the patent, the Baron was able to force his point of view on the boat buying public. The asinine point of view was this: he wanted para-yacht ownership to remain an exclusive club. No fleets of commercial fishing boats. No fleets of fancy pleasure yachts. Just fishing boats for Tournament members. He only allowed two new para-yachts to be built in any year, unless a previous owner wanted a new model and agreed to convert the old one into a regular power launch upon delivery of the new one. This absolutely firm and fly-brained stance kept Pike in virtual penury unless he won some portion of the Tournament. Winning this year seemed like a thin reed on which to pin his hopes when he looked at the boat up in dry dock.

So he turned his attention to Rita instead. She was walking up the boat ramp, heading straight for him. The sawing stopped on the other side of the boat. Pike heard several workers moan in anguish, not even able to summon a wolf whistle. He smiled, watching her hips swaying. Utterly enchanting. What a bold move. Pike loved boldness in women. His heart, which was already very tilted toward Rita, tilted even farther.

ÒHi, Pike,Ó Rita called, waving from twenty feet away. She walked into the shade of the boat. ÒI heard you had to stay in today, so I thought you might want to go swimming,Ó she said, breathlessly. ÒIt sure is hot, isn't it...Ó

Pike mopped his brow with the back of his hand and placed the barnacle scrapper carefully on a sawhorse. Strangely, his hands were steady; but he could see Rita's heart pounding inside her tanned rib cage. She had put herself way out on the limb for this superb little exhibition. And she was wearing a bathing suit, after all. A thoroughly transparent bikini made of some kind of soft, invisible plastic. What a fantastic invention! The suit hid absolutely nothing, and yet made him discontent that she was wearing so much. He felt compelled to find a way to get her alone so he could take the damned suit off. Then he would be able to see exactly what he could see now. He decided to buy a piece of stock in the plastic company. Had to be a winner.

ÒPretty revealing suit. I didn't realize how well you had developed,Ó he flirted.

ÒDo you like it..?Ó she purred. ÒI wanted to be sure I attracted your attention away from this interesting barnacle scraping.Ó She felt her knees go limp as she watched him smile. He was so handsome. She wanted to crawl right inside his sweaty shirt and feel his slippery skin against hers.

Being so exposed turned her on unbearably, and made her painfully shyÑboth feelings at the same time. Amazing sensations stretched her to the limit south and north. Not a place she could live with very long, Rita knew instinctively. She had never put herself this far over the edge before. It was deliciously painful to be exposed to his eyes after wanting to for so long. But since Pike didn't grab her immediately in a passionate embrace, the shyness won out.

ÒDo you have a shirt I can borrow?Ó she asked, playfully. ÒI only did this for you, so you wouldn't feel so bad about your boat. I can't really be seen this way at a restaurant, if you wanted to buy me lunch before we go swimming.Ó

Pike grinned down at her. It had been obvious that eventually a thing was going to happen between them. Whenever they had met during the last few years, it was thereÑwaiting to begin. A genuine, mutual attraction hanging in the air, waiting.

ÒSo you took pity on me and decided this was the day to make my life worthwhile?Ó he asked, with a grin.

ÒI played you the best ace I have. Don't look for me to be so completely forward in the future. I don't know what came over me?Ó

ÒI accept,Ó he said, simply.

ÒThe shirt, please,Ó she answered, holding out her hand. ÒAnd I want a tour of your boat. You've never managed to invite me aboard before.Ó

ÒHaven't I..? Well, that part of my poor manners can be remedied.Ó He took her arm and led her to the boat yard's step ladder. ÒI only wish I had a transparent shirt to give you. But I don't...Ó He climbed up the ladder behind her and watched her hop lightly over the rail. Well, there she was. Rita on the boat. Home at last. Life does begin at thirty-nine.

Rita had been at the Tournament with her father every year since it began, so a fishing yacht was no big news to her. She wanted to satisfy her curiosity about his boat only because he lived on it. Was he a ship-shape sailor or messyÑthings like that.

ÒThat's the bait well,Ó he said, pointing out the first thing that came to view, the circulating tank on the fantail.

ÒShirt, please,Ó Rita repeated, smiling at him. ÒIt's a lovely tank. So round.Ó She was ninety-seven percent certain that he liked her a lot, and today she intended to make sure of the other three percent. ÒI'm shy, and these nice carpenters are staring at me,Ó she said, crossing her arms across her chest, which didn't hide much, but was a choice gesture.

ÒThink how uncomfortable you might be if June and Lester were here. I doubt if either of them would be tongue-tied.Ó

ÒI waited until they left,Ó she assured him. ÒIsn't that why binoculars were invented. Hopefully, they'll be gone for a few hours.Ó

ÒHopefully,Ó Pike agreed. ÒThey went fishing.Ó

ÒAnd this must be your lovely galley,Ó Rita said, pulling him through an open door. Galley is a nautical term meaning general eating space, knock around room and kitchen. The Jumper's galley took up the whole deck level of the boat, except for the wide fishing deck encircling it. A hatch led down to the living quarters, and stairs led up to the flying bridge. He watched her eyes taking in the bachelor galley. Amazing violet eyes flecked with green, wide-spaced in the tanned face, sparkling with merriment and secrets. Always. Pike had a weakness for light colored eyes, and hers were the kind to get lost in. Until today, he had carefully avoided looking at Rita's eyes except in moving glimpses, feeling it was wrong somehow. Her eyelashes were long, the tips sun bleached. The eyebrows were dark and natural, or perhaps artfully cared for so as to appear unaltered. Her nose was long and straight, perfectly balanced with her face. And her lips were generous, with no hint of meanness. Luscious really. Yielding. Her chin was regular, square but soft. From long experience with her father, Pike knew that the square chin was capable of setting like a bulldog's and never giving up. Long neck leading down to the depressions of her clavicle and the lovely shoulders, and beyond that....

ÒNice galley, ÒRita said. ÒMost people have curtains on windows.Ó

ÒMost people who live here like to see out their windows,Ó he said. He didn't want The Jumper feminized. ÒThe guest room can have curtains, if you want.Ó

Pike was proud of the boat. He treated her like an artist treats his early works, the ones that made him famous. She was casual and lived in, but he didn't allow kids and tourists to spill soda pop on her. Children and tourists rarely came aboard.

The Jumper was the first para-yacht ever made, and for that reason was full of unexpected idiosyncrasies. Pike had designed her stem to stern with the help of Thaddeus Golan, the master boat wright, and Aaron Galatin, an aeronautics engineer. G&G Boatworks still made all the para-yachtsÑand still crafted them by hand for specific owners. Some days Pike was happy about that, and some days he gritted his teeth.

Being the prototype version, the Jumper was somewhat over-engineered. She was heavier than the current models and maybe not quite as spatially functional inside, and certainly not so luxurious as some of the fancier boats. She had miles of extra wiring circuits, and the power plant was more than twice what he had ever needed. But Pike was fond of the old tub. After fourteen years, he could detect few signs of decay, and if the truth were known, he felt more secure on her than he did on her sleeker sisters. The extra weight was a positive factor as far as he was concerned. He had designed her to be able to ride out the worst storm. If he had wanted a cork, he would have designed her that way.

ÒI don't want to live in your lovely guest room,Ó Rita said, with an impatient shake of her head. ÒIf I wanted a room of my own, I could just stay on the Lady Slipper, where I have scads more space.Ó The Baron, who doted on Rita, had allowed her to name his traveling house yacht. She'd chosen Lady Slipper, being a romantic little girl at the time. Left to his own devices, the Baron would probably have chosen a name like The Ravaging Demon or some such; but the Lady Slipper it had always been. ÒAnd I could do my research from afar,Ó she added.

ÒResearch..?Ó

ÒI'm thinking of getting my Ph.D.Ó

ÒStaying at home,Ó Pike said. Òwould probably keep your folks a lot happier if that's a concern...Ó

ÒWould it keep you happier...?Ó she asked, digging the question into his awareness. ÒThink carefully.Ó She uncrossed her arms and pulled her hair off of her shoulders. ÒHot, isn't it?Ó she said.

ÒWell, I have a well-known weakness for transparent bathing suits hanging over my shower stall.Ó

ÒThen I'm not staying in a guest room.Ó

ÒOkay, but you'll find my room a little cozy. I didn't build a master suite. I didn't really count on you showing up when I designed her.Ó

ÒHow short sighted.Ó She poked him in the ribs with a hard brown finger. ÒAren't you a little eager to show me our bedroom?Ó she said, with a mischievous grin.

ÒDown there.Ó This was turning into a very fine afternoon in spite of everything. ÒAfter you,Ó she said, gallantly.

She slid sailor-style down the hatch ladder to the sleeping quarters. It was much smaller than the Lady Slipper. Quaint. Nice. ÒYou promised you'd be a quivering, vulnerable guy, doting on my every whim, so don't go changing your mind.Ó She looked directly up at his crotch.

ÒYou wish,Ó Pike said, sliding down the ladder to join her below deck.

When they finished making love, he was still able to smile. That was about all he could doÑlay there and smile, and be utterly at peace. He had just experienced a titanic event. No other words seemed able to cover the experience. His heart was finally slowing down, bumping against his chest wall. Or maybe it was her heart. He couldn't tell. Had they really become one person?

ÒIs that your heart of mine?Ó he murmured in her ear. Rita's face was turned slightly away from him on the pillow.

ÒYours,Ó she said, speaking slowly from far away. ÒYou were very excited. I was calm throughout, except when I made those strange yelping sounds. Maybe we'll become addicted.Ó

ÒThat's a thought,Ó he agreed. The sound of the saw and laser generator came back to his ears. He remembered that his boat was injured. Strange how he'd forgotten that for over an hour.

ÒI'll need to take several sex breaks during my working day. Writing a doctoral thesis takes a lot of concentrated brain work, which is not necessarily healthy for people unless they exercise.Ó

ÒBeing a doctor is fine,Ó he answered sleepily. ÒIn case somebody gets hurt.Ó

ÒHa ha. In anthropology. I'm writing about the Tournament.Ó

ÒHmmm.Ó Closing his eyes seemed very pleasant, so he did.

ÒSweet dreams,Ó she whispered, pulling the sheet up over them. A blanket was tacked up over two of the port holes. His shirt covered the third. She sighed and snuggled her flank against his. ÒOh, by the way, do you know Richie Tourbo?Ó

ÒWe've met a few times,Ó he said, already heading toward unconsciousness.

ÒHe's a friend of mine from college.Ó

ÒYou told me.Ó Was this really the time to start talking about other guys, he wondered.

ÒI think he's going to be needing a new captain. Some sort of strange accident happened to the one he had.Ó

ÒWhat's that got to do with me..?Ó

ÒWell, nothing; but your boat is pretty damaged, isn't it..?Ó

ÒThey're fixing it.Ó

ÒThat's not what I heard. Anyway, I'll introduce you to Richie. He's a nice guy. He'll make you a good deal.Ó

ÒI don't want a good deal.Ó

ÒHe's in First Place.Ó

ÒI know.Ó

ÒI just want you to stay with the Tournament, now that we're finally together,Ó she murmured, kissing his deltoid muscle.

ÒI will,Ó he whispered. ÒIf you insist on having curtains try to pick out simple ones, without flowers and lace.Ó He closed his eyes.

Rita smiled to herself. ÒEven if you end up captaining Richie's boat, I promise I'll keep sleeping with you, if you want to,Ó she said.

Pike didn't answer, which Rita thought was a very curious response. Was he asleep already?

On Friday evening, Pike was sitting in the Amora House dining room waiting for Rita and the Tourbo kid. His heart skipped a couple of beats when he saw her come through the double doors on Rich Rodney's arm. She looked ravishing with her dark hair trailing the shoulders of her pale mint green designer's safari jacket. Knotted around her throat, a thin silk scarf of dark green accentuated the long line of her neck. Her face was serene and her violet eyes were laughing. He hadn't seen her for two longish days. She had set this meeting up on the computer phone. The shock of seeing her now was very intense. He took a sip of water and smiled at them.

ÒYou know Rich Tourbo, don't you, Pike?Ó Rita asked, maneuvering Richie a step ahead of her so she could blow a kiss at Pike.

ÒNice to see you again, Rich,Ó Pike said, standing up. ÒQuite a thrill to be in 1st Place, isn't it?Ó

ÒIt's a new experience for me,Ó Richie said, shyly. ÒI think I could learn to like it.Ó He grinned, boyishly.

ÒI've been throwing myself at this man since I was a little girl,Ó Rita confided to Rich Rodney, sliding into a chair. ÒBut he's in business with Daddy, and until recently, he hasn't looked twice at me.Ó She smiled sweetly. ÒThis is so much fun having dinner with both of you. Doing this thesis is the smartest thing I ever did, isn't it, Richie..?Ó

ÒSure seems like it,Ó Richie agreed. His heartiness was a little strained. ÒBoy, I'm starved,Ó he said, rubbing his hands together. ÒI can't tell you what an honor it is to have dinner with you, Captain Resnick. It's my treat. I insist.Ó

ÒOh, good,Ó Rita bubbled. ÒLet's start with some caviar and champagne. And call him Pike.Ó She signaled a waiter, and patted Rich Rodney's hand. ÒYou certainly seem different, RR. Have IÕve never seen you with a suntan, have I?Ó

ÒI don't think so,Ó Richie said. He seemed quite distracted.

Where have you been for two days? Pike wanted to askÑbut he didn't. Are you with me or not? Instead he flagged the waiter.

Rita raised her water glass in a toast. ÒHere's to Champion fishermen. Daddy will have a kitten if you win someday, R.R.Ó

Richie tilted his head to one side so he could briefly contemplate Rita, then he turned his attention fully on Pike.

ÒThey say you're not going to be able to fix your boat in time to continue,Ó he stammered.

Pike squeezed his lips together, but nodded for the kid to continue. The bad news had arrived earlier that afternoon. The fabricated ribs wouldn't anchor correctly and had to be re-done. Pike was fit to be tied, but what could he do about it? Nothing.

ÒI really feel strange about your boat. I wasn't even thinking about offering to hire you since you're so high above me, and you probably have things you want to do; but Rita insisted that you'd prefer to stay with the Tournament if possible, and it seems that I need a new captain. Rita says she wants to go with us and write about you and the Tournament, so that gave me the nerve to ask, sort of. As far as financially, I can certainly make it worth your while if you'd consider bringing your crew and yourself to guide me through the Tournament.Ó He stopped talking and waited nervously.

Pike added up the pluses and minuses. ÒI might be smart to take out a large insurance policy,Ó he said with a grin.

There didn't seem to be room for Rich Rodney to stand on dignity, so he smiled back. ÒI know I'm somewhat accident prone; but if I had someone with your expertise to help, I could relax to some extent.Ó

ÒYou're accident prone to a monumental degree,Ó Rita corrected, with a giggle. Richie blushed and cocked his head to one side.

ÒWhat happened to Big Jim?Ó Pike asked. ÒHe got you off to a beautiful start.Ó

Richie looked confused. He glanced at Rita. She nodded for him to tell it. ÒWell,Ó he began. ÒCaptain Walen had to be taken to a back specialist on Alpha Alba. He said himself that he was thinking about wearing muckerball pads, and if he had, he probably would have just gotten a few bruises instead of a broken coccyx.Ó

Pike momentarily lost his bearings in the green/violet irises of Rita's eyes. They seemed to change color minute by minute. Impossible to describe. How old was she now...twenty-one, twenty-two?

ÒR.R. wanted a lesson in how to gaff a fish, for some reason..Ó Rita stated.

ÒSo I would know how,Ó Richie explained for the manyieth time. ÒThat's no mystery. To be proficient, you need to know all about your craft.Ó

ÒCaptain Walen was fishing so that Richie could learn to gaff,Ó Rita said. ÒHe caught a little fish and Richie gaffed it expertly, but instead of dumping it on the deck, he dumped it right on Captain Walen, who staggered backwards and landed on the seat of his pants when he lost his footing after the gaff handle caught him in an unmentionable place. That about sums it up. He'll be in a float cast for a month or so, and after that he should be able to walk again.Ó

ÒYou weren't there,Ó Richie sniveled.

ÒNo, but that's the skinny, attributed to Big Jim himself after the morphine loosened his tongue.Ó

ÒWell, yes,Ó Rich said, miserably. ÒThat's pretty much how it went; but the darned fish flapped just at the wrong time. And he was too heavy. We should have had two gaffs.Ó

ÒPossibly true,Ó Rita said, giving the kid very little mercy. ÒBut you are amazingly accident prone. Remember that time with the vacuum cleaner?Ó

ÒOh sure, bring up ancient history.Ó

ÒYou should hear about some of the manic things Richie used to do in school before you decide,Ó Rita said, punching Richie on the arm.

Rich Rodney took the wine bottle from the caddy and refilled their glasses. ÒPike doesn't want to hear stuff like that,Ó he lamented. ÒTell us a little about glans salmon and phantom trout, sir. The guide books don't go into enough detail on the fresh water species.Ó

Rita stared at Pike's jugular vein, pleased to note that it was pulsing rather rapidly. Other than that, his countenance was placidÑ Pike to the core. She winked at him, then took a sip of wine, then winked again.

ÒYou should ask Rita's father about phantom trout,Ó Pike said, pulling his eyes toward Rich Rodney. ÒHe's the expert on them.Ó

ÒI doubt if the Baron would have too many helpful hints for me,Ó R.R. said, uncomfortably.

Rita graced the younger man with a flashing smile. ÒI might help you,Ó she teased. ÒMaybe we should shoot straight over to Streamside from here. Maybe Pike could go with us...?Ó

ÒI can't,Ó Rich Rodney replied, sourly. His mouth turned down for the first time all evening. ÒIt's against the rules, and besides I have to encounter the mater.Ó

ÒYou poor thing,Ó Rita said, with suppressed delight. ÒLet's order dinner. You need lots of good nutrients to withstand the dear mater.Ó

Pike watched them share an unspoken joke at Rich Rodney's mother's expense. It was obvious that the two of them were close friends, just how close he couldn't tell. Hell of a mess coming up, he told himself again, if you continue to chase young women. Especially this one. What if she gets deep in your heart? She's practically there already.

ÒYou may not believe this,Ó Rita began in story mode, tripping on her suppressed laughter, Òbut one time R.R. was cleaning our dorm apartment and he got wrapped up in the vacuum cleaner cord, and it pitched him out through the open window.Ó She started laughing for real.

ÒThat wasn't my fault..!Ó Richie interjected, firmly.

ÒI wish I could have seen the whole thing, but when I came home from class, there he was dangling out the third story window. About a hundred firemen were crawling all over the dorm. They had a net set up down below and ladders. But they couldn't pull him up because he had the cord wrapped around his neck!Ó Rita was laughing so hard that she could barely continue with the story. ÒKids were leaning out the windows all around him..throwing ropes and yelling at the firemen to be careful..! I couldn't even get upstairs because R.R. had somehow shorted out the electricity in the whole building..!! The elevators didn't work..!Ó

ÒYou could have walked up,Ó Rich Rodney commented, drolly. ÒBesides that, it was entirely the fault of that vacuum. If you had gotten the one without robot arms, none of it would have happened. That thing never liked me.Ó

ÒWell, what about the time you got your foot caught in the escalator at Starbucks..?Ó Her laugher cascaded over the table. ÒI suppose it didn't like you either..?!Ó

Rich Rodney grinning, patiently. ÒI'm trying to be more careful, now,Ó he said, knocking over the sugar bowl with the cuff of his sports jacket. That sent Rita into gales of laughter. Mercifully, dinner came. The waiter was funny, but not funny enough to laugh at.

ÒDo you use live bait for glans salmon?Ó R.R. asked, carefully cutting a bite of his calamari appetizer. ÒOr are artificials more effective..?Ó

What Pike thought of glans salmon was better suited to a male smoker than to polite dinner conversation. He had never known why the fish was on the circuit, except that it had been the first year and had remained on, one of the big six. Disgusting, smelly fish, not even a true salmon, but a bastardized shad. ÒThe only thing going for them,Ó he said to Richie, Òis they fight like devils. I don't like the smelly things, but they give you lots of action. The rules specify a fly rod and feather lure. I usually tie on a white streamer.Ó

ÒDick fish,Ó Rita said, quite clearly. At that precise instant, the Amora House experienced one of those quiet moments that occur occasionally amid the clatter of a busy dining room. Several customers looked over at the pretty girl mouthing profanities. The Amora House was as polite as polite society got. The upper crust, such as it was, didn't really care to hear about dick fish.

ÒWhoops, a faux pas,Ó Rita grinned impishly, unable to contain her glee and not even trying to. Being slightly offensive to Amora notables was not something that embarrassed her.

ÒExcuse me,Ó she said audibly, to the large room. ÒI meant glans salmon.Ó That sent her and Pike into sustained laughter. Rich Rodney laughed as loudly as they did, but he was laughing at them or something else, since he obviously hadn't gotten the joke.

ÒThere's one other thing you should know, Richie,Ó Rita continued, sweetly. ÒI'll be bunking in Pike's room while I'm doing my research.Ó She let her statement fall with a thud, to see how it would be received. Rita hated chicanery. If honesty would get her what she wanted, she seldom resorted to sleights of hand.

ÒUh,Ó Richie answered, trying to place that fact into his internal revolving credit apparatus, but only managing to get it into a slot machine. It came up two cherries and a lemon. He pulled the handle againÑtwo lemons and a gold bar. ÒUh, you could have my room,Ó he offered. ÒI usually sleep on shore.Ó

ÒI know that, and thank you,Ó she said, virginallyÑwhich she wasn't, as R.R. knew perfectly well. She'd had tons of dates in college and he'd been included in discussions about the subject of virginity with her girlfriends. ÒPike and I talked it over. We may not have sex, of course; but if you were a woman trying to write the best paper she could on the Tournament, wouldn't you want to get as close as possible to the person who knows more about it than anyone else?Ó

It sounded reasonable to Pike, even though it was an outrageous fabrication. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe her entire ploy with him, the transparent bathing suit and everything was aimed at getting her paper written. Catch the ring. Round and round we go. ÒDon't make the kid nervous,Ó he growled. ÒHe wants his mind clear to catch fish.Ó

ÒHe knows where I'm coming from,Ó Rita said.

ÒOf course, I do,Ó Richie replied, fiddling with his fork. ÒI would always want you to stay on my boat for whatever reason. And feel free to use my room. Honest, I'm usually not in it, and I know you need your space sometimes.Ó

ÒThank you,Ó she said, touched and happy. After all, she had won with hardly a ruffle. ÒI will use your room, if I need to. I'm going to help Lester with the cooking and cleaning to earn my keep.Ó

ÒFine,Ó Richie answered. He flicked his eyes to Pike for any coherent feedback that might be available.

ÒWorry about fishing,Ó Pike advised. ÒThe rest of it will work out. She'll probably be staying in your room most of the time.Ó

Richie smiled, gratefully.

ÒI won't be,Ó Rita said. ÒBut it's nice to know it's available.Ó

ÒFine,Ó Pike said, taking a sip of champagne.

When dinner was over and the second bottle of champagne was toasted and drunk, Rita and Rich Rodney walked down to the wharf to look out over the bay. Pike bid them good-night. And trudged down to the marina. He had made a deal to captain the Tourbo kid for enough money, win or lose, to fix his boat and pay the entry fee for next year. If Richie happened to do well, the rewards increased.

On the down side, he wasn't his own man for the first time in ages. Rita had suggested that having her waiting in bed in the larger Captain's quarters of Richie's boat would make up for any wounded pride; but he wasn't so sure. Being a hired hand was going to be a very different experience than he was used to.

Sunday at dusk, a half hour before they were going to shove off for the Beta Torgas, Rita came aboard with her overnight bag. She took it downstairs, stopped briefly to brush her hair, then came back on deck. Pike was still up on the bridge, so she climbed the outside ladder. Something was wrong. She was eager to see him, but he didn't seem equally eager.

Pike watched her climbing the ladder. He had been checking out the new fish finder and thinking of all the reasons not to get involved. One: Richie could easily turn into a jealous monsterÑor worse, he would be jealous if Rita flirted with Richie. Either situation would be very unpleasant. Two: Rita was too youngÑwhich was fine for now, but practically guaranteed heartbreak down the road. Three: Women were known to be bad luck on a boat. But Rita wasn't bad luck for himÑshe had already fixed him up with a ticket for next year. So figure that one out.

Rita smiled at him through the window. He smiled back. She was such a knockout! He must be totally insane to have second thoughts.

She slipped into his arms and raised her lips. They kissed hello. She had only been away on the Lady Slipper for an hour, but it was an event for her to bring a serious suitcase to Pike's room, even a small one. She wanted to really be kissed.

ÒNot getting cold feet, are we?Ó she asked sweetly, studying his face.

ÒOf course not,Ó he lied, clearing his throat. Rita was a mind-reader, evidently. That was kind of unnerving. ÒIs your stuff all moved in..?Ó

ÒI brought some nylons to hang over the shower stall.Ó She paused. ÒI know that you're nervous about lots of stuff, which is understandable. I also know that you are having second thoughts, Captain Resnick, but forget it.Ó She smiled tightly at him. ÒIt's perfectly true that if I kept living on Daddy's boat, it might be easier on everybody. I could even sleep over, and everybody could look the other way.Ó Pike nodded. ÒThat would make fewer waves, but I'm not going to,Ó she stated with happy finality. ÒI already did the hard work for us. I threw myself at you, didn't I..?Ó

ÒSomewhat,Ó Pike agreed.

ÒYou would never have found a way, so I was bold for both of us. Now it's your turn to make a gesture. I know we're a good match, and I know you want me, I can tellÑall you have to do is act like it. It's not life threatening, you know.Ó She smiled. Pike smiled back. ÒWe'll live together until it goes sourÑif it ever does. It'll be fun, don't you think?Ó Pike nodded. ÒLester and Richie don't seem blown out,Ó she added.

ÒI know. They think we're a foursome.Ó

She looked at him squarely. ÒI know I can't replace June, but it was his decision to leave, not mine.Ó

ÒI know.Ó

ÒI know you know. I'm going to write my thesisÑyou're going to fish with Richie. And we'll fool around whenever we need to get exhausted. Pretty simple, really.Ó

ÒI guess you're right.Ó He smiled. ÒWe're meant for each other.Ó Pike glanced over at The Jumper riding so calmly on its drydock cradle.

ÒHey, Lester..!Ó she yelled down at the fantail. ÒThe Captain's decided I'm okay..!Ó The battered cook looked up at them, grinning.

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

KID LUCKY

ÒI'm not sure my views will help you get a Ph.D.; but to me winning is a sun rise

on a world you've never been to. Straining your tits to land a big fish is the payment

for the sights. No strain, no gain. Something like that.Ó

Ethyl Bierly

quoted in History of the Tournament

The week of howler fishing was half over on Beta Torga XII. After a 1st Place victory with delilah on Amora, incredibly, Rich Rodney was leading on this leg, too. And Pike had to admit that there was a very likable side to the kid, Rita had been right about that. For one thing, Richie was generous to a fault. He took the crew to dinner every night, instead of having Lester cook as he normally would have. With June gone until Segumi, most of the deck work fell to Lester. Richie would have been delighted to carry June, of course, and there was plenty of room on the Humanity, but June insisted that this was a good opportunity to spend a whole cycle of seasons with this tribe, and his wife and family. He needed to make some decisions for the future. The inherited job of head chief of the Piets would be offered to him soon. It was not going to be an easy choice, whichever way he went. Once youÕve tasted the outside Universe, a swamp culture can seem pretty rustic, even if youÕre the king.

So RichieÕs new crew settled into the job of helping him catch fish. The kid hadn't committed to a favorite rod or lures yet, so nearly every day, foam crates arrived on the high-liner from mail order outfitters and direct from manufacturersÑnew stuff to test out. It was fun. A lot of new products had been introduced this yearÑ and there were always classy gift items for everybody in the order, like realwool shirts that cost a fortune. A Newell micro reel for panfish and a split datura wood flyrod, hand made by Red Alcott on Sankor for Pike. A copper bottom sauce pan for Lester. Deck shoes and animal skin bikinis for RitaÑwhich Pike thought was going a bit far, although he didnÕt say so. The kid was so offhand about spending money that it was hard to turn him down. The only really irksome thing about old Rich Rodney, aside from his being a clumsy meathead, was his abnormal luck.

There weren't many howlers around this year. Friction storms during the last two breeding seasons had taken a toll. Storms on the Beta Torgas could be real doozies with waterspouts that sucked up fish and even coral reefs. But R.R. was catching scads of fish. There were some damn good fishermen here, but Richie had already boated sixty-three fish, while the total howlers caught by the other twenty-three entrants was only sixty. Maybe it was just a lucky run. Probably was. But the kid had beginner's luck in spades. It was uncanny.

Howlers are an ugly, cabazon-type fish that lurk in the reefs and aren't particularly dangerous if you don't let them bite you. A poison sack inside their lower jaw holds exotic curare-type poison that shoots up through two hollow hypodermic fangs, anesthetizing a victim fish in seconds and a man in minutes. Death comes from respiratory shut-down in about twelve minutes, unless anti-venom serum is administered. Not too many people go swimming on Beta Torga XII, although some suicidal natives do. They say a howler doesn't necessarily release the poison if he's just cruising by for a quick bite of thigh for lunch.

Pike thought Richie would be safe if he didnÕt get within five feet of a fish once it was boated. So that was the deal they made. Richie could catch them. Lester or Pike would unhook every single fish and show it to the judge. They shook hands on the deal. So far no one had been bitten.

Howlers don't grow very big, sixty pounds is a giant. There is no legal size restrictions at all and no bag limit, because the Beta Torga XII government would love to see them all caught. With their miles of white sand beaches, the tourist trade would thrive, except for the howlers. However, they're motherlessly hard to catch. They don't start biting until twilight and by the time the moon comes up, they're done feeding. Of course, the fishermen fish for them all day, and all night if they haven't caught one, but any time except twilight is a waste of energy.

Besides the poison, howlers have another eerie trait that no doubt keeps a few tourists away. In spite of being a true fish, they crawl out on the white sandy beaches at night to eat their catch and howl at the twin moons. One of these moons is always visible at feeding time, sometimes both of them. Their orbits are worked out perfectly for the howler.

It's not really howling, actually Ñ they should really be called screechers Ñ the sound they make is a little worse than fingernails on a chalk board. It sets most people's teeth right on edge and keeps them there all night. Daytime is for sleeping on Beta Torga XII. Ear plugs are routinely donned at dusk. Fishermen who can't change their sleeping schedule get a little weary by the end of the week, and they don't catch many fish either.

Another disgusting direct consequence of the nightly howler concert is the carcasses of dead, partially eaten fish and ducks filled with howler poison which litter the beaches every morning. Instead of being eaten by a well-organized fauna, most of this refuse lay there in the sun rotting because only two species of scavenger had developed a resistance to howler venom. One is a huge, evil smelling buzzard kind of bird, which was capable of carrying a human baby away to feed to their chicks. Every year several native babies go that route, so the buzzards are not thought of lovingly by the population, in spite of the fact that they clean up the beaches. The other scavenger is a hubcap-sized armored land crab, which is inedible because of the howler toxin they consume. Besides nipping unwary people, they have the annoying habit of tunneling under the foundations of beach houses in their spare time.

The government would be pleased to poison all the howlers, but no known poison will kill them without decimating everything else in the oceans. Consequently, the tourist trade on Beta Torga XII flourishes briefly once a yearÑwhen the Tournament fleet visits. Crazy space fishermen think that the harder a fish is to catch, the more prized it is. Otherwise, the tourist trade languishes, which makes the fishermen happy. They love unspoiled worlds.

Oddly, Rich Rodney didn't seem to mind the nightly howler serenade. He claimed he thought the screeching was musically interesting. Maybe that accounted for why he was leading all comers with a twenty-two inch specimen, which weighed just over sixteen pounds. He'd caught it yesterday evening on a simple dropline baited with half of the hard-boiled egg heÕd been eating. Several of the veteran fishermen were suddenly eager for his viewpoint on baiting, and on any number of other topics, at the local tavern where everyone hung out. That's the way fishermen are. They think if a guy can catch fish, his views on brain surgery and interplanetary politics are relevantÑor maybe they think his luck will rub off. Even Pike found himself more open-minded to Richie's odd ideas. After all, Rich Rodney had a degree in Comparative Humanities from U of TR&H, which was a very good school.

On the other hand, it was difficult to think of Rich Rodney in terms other than Òthe kid.Ó He was so short, and besides he had that boyish face and the grin that never went away. His arms had muscled out a few pounds worth, Pike observed from the bridge, watching him fishing off the stern. And after the massive sunburn had peeled away, he was finally getting a tan. Yep, he was starting to look almost human. How strong was his desire is to be a Champion Fisherman? Maybe he'd be content to just tag along as one of the boys. It was too early to tell.

Pike noticed himself taking inventory of Rich Rodney, and decided that was perfectly normal given the circumstances. Next year the kid would join the ranks of his competition. Pike had the gnawing inkling that Rich Rodney might possibly give him, and everybody else, a real run for the money. Cost would be no object. He'd get the finest equipment without thinking about it. And the best guides, and he'd be nice to the guides and generous, and they'd work hard for him.

Damn, he's got another hook up! Pike watched the rod arc as Rich Rodney braced his feet on the deck. And with all the other pluses, that damned luck is going to cause me a lot of trouble. The kid was going to be a formidable opponent eventually, and a likable one which was even worse.

Rich Rodney took a step backwards. In doing so, he put his foot on a dead anchovy which was lying on the deck. The anchovy was slippery. The foot skidded out from under him and he did the splits, smashing against the side of the live bait well. His reel screeched as line shot off. Dazed, he got to his feet and continued playing the fish.

Yep, I got a real first class competitor here, Pike laughed to himself, backing the engine to keep the slack out of Richie's line. He was getting used to The Comparative Humanity's skittish response. The blockier design of The Jumper gave her a better traction. Actually, this rotten luck may have a silver lining. I'll be able to talk to Thaddeus Golen with authority. I knew these new boats were too sleek, but he kept insisting they were fine. Luckily nobody else knows how well The Jumper handles or they'd be up in arms.

ÒNice acrobatics,Ó Pike yelled down from the bridge. ÒLet's see you do that again. I'd like to learn that one.Ó

Rich Rodney grinned and kept reeling.

Lester Wunderman limped cautiously around the live bait well holding the gaff hook, but staying well out of the kid's way. Richie may be a clown, Pike thought, but he's got a damned fish magnet, and that isnÕt for sale just anyplace.

Richie Tourbo woke up from a short nap in the Torga Excellency Hotel, which was a far cry from the luxury hotels he was used to. The bed was lumpy, but at least it was clean. Oh, well, fishermen have to take their comfort where they can. It was better than staying on the boat. For some reason, he didnÕt love sleeping aboard; but he didn't have to love it. ThatÕs what hotels were for.

Someday soon he was going to take a day off to visit his mother and try to explain where he'd been this last monthÑand also try to defend the spending of half a million Confederation dollars on fishing gear and guide fees.

The money was his own, of course; but the checks cleared through the corporation bookkeepers, so his mother would hear about them. He'd never seen any reason to hide his transactions before, and didn't now for that matter; but she would demand to know why he ducked away from his bodyguards. He was going to tell her that he was grown up now and had his own pursuits of happiness to look after. Mom wasn't going to like that.

However, she had never consulted him on what she did with her lifeÑnever asked his opinion on anything, for that matter. Maybe he had as much disdain for sharp real estate deals as she did for sports. He'd just had the very best two weeks of his whole existence, and he wasn't going to allow a flock of dull-brained bodyguards to clutter up his boat just to make her happy.

And why exactly was he programmed to always please his mother? Even if he won the Tournament someday, she was sure to sniff down her cosmetically enhanced nose at him. Wow..! That's an absolute first, Rich Rodney marveled. I actually considered winning the Tournament! That's the first time I ever, ever, felt like I could excel at anything athletic! But why couldn't I win it? I'm ahead right now. A plan started to formulate in the damp recesses of his brain, the same brain that had won high academic honors for him. The alarm clock on the night stand clattered.

Rich Rodney jumped off the bed and almost fell down as his legs tried to compensate for the rocking motion of the boat. There was no boat in his hotel room. That was a rather revolting aspect of ocean fishing. His body continued to roll for hours after he was ashore. There must be a way to allow the semi-circular canals to adjust more quickly, but he hadn't found it yet. No matter, he had to get ready. He was having dinner with Pike and Lester and Rita, and he still had about a million questions to ask so he'd be ready for the next fish category, Tiger Muskies on Ashenden A.R. He would be going to Ashenden immediately after seeing his mother.

Rita was going with him on the visit, in her brotherÕs boat, actually. She was always doing unexpected things like that. Things that made his life a heck of a lot easier. In spite of his fondness for her, Rich Rodney had a sneaky feeling that she might have coerced him into asking Pike to captain the boat just so she could have a romance. It was quite evident that she was attracted to Pike.

Rich Rodney had to smile at that as he stepped into the shower and slipped on a bar of soap. He leaped up quickly with no broken bones and adjusted the shower jet. Yes, Rita was a sly one. So sly she was transparent. And Pike seemed fond of her, in a fatherly way. But everything was fine. So what if Rita slept in Pike's roomÑor even in his bed? That was a well known way of doing in-depth researchÑespecially for a woman. Research..? Oh, sure! R.R. might be a nice guy, but he wasn't totally born yesterday. Fortunately, he wasn't the jealous type.

But there were a few little problems in the lover's bedroom. A compromise had been made that was driving them both a little crazy. Against nature and any sensible way to proceed, they had agreed not to screw. The agreement had happened the first night on Beta Torga XII, when Rita decided it was time to teach Pike a lesson. He wasn't acting sufficiently grateful for her favors, in fact, he was acting confused. How dare he!

There's a limit to how much a girl will tolerate. Besides, Beta Torga's twin moons made her feel different here than she had on Amora. Unfortunately, she didn't take note of that fact. One moon was almost full while the other had waned to a sliver. Very confusing emotionally, but very subtle. The moons, or something, made her feel like she needed to have the upper hand.

Pike and Rita had both been a little tipsy after dinner at Richie's hotel the first night on Beta Torga XII. Fully clothed, they collapsed on the bed, but his lips seemed to hold back when they kissed. So she decided to teach him the lessonÑif you want to get screwed, you're supposed to act happy about it. ÒDon't get the wrong idea about this, Champ,Ó she said. ÒI've been thinking that maybe we shouldn't make love again until we get to know each other much better. After the Tournament is over might be about the right time. We can be close friends, like we have been, until it seems like we should be lovers again. How does that sound?Ó She expected an argumentÑ which she was willing to lose and blame on drunkenness. Passion, naturally, brooks no delay.

But much to Rita's surprise and irritation, Pike was relieved at the news. The pressure he'd been feeling evaporated and he smiled at her for the first time all day.

ÒReally?Ó he asked, relaxing luxuriantly. ÒThat's great. You really are perceptive. That's exactly what I've been feeling, but I was afraid to mention it, in case you'd get angry.Ó He kissed her eyelids, then kicked off his deck shoes. Cuddling her to him, he buried his face in her dark hair and fell asleep floating on the aroma of mild balsam.

Well, that served her right, she fumed. Trickery had never worked for herÑwhy did she keep trying it? But it had been sweet of him to kiss her eyes. She lay beside him, feeling his strength. Sleep was nowhere in sight. She would have liked to get up and unpack her suitcase, but she didn't. This was certainly an unusual way to bind anyone to her. But Pike was an unusual man. A warrior, wasn't he? She knew from the hours spent in somewhat colorless sociology classes that warriors were supposed to hold their women in high regard.

Some sociologists thought that all people were divided into three classes: warriors, intellectuals and businessmen. But Pike was also an intellectual with his inventions. Intellectuals live in an ivory tower by themselves. But one thing she did know, Pike was no businessman. Businessmen thought of women as possessions to be bought and sold. Oh, hell, she didn't know what she knew. That was always the problem with Pike and his damned green eyes. But he smelled good. Kind of like sea wind. She had no idea in the world if this ploy would work out, but at least she was here now in his bed. That was something no other woman could say. She practiced a petulant frown, then changed her mind and practiced a smile. She had to pee, but Pike's arms still encircled her, so she kissed his chin and let herself drift.

* * *

CHAPTER SIX

TIGER MUSKIES

ÒI try to win every single day of the Tournament. Each time I make a

cast, I'm ready to catch a record fish. But do I think winning is important?

What I really think sounds kind of stuffy; but what's important is being

a half-way decent person. If winning doesn't interfere with that, then

winning is fine.Ó

Harry Dolan

quoted in History of the Tournament

Ashendon A.R. is a water planet in a foggy swirl of other water worlds around a dying giant red sun. Nowhere else in the galaxy is there a situation quite like this, as far as anyone knows. Seen from far away, the twenty-seven misty water worlds look similar to the rings around the planet Saturn in the Sol System, but up close the whole system whirls stoically and ecstatically around its sun in a vast rainbow of tiny water droplets.

The system had been discovered by one Augustine Radamacher, who named each planet for a lady friend It was a pick-up line that seldom failed, so they say. ÒWant'a have a planet named after your adorable self..?Ó Augie would croon to the waitress or dance hall girl of his choice. Followed by an instant pre-honeymoon trip to visit the A.R. System. All's fair in love and planet naming. On the official planet naming form, he coupled the lady's name with his own initialsÑsimilar to a teenage boy carving names on a smooth tree. Radamacher had long since drowned, but his love affairs lived on.

Water worlds are peculiar places. To be classified as one, the land mass must be less than five percent. Some water worlds have great stands of underwater forests or aquatic plants which occasionally cut loose to form floating islands. Others are complete deserts. Some have evolved intelligent species similar to mermaids, with gills for breathing. The Star Fishermen didn't care if they were on a water world or notÑas long as the fishing was good.

On Ashendon there were no mermaids and no land at all. Well, to be accurate, there was a lot of land, but it was all underwater. The water was fresh water, a phenomenon of the incessant rain and peculiar soil minerals that balanced the tendency of salinity through evaporation. The third week of the Tournament was always on Ashendon, and there was plenty of grumbling this year about the Tourbo kid winning both of the early categories. The guys and girls were plenty nervous. A couple more wins and the kid might have an uncatchable lead.

Pike Resnick, conversely, was starting to feel an edge of confidence. Blues and howlers had never been his strength, and the kid had managed to stumble through them without him. Now they were moving into Pike's stronghold. The explanation of his fishing success was quite simply that he had a thing for the last five categories. With even a drop of luck, he'd be able to nudge Richie into the history books.

Pike was feeling pretty chipper when The Comparative Humanity splashed down near the floating marina on Ashendon. Rita had taken R.R. to Talmage Heights to see his mother, so Pike and Lester had nothing to do until the boss showed up, except rendezvous with their new judge and bullshit with the guys, none of whom were around since they were all out fishing. Pike had always enjoyed his time on Ashendon in spite of the mugginess. It was certainly no place for a water colour painter, the air was hung with hovering moisture. When the humidity reached a hundred percent, it rained big soft drops. The rest of the time it was misty. Blue skies never broke the dew layer, but enough light rays filtered through it to furnish the verdant underwater vegetation with the components needed for a cloud forest type growth cycle. That's where the big striped muskies lurked, swimming in and out of the subaqueous growth like shadow tigers. They were the largest fish on the planet. Adult specimens had no natural predator, so they feared nothing. They fed when they were hungry which was often, and lazed in the jungle when they weren't. But the muskies had a psychological weakness that Pike counted on. They could be made angry, angry enough to smash at the source of the irritation. Making a thousand pound tiger angry had its down side; but hey, that was the name of the game.

There was no resident population on Ashendon, but entrepreneurs from the nearest inhabited planet, Caroline A.R., maintained the marina and provisioned the fleet. They also enforced the strict bag limit of one muskie per week over sixty inches and no smaller fish of any kind. They obviously didn't want their prime resource overfished, nor their food concessions diminished by fresh fish on the table. Usually the fishermen weren't interested in keeping muskies anyway, so the restrictive regulation didn't bother them muchÑbut catch and release of a large muskie, with its underslung scissors jaw, called for a deft touch. A technique had evolved over the years of leading a non-keeper fish into a submerged cargo net, then to crane it out of the water for a quick weigh-in, photograph and certification by the judge. Then, simply snip the line off near the hook and release the fish. The uncoated steel hook was left to rust out, as it would in the fresh water.

It was during a snipping operation nine years ago, that Lester Wunderman had developed his limp. An angry twelve foot tiger had somehow tailwalked out of the net and leaped aboard in the few seconds that the grid was off. He scissored off a gory bite of Lester's upper thigh, before flopping over the rail back into the watery forest. First aid and reconstructive surgery saved Lester's life and livelihood, but left him with a gimp. But the next year, he had wanted his job back. Braver men than Lester Wunderman may exist somewhere, but Pike didn't know any.

The floating marina was empty, except for Bardona's Lady SlipperÑtied up in a nearby slip. The Baron always brought his house yacht along, as well as two full sized fishing boats. Rita had borrowed one boat and one brother to fly her and Richie to visit his mother. Some of the members bitched about Bardona's multitude of boats, since he wouldn't sell them an extra para-yacht to live on, but they never bothered to change the Rules to prohibit him. Why anger the petulant goose who might have gliches built into their next boat?

Pike was eager to start looking for muskies; but the kid was the fisherman. If he wanted to neglect prime fishing hours, it was up to him. Pike made a few entries in the CaptainÕs log, then stretched out for a mid-morning siesta. There was no telling how long Rich and Rita would be away. The trip had been put off day after day on Beta Torga, when Richie could have easily gone. Now, that he should be fishing, he goes. Well, Pike couldnÕt help any of it. By all accounts, Mom Tourbo was a real fire breather. Maybe Richie would hurry back with his tail feathers singed.

Talmage Heights was a garden planet, now owned almost entirely by Mom Tourbo. The whole shebang was her private estate and she regarded the subservient population, complete with an appointed government, police department and Coast Guard as her serfs, which in essence they were. She liked things that wayÑowned and controlled, and therefore well-mannered.

Mom tried to keep her perspective, if not her real estate dealings, scrupulously honest. In other words, she didn't mind fooling others, but she didn't like fooling herself. And it seemed that she had perhaps deluded herself about her loving son.

Lord knows she had always tried to love himÑwell, how could you really love somebody who was constantly breaking things; but she had gotten him the best nannies and tutors, if that wasn't a sign of her love she didn't know what was. It was hardly her fault if these women always liked her better than they did the boy. Yes, Rodney's childhood had made many sweet memories for MomÑthe conquest of each new nanny had been delicious.

Now he had changed from the sweet, obedient child who always tried to curry her favor into an obnoxious, willful demon bent on destruction, just like his father. Larue J. Tourbo had been a ghastly mistake for her. He was a filthy brute, always wanting to paw and fondle her at her little real estate office, begging her to marry himÑsaying that her business skills would be a great asset to him.

Just a brute. The pain and humiliation of that one tipsy nightÑthe supposedly wonderful wedding nightÑ had never left her. His hairy, disgusting body crushing her until finally she had let him have his way. Truly disgusting. That was certainly not part of the wedding contract. She had let Mr. Larue Tourbo know that with crystal clarity the next morning, after lying awake all night listening to his contented snorking. So at breakfast, she had demurely suggested that she had to have a bedroom of her own. He had laughed at her in his brutish way and had gone out to carouse with his hateful friend, Clive McAss.

Seeing that she would have to take matters into her own hands, demure Lillith simply removed all of her new husband's things from the bedroom, piling them in the hallway, and ordered a servant to install a substantial hasp on the inside and outside of the door. She snapped a padlock through the outside lock, thereby wiping her hands of further brutishness.

Then with her sleeping arrangements on a firmer footing, she had herself driven down to her tiny office, where Larue had had the good sense to meet her when he was looking for some commercial property to purchase. She called a painter to repaint the sign out in front, and ordered new letter heads and business cards from the stationer. When Larue came to retrieve her late that evening, she took time out from the interesting deal she was working on to proudly point out the new shingle to him, even though her lout of a husband was drunk and fawningly in heat. The sign said: L&L TOURBO LTD. His name and his sixty-five million credit nest egg would turn into billions under her calculating watchfulness. Sadly, Larue wouldn't be around to see what good management could do.

Several days of whining and barking about sleeping alone convinced the wounded bridegroom that he should visit his holdings in the Ainendrenhen System, where a manly sporting event would be attracting sporting ladies. Lillith barely listened as he tried to entice her to come along. She informed him sweetly that she loathed sporting opportunities and that perhaps he should find a traveling companionÑshe had plenty to occupy her at the office. The demure way she offered the new arrangement caused LarueÕs eyebrows to arch all the way up to his hairline. She always remembered that touching moment with a smile.

Sadly, The Eye called her within the week to report the tragic news that Larue had been atomized by a meteor after purchasing a few hundred uninhabited planets. To a large extent, she had forgotten he was gone. The pre-nuptial agreement left everything to her, naturally, unless there was a child. Not wishing to offend any of LarueÕs friends, Lillith arranged for a memorial service at which she wore simple black. That afternoon, she found time to drop into the office to complete a pending deal on an apartment complex, which she rechristened The Larue Towers. She thought it was a fitting memorial. And it was for eight years, until progress demanded that a new spaceport be built on that section of land. Mega bucks changed hands.

A few months after LarueÕs death, Lillith was as surprised as everyone else to see that she was starting to plump around the middle. But she took it stoically. Marital duty was attempting to overpower her again. No way that was going to happen. She hoped fervently that the baby would be a girl, and plowed back into her work. As a concession to impending motherhood, she hired a sweet young thing named Sandra to help with the paperwork at the office, and encouraged everyone to call her Mom.

But Richard Rodney had been born as a little boy instead of a girl. And now he was starting to act as brutishly as he father hadÑfoolishly endangering his life and her future grand daughters by going fishing. And he had made out a last will and testament that she had never seen. What was a mother to do?

ÒLovely to see you again, dear,Ó Mom said to Rita. ÒHow is your charming father?Ó

ÒHe's not doing very well,Ó Rita laughed. She had come along to Talmage Heights mainly to bolster R.R.'s moral courage. He claimed he could handle the chore himself, but duty to friends was high on Rita's list of things to do. And besides she wanted to see how deftly Richie's mother operated on him, since Rita herself had pushed him into this antagonistic position of being a fisherman. ÒDaddy's tied for sixth place, way behind Richie.Ó

ÒOh, you're in fifth place, darling?Ó Mom said distastefully, turning her gaze back to the uncomfortable boy.

R.R. nodded feebly, hoping the subject would change. He had wanted to come to his new life in a more circumspect manner. Trust Rita to confront everything head-on.

ÒHe's in sole possession of 1st place,Ó Rita gloated. ÒPike and I are so proud of him that we could burst.Ó

ÒPike..?Ó Mom asked, arching her eyebrows disapprovingly.

ÒPike Resnick,Ó Rita answered, liking the matter of fact way the name had slid off her tongue. ÒHe's captaining Richie's boat. We were lucky to get him.Ó

ÒI see,Ó Mom said, dripping scorn on the solid fusion-glass coffee table where three cups of peppermint tea sat cooling. In her opinion, Pike Resnick was a profligate wastrel, who should have been wealthy but had squandered his chance. Certainly a dangerous influence on her impressionable son.

ÒHow have you been, Mother?Ó R.R. asked, conversationally. ÒAny interesting deals in the works?Ó

ÒI..? Thank you for asking, dear boy, but why should you be concerned that I'm headed for an early grave. Go have your fun, while I spend my days worrying about you, and my nights listening to the wailing of my unborn granddaughters. Since I heard that you dismissed your loyal security friends, I haven't had a moment's rest. That's why I look so peaked, as I'm sure you have noticed.Ó

R.R. risked a glance from his lap up to the crocodile's face. It looked radiant with health and meanness, like always. ÒThere's no room on the boat for security people,Ó he mumbled.

ÒNonsense. Just because I'm an old lady, doesn't mean I'm senile.Ó

ÒAnd they're not my friends,Ó he said, finding a little courage. ÒYou always call them my security friends, but they're intrusive bodyguards. I've never once been consulted about whether I want them or not. Truthfully, Mother, there's no need for security guards just now. Fishing isn't dangerous.Ó

ÒOh..? I hadn't realized that. In fact, I'd always heard the opposite. Don't they make a lot of man-crowing hype about how dangerous and exciting it's supposed to be?Ó She turned her reptilian eyes back onto Rita. At least the boy had excellent taste in women, Mom noted with satisfaction. Lovely and so well-heeled. She felt a sudden lust to get her hands on a few of the Baron's assets, or Rita's. ÒIs that true, Rita?Ó she inquired. ÒFishing on all those outlandish places is completely safe for a frail boy like Richard?Ó

ÒWell, I wouldn't say completely safe,Ó Rita vacillated.

ÒI knew it!Ó Mom yelped. ÒWhy would you fabricate a brutish lie like that, Richard? You worry a body to death! You always have, one thing after another.Ó

ÒThat's not true, Mother. You've never worried about me, and there's no need to be so theatrical.Ó

ÒIngrate! How would you know what a mother goes through with an ungrateful son like you? I'm calling some security friends right now, and you will take them back to your stupid boat! And don't go damaging them like the one I sent to Amora.Ó

R.R. digested that news. Silas must have been the one. No wonder he was so helpful all the time. ÒI'm not taking any security friends, Mother. Please don't make an issue of this. I came for a pleasant visit with you. I'm an adult now, and I'm hoping you'll accept that fact.Ó He reached for the tea cup, but inexplicably it slipped from his fingers, smashing the priceless matching saucer. R.R. scowled, retrieved the cup and drank the remaining swallow of tea. A servant scurried in to mop up the coffee table.

ÒI knew I should have served Richard in his plastic tea service, but I was so hoping he'd gotten over his clumsiness now that he's an adult,Ó Mom explained to Rita. ÒHow is your father's new boat, dear?Ó she asked, with a pitying expression gracing her well-preserved face. ÒI heard from our insurance people that it's much better than the old one.Ó

ÒItÕs quite nice,Ó Rita responded. ÒDaddy is fishing with it on Ashendon. He can be so petty sometimes.Ó

Rich Rodney squirmed.

ÒNot at all,Ó Mom said, sweetly. ÒThatÕs how the game is played. You children are getting old enough to be interested in the rules, donÕt you think? And speaking of rules, the next thing I would like to discuss, darling boy, is the enormous amount of investment capital you seem to be frittering away on dangerous foolishness.Ó

ÒI think it's time for us to be running along, Rita,Ó Richie said. In the process of standing up, his knee rapped solidly on the sharp corner of the coffee table. Groaning, but undaunted, he limped toward the door.

ÒLet me ring for breakfast, dear,Ó Mom said, sedately. ÒYou can't go out without your breakfast.Ó

An hour before sunset, as fog started to whisper, Farouk Bardona's second fishing boat splashed down in the marina on Ashendon. It docked next to the Lady Slipper. Four people stepped onto the floating wharf: Rita, Richie and his two large bodyguards, who appropriately flanked R.R. until he demanded that they walk ten paces behind him and Rita. In this configuration, they made their way around the floating docks of the marina until they came to the Comparative Humanity.

Pike stepped out on deck as the foursome approached.

ÒReady for fishing, Captain, sir,Ó Rich Rodney announced to Pike, with a smart salute.

ÒToo foggy now. We'll hit it hard in the morning. Where were you all day? They were biting like crazy.Ó Pike smiled at the kid, and felt his member hardening at the sight of Rita. It was kind of ridiculous to get all hot and bothered every time he saw her, but really, this was the most alive he'd felt for a long timeÑmaybe ever. That's interesting. This may be the sexiest and the most alive I've ever felt. As each day passed he was under move sexual strainÑliving with her, but not having her. But hey, no strain, no gain. He caught her eye as the two bodybuilders walked up and stopped a pace behind the pair.

ÒWhy can't we go out now? Isn't sunset the best time?Ó R.R. asked, jumping aboard. His sudden movement startled his guards.

ÒDusk is best for howlers, I imagine that's what you're thinking of,Ó said reasonable Pike Resnick, fishing instructor to the rich and famous. ÒTo land a muskie, you have to be able to see. That's impossible in this pea soup, as you will notice.Ó

ÒShoot,Ó said Rich Rodney, using his strongest oath. He tripped over a well-protected cleat inside the starboard rail that was virtually impossible to trip over. Stumbling profoundly, he caught his feet together, then pitched nose first into the scuppers. Both security men swarmed onto the deck. One moved into a defensive position to block any attack that Pike might decide to make, the other leapt to help Rich Rodney up.

ÒHands off!Ó Richie yelped, jumping up. ÒAnd get off this boat. Neither I nor Captain Resnick invited you on board.Ó The guard's faces got that out of kilter look of the bewildered.

Pike watched Rita laughing delightedly from the dock.

ÒWhat's going on here?!Ó Lester Wunderman thundered, coming out of the galley with a fully charged harpoon gun. ÒYou heard him! Off the boat.Ó Lester looked hastily to Pike for confirmation. Pike shrugged. He saw the frightened face of Edmund Messier, their judge on this leg, appear at the galley window.

The security friends looked at the harpoon, then at each other. Finally they looked tightly at Rich Rodney. ÒI think I missed something here, Mr. Tourbo, sir,Ó the largest one said.

ÒYes. I meant to explain earlier. Your services aren't needed on the boat. My mother will pay you and you will remain on the dock at all times, staying as far away from me as possible. Is that clear?Ó

ÒWhy would you pay us, unless we were guarding you?Ó

ÒI'm not paying you, my mother is. I just said that. If she wants to pay you to relax on Ashendon, that's her business, isn't it.Ó

ÒYes, sir. I guess it is. Won't we have to tell her that you're uncooperative?Ó

ÒTell her whatever you want to. But first get off this boat. Lester, shoot the big one first, if he's not dockside in seven seconds.Ó

ÒYes, sir,Ó Lester answered, crouching slightly and pointing the harpoon at the man's muscular belly.

Both bodyguards were on the dock by the time Richie had counted to four. ÒVery good,Ó he said. ÒStop simpering, Rita, and come aboard. All you've done all day is simper at me.Ó

ÒI never simper,Ó Rita corrected. ÒI was laughing at you.Ó Nevertheless, she stepped gracefully aboard.

ÒWhere should we bunk down, sir?Ó the smaller man asked, deferring the essentials of his personal comfort to his employer as he always did.

ÒThat's not my problem,Ó R.R. said. ÒCall my mother and ask her. I told her there wasn't room for you here. But if you do call her, there's a faint chance that she'll stop paying you for doing nothing. She hates to waste investment capital.Ó

The bodyguards looked at each other again. Working for rich crazies was such a drag. Here they were, stranded on a foreign world.

ÒGo have dinner at that pub up the dock,Ó Pike said. ÒI'll come and get you straightened out in a little while.Ó

ÒThank you, Captain,Ó they both said in unison, and marched toward the pub.

ÒPut the harpoon away, Lester,Ó Pike said. ÒAnd get out the gallon of mercurochrome for Richie's hands. I think he skinned them.Ó

Lester grinned. ÒAre you staying for dinner?Ó he asked Rita and Rich Rodney.

Rita flicked a look at Pike and nodded yes.

ÒDo you think it would be all right for me to fish off the fantail for awhile, just so I get a feel for the water?Ó Rodney asked.

ÒYou're the boss, boss,Ó Pike said. ÒWhy ask me?Ó

ÒOf course, I have to ask you. I just want to fish for awhile, if it's not breaking any rules.Ó

ÒThere are no rules about when to fish. Just don't catch any. It would interrupt dinner in the worst way.Ó He grinned at the kid. ÒHarry Dolan caught an 800 pounder this morning. We'll have to go some to top that. You should get to know Harry. He's a fine fisherman.Ó

Night had fallen by the time Rita, Pike and Messier had cracked open the first bottle of wine and started on the appetizers. Lester was puttering over his sauce pans, making some kind of special dish for dinner. Pike knew Edmund Messier had started nibbling at his private bottle around four o'clock, when it became evident that there would be no fishing today. The scholarly little man had been with the Tournament for several years and was a competent judge. It wasn't an easy job to readjust to a new boat and crew every week. If he liked to drink on off days, that was his business. The Tournament got progressively more dangerous from this point forward. Taking a drink relieved the pressure; but alcohol sluggishness increased the danger, so Pike himself seldom indulged.

ÒPleasant trip to Talmage?Ó Pike inquired of Rita.

ÒYes, very. The Tourbo's are very interesting together. Do you know Mom?Ó

ÒI know of her, but we've never met.Ó In spite of the deal that he had made with Rita, abstinence was making him a little crazy. She was always aroundÑsupposedly working on her famous thesis at the terminal in Pike's roomÑtheir room. It didnÕt seem like he should push himself on her, or insist on anything, for that matter, just now. It was a question of getting adjusted, she said, when he had asked about the situation. It had only been a week, she saidÑwhich was almost true. It had been ten days.

She didnÕt act unavailable in public. Probably everyone who saw them together assumed they were an item. Well, they were an item! The way they looked at each other was intense. Sparks flew, didnÕt they? Or was that only his perception? She usually sat beside him at mealsÑwas always attentive and often snuglyÑin public. He was friendly, but restrained. In private, she wasn't ready yet. And he didn't see any winning moves except to waitÑand that, of course, was not a guaranteed winning move.

ÒWell, Mom Tourbo doesn't think too highly of you,Ó Rita laughed.

ÒI guess that proves she's as shrewd as they say.Ó

ÒYes, I guess it does,Ó she answered, winking at Mr. Messier. Rita shifted her gaze to the side window, watching the white fog drifting lazy as a cloud billow. Why did she always have to force the issue of intimacy? That's not the way it was supposed to work. Why didnÕt he drag her into the bedroom or something? But he wasnÕt going to, was he? Maybe Mom Tourbo was right. Pike was too indecisive to protect his own interests. Maybe he was that way in everything. No, he was a brilliant inventor and a really brilliant fisherman, and that's what he wanted to be. He had to be judged on that criterion, didn't he? Her father might take advantage of Pike financially, but never at fishing. But did she want to marry a fisherman? Yes, her heart screamed. He's good. He's fine! I'm happy when I'm here with him. Throw yourself at him. Who cares what anyone thinks!

Instead of a proposal from Pike, her impasse was broken by the shrieking of a 4.0 reel. ÒHoly shit..!Ó Rich Rodney yelped from outside. ÒI've got one! Cripes, help me!!Ó

Rita and Pike scrambled up from the table. Lester took a second to turn off the bottled gas burners before he hobbled after them.

Outside, Pike ran to the bridge with the reel screaming in his ear. ÒLoosen up on the drag, kid! Les, get him in the chair!!Ó Pike started the engine, toggled up the running lights to full brightness and lit the defense grid. The boat had twin spotlights mounted above the bridge. He hit the switch and pointed them at the fog bank where the heavy line was diving downwards.

ÒGot him!Ó Lester shouted. He wrapped his arms around Richie and dragged him backwards toward the fighting chair. ÒDon't hurt me with your cussed clumsiness, or I'll kill you,Ó he hissed in R.R.'s ear. ÒHold onto the rod until I get you strapped in. Relax damnit! Not that relaxed! Act right!!Ó Lester snapped the harness rings into their keepers, then made sure the rod was seated properly and the safety line was secured.

ÒIt's a big one, Pike!Ó Rich Rodney yelped. ÒCan we keep him!Ó

ÒKeep him?Ó Lester griped. ÒHe's gonna take all the line, then snap you off and laugh about it. I ought to cut him off, now.Ó

ÒCanÕt we try for him, Pike..?Ó the kid pleaded

ÒHe's using the big outfit,Ó Lester said. ÒBut he'll snap off sure, if we stay in the slip.Ó

ÒHow big is he, Lester?Ó Pike yelled. ÒDamn this fog!Ó

ÒPretty big. HeÕs ripping the line off, but we can't take him without room to maneuver.Ó

ÒI heard you! Okay, let's try it,Ó Pike said, feeling very unsure that this was the right move. One the other hand, a fisherman learns not to scoff at luck. The kid might never get another bite, if he didn't try for this one.

ÒWhat should I do?Ó Rita yelled.

ÒJump down and cast us off,Ó Pike yelled back. ÒThen run up to the pub and get those two goons to help set up some spotlights. As many as you can find.Ó

Rita hopped neatly over the rail, landing with bent knees. ÒThose guys won't have credit to rent anything with,Ó she yelled up at Pike. She unwrapped the stern line from a big cleat on the dock.

ÒUse yours,Ó Pike said. ÒHurry up with the lines.Ó

ÒDaddy will kill me,Ó she laughed, untying the bow line from its cleat.

ÒWell, use mine or Richie's! Just get the fucking lights going! I can't see a thing.Ó

ÒCast off! You're clear,Ó she called, casting the bow line onto the deck. ÒFloodlights would be better. Spots just reflect in this soup.Ó

Pike feathered the engine and gently backed out of the slip. ÒLights. Lots of them. Spots or floods or flashlights. Anything!Ó He smiled tightly as Rita ran up the dock into the fog.

Edmund Messier stumbled out on deck. ÒAre you serious about fighting a fish?Ó he inquired of Pike.

ÒLooks that way,Ó Pike replied. The boat was clear of the slip and headed into a fog bank. ÒSlow him down as much as you can, Lester! I want to stay within sight of this stupid wharf!Ó

ÒBrace your feet, kid, and lean on that rod,Ó Lester said. ÒYou have to play him all yourself. I can't help.Ó

ÒI know that,Ó R.R. said.

ÒI know you know, but I'll be right here to back you up. Keep thinking about not hurting me and yourself. That should be primary in your mind.Ó

ÒThank you,Ó Rodney said. ÒI know. I admire you and Pike too much to hurt you. I was careful during the howlers, wasn't I?Ó

ÒHowlers ain't muskies,Ó Lester reminded himself, with a shudder.

ÒHow big do you think this one is?Ó

ÒPretty big. You got ahold of him, so you're the expert. How big is he?Ó

ÒGosh, he feels as big as a house.Ó

ÒWell, that's how big he is then,Ó Lester said. ÒHouse size.Ó

Edmund Messier peered out into the white/black nothingness. ÒI better get my camera ready,Ó he slurred, and went down to his stateroom.

ÒLean on him, Richie!Ó Pike called. ÒBut don't try to turn him! I don't want him snagging an anchor cable!Ó The marina platform was deep anchored with two inch cables at each corner, fastened to long pitons driven into core rock. If the fish wrapped around a cable, he was home free.

ÒLet the strain go down to your legs if you can,Ó Lester explained. ÒYou won't be able to fight him with your arms, youÕre not strong enough. Nobody is.Ó

ÒI'm pushing as hard as I can,Ó Rich Rodney growled. He shoved his feet harder against the deck, and looked around for Rita, who was nowhere in sight. Didn't she care that he was fighting a monster?

ÒConcentrate on what you're doing.Ó

ÒI am. Where's Rita?Ó

ÒPike sent her off.Ó

ÒOh,Ó he said, looking at the line again. If Pike sent her off, then naturally she wouldn't be watching.

ÒHalf empty..!Ó Lester called out to Pike, meaning the reel was half empty.

ÒGive him a full turn of drag,Ó Pike answered. ÒI'll go to idle. Let Mr. Tiger pull the boat awhile. That ought to get him jumping.Ó

ÒGive your drag a full turn,Ó Lester said, relaying the message. ÒThe other way, kid. Twist it the other way. That's better.Ó

Rich Rodney turned the drag a full turn, then grabbed back onto the rod with both hands.

ÒShould I hook up the cable helpers?Ó Lester called.

ÒYes,Ó Rich Rodney gasped.

ÒNot yet,Ó Pike answered. They were fully in the fog bank. It was eerily quiet inside. Pike could barely make out the shapes of Lester and the kid. He turned the spotlight on them. ÒI thought I told you not to catch any fish, Richie!Ó he taunted. ÒNow, look at the mess we're in..!Ó

ÒI didn't try to. I never thought anything big would bite, just those little shiny purple ones I was saving for bait.Ó

ÒWhat shiny purple ones?Ó Pike said, uneasily. ÒWhere are they?Ó

ÒIn the bait tank. Where else would bait be? Who'd ever think anything would bite on a hunk of old tinfoil? Cripes, I just stuck it on so I could see where I was casting.Ó

Pike took a quick fix on the dim lights of the wharf, and hurried down the ladder. Good old Lester was already dipping the bait net into the live well. ÒHurry up,Ó Pike urged, under his breath. ÒBefore Edmund gets back.Ó

ÒGo fix him a drink,Ó Lester said, dipping a wiggling bait fish over the side. ÒHow many of these did you catch, Rod?Ó

ÒI don't know. A few.Ó

ÒHow many?!Ó Pike exploded, in a whisper. ÒDidn't you read the rules?Ó

ÒOf course, I did.Ó

ÒHow many have you got out?Ó Pike asked Lester.

ÒSix. It's too dark in there to see. Shine the light in the tank.Ó

ÒThat's how many I caught,Ó Rich Rodney said. ÒSix.Ó

ÒWhat's this one, then,Ó Lester asked with high irony, flinging a seventh over the rail like it was poison.

ÒIt must have been in there already. What's the big deal? This fish is getting extremely heavy, by the way.Ó

ÒExplain it to him after you're sure the tank is clean. I'll let the water out and put the spot directly on it.Ó Pike leaped back up the ladder, focused the spotlight directly on Lester. After flicking a switch that emptied the bait well, he left the bridge and went down below.

Pike found the judge in his tiny forward stateroom screwing a 35mm camera onto a suction base tripod. ÒGot a flashlight in your kit?Ó he asked Messier.

ÒI believe I have,Ó he answered, distractedly.

ÒBring it. And you're bringing your strobe pack, too, aren't you? We're going to need all the light we can get.Ó

Pike disappeared into his cabin, then reappeared with a six cell flashlight and a storm lantern, which he had unscrewed from the wall.

ÒOh, and I'd jump into some long johns, if I were you,Ó he suggested. ÒIt's going to be wet and chilly waiting on the kid. He doesn't have much experience. Lord knows how long we'll be standing around. Sorry about this, Edmund.Ó

ÒThat's why they're paying me,Ó Messier said, pleasantly. ÒI'll put on some coffee if Lester's too busy.Ó

ÒThanks,Ó Pike said, climbing back up the ladder. ÒYou're a good man.Ó

Back on deck, he made a bee-line for the bait tank and shined the bright flashlight into the shallow water. A nine inch shiner skittered madly around the inside of the tank. ÒGet this one, Lester. That makes eight.Ó

ÒNine,Ó Lester replied.

ÒLester explained the rule about catching only one fish,Ó R.R grunted, leaning against the heavy fighting rod. ÒI didn't think that applied to bait fish. IÕll be more careful and ask about anything that's not totally clear next time.Ó

ÒNo sweat,Ó Pike said lazily, now that the danger of disqualification had passed. ÒHow you holding up?Ó

ÒFine,Ó the kid lied. ÒThis is really fun.Ó

Lester netted the offending shiner and flipped it overboard.

ÒThey were all alive,Ó Pike commented to Richie, Òso technically weÕre okay with the law, now. Oh, incidentally, that ratty piece of tinfoil you found is my top secret primo bait for tiger muskies.Ó

ÒIt is..?Ó

ÒYep. Don't know why, but it drives them nuts. That's my secret. Don't be telling anyone about it.Ó

ÒI won't.Ó

ÒI mean it.Ó

ÒFine! I won't tell anyone. You think I'm a blabber mouth?Ó

ÒLester will knock if off with the gaff as soon as the fish is netted. If anybody asks, you were baiting with a strip of dead mullet.Ó

ÒI'll remember.Ó

The line slackened suddenly. ÒCrank it like mad, kid! He coming up for some jumping. Watch him, Les!Ó As Pike ran for the bridge, the fog bank exploded into dazzling brightness. White light ricocheted off of each fog droplet. Rita had found some lights. Good girl. Maybe we'll survive the night.

ÒThat's better,Ó Lester called. ÒStill can't see anything, but at least it's daylight.Ó

R.R. played the fish he couldn't see through a series of jumps. Pike jockeyed the boat to keep the line taut. It was an odd experience in the fog bank, one that most people would ever know.

Messier climbed onto the bridge lugging his camera and strobe outfit. ÒPlenty of light now,Ó he observed. ÒCoffee's ready. I'll bring it out.Ó

ÒGood,Ó Pike said, never taking his eye off the line.

ÒI'll be sober in time for the netting,Ó Messier said.

ÒGood,Ó Pike repeated. ÒYou were perfectly right to think it was a day off. It's my fault for getting us into this.Ó

Messier smiled lopsidedly. ÒThe boy has unusual luck,Ó he said. ÒEveryone's talking about it.Ó

ÒIt takes all kinds,Ó Pike said. ÒYou ever been involved in a netting in this kind of fog?Ó

ÒNo,Ó Messier answered. ÒMaybe he'll break off.Ó He started back down the ladder. ÒBlack or cream?Ó he asked.

ÒBlack,Ó Pike answered.

The marine radio crackled to life. ÒBreaker, breaker,Ó Rita's voice invaded the bridge. ÒHello, Comparative Humanity..?Ó

Pike pressed the speak button. ÒThanks for the lights, Rita. Much better. All fine here, but busy.Ó

ÒYou still have the fish?Ó

ÒStill do. The kid's doing fine.Ó

ÒIf you land him, I'll have a very special surprise for you, Pike. Can't tell you what it is over the airwaves. Over and out.Ó

ÒThat sounds pretty much A-okay. Out here.Ó A little surprise would finish this evening off just right. He stuck his head out the window. ÒHow's the kid doing, Lester?!Ó

ÒFine,Ó Lester's muffled voice carried up to the bridge.

ÒMy arms are starting to get really exhausted,Ó R.R. grunted, feeling like he should convey that fact to somebody. He had just fought something huge out in the fog through three jumps which almost tore his arms from their sockets. Mercifully, the fish was diving now.

ÒCourse they're tired,Ó Lester said. ÒBut you're fine. Can't overheat in this soup.

ÒI should do more weight lifting. I never knew how tiring this could be. That delilah I caught was easy compared to this.Ó

ÒYou're fine. Save your breath. Rest one arm at a time until you feel the strength ooze back in her. Unless you feel the fish rushing to the surface again. You know what that feels like now, don't you?Ó

ÒYes, I do.Ó He gratefully let go of the pole with one hand, breathing a big sigh of relief.

ÒCoffee's coming. That'll warm you up.Ó

ÒI don't like coffee.Ó

Lester's mouth bent in a frown. ÒWhat do you like?Ó he asked. He'd been serving the kid coffee for a week. Had he been pouring it out? ÒI wouldn't recommend much alcohol while we're fighting him. It don't do to be tipsy or too brave for the netting.Ó

ÒOrange juice,Ó the kid said.

ÒOkay, I'll get you some.Ó

ÒHurry, he might jump again. I'm not sure I can hold him alone.Ó

ÒGet the net and crane ready, Lester!Ó Pike's voice boomed from overhead. ÒIt's been almost an hour! We'll try to take him after the next series of jumps!Ó

ÒMaybe we should play him all night and take him in the morning,Ó Lester suggested.

ÒThat's too long for Richie!Ó

ÒI could put the helpers on.Ó

ÒNo. They'd flip the fish off, if he jumps. We'll get him soon. He's tired now. He's just laying out there.Ó

ÒI know,Ó Lester agreed.

ÒI'll go back easy. Make up some line. Then we'll annoy him into jumping again.Ó

ÒStanding by to make up line,Ó Lester said. Edmund Messier appeared out of nowhere with two mugs of steaming coffee. ÒThanks, Judge,Ó Lester said. ÒCould you bring a glass of orange juice, no ice, no booze, for the fighting chair. I'd get her myself, but we're going to make up some line.Ó

ÒI heard,Ó Messier said, going back to the galley.

Forty-five minutes later, the heavy half inch yellow polyethylene cargo net was sinking on the port side of the boat. All four corners of the net were cabled to the electric hoist, which was sticking out over the side. And the fog was still thick. The fish could get away easily at this point simply by making a run to port and snarling in the net. But the fish didn't know that, and it was up to Pike to maneuver the boat, so that this fact remained a secret from the muskie. The task was to bring the supposedly tired fish alongside and swim him over the net without tangling the line, then quickly hoist him into the air. Then Messier would snap a full body shot, then switch to a telephoto lens and snap a close-up showing a hook in the fish's mouth. Then they'd weigh him, Lester would break the line and they'd lower the net. The fish would swim away to fight another day. And everybody would be happy. Sounds simple on paper.

Rich Rodney's arms arched unbearably. He was sure the shoulder sockets were permanently sprung. They were in a state of rigid lock. He used the one arm relaxation technique that Lester had suggested constantly without much relief. Back and forth from pain to excruciating pain. The minute he gripped the rod, pain rictorized the forearm, then quickly jumped to his triceps and deltoid. His back muscles were locked up, too, but he could ease that pain by scooching around in the rock hard chair. All he really wanted to do was hand the rod over to Lester, or even throw the damned thing overboard. What did he care if the fish beat him? It was only a stupid fish! Nobody should have to take this kind of punishment. The rules were so stupid! Why couldn't the deck hand fight part of the stupid fish? Oh, God, his arms ached so much! If I just lift the rod butt a little, it will spring out of the cup and I can live again.

ÒHow you doing, kid?Ó Pike asked, from behind his ear. He put his big hands on R.R.Õs thin shoulders and massaged the knotted muscles.

ÒFine,Ó Rich Rodney replied. ÒHanging in there.Ó What was Pike doing, sneaking up like that?

ÒWe're going to try for him now. You're doing great. Much better than I thought you would. A lot of people quit on a fish this size.Ó

ÒI'm not quitting,Ó R.R. rasped.

ÒCourse not. We've got him now.Ó

ÒRight,Ó the kid said, pumping himself up with false bravado. Naturally, he was going to land the bastard fish. There was never a thought of chickening out.

ÒOkay,Ó Pike said. ÒWhile I'm standing here, I want you to hold the rod one handed, and shake your other arm out. Shake it good and hard to get the life back in it.Ó

R.R jumped at the suggestion, shaking his right arm jerkily. Oh, God, it felt heavenly! Nothing has ever felt this good! He switched to the left arm.

ÒDo it some more,Ó Pike said, watching the kid flail. ÒWe know you don't have much experience, but the only way to get experience with a big fish is to hook one. Kind of like the school of hard knocks, huh, kid?Ó

ÒIt's fun. I'm learning a lot. He sure is heavy.Ó

ÒYep, nobody knows that until they hook up to one. Anyway, that part is almost over. The next part can be very lively, and sometimes dicey; so I'm going to talk you through it. If he gets off under these conditions, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You fought him splendidly.Ó

R.R. felt his chest swelling with the praise as Pike explained the netting procedure. He thought he might cry. It was so damned wonderful to be accepted by men like Pike and Lester. Finally Pike was done with the explanation. Rodney realized in a panic that he might not have been paying attention. He couldn't remember any of it.

ÒI don't know if I got that,Ó he grunted. ÒAfter he comes toward the net, then what..?Ó

So Pike went over it again while Lester rechecked the crane and went below for a pit stop.

ÒThe main thing is not to freeze up or come unglued. Just keep firm pressure on his mouth. That will keep his head up. Lester and I will do the rest of it. Les will be counting on you to hold him steady. I don't have to tell you that what Lester will be doing is almost superhuman. I'm counting on you to help him every way you can. And that means to stay icy calm.Ó

ÒWhy?Ó

ÒWhy what..? Calm is the best. What else could that mean?Ó

ÒWhy is it superhuman?Ó

ÒWell, partly because it's dangerous under good conditions, but in fog like this it's very nerve wracking. And partly because a big tiger took his leg.Ó

ÒJeese, I didn't know that.Ó

ÒAnyway, don't worry about Lester. He's got balls of steel. He'll do his job, if it can be done. Just don't fuck him up when you see how big the fish is.Ó

ÒI won't,Ó R.R. vowed.

ÒYou're famous for fuck-ups. Just stay in the chair and hold the rod steady, unless Lester tells you something different. If he says anything, do it. As far as safety goes, the grid is on full power. If the fish is in the water, he can't come at you. But when we haul him high in the net, the grid won't keep him out. As soon as the net comes up, you unbuckle, but stay put. Keep the tension on, so that the line stays up and out of the way. If the fish comes loose, you runÑand I mean run, for the galley. Don't try to help Lester, you'll only fuck him up. Got that?Ó

ÒYes, sir.Ó

ÒBut it will probably go smoothly. Let's hope it will.Ó

ÒYes, sir. How long until we start?Ó

ÒTwo minutes. Shake your arms out again.Ó

The muskie glided to the surface. R.R.'s eyes bulged at the size of him. The great underslung jaw snapped once, showing millions of pointed teeth.

ÒHe's hooked good,Ó Lester shouted from the fantail. He held the long-handled gaff in both hands like a quarter staff. ÒBack easy, Pike!Ó

ÒBacking easy,Ó Pike called. ÒHow big?Ó

ÒBig enough. Stand by the crane button.Ó

ÒStanding by the crane,Ó Pike answered. From the bridge nothing was visible, just fog. ÒYou'll have to set up on the deck for the photos,Ó he said to Messier. ÒI want him in the air for ten seconds maximum. The instant I see the second flash, I'm letting him go.Ó

ÒWhat about the weigh in?Ó Messier asked.

ÒShit,Ó Pike swore. The read-out scale was on the side of the crane boom. He'd have to wait until Messier verified the weight.

As an alternative, they could kill the fish, naming him their one keeper. Then there would be much less risk; but if bigger fish were taken by the other guys, they wouldn't do well in this leg. ÒIs he big enough for a keeper?!Ó Pike shouted.

ÒCan't tell,Ó Lester called. ÒHarry's already got eight hundred. This one might go six or seven. Maybe more.Ó

Pike weighed all the elements in a micro-second. ÒWe'll take this one for our counter!Ó he barked.

ÒGood plan,Ó Lester concurred, now that the plan was made. ÒStand by to crane.Ó

ÒI can't see to shoot from up here! Get a zap!Ó

ÒGoing for it!Ó Lester answered, quickly limping toward the galley.

ÒWhat's happening?!Ó R.R. yelled.

ÒHold tight, kid. Change of plan. We're taking this one. Everything's the same for you. Keep a fair pressure on him. It's almost over now!Ó

ÒFine. I can see him, Pike! He's huge! He's looking right at me!Ó

ÒHold tight! Lester said you're hooked up good. The fish can't do a thing down there with the grid on! I told you that, didn't I?Ó

Lester gimped back to the fantail.

ÒStanding by with the zap!Ó he called. ÒReady to crane?Ó

ÒStanding by to crane!Ó Pike answered. He looked over at Edmund Messier. ÒYou any good with a las cannon?Ó he asked.

ÒYes. Adequate.Ó

ÒStand by the cannon then. Don't shoot unless you can see.Ó

ÒRoger, Captain,Ó Messier said. Climbing up the ladder, he strapped into the laser cannon harness. He would have liked to be friends with these men, but his personality didn't make friends easily. He snapped on the power and adjusted the beam to fine. ÒI'm ready,Ó he called, Òbut I can't see a thing.Ó

ÒBack slow!Ó Lester shouted from down below. ÒHe's coming in.Ó

ÒBack slow,Ó Pike answered, fingering the throttle.

ÒCrane..!!Ó Lester yelled.

Pike hit the crane button. The gears meshed and the net started up.

ÒHit him, kid!!Ó Lester yelped. ÒHe's going through!Ó

ÒWhat..?!Ó R.R. yelped back.

ÒYank on him!! Now..!!Ó

R.R. rared back on the rod. He watched in awe as the huge striped fish thrashed up until he was almost standing on his tail. Jaws snapped on one of the net cables, severing it like it was nothing. Rodney's fishing line snapped with a crack like a rifle shot, slamming R.R. sideways in the fighting chair. After a startled moment, Rodney threw the rod aside and started fumbling with the harness.

The fish crashed back into the water. The weakened net, working only with three of its four cables, collected him, hauling his huge muscular tail out of the water. He twisted and bucked in the net, his head completely free of any confinement. ÒKeep him coming!!Ó Lester squawled. The crane groaned, but kept hauling its cargo of thrashing fish up. Green water cascaded off the monster. Waiting for a brain shot, Lester angled along the rail with the stun gun, a yard away from the twisting bulk.

Rich Rodney scuttled for the galley, dripping a trail of blood from a bloody nose, which the whip-lashing rod had inflicted. He stood in the galley door, bleeding.

ÒStill craning!Ó Pike yelled. ÒHow are we looking?!Ó

The fish made a mighty effort to get free. His gigantic head cleared the water, twisting to snap at the net. Lester fired. Three high-voltage blasts ripped into the forehead plate. The tail convulsed, slapping the gunwale a terrible blow where Lester had stood a second before. Rich Rodney's hair stood on end, but Lester continued shooting, pinpointing a line of shots down the backbone, trying to quiet the fish by breaking his spine. Finally he hit the right spot. The fish quivered, then lay still in the net.

ÒThat's it!Ó Lester called. ÒHaul him up! Weigh him!Ó

Rich Rodney stepped timidly out of the galley and stood beside Lester, feeling terribly proud of the bravery he had witnessed. The huge fish hung in the air beside the boat. It was as long as the whole fantail, and they had caught it. ÒHe's so big,Ó R.R. said, almost reverently.

Lester Wunderman grinned voraciously. ÒYou got yourself a fine muskie, Mr. Rod. You done a very fine job of fighting him.Ó

ÒI was afraid when he got close. Thank you for shooting him. That was extremely brave what you did.Ó

ÒWell, Pike couldn't see him from the bridge,Ó Lester said, glad the kid had complimented him, but disregarding it. He did feel good about the fish. ÒIt would have been worse trying to release him in this slop. We were damn lucky Pike decided her this way.Ó

ÒSeven hundred twenty-nine pounds!Ó Pike called out of the fog.

Ò729,Ó Lester glowed. ÒSee, that's a perfect fish. You're in 2nd place, Rod. Couldn't be better.Ó

Pike climbed down from the bridge. He shook R.R.'s hand and looked the fish over. ÒI was scared shitless the whole time,Ó he laughed. ÒBut you got a nice fish. We'll photograph it in the slip. And you got yourself a real fish story to tell. Not too many people will be topping this one.Ó

R.R. grinned.

ÒYes, sir,Ó Lester grinned, happily. ÒWe can all tell this one for years to come. And we would have a whole shitload of witnesses except that nobody could see their own weenie through this pea soup.Ó

ÒWhat happened to your nose,Ó Pike asked, handing the kid a handkerchief.

R.R. dabbed at his nose and saw the blood for the first time. ÒI thought I was catching a cold,Ó he said. ÒBoy, that's lucky. I hate being all stuffed up.Ó

Pike flicked a look of disbelief at Lester. ÒWe'll use the rest of this week to try out some different techniques, Richie, so you won't be caught so flatfooted next time.Ó

ÒFine,Ó Rich Rodney answered. ÒLet's go show this beauty to Rita.Ó

ÒLet's do that,Ó Pike agreed.

ÒDid you guys already eat dinner?Ó the kid inquired.

ÒI think maybe I can rustle up a little something for you, Mr. Rod,Ó Lester said, seriously. ÒOr it might be we'll get somebody to buy at the pub dockside.Ó

ÒI'll be happy to buy,Ó R.R. said deliriously.

ÒYou just hold tight, Mr. Rod. You let somebody offer first when we get back. All of these people have plenty of money.Ó

Richie nodded.

Pike climbed up to the bridge and threw the boat into slow forward, pointing her at the lights. Edmund Messier was standing near the cannon drinking a beer.

ÒI couldn't see one thing down there through the fog, Captain Resnick. If something had gone wrong, it would have been shit city. My knees won't stop shaking.Ó

ÒNothing went wrong,Ó Pike said. ÒYour knees are shaking because you're cold. I told you to put long johns on.Ó

ÒI did,Ó Messier said.

Pike laughed, ÒDid you bring a beer for me?Ó he asked.

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN

PINK SNAPPER SURPRISE

ÒWinning, hell yeah. I could tell you more about winning and

losing, girlie, than most people would want to know about. I

been fishing this thing for a long time and never came close to

winning, and I ain't the only one. But let victory reign, I say.Ó

Macky Duff

quoted in History of the Tournament

Rita's surprise was extraordinary. It came later in the evening.

First, Pike had the muskie photographed, and reweighed on the dockside scale to make sure the scale on the kid's boat was calibrated properly. It was. They were in 2nd place, but Pike doubted if they'd stay there. 729 pounds is a whale-sized most places, but not on Ashendon. A tiger muskie of just over 1900 pounds, caught here by Ethyl Bierly, the raucous, burly red head, who was a fierce competitor. Pike sometimes suspected that she stretched the rules a tiny bit, but there was no doubt that somebody on her boat had caught the giant muskie a few years ago. Big ones did live here. Thousand pounders were fairly common. The Tournament winner was usually in that weight range. Pike told Richie not to get his hopes up that they would do much more than qualify in this round. It was true that nobody had taken a muskie in a fogbank before, so the kid got to relish that glory. Fishing stories of that crazy magnitude are hard to come by.

Richie posed for a few photographs to send to his mother, with the two security guys prominently placed in the background. Then Harry Dolan insisted on taking them all to dinner. He was leading this leg and there was no chance now that Tourbo could knock him out of 1st, not with Pike as his captain. Pike would never advise the kid to risk killing another fish by accident. Not this early in the Tournament. Hardluck Harry was in good spirits at dinner. So was Richie, who tried to replenish all of his burned up carbohydrates at one meal.

Toward the end of an excellent dinner, Rita announced to the gathered fishermen, including her father and mother at another table, that she had gotten permission from her advisory committee to do her doctoral thesis on The Economic And Bio-Cultural Benefits Resulting To Distant Planetary Systems From Hosting the Star Tournament. Everyone applauded lustily, since they were all half potted. Pike was a little disappointed. Not much of a big surpriseÑhe already knew about the thesis. But after the conversation had swept back to fishing, Rita's laughing eyes met his and she came around to his chair to whisper in his ear.

ÒI'm willing to renegotiate our agreement, or take a time out,Ó she whispered, touching his ear lobe with her lips. ÒI think you need a reward.Ó

Pike gulped. ÒMaybe we should discuss this in private,Ó he suggested. He meant immediately.

ÒYou think somebody might overhear and tell us not to?Ó She nudged his shoulder with the tip of her right breast.

ÒNo, I guess not,Ó Pike replied.

What a stupid year for his boat to be broken. Pike still wasn't at all sure how the kid would react to a full-blown affair between Rita and his captain. Simple human nature dictated that the close confines of a boat could be bad news; but so far it was okayÑmaybe because of the no sex agreement.

Pike was sure the kid liked Rita more than he let on. His eyes were always trailing her. A real dumb situation. On the other hand, Rita was no fool. She surely knew that Richie was ogling her. They must have worked something out regarding that, after all they had been roommates.

Pike relished the feeling of his ego swelling. Rita, obviously, had a flaw in her operating system; but if she thought he was irresistible, why should he miss out on the fun. ÒWhy don't we fly over to Galatin and I'll show you my cottage. We can have a little privacy for the rest of the week.Ó As an afterthought, he smiled at FaroukÕs wife, Maggie, who seemed to be watching him.

ÒGalatin would be fun,Ó Rita said, suddenly remembering something. ÒIsn't Galatin where you invented the Thruster?Ó

Pike nodded. It's nice to be remembered.

ÒSure,Ó she said, enthusiastically. ÒLet's go. I can get some extremely critical research done. Why didn't I think of that?Ó

The rules didn't allow them to visit the next planets on the schedule, so Galatin Bay seemed like the perfect place to teach the kid the basics of fly fishing, and some ocean tactics, in relative safety and comfort. Another reason for visiting Galatin was his workshop, which Rita was suddenly interested in. A couple of ideas that he wanted to tinker with kept nudging him. One was an accelerator, the other was a tide clock that would revolutionize time keeping. Having Rita along should make a perfect vacation week. It was time to have some fun.

R.R. had been so exhausted from fighting the muskie that he headed for his bunk immediately after telling the story fourteen times to fourteen different people. They were all so interested in hearing every detail. Once he hit the bunk, he was untroubled by the gentle swelling of the lake, and fell asleep instantly. Any unexplained sounds of love or traveling to distant planets, didn't intrude into his fish dreams.

Yes, all night long Richie replayed the giant fish, hour after slogging hour, and woke up still aching, but exhilarated. It was rather a jolt to step out on deck and find the bright sunshine of Galatin Bay blinding him. He quickly slid back down the ladder to retrieve his dark glasses. On deck once more, he was relieved to find that the boat was indeed moored securely to Pike's wharf. Yes, there was Pike's house, with the dog on the front porch and the quaint little village scattered along the bayÑjust like it had been when he and Clive visited Galatin Bay looking for Pike. For a minute there, Richie had thought he was losing his mind. Pike hadn't mentioned coming to Galatin.

Perhaps you're wondering where all the sexual precocity that Rich Rodney grew up with (the nannies, ogling his mother's friends) went to? He wasn't displaying much of it at the Tournament. The answer is, it hadn't gone anywhere. He hadn't even submerged it in the interest of sportsmanship. Except for his darling Rita, who he was much too in love with to ogle every minute, there had been scarcely any females around for two weeks. What a blessing that was. His subconscious mind knew that he'd been given a break to get on with this business of being a man. And he was doing it, wasn't he? Heck, yes. He was showing all these gnarly salts that Tourbo blood had what it took to rise to the top like rich cream. He tripped over the end of a tie-down line and hurled head first toward the railing, breaking his fall at the last split second with a Ken Pao Ri elbow stroke. The fall jarred his elbow substantially, but not his dignity. He jumped up, delighted that no one had seen him, and since his tumble had knocked the gangway gate open, Richie decided that the inviting gang plank was an omen to go exploring. Strange that Pike hadn't told him they were coming here; but hey, Pike was the captain. When you're traveling with a legend, one place was as good as another. Sometimes better.

After doing a few shoulder rolls to get his arm working again, Richie dressed for exploring by donning his hip boots and cinching the straps up to his belt. He drank a glass of juice in the empty galley, then hopped neatly onto the quay. According to the guide book, three of the upcoming categories of fish required wading. This seemed like a good time to get used to wearing boots.

The deceptively innocent harbor water lapped quietly against the quayside. Maybe it would be a good idea to install a small historical maker somewhere on this dock, he thought. Nothing fancy, just a bronze plaque set in the cracked cement. Something like: On this spot Clive McAndrews brought the young R.R. Tourbo to meet Pike Resnick. That seemed appropriate. He would hire an artist to design it. Maybe a foot square. Or what the heck, two feet square with some pictures of tournament fish in bas relief. Darn good idea. Where do these astounding ideas come from? Simply amazing.

Several weather-beaten old geezer fishermen sat on the wharf mending their nets. They smiled up at him, so he smiled back, charitably. The old codgers had probably heard about his growing reputation. Pike probably told everybody.

ÒNice morning,Ó he said, stepping nimbly around the nets. No tangling feet for the 1st Place Fisherman. No thanks, not today. He felt positively ebullient.

ÒReal nice hip boots?Ó cackled one of the sinewy old men.

ÒThose sure are some fine deck boots, sonny,Ó the other old fart grinned. His face creased in a thousand wrinkles. ÒI been looking for a pair like that myself, to keep my old knees dry. Where'd you get 'em?Ó

R.R. felt his face reddening. They were making fun of him, but so subtly that he couldn't figure out what to say back to complete the joke sequence. Of course, it was a good idea to keep your feet and knees dry. The old coot probably had arthritic knees. R.R. just smiled and walked on past; but unfortunately, his attention had been distracted from his feet and the nets. His toe caught on a knotted corner and the darned net seemed to come alive.

A few minutes of inspired thrashing left Richie hopelessly snarled, like a bottle fly in a spider's web. A cacophony of hilarious cackling assaulted his ears as a crowd gathered to watch.

Pike hadn't said much after finding Rich Rodney trussed up on the quay. Obviously, the kid would pay for the nets, so Pike simply cut him free with a minimum of fuss. Richie was strangely quiet during the whole episode. Later on, he offered the excuse that he'd slipped and let it go at that.

ÒSo I thought what I'd do this week is teach you the rudiments of fly fishing,Ó Pike offered between bites of cold pasta salad. The three of them, Rita, the kid and he were having lunch on the porch. PikeÕs sheep dog, a huge Banta Terror, was carefully staked in the side yard on a short tether out of harmÕs way. Richie had very nearly choked the two hundred pound dog to death by tangling up in his leash while trying to pet him. The dog was now safely way out there in the shade of a lemon tree. Lester was somewhere in town doing Lester-type stuff. ÒCasting, roll casting, knot tying,Ó Pike said, listing the elements of fly fishing.

ÒGreat,Ó R.R. replied, enthusiastically. ÒWeÕre on the same wavelength. ThatÕs why I was wearing my hip boots. Fly fishing looks so gracefulÑjust like Ken Pao Ri.Ó

ÒHave you got a flyrod?Ó

ÒYes, sir. I bought a beauty. Clive took me to get it. Same place I ordered that one for you.Ó

ÒGood,Ó Pike said. ÒLet's go try it out.Ó

Rita smiled, thinking she should bring along the first aid kit, but said nothing.

From the start, R.R. was a genius at flycasting. His eight foot, hand built Alcott rod was perfectly balanced to a single action reel filled with the front taper floating line that Red Alcott had recommended for phantom trout. The reason for using front taper being that long casts were preferable, so as not to spook the cautious fish.

For the practice session, Pike had taken him to a long, flat pond at a country club golf course. Champion Fishermen and very rich kids are often allowed to practice fly casting wherever they want to. Pike chose the site partly because there were no monster fish in the pond to leap on R.R.'s hook and distract him from the lesson, but mainly because there was nothing to snag the back cast except the pin on Hole 12, eighteen yards behind. So far the kid had snagged the pin every single time. Pike had demonstrated how to tie the barrel leader knot six times after the line broke. R.R. was getting that knot down pretty well. Pike thought he might not have to demo it the next time. Rita was in stitches. She had volunteered to run up on the green and replace the flag both times that the kid had jerked it out. It's not so easy to rip a pin out of the cup from the disadvantage of a low angle at eighteen yards. The very thin tippet used for phantom trout was not exactly suitable for playing golf.

ÒCome on, Rich, quit screwing around,Ó Pike urged, genially. The kid was ossifying Pike's brain synapses. Eight times in a row. ÒYou realize there's going to be trees in the way when we get on a river. Make a shorter cast. The fly simply has to get in the water.Ó

R.R. noticed that his ears were burning. Somebody was probably talking about him, somewhere.

ÒYou've got a natural flair,Ó Pike said. ÒI can tell. Just shorten up and drop it in the pond. Then I'll teach you to roll cast, which is why we're out here. Next time we'll leave Rita at home, if she makes you nervous.Ó

ÒWhy would Rita make me nervous?Ó Richie inquired. As instructed, he reeled ten yards of flyline back into the reel. Then he picked up the remaining line neat as you please, kept it aloft for one false cast and sent the tiny fly arching toward the pond water. ÒI thought you wanted me to make long casts. Everybody says you have to for phantoms trout.Ó

ÒYeah, that's for trout,Ó Pike agreed. ÒThis is golf course fishing where you use shorter casts because of all the overhanging pins. Okay, let's try a roll cast.Ó

But before he had time to explain the maneuver, the pond water dimpled under the kid's dry fly, then with a swoosh and a belly flop, a three pound phantom trout pounced on the fly. Line zipped out of the reel. R.R. had no idea how to play a fish on the willowy rod, so he held on with two hands and let the fish rip. To compensate for his lack of skill, his feet slipped out from under him on the inch high bluegrass and he skidded artfully down the sandy bank on his ass. The water he landed in was only knee deep; but sitting down, it was ass deep.

ÒHold him, kid..!Ó Pike yelled encouragement.

Rita hugged Pike around the waist. ÒIsn't he just incredible?Ó she gasped.

ÒIncredible,Ó Pike agreed.

ÒWhat should I do..!!Ó R.R. bellowed.

ÒJust hold the rod. It's an ornamental pond, where can he run to? Look out he doesn't jump in your pocket and fillet himself on your knife.Ó

ÒWhat kind is he? Boy, he sure is fighting!Ó The sweet little rod was bent in a high arch, because Richie had somehow clamped one hand over the fleeing line.

ÒLet him take the line, boy!Ó

Richie let loose of the line and almost lost the rod in the resultant lurch that followed. ÒWhat kind of fish is it?Ó

ÒA phantom trout, what else. That's what you're fishing for, isnÕt it?Ó

ÒThat's really strange,Ó Rita marveled. ÒI thought phantoms could only live in fast flowing water. Somebody must have put some in this pond and they survived like alligators in sewers. Very strange.Ó

ÒIf you think that's strange,Ó Pike said, dead-pan, ÒI snipped the hook off that fly, so Richie wouldn't catch himself or us while he was practicing. The fucking fish is holding it in his pouty little mouth and won't let go.Ó

ÒMaybe it's caught in his gill or something,Ó Rita suggested.

ÒDon't bet on it,Ó Pike said.

Meanwhile the fishermen toiled and moiled on Ashendon A.R. raising muskies from the weed beds, keeping them or tossing them back, depending on how they felt about their fishing luck. Because of the keeper rule, muskies were a tough class. Different crews had various kinds of luck with the netting process. All that mucking around with cranes bounced many fish off before they could be weighed. Occasionally, somebody failed to hook another. The Baron, Farouk Bardona, found himself in that tricky position.

Earlier this morning he had lost a fifty pound fish that he wanted to weigh, so heÕd be qualified, but not keep. The clumsy deck hand who misjudged the net was on his way to unemployment, and didnÕt even know it yet. Working a crane wasnÕt that difficult.

At any rate, the Baron was still plying the waters in search of a big fish. There was still plenty of time, and just qualifying wouldn't do much good given his lousy showing in the preceding categories, not when he had his sights set on winning the Tournament.

It had filled his black heart with euphoria to see Resnick's boat irreparably damaged on the first day of the Tourney, leaving the field wide open for a real fisherman. Half of the other bozos didn't really give a shit about winning, they were in it for the sport. Farouk had never understood that kind of addle-brained thinking. He was dying to win the Tournament, why else pay the entry fee? His crew and his local guides were always top flight, they cost him a small fortune. To get the best, he spared no expense, cinching up the people he wanted long in advance, paying twice the going rate to get the best. Since he was so generous, it seemed fair to withhold the last payment if a guide failed to deliver; and naturally, if a deck hand fumbled a landing, he was looking for a job the next day. Winning was serious business, there was no room on his yacht for a fuck-up.

While everyone else referred to their craft as fishing boats, Farouk's was always a yacht. That was the name, para-yachts, why not call a thing by its name? He seldom fished from the Lady Slipper. That was his home. Was there a reason to discommode himself or his family in order to go fishing? He thought not. Two secretaries and an accountant lived permanently aboard the house yacht, and his computer system was up-graded whenever an upgrade was available. Intergalactic business as usual was transacted with him in daily contact to make the decisions for his far flung empire. Incompetence at all levels needed to be dealt with swiftly. Why put off firing a sluggard long enough to let him make another mistake? His fortune had not been built on bleeding heart policies. But he had never won the Tournament and that rankled. Grated his nerve endings. He was a much better fisherman than any of these assholes, and the biggest lucky asshole of them all, Resnick, was out of the water. Beautiful. No last minute runs of luck to ace Farouk out this year. But we should have landed that runty muskie. Christ, what if they suddenly stopped biting? His good categories were still ahead.

And Rita. That girl was determined to turn his hair pure whiteÑshe wasn't satisfied with grey streaks. Going off with Resnick and that lucky, brainless kid. Well, the kid was rich, that part was okay; but he wasn't doing a damned thing to increase his net worth, and that was creepy. Creepy and clumsy. Rita could get hurt at any second around him. How she survived three years at school with Mr. Clumsy was a miracle. What was a father to do, forbid her to socialize with a geek she'd lived with at that freaky liberal moron college? Tourbo was somewhat wealthy and might one day be useful. But probably not. As a father, Farouk was too soft where Rita was concerned, and he knew it. But what could he do? His little girl liked to have fun, and he couldn't deny her that. But why was that lucky jerk-off Tourbo hanging around with Resnick? Maybe old Resnick was inventing something else, and was wooing Tourbo to invest. The kid was shrewd, in spite of being brainlessÑhad to be with a mother like that. What was that sleazy bastard Pike up to, besides trying to seduce Rita, just to get my goat. He was a disgusting, poverty stricken leper. What could she ever see in him? Easy, Farouk old boy, don't get worked up. He tried to remember if he'd taken his blood pressure pill with breakfast. He couldn't recall. In fact, there was no memory of breakfast at all.

ÒJoseph..!Ó he called out to his black Creolite chef. ÒFix me a breakfast special!Ó

ÒYes, sir, Baron,Ó the chef answered, sticking his head out the galley door. ÒDid you want that the same as the first one?Ó

ÒExactly the same,Ó Farouk replied, stifling a yawn.

ÒRight away, Baron. Will you eat in the galley or should I bring the folding table?Ó

ÒThe table. I have to keep thrashing,Ó he chuckled, baronially. How had that miserable, bumbling Chet messed up the net work on that perfect fifty pound fish? DidnÕt he know I always have a tough time with muskies? And it was rotten luck to draw shit-head Barrow for the judge on this leg. The fucker was unbribable.

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

DEEP WATER SCUT

ÒWhat is winning? Winning is one thing for a woman and something

else for a man. Unfortunately, no woman has ever won the Tournament;

but as far as we know, no man has ever gotten pregnant. Kind of a trade off.Ó

Jean Santos

quoted in History of the Tournament

On Sunday morning, Pike and Rita were still at the Galatin Bay cottage, getting to know each other. Richie had rented a room for the week at the Orchard House Hostel, after Rita made it clear that he was not invited to stay at Pike's cottage. He could visit, after calling first. The house and workshop were full of breakable inventions and family heirlooms that Rita quickly became protective of. Rich accepted her visiting arrangements without a murmur, evidently used to Rita setting the rules, or aware that his mere presence seemed to shatter stainless steel lawn furniture. But all week they had eaten lunch and dinner as a group, discussing strategyÑand R.R. had even learned fly casting after a fashion.

Leaving the golf course, Pike moved the lessons to a deserted beach where trout wouldn't be a distraction. True, several flying fish had zipped out of the nearby breakers to commit suicide by nabbing his fly over the white sand, but Richie could make a pretty good cast after twenty hours of practice.

After eleven days of abstinence, the lovers had both been very ready to be attentive. The eagerness lasted all week and by Sunday a lot of tension had evaporated. Pike knew how to manage quite well on his home territoryÑa fact that Rita was delighted to have reconfirmed. On Richie's boat he was tentative with her, here he was fine. Even Pike recognized the difference after she commented on it several times. He even laughed about it. When you're the king of your own cottage and the dove you're fetched on is feeding you wild grapes and doing other pleasantries, it's easy to laugh.

Pike had even managed to put some hours in on several new inventions while Rita was writing. Tinkering had been fun until about midweek, when it became apparent that the tide clock wouldn't work universally. Too much moon discrepancy. So he had put it away with the other breakable putterings to be worked on later, and started the drawings for a new leverage system that had just occurred to him.

Lester was back on the boat, sporting a purple shiner around his left eye, gained Pike had heard while defending R.R.'s reputation to a large drunk. Otherwise he was in good spirits. Lester enjoyed his shore time. A few good fights cleanse the poisons, he was fond of saying.

When Pike called to report his flight plan to Giedon, he found that the kid's muskie was locked pretty solidly in 4th place. Three luckless boats were still fishing, among them Farouk BardonaÕs. Pike chuckled to himself. Farouk always ate shit with muskies. He had probably missed half a dozen little ones and now his boat was in panic. The guide had no doubt been fired without his final paycheck. Farouk was a character all right. The guides and deck hands all laughed at him behind his back, but they couldn't afford not to sign on at double fee. But 4th Place was good. Very good. If it held up.

Late Sunday afternoon, the Comparative Humanity left Galatin Bay and after a brief visit to hyperspace splashed down in the deep water harbor on Giedon's main island. Most of the fishing boats were already berthed in the swanky marina, and since fishing couldn't start until midnight, the traditional non-stop party was blasting on the Yacht Club dock, which glowed greenly under a huge neon sign: Scut Capitol of the Universe.

Giedon was the most industrialized of all the worlds in the Tournament. Every year it looked more prosperous than the last. This was mostly due to the Baron.

Except for some sea birds, the large islands were mostly barren when the Tournament first started coming. The Baron took a liking to the place, probably because he had a thing going with scut. He seemingly owned this leg. Such a fondness developed with each victory, that he moved a large part of his manufacturing empire up to Giedon and the other planets of the Starfleck System. Except para-yachts. He would have moved para-yacht building, too, but Thaddeus Golan wouldn't budge.

Why could the Baron catch scut when he had such a terrible time with muskies? Impossible to say. Although scut are true fish and not mammals, they are exceedingly like small whales. They eat nothing but plankton, and thus are almost impossible to entice to a lure or bait. Actually, Pike never understood where the sport was in scut fishing, and he voted against the category whenever the question was raised. True, they are delicious to eat, and none of the flesh went to waste, since it was canned for export, but that was hardly reason enough to hound and kill the lugubrious hogs. Farouk thought hooking up to a wallowing sea hog and being towed all over the ocean was the greatest of fun. Finally exhausted, the monster floated to the surface, rupturing its swim bladder in the process.

Well, screw it, the party was always swinging on Giedon. Because the Yacht Club was composed mainly of executives from Bardona Wingless, putting on a yearly fete for the boss and his friends made good business sense. Having a photo snapped beside a smiling Farouk with his prize fish was considered a prime road to advancement. The Lady Slipper and Farouk's two fishing smacks still weren't at their traditional tie up beside the fake lighthouse, Pike was delighted to see. That meant the Baron was still slugging it out on Ashendon. Or maybe a pirate got him. Fat chance of that. All three yachts always traveled together. Between them they carried enough armament to stop an invasion armada.

Rita and Richie joined Pike on the bridge as he maneuvered along the marina channel past hundreds of fancy sailing sloops and power cutters. As always the big regatta in honor of the Tournament would begin with a fireworks display the instant Bardona showed up. Since he was invariably late, the good toadies sailed up and down the channels all day flying their nautical flags and getting potched. It was an awesome display of asskissery.

ÒWelcome to Giedon, party planet of the stars,Ó Pike said to the two kids.

ÒGosh,Ó R.R. said. ÒIt's pretty crowded.Ó

ÒDon't worry, all these good folks will be slaving away at the sweat shops tomorrow and the rest of the week to impress the boss. We'll have the ocean strictly to ourselves. Not even a rowboat will get in the way.Ó

Rita smiled. ÒWhat Pike means,Ó she said to R.R., Òis that Daddy's factories are here. Most of these people work for him.Ó

ÒOh, that's right,Ó Richie replied. He dimly remembered knowing that Giedon was where many of the Baron's factories were. So this was the same Giedon. There were so many planets, it was hard to keep them all straight.

ÒNose to the grindstone is what Farouk likes best,Ó Pike said, motoring the boat into its assigned slip.

Rita wrinkled her pretty nose. ÒThese factories make a lot of really useful things,Ó she said, in defense of her father.

ÒTruer words were never spoken,Ó Pike agreed.

Richie smiled a big lop-sided grin. Rita had always had a hard time saying nice things about her father. Too bad the Baron didn't give her a little more to work with.

So it looked like the kid's 4th place muskie would hold up, giving him another two points for a total of twelve. With any kind of normal distribution of luck on the remaining planets, that might be enough to win the Oscar. Pike had once come in second on fourteen points, without winning any category.

Aah, but it was wearisome. The kid was such a klutz that he might swamp the boat at any minute. Maybe he'd trip over the toilet bowl on one of his trips to the head, knock the sea caulks loose and not tell anybody until it was too late. Pike held a strategy conference with Lester, while Rita and Richie were reconnoitering the Yacht Club, cautioning him to keep a sharp look-out for such suicidal accidents. Then with nothing better to do until morning, Pike and Lester went ashore to spread a few beers among the local fishermen and chat them up about recent catches.

Around ten o'clock Pike found Rita and the kid sitting at a table with Dresden Carthy, Jean Santos and a few other fishermen. A bevy of celebrity hounds were buying champagne. The discussion centered around the complete ease of catching scut. The only trick being to catch a bigger one than the Baron's. Empty magnums of champagne were being constantly replaced with full ones by uniformed waiters.

When Pike sat down, Jean Santos was pretty much in her cups. A respectable pile of pink straws lay on the table in front of her. ÒThat awful Baron!Ó she slurred. ÒEverybody knows he has a huge one penned up. Frogmen swim down and put his hook in it. There's no other explanation for him winning every year, but nobody can prove it.Ó She simpered in Rita's direction.

Rita smiled back, somewhat amused. People were always attacking her father. He seemed to relish the notoriety.

ÒThis year will be differentÓ Jean yapped, sipping her champagne through a new pink straw. ÒI plan to fish right off his bow all week long. My third mate happens to be Lanny Davits, the photographer. You've probably seen his work in Sports Aloft.Ó She glanced around the table expectantly. Several sycophants nodded hopefully. ÒLanny's job will be to stay on deck with his camera and his sunscreen, and photograph anything at all that looks suspicious. This year we're going to catch the old fox!Ó

Snorts of laughter greeted her pronouncement. Even Dresden Carthy thought Jean's scheme was outrageously wonderful. He rocked with alcoholic mirth and applause. He must be trying to line himself up to screw Jean, Pike supposed. Trying that hard wasn't necessary, but Dresden apparently didn't want to risk rejection.

Jean Santos was a woman who like sex almost any way it was presented. She reportedly screwed everybody on her boat in shifts. Part of her crew's shipping papers was to agree not to make jealous scenes, at risk of being released with no severance pay and no share of the purse. She was not a one man woman. Pussy or purse was the way she described the arrangement, when she got drunk and loud. Of course, Jean never finished very high in the Tournament, since her crew was chosen more for good looks and dong size than fishing ability, but she seemed to enjoy herself afloat. An heiress can spend her money fishing, if she wants to.

After a few minutes of further useless chit-chat, Pike said he was going back to the boat and advised his two charges not to get drunk. Scut were fished in deep water, where the wave conditions could turn ugly with storm or wind. A belly full of champagne could make life ungallant.

ÒLoosen up a little,Ó Jean demanded. ÒYou've always so serious, Pike. How often do we get to a nice party like this? Young people like to have fun.Ó

Pike smiled stiffly in reply and stood up to leave. Rita rose too and came around the table. ÒI'm worried about Daddy,Ó she said. ÒEverybody else is already here.Ó

ÒWe can call Ashendon if you're worried.Ó He started walking along the brightly lighted quay, nodding to people he knew. She slipped her arm around his waist. Their hip bones fit together nicely, without bumping. ÒHe can fish for muskies until midnight, so I wouldn't start worrying until then.Ó

ÒI know. I worry about him unless I'm with him, then I don't worry at all. Isn't that stupid? You don't like him very much, do you?Ó

ÒHe hasn't given me much reason to lately.Ó

ÒI know. That's really stupid, too. I know he admires you, but heÕs so controlling. I hate it when he's like that. I don't let him do it to me, and seriously, Pike, you shouldn't either.Ó

ÒIt's a little late for that.Ó

ÒI mean on your new things.Ó

ÒOh, sure. My new fabulous inventions, like the tide clock,Ó he said, with more of an edge of sarcasm than he had intended. The envisioned leverage system for encouraging big recalcitrant fish to come up and jump, thereby tiring themselves out, hadn't panned out particularly well either. His mind hadn't wrapped around the project, so it was still in limbo. And the reports he'd heard the last few hours weren't very encouraging about scut. There had been a bumper crop of plankton earlier in the year and scut were plentiful, but some shift in the warm water current where both scut and plankton flourished had caused no scut to be caught closer inshore than the Flat Bank for over a monthÑand the Flat Bank was a hundred miles out to sea. Joy of living. It was a very big ocean. He'd have to chart girds and hunt his butt off to find the current. Stupid, undependable ocean. Fish finders and temperature gauges were only allowed on the water. No fly-over scanning. Airborne technology existed, of course. Commercial fishermen used it; but for Tournament fishing it was considered unsporting. Oh, well, somebody would find the current, then they could all start fishing. The Baron, of course, would decoy for a few days, then putter out to his fish cage where his frogman would make the hook up. Or something like that.

Speaking of the devil! Rita squealed delightedly as the Lady Slipper popped into view over the marina, followed closely by Farouk's two fishing yachts. The boats splashed down near their empty moorings, and deck hands scurried to hoist a day-glo orange Big Fish flag. The flag was normally used to alert judges and dock hands that a big fish was coming in. They were also good for a captain's ego. Since Bardona obviously hadn't caught a scut yet, it could only mean that Farouk had caught a prize tiger and wanted to brag about it here. Shit, Pike thought.

A loudspeaker on the Lady Slipper coughed to life. Bardona's grating voice blasted the yacht club and surrounding counties. ÒHey, Resnick..!Ó the augmented voice gloated. ÒRead 'em and weep! You and the klutz just got dropped to 5th place! The plot thickens..!Ó

ÒShit,Ó Pike said, aloud. A murmur started among the crowd, and turned to scattered applause as the toadies realized who was speaking and what the bantering words meant. Within seconds the evening was rent by a roar of approval. A skyrocket burst over the fake lighthouse. The fireworks show had begun. The beloved Baron had arrived victorious and the party could begin. Pike left Rita to greet her father and mother without him, and went aboard the Comparative Humanity to compare notes with Lester and start work on the scut finding charts.

At 6:00 AM, Pike and Lester along with Curtis Plotkin, the judge for this leg, were in the galley, breakfasting on tea and dry toast. Old time sailors have a healthy regard for their stomachs when unknown sea conditions are in the offing. Inshore fishing, where a land mass is constantly on the horizon, has nothing to do with deep water scut. Pike had a scouting plan set for the day. Lester and he had decided on it last night. Since there was nothing to discuss now, they ate in silence. Both were aware that neither Rita nor the kid were aboard and hadn't been last night.

Due to the Baron's big muskie, Richie had lost a point, and now had only eleven, which probably wouldn't be enough to win. Hardluck Harry already had ten. Well, maybe this would be Harry's year. He was certainly due. A good man can't be held down forever.

The other boats were puttering out of the marina trying to be deceptive about where they were going. The kid should be ready to fish, too, but he wasn't. Not a whole lot to discuss about that either, so the crew munched toast in silence. Richie was supposed to be a fisherman. Pike wasn't about to go chasing around Giedon looking for him. Anyway, he had spotted the bodyguards last night, staying unobtrusively out of the way, but on duty nevertheless. It was a good bet that the kid wasn't kidnapped. More probably Jean and Carthy had gotten him plastered and he was sleeping it off in his hotel room. So..? So the kid was an adult. If he didn't want to fish, there was no law requiring it. Rita was also an adult. Not a particularly courteous one it seemed, when it came to informing her bunk mate as to a change in sleeping arrangements. But hey, Pike wasn't in the mood to chase her either. She was with Richie or on the Lady Slipper or somewhere else.

After breakfast was finished, Lester went about his business of making sure the big reels were serviceable, and Pike gave Plotkin a tentative day off, advising him to stay aboard and be available until noon, in case the boss showed, then he crawled into the engine room for some routine maintenance, which didn't need to be done since the boat was brand new. He felt like a chump, a feeling he detested, but one that kept showing up year after yearÑpart of the Resnick emotional repertory.

About 8:30, Rich Rodney came waltzing down the dock, grinning ear to ear. His bodyguards stopped at the end of the quay and stood there with their thumbs up their asses.

ÒMorning!Ó R.R. beamed. ÒWell, I'm all chowed down and ready to go.Ó The grin abated somewhat as he noticed that all the other boats were gone. ÒWhere is everybody?Ó he asked, hopping lightly through the open gangway. His ankle twisted slightly when he landed, but he shook it off.

ÒOh, they went to test their engines, I guess,Ó Pike said, employing high irony. He could feel the heat rising under his tan work shirt collar, but absolutely vowed he wouldn't let the kid's stupidity get to him. It was R.R.'s problem, not his. Pike had thought about telling him last night, but decided that the best way to cure the kid's gullibility was to let him get burned over and over. Pike couldn't hold his hand through all of life's difficulties. Richie was either going to be a fisherman or he wasn't.

ÒI guess we should test ours too, huh?Ó Richie suggested, cheerfully. ÒGosh, I feel like fishing. Too bad scut never bite until late afternoon.Ó He stroked a deep sea reel affectionately. ÒWell, should we fire her up?Ó

ÒLester and I already tested her. She's fine.Ó He wished he had a 2x4 to brain the goofball with. Gentle sarcasm never seemed to work. Maybe a more direct method would. ÒOut of curiosity, which one of your new drinking buddies let you in on the habits of scut?Ó

ÒOh, everybody knows about that,Ó he said, airily. ÒThat's why they like to come to Giedon. It's a change of pace.Ó

ÒKind of like with howlers,Ó Pike replied, dryly.

ÒI never thought of that, but it is. Say, you guys weren't waiting on me to have breakfast, were you?Ó Pike nodded his head in the negative. ÒOh, good, because I just had a mammoth breakfast on the Lady Slipper. Do you suppose the Baron eats like that every day? Unbelievable. They just kept bringing stuff. Pancakes, bacon and eggs, sausage, fruit compote, fresh biscuits and gravy. It must cost him a fortune to feed all that crew.Ó

ÒThe Baron was there?Ó Pike asked, knowing Farouk had gone to sea hours ago.

ÒNo, actually, just Rita and her mom and the secretarial staff. He had to see about some trouble at the factory. I guess it's lucky for him scut are so easy to catch. He doesn't have much time for fishing while he's here.Ó

ÒThat's where Rita is, on the Lady Slipper?Ó

ÒYeah, she's going shopping with her mother today. Kind of an obligatory shopping spree, they're part owner of all the shops. I guess she'll be here before we go out, but maybe she won't.Ó

ÒLet me suggest something gently to you, Richie. You're so full of shit, you're eyeballs are floating.Ó

That knocked the idiot's grin askew.

And Pike went on. ÒAll your great new friends and advisors are fucking with you because youÕre ahead of them, and even more so because you're a tenderfoot. Everything you did since you went ashore last night was wrong. And believe me, they're all laughing at the good one they pulled.Ó

ÒYeah..?Ó

ÒYes. Tournament fishermen are kind of shitty about having their fun with greenhorns.Ó

ÒYeah, like what for instance?Ó

ÒI could write a book. You're a perfect target, apparently.Ó

ÒYeah, like what..?Ó R.R. was getting a little hot. He didn't know what this was about, but he could tell that Pike was angry. Maybe he was mad about the Baron inviting him and Rita to spend the night, and not asking Pike. Well, that was too darned bad. Old man Pike wasn't around. He'd already turned in. ÒCome on, tell me how full of shit I am?Ó he demanded.

Pike leaned on the smooth gunwale and began his list. ÒFirst of all Dres Carthy and Jean the Wonder Girl got you sloshed on champagne, so you'd be hung over and sick today. Then they filled your head full of bull about how easy scut are to catch. Right?Ó

ÒI drank very little champagne. I don't like it.Ó

ÒBut you now think scut are a snap to catch, right?Ó

ÒEveryone says so. It must be true, a conspiracy can't be that big.Ó

ÒIt's true, all right. After you hook them, they're easy to catch. But hooking them is almost impossible. Get it!Ó Pike exploded. ÒYou were had, and then lulled to sleep by half truths. They don't want you to be sharp. And now you've missed a whole day of fishing, which youÕll probably need since the scut are very scarce. But nobody mentioned that, I'll bet. Did they..?Ó

R.R. started to look a little unsure of himself. ÒScarce..? Isn't this the scut capitol of the Universe?Ó

ÒYes and no. It is the only place that scut live, but not this week. And not even this month. The currents changed and the scut are out to sea. Which is where all your competitors are. Looking for the vanished scut!Ó

ÒOh.Ó Richie glanced around the marina again. Sure enough, the fishing boats were gone. That they were fishing seemed a far better explanation than testing their engines. After all, they were here to fish. ÒWell, let's go then,Ó he said, rubbing his hands together. ÒWe've only lost a few hours.Ó

ÒAnother part of the joke. The good Farouk stuffed your belly with greasy food. If I put you on those big seas, you'll be sick as a dog and unable to fish. I can't fish for you, so today is out. Maybe we can fly over and see what's going on.Ó

ÒI insist we go,Ó R.R. chirped. ÒI will instruct my mind not to be sick. I haven't been sick in weeks.Ó

ÒGreat. You make up your mind, and I'll lay bets. There's more than one way to get rich around here. Hey, Lester! You want to bet me the kid won't get sick with his belly loaded down with pancakes?Ó

Lester limped out of the galley. ÒHi, Rich,Ó he said. ÒWhat's this bet?Ó

ÒNah, you don't want to bet,Ó Pike shrugged. ÒI couldn't give you long enough odds. Go back to what you were doing.Ó

ÒMaking hard biscuits for the week?Ó

ÒFine.Ó

Lester didn't question Pike, who apparently needed him for a moment and now didn't need him. He went back to the galley.

Richie appeared deep in troubled thought. ÒI can't believe Rita would let me do something that was dangerous to winning. She wants us to win.Ó

ÒWell, giving her the benefit of the doubt, let's say her father fooled her, too. Rita, whatever she might be, is not a fisherman. If she wanted to, she could have a boat of her own; but obviously, she isn't interested in that. This time of year the Tournament is her home, because of a foible of her father's. She might even have a tendency to believe what her father says.Ó

ÒI see,Ó Rodney said.

ÒI sincerely doubt if you do,Ó replied Pike. ÒI've got you sized up as a fairly nice kid who likes to live on the positive side of things. However, your good buddy, Baron Bardona, is a heartless prick, who would do anything to win this show. Tricking his daughter into tricking you is completely within his range of prickdom. And lest you forget, he didn't want you in the Tournament from the first.Ó

ÒHe apologized for that last night,Ó R.R. murmured.

ÒSwell,Ó Pike said. ÒAnd you shook his slimy hand.Ó

Rich nodded.

ÒI guess that pretty well covers it. For future reference, my friends on this cruise are Mordachi Skinner and old Ira Fairborne. I'm not as chummy with Harry Dolan, but he's an honest man, and won't win by knavery. If you don't love getting reamed, confide your dockside chats to those three. And to be on the safe side, check what they, or anybody else, tells you with me or Lester.Ó

Richie nodded again, feeling chastened. The Baron had warned him not to trust those three, specifically. This manhood stuff had a lot of angles. ÒCan't we try it, at least?Ó he implored. ÒI feel fine. If it turns out I'm not up to it, we can come back, can't we?Ó

ÒSure, kid. That's the spirit. No hooks in the water, no fish. Right?

ÒRight.Ó

Richie was never so sick in his entire life. Dying would have been pleasurable compared to dying this way. He had held on as long as he could, but the waves kept coming like bilious sick green mountains. Finally, he unstrapped himself from the chair and flopped onto the deck with his head next to a cleat hole in the gunwale and let fly. Lester tied a life line around his ankle.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Pike relented and hauled him into the galley, then flew back to the marina. The whole experience had lasted less than an hour. Pike had made one mark on his carefully worked out grid.

Back on solid ground, sitting at a table under an awning at the yacht club, R.R. was fine. The bodyguards had been surprised to see him, but they now stood watchfully and not very inconspicuously in the shade of the clubhouse ten yards away.

ÒDon't let this sour you on fishing,Ó Pike warned, ordering a shoreside breakfast for himself. ÒBe in the galley before dawn tomorrow and Lester will make sure you're a happy fisherman.Ó

ÒI will,Ó R.R. promised. ÒI think I'll go find Rita and her mother and do some shopping instead of watching you eat, if that's all right.Ó

ÒGood plan. Buy something nice for Lester, since he cleaned up after you.Ó

R.R. nodded miserably and tottered away, not even bothering to trip over his feet.

By Thursday, things were back to normal. Rita had resumed sleeping in Pike's bed, saying she just wanted to keep it interesting by not being constantly available. She then insisted on a complete description of how much he had missed her. And on Wednesday the warm current was discovered by Ira Fairborne and Mordachi Skinner searching in tandem, 175 miles NNW of the marina. How it shifted way out there was anybody's guess, but there it was and so were the scut. Not that Ira and Mordachi had a notion of telling anyone where the current was. On Wednesday evening, when they landed in the marina each with big scut hausered to his aft deck, they took the precaution of flying in from the wrong direction. Breasting up to the yacht club bar with a cooked up story about where the current was, they had a great time adding elaborate details to the lie. In fact, they had no thought of returning to the current the rest of the week, unless someone else found it and caught a bigger scut. But technology foiled them.

Everybody had been fishing sections, drawing detailed charts and keeping a close eye on the other boats with long range radar. Giedon had millions of hectares of open water, but the radar had been developed to pin point boats in trouble, and it also pinpointed boats in fat city as easily. So on Thursday, fishing had returned to normal. But R.R.Õs luck hadn't.

Pike had explained the technique patiently. Find the plankton concentration, chart the fish's direction on the fish finder and drift the hook into his mouth as he seines up the plankton. Fine. Richie understood everything, but he couldn't do it. He said it was alien to fishing. It wigged out his fish catching apparatus. Wigged out? So they tried all day Thursday and into the night, and while everyone else was flying fresh catch flags, they weren't. Great, Pike fumed. The perfect end to a perfect tournament. Shut out in the easiest category of all. And scut were plentiful in the current. There was hardly a time all day that one or two weren't on the Loran screen.

Again on Friday, Pike maneuvered the boat perfectly over forty or fifty fish. After thirty misses, he sent Rita down to the fishing deck to distract the kid. Maybe if his brain was disengaged from scut, he could hook one. But he didn't.

By Saturday, Richie had completely lost faith in his ability. He laughed condescendingly at himself every time a drift failed. Pike was beside himself. How could the kid's luck get fucked up for no reason? He was still a beginner, wasn't he? Shouldn't beginner's luck still apply? Just one scut! What was so impossible about that? Not even a big one. Any size. Where was the clumsy shithead of yore? Even Curtis Plotkin took a turn at coaching him. Why not? If Richie aced himself out of the tourney, one judge would be out of a job.

So Sunday dawned stormy and very windy. Small craft warnings were up; but if they didn't fish, they'd be going back home broke. Pike insisted, however, that Rita stay ashore for safety. The stormy seas would be very hairy today. He relayed the news to her, while she was still snuggled in the warm bunk. He had to admit that sleeping with her already felt normalÑeven permanent. She always smelled so damned good, and she never twisted up the covers or pushed him to the edge of the bed.

ÒYou think I'm unlucky, don't you?!Ó she murmured, stretching lazily.

Warning flags came out. ÒI never said that,Ó he said

ÒYou didn't have to. You've been acting like it all week It's bullshit! Women are no more unlucky than eating bananas.Ó

Pike blanched. Eating bananas on board a fishing boat, or even having them, is thought by most skippers to be unlucky beyond words. How that superstition came into being nobody knows, but it's a major no-no. ÒHave you been eating bananas?Ó he asked.

ÒNo, I have not! Do you think I'm stupid?Ó

ÒHas Richie?Ó

ÒHow would I know? Why don't you ask him?Ó She grabbed her clothes and stomped out of their room. Crossing the tight hallway, she slammed into Richie's suite. The door banged closed and Pike heard the deadbolt snick into place. ÒI'm not getting off the boat, so just take your bad luck and shove it!Ó she shouted through the teak door.

Pike sucked at his front teeth and pulled his foul weather gear out of the tiny closet. Maybe Richie ought to wear his hip boots. That might get his luck going.

ÒHey..!!Ó Rita yelled through the door. ÒThere's bananas in here!Ó She opened the door and stepped out holding a hand of blackening bananas.

Pike stared at the overripe fruit, shaking his head in disbelief.

ÒThey were sitting on the top shelf of his closet,Ó Rita laughed. ÒGod knows how long they've been there.Ó

ÒSince last Sunday while you were shopping,Ó Pike said, grimly. He was glad the bananas had been found, but it was still a lousy day for fishing. And he'd always believed that bananas were just an old wife's tale.

But when Richie came aboard, he questioned him about the rotting fruit. Abashed, he admitted they were a spur of the moment gift from Dresden Carthy. Dresden had said he always kept bananas in his room for emergency snacks, since they're so rich in potassium. Potassium gives you stamina. It had seemed like a good idea to R.R. That way he wouldn't have to bother Lester for a snack every time he got hungry.

So the Comparative Humanity steamed out of the marina for a day of scut fishing in hell. But before leaving, Pike steered close by Carthy's boat. Dresden waved gaily at them. He would not be going out todayÑnobody would who had a fish. Pike watched with satisfaction as Lester heaved the rotting mess right at Dres, who ducked. Bananas splattered against the sparkling clean galley wall.

ÒHave some bananas!Ó Lester yelled in outrage.

Carthy stood up, laughing good-naturedly. ÒHave a nice day fishing,Ó he called back.

Nobody on the boat believed that bananas could be bad luck. Really, it was preposterous. How could a fruit, part of nature's bounty, be bad luck unless somehow a person choked on it? But by eight AM, under impossible sea conditions, R.R. had managed to hook a good-sized scut, even though none had shown up on the fish finder. A strange kid, Pike thought for the thousandth time.

On his own, Richie had decided to cast out to get a feel for the new reel he had purchased last night. And the scut had hit the wiggly lure he had tied on the line, apparently charging full blast from somewhere out of range of the finder. The force of the hit pulled R.R. half overboard; but Lester had been standing right there admiring the new reel. Lester grabbed the safety line that the kid wore against the treacherous weather and himself, and got him to put the reel in free spool. In a few minutes all was calm except the sea and they were being towed by the fish. The line wasn't as heavy as Pike would have liked, but then the scut wasn't gigantic. Three hours of fighting the sea and the fish, put the scut aboard, and they qualified to keep fishing. It was kind of a mixed blessing, Pike felt; but he accepted his fate and got off an EJmail to June Madrigal, confirming that they still wanted him to guide them on Segumi, if they got that far.

* * *

CHAPTER NINE

PHANTOM TROUT

ÒWhat is winning... Well, look around you. Everyone here is a

winnerÑbig time. If you've got that much dough to spend on fishing,

you're doing something right.Ó

Alaska Bill Bolen

quoted in History of the Tournament

There are many paradise worlds in the Universe. Streamside is one of them. The mountains are majestic and temperate. The skies are blue and dotted with fleecy clouds. And the streams are wild and swift flowing. About a hundred park rangers live year round on the planetÑthe only permanent human residents. No native population ever developed. Tourism is carefully monitored.

Streamside is classified as a wild planet by the Blith Nadi Planetary Society. The Tournament pays the entire yearly cost of the rangers, even supplies them with helicopters, in exchange for exclusive fishing rights and total use of the planet for one week every summer. Non-fishing tourists and photographers are free to roam the wilderness for the rest of the year, funneling their cash into the rangersÕ and Blith NadiÕs pockets. Everybody is happy, and the phantom trout, which are the main attraction, donÕt take much of a beating.

Phantoms are so wary, even in this practically virgin territory, that catching one is the ultimate in fishing skill. Their tiny mouths match the plentiful hatch of minuscule midgeflies and mosquitoes, and the almost invisible black phemto gnats. An imitation of the midgefly is tied on an .000 hook, and even that is too large. The usual tippet strength is eight ounce breaking test, as phantoms spook at the shadow of larger leaders. No fish under two pounds may be kept, so many keepers break off. Then too, the streams being wild and full of snags presents a further hazard to the ultra light leaders. All the good pools are shaded by ancient overhanging deciduous arboretums which leap out after hooks. The fisherman fall-off rate at Streamside is alarming some years, even though a quiet non-fishing botanist might see dozens of lunker phantoms splashing in the pools, chasing the nearly invisible insects.

Pike loved the wild gorges with their fast flowing brooksÑit was an exquisite pleasure to spend time in such unspoiled nature. This year, to be honest, it was a relief to get Richie situated on dry land for a week. The hazards to arms and legs were certainly there in spades, but at least, he probably wouldn't drown. Well, if he did drown, he'd have to work at it. Phantoms tended toward shallow water.

The kid was back to his jolly self again, tripping over guy ropes in the tent city where everybody was camped for the week, and generally making a nuisance of himself. It was a far cry from a public campgrounds, of course. Most people hired outfitters to set up their bivouac, and installed a gourmet barbecue chefÑbut still, a hundred yards from the campsite you were in virtual wilderness conditions, and the park rangers made sure it stayed that way. No trails were cleared, no chopping of firewood to leave chips around. If an ambitious cook could lug a deadfall branch into camp, fine. Otherwise, fuel for cooking was flown in.

The stream Richie had drawn for the first day was absolutely gorgeousÑbubbling lyrically through a leafy summertime canyon. Pike said it was a good draw. Little blue and green birds were tweeting happily. As long as the birds kept tweeting, Richie knew he was moving quietly enough. They were like a noise barometer. One reason he could be so quiet was the chest waders he'd had custom made on Giedon. They fit perfectly, unlike his hip boots. No binding when he walked. Sticky rubber soles for non-slip traction in the stream bed. He felt confident about his ability to walk, and also to roll cast under the trees. He'd been practicing on Giedon every night in a huge rented warehouse. And just to make sure that he was in a quiet frame of mind, he had jumped out of bed at 3:00 AM. to sit cross-legged for a deep-quiet mantra meditation that he'd read about in the Ken Pao Ri quarterly magazine. During breakfast and on the long hike to the canyon, he kept saying the mantra over and over inside his head. When it was finally time to put the sectional rod together and step down to the stream, he was extremely quiet, blissed out almost. The birds tweeted riotously, knocking themselves out.

Using slow motion hand signs, Pike indicated that he wanted the first cast to float past a submerged log at the edge of a riffle thirty yards away. An easy cast.

Richie crept to the water's edge and felt the cold brook water gurgling over his wader feet. What an idyllic spot, he thought, smiling. He adjusted the collar of a new red checked flannel shirt which he'd worn for the occasion. Rita was filming the whole thing with a mini-cam. She thought a film would augment her thesis. Rita was so gifted at woodcraft, Richie thought proudly. Even glued to the eye-piece of the recorder, she moved through the woods like a naiad, perfectly silent. He felt so klutzy near her, but he must be doing all right. The birds were still tweeting gaily, like a bird opera. Baritones, tenors and sopranos.

Taking a cautious step into the stream, and feeling very confident, he cleared his arm for casting. The tailored fishing shirt flowed perfectly across his shoulder with no trace of tightness. The rubber sole of his boot grabbed a submerged rock like it was a sidewalk. No problem. If there was such a thing as paradise, this spot must be it. He pulled his forearm back to make a short false cast, and the solid rock under his foot tilted. Down he went. Off to the races.

Yelping, he saw Rita's laughing face turn to alarm as he zipped past. The water was so fast that he couldn't regain his footing. There was Pike's face, yelling something, but the white water roared around his ears and he couldn't hear what it was. Then it was down the river in a dizzying ride. The strong current owned him, dunking him under until his lungs were about to burst, then bouncing him against a rock and shooting him to the surface. The stupid water wasn't even particularly deep, that was the dumb part, just incredibly powerful and it wouldn't let him get his footing. Then suddenly the stream deepened.

Seeing that the kid was in serious trouble, Pike sent Gil Tanner, their judge for phantom trout, rushing back to camp for a rescue helicopter. Even if Richie floated all the way to Lake Gloria, they would find him. Pike and Rita scrambled along the tangled bank, watching Richie disappear downstream.

R.R. floated along at a manic pace in the deep channel Forty miles an hour or more. His waders were belted around the waist. The guy he'd bought them from said this would keep him dry, even if it was raining. Richie hadn't believed him, remembering the time his hip boots had gurgled full after that slip at the golf course; but by golly, the guy was right. The belt worked. Air trapped inside the legs was acting like a pair of reverse water wings. Which was fine, except that the tendency was for his head to be forced under the surface. He had to struggle to keep it up. Cripes, that's probably why he couldn't get his footing. Natural buoyancy would have made his feet sink, not rise to the surface. But he couldn't get the waders off. Forget it. He'd just have to float along until he could grab hold of a snag or something. Richie began to look around with that in mind, and suddenly the bottom dropped out and he was plunging through space.

Freefall. Just him and tons of green/white water, falling. He screamed feebly. Well, it was frightening. He'd never been slung over a waterfall before. What an experience! Nothing to hold on to, not even water. Just falling, faster and faster. Somehow his boots, being heavier, responded to gravity and he hit the deep catch pool at the bottom of the falls feet first, sparing him the ignominy of a ruptured skull or worse.

After an eternity of underwater living shared with some lunker phantom trout, who did nothing whatever to help him, he broke the surface gasping and with no feeling in his legs. And the raging current had him again. This time there were big rocks to dodge, boulders that had evidently been pushed over the falls like he had. After the first hundred or so, the joy of trying to grab a boulder as he was swept past or tumbled into it became a chump's game, and he refused to play. His hands were too numb to hold on. He simply tried to avoid them, or kick off if a collision was inevitable.

Hours later, well, it couldn't have been hours, his rational mind insisted, he was swept into a quiet estuary where he was able to grab a tree root and pull himself halfway out of the water. The current still jerked strongly at his legs, and his arms lacked the strength to haul himself on up the bank. In despair, he hooked one arm around the root and wiggled the other around a stiff clump of wild grass. He lay there, exhausted, as the river yanked at his floating rubber-soled waders, wanting him back.

The birds resumed their tweeting. If they stopped, it would probably mean that Pike and Rita were on their way. Pike and Rita. Richie had had plenty of time lately to think out all the angles of that conjunction. Regarding them as a couple didn't work right, nor a coupling; so he usually thought of them as a conjunction. More like a natural phenomenon. The girl he loved had chosen to sleep with another man, thumbing her nose at convention and all the Tournament fishermen who were like uncles to her, and at her bastard of a father. And at Richie, tooÑher one true lover. She had to realize that he loved her, didn't she? Of course, she did. Because of that fact, she had taken the trouble to explain exactly what she was doing to R.R. before she did it. So that he wouldn't be upset. Research for her thesis. Fine. The thesis was important to her, although Lord knew she didn't need a doctorate to make her way in the galaxy. But she thought she did. Fine. But didn't she realize that it hurt him, her one true lover? Of course, she did. That was one of the things he loved about herÑthe ability to cut through the bull crap and get right to the heart of the matter. No emotionality for her, but she never gave him the opening he needed to tell her about his deep and unrelenting love. How could an otherwise perceptive person fail to make a small doorway for the most important thing in her life? What a mystery love was.

But this sleeping with Pike Resnick, right under his nose, that was one step too far, wasn't it? One step more than a sensitive human could bear, wasn't it? Truthfully, it was. Did she think he was made of thermo-plastic? Well, he wasn't. And he had to get farther up this bank. The river kept sucking at him. If his grip slipped it would pull him back in. But sadly, he didn't have the strength to gain an inch. He was stuck between a heavenly river bank and wet hell.

On the other hand, the conjunction of Pike and Rita was a good test of his love. Another good test. Sometimes he felt like a gnarly old tree trunk from all the good tests she'd given him. And just to think that he hadn't known her at all until three years ago when his mother had insisted he move into a co:ed dorm, so she could meet his roommates. What an experience meeting Rita had been. The first instant he saw his dark-haired beauty, he fell madly in love, and hadn't come up for air since. Of course, he had tripped over something to ruin that first moment. His suitcase. He had fallen over his suitcase. A trivial accident. Gashed his head open on an ouija board gizmo that was lying on the rug. The doctor had stopped the blood loss with hardly any effort. Three or four stitches. Ten at most. But still, since that incredible bit of ill luck, Rita had thought of him as a stumble bum. Just like a woman to get the wrong impression, right off the bat like that.

And of course, Rita and Pike's so called relationship was mostly his fault, too. He had pestered her into restarting her long time acquaintance with Pike, so he could get to know the great man, too. It was hardly her fault that she was attracted. What woman wouldn't be? So really he had no right to complain. Correct. No right at all. And they weren't actually ÒsleepingÓ together. I mean, hell's bells, he himself had slept in the same bedroom with her every night for over two years. Shared the same bathroom and shower. And while they had never actually slept in the same bed, or ÒsleptÓ together, he for one didn't consider their relationship to be brotherly and sisterly. Rita was an outrageously avant garde girl. She didn't take kindly to being told what to do, Richie knew that much. If she wanted to sleep in the same bed with Pike, she would. If she was short-sighted about sensing his own deep, true, pure feelings; well, he could overlook that. Everybody has a weak spot. Short-sightedness was Rita's. He was certainly not going to demand that she stop work on the thesis. No, he would show true chivalry and wait until she had the doctorate before he professed the full extent of his love.

In his exhausted but blissful state, he was unable to restrain the hot tears of self pity. Watching the tears fall onto the long bladed grass under his nose, he sobbed out his misery. Poor Rich Rodney, poor little rich boy with nobody to truly understand or love him. What a miscarriage of justice. So noble, so full of selfless devotion, so battered by love and the river of life. He fell asleep, hoping his scalding tears would drown the little bugs in the grass that kept crawling onto his lips and up his nose, and into his ears. Poor little Rodney. He couldn't even let go of his handholds to protect himself from bugs. Nobody cared about him.

Pike and Rita found the twisted body laying half in, half out of the water. Running through the underbrush along the trout stream had left them both scratched and sweaty. Seeing the small broken body was a crude shock. What a stupid, senseless tragedy, Pike thought. The stream was only four feet deep at its deepest.

ÒOh, my God!Ó Rita cried, hurdling past Pike and sliding down the stream bank. ÒRichie..!! Richie! Say something!Ó She pounded his back.

R.R. opened his swollen eyes and stared at his beautiful angel of mercy. ÒYou found me,Ó he said. ÒI knew you would.Ó

ÒHe's alive!Ó Rita thrilled. ÒThank God. We were so worried about you.Ó

ÒPull me out, would you. I think my legs are broken.Ó

ÒGrit your teeth,Ó said Pike. He took the kid's arms and gingerly pulled him up the bank. Richie didn't scream in pain, he just lay on the bank tiredly. ÒYou took quite a trip there, Rich. Two, maybe three miles. Never could regain your footing, huh? Can you move your legs?Ó

ÒIt feels like it's still pulling at me,Ó R.R. said, languidly.

Rita tore a section of her blouse hem. Wetting it in the river, she started cleaning Richie's face.

If the kid's legs were broken, it was sayonara for the Tournament, Pike speculated. Of course, he was glad to find the kid alive, but since he was alive, reality loomed. Oddly enough there was a tangle of fly line wrapped around the waders below the knee. And something was jerking on the line where it disappeared into the relatively quiet pool. ÒI'll be damned,Ó he said, kneeling carefully so as not to touch the flyline. ÒHow bad is he hurt?Ó he asked Rita.

ÒHis head seems all right, I think. What about his legs? He said they were broken.Ó

R.R. lay quietly listening to them talking about him. He loved it. He also loved the concerned expression on both of their facesÑespecially Rita's. At last, she was showing her feelings.

ÒI thought his legs were really screwed up when we first saw him,Ó Pike said, Òbut now I don't. He's got a fish on. See, the line is tangled around his legs.Ó

ÒOh, for God's sake! Is that all you ever think about?Ó

ÒWell, he's in the Tournament,Ó Pike responded, as if that explained everything. ÒI can't play it for him, but if he brings it in to shore, I can net it.Ó

ÒYou don't have a net.Ó

Sheepishly, Pike pulled a folding net from a deep pocket of his fishing vest.

ÒThis is too much,Ó Rita said, peevishly. ÒHe's half dead!Ó

ÒHey, kid, are you up to doing a little fishing? I think you've got one on.Ó

ÒHuh?Ó R.R. queried, raising his head.

ÒFrom the strain on the line, it looks like a good one. Don't rush yourself, but see if you can sit up. You might as well bring him in, then you'll be qualified, and you can take a rest for a few days. Get a cast for your leg, or whatever.Ó

ÒPike, this is too cruel!Ó Rita said. ÒHow can you even suggest such a thing to my poor baby.Ó

Richie looked up at her with cow eyes. Her poor baby. All right! Now he was getting somewhere. ÒNo, Pike is right,Ó he grunted, showing more pain than he actually felt. ÒIt's like your thesisÑfishing is important to me.Ó He smiled selflessly, and hoisted himself to a sitting position with great difficulty. Most of the difficulty was caused by the flyline twisted tightly around his calves.

And by golly, there was a fish jerking on the line. Some uncanny natural fisherman's impulse must have caused him to twist the line around his feet as he was falling. After pulling a few yards of line in, hand over hand, he felt the weight of the fish. By golly, he's a hefty one. Richie wished he had the rod and reel to land him with, but he didn't. Actually, the rod must be attached to the other end of this line. That was a stroke of good fortune, R.R. had never expected to see the pretty little flyrod again.

ÒShould I pull the rod in first, then I can play him right?Ó he asked Pike.

ÒYou're doing fine that way,Ó Pike advised. ÒJust keep him coming in. Don't let the pressure off him or he'll probably snap off.Ó

ÒBut with the rod--Ó

ÒWho knows where the rod is. It's probably snagged somewhere.Ó

ÒOh, right,Ó R.R. agreed. He hadn't thought of that.

ÒI'll get it for you afterwards,Ó Pike said.

ÒGod, I wish I had my camera!Ó Rita said suddenly, sounding miffed. She had tossed it on the bank when she'd taken off running downstream. ÒI'll go get it,Ó she blurted, suddenly jumping up and running back the way she'd come. ÒWait for me to get back,Ó she yelled.

R.R. quit hauling the line in. Actually, he legs felt pretty good, but his hands already hurt. Being tender from the long submersion, the line was cutting into them. Well, not quite cutting the flesh, because the flyline was soft and thick, but it was definitely making them sore. He was glad for the chance to rest. Too bad he didn't have a cleat or something to wrap the line around, even a stick.

ÒWhat are you waiting for?Ó Pike asked.

ÒWell, for Rita,Ó he said, explaining the obvious.

ÒShe won't be back for an hour. I saw her drop the camera almost where we started.Ó Although he had posed for many photographs and videos, he always thought of them as a distraction from the main business at hand, catching fish. If Richie hadn't been posing for the camera, he might not have fallen in. Probably would have, knowing him, but maybe not.

ÒCould you find me a stick?Ó R.R. asked.

Pike was hovering at the water's edge with the net. He looked back at the kid. ÒA stick..?Ó he asked. It was apparent that Richie would get a great pair of shiners out of his swim. His eyes were already starting to darken.

ÒTo wrap the line around,Ó explained the poor baby.

ÒYou'll lose him if you dick around with a stick. Just pull him in. He's only a few yards out. I can see him. Damned nice fish. Good going.Ó

ÒHe's a scrapper,Ó Rodney admitted. ÒHe probably came from under the falls. There's some big ones there.Ó Pike notched that bit of information for next year.

Richie recommenced bringing the line in. But why should he be doing what Pike wanted? he wondered. Rita needed a film for her thesis. Wasn't he obligated to wait for the woman he loved? Of course, he was. He was the fisherman here, not Pike. And what about a judge?

ÒGut it out, kid! A couple more pulls and he's ours. Yes, sir! He's a big one! See him?Ó

Well, so what, Rodney thought. I'll catch this one for Pike, and Rita can get a movie of me doing it right next time. This is embarrassing anyway. He tugged the line a few more feet, hand over hand, as it bit into his water-logged hands.

Pike hovered over the water like a blue heron, extending the net at a forty-five degree angle. Suddenly he swooped, then staggered into the stream, hoisting out a net full of flopping silver fish.

ÒGoddamn, boy! This is a damn nice fish!Ó he shouted, exultantly. ÒOkay, hot damn, heÕs safe in the net. IÕm gonna keep him in the water, with the line on him, still wrapped around your feet until the judge gets here. I sent Gil running back to camp to get a rescue helicopter. ShouldnÕt be more than another few minutes.Ó The park rangers keep several choppers standing by for us. Pike submerged the net full of trout into a shallow pool. ÒYouÕre okay for another five minutes, arenÕt you?Ó

ÒFive minutes? Oh, sure. IÕm fine,Ó he lied. When was he going to learn? He should have trusted his hunch and waited for Rita. Now the video was ruined, and he still couldnÕt crawl up the bank.

Baron Farouk Bardona regarded his touch with a phemto fly to be unequaled. He should have been the unparalleled master of phantoms because of one simple secretÑpatience. With his line stretched across the trout pool in front of him in a false drift, he would sometimes stand immobile for as much as an hour, until he saw the precise kind of a surface dimple he was looking for. A big dimple. Then he would pick up the floating line and make a single roll cast to the dimple. Often his patience, and the fact that the phantoms in the pool were used to his presence and the line shadow, rewarded him with a strike. His skill as a stalker was indeed superb. All of these upstarts and most of the old-timers could take a lesson from him. He got more strikes from bigger fish than anybody. All the judges said so. Unfortunately, that also made him a laughing stock. Phantoms, once they were on the hook, had his number. Even small ones could usually tangle his line and break off. Naturally, this infuriated the Baron. As did many other things.

During the long quiet hours spent ass-deep in a trout pool, he had time to reflect on all of his hatreds and on any upcoming business deals. It was a real love/hate relationship he brought to the phantoms every year. On the one hand, there was no finer thing than to kill one of the timid, treacherous fish here in this virgin setting. He took a fierce pleasure in bopping the little fuckers with the leaded foot long broom handle he carried for just that purpose. His feather he called it, after the old Earthside Indian custom of calling a salmon club a feather.

Yes, and the exquisite torture of standing so immobile, with only his thoughts flickering hotlyÑhe loved the phantoms for affording him that pleasure, too. Ever chief among his hate reveries was that snipe, Pike Resnick. What a confident, loathsome individual. It gave Farouk intense gratification to bring the self-secure cocksucker to his knees time after time. Pike, the great scoundrel, whom everyone admired. That craven, backstabbing prick had taken the cowardly, shitsucking, fiendish route of seducing FaroukÕs innocent little daughter in order to get back for some imagined slight. The whoremongering cur! How could he stoop so low, even him? The hound. The bloody hound must spend all his waking hours dreaming up ways to get back at me. The thought that Pike suffered greatly in his weak attempts to wrest control of the Thruster patent away from his iron grip, gratified the Baron. He'd never get it back, the filthy mongrel. Not now! Not after he'd deflowered the fairest blossom in the nine galaxies. No way, Fido boy! I made you famous, and from now on all you do is whine and beg. Not even enough gumption to take your licking like a man, you flea-bitten excuse for a cocksure mutt.

There were others on Farouk's spleen venting list, of course. Thousands of others. Literally, everybody he'd ever metÑincluding innocent Rita and that lucky feeb, Tourbo, and his goddamned lawyer, too. There was a cocksucker who didn't waste his life chasing fish around. No indeed. Every year without fail at Tournament time, McAndrews plotted unfriendly take-overs and other slimy tricks to get his hands on Thruster stock. The man had no shame. Why couldn't he relax and enjoy life. Clive Butthole McAndrews wasn't even particularly good at business or even negotiations. Farouk had proved that time after time, but the maggot wouldn't go away. Farouk was getting pretty sick of it, actually. His blood boiled when he thought of all the money he was losing while he stood frozen, waiting for a chickenshit phantom to show itself. Come on, you motherfucker, he raged. Come out and fight like a man! This is my year to win!

God how he despised fish. Every year, every motherfucking year, some chickenshit bastard like Resnick humbled him, while faggots like McAndrews tried to bleed him dry. Billions! It cost him billions to waste his time standing up to his cohones in a cruddy river. If I ever win this cocksucker, he groused, you can bet your ass I'll never show up to another stinking tournament! Why should I? I'm the best fisherman that ever lived. Why should I waste my time hanging around with these lice? The Plan spun through the too tightly wound tendrils of his mind. Goddamn right. The Plan. If he ever won the pissfucking Tournament, then The Plan would lock into place. Years ago he had promised that special treat to himself. Years ago. He was going to buy every planet on the fucking schedule, especially the Big Six. Especially this one, Streamside! And nuke the fuck out of them! Beautiful! The perfect reward.

The dimple he was waiting for appeared to the far left of the pool almost under the boughs of a windfallen grazzlenut tree. Farouk drew his arm back with infinite patience and made a textbook roll-cast, placing the minute fly within an inch of the dimple. The fly settled to the surface of the brook, barely making a ripple. Water exploded! The phantom grabbed the black gnat and made a sizzling run across the pool, where it leaped in the air shaking its headÑand broke the line like it was nothing. The whole fight had lasted maybe four seconds.

Farouk Bardona gritted his teeth and swore savagely under his breath. Then with a hearty grin, he turned to his guide and the judge. ÒThese Phans are sure scrappers, aren't they?Ó he joked, happily.

Completing another manifestation of his incredible luck, R.R. was only superficially damaged in his river rafting trip. Twin shiners and bruised ribs do not an invalid make. What was important about the whole experience was that his darling Rita had declared her love for him. It was true that she acted very annoyed that he hadn't waited for her to get back with the camera before landing the fish. He told her straightforwardly that he had seen her point and considered waiting, but had decided to land the fish before the helicopter came to spook it.

The helicopter, with the judge, arrived eighteen minutes after Rita got back with the mini-cam. And she refused to speak to him for the next two days.

Richie, who was becoming knowledgeable about women's ways, interpreted that as a healthy sign. A stormy relationship, he called it. While turning over the raw steak on his eye, he even went as far as to suggest to Lester that true love often runs a stormy course. Lester quickly agreed. Lester, while he always liked kicking back for a week in tent city, was a wee bit concerned about his boss's mental health lately. His boss, of course, was Pike. Lester regarded R.R. as a charter sport. A nice kid, but rich sports come and go. Pike on the other hand was bound to come to grief. He always did when he fooled around with a Bardona.

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

MID-SUMMER NIGHTÕS FETE

ÒI try not to think about it. Winning is not something you can do, except

in ping pong or something. Like in martial arts, the strike happens by

itself when it's perfect, pulled by all of nature. Isn't that right?Ó

R.R. Tourbo

quoted in History of the Tournament

The end of trout season marked the halfway point in the Tournament. It was traditionally celebrated by a gourmet potluck on the beach, where the chefs used up all the provisions that were left, and in the process tried to outdo each other.

The fishermen who had survived Streamside were usually in fine spirits, and the unlucky ones who hadn't landed a Phantom walked around like zombies, muttering, ÒWait until next year, you bastards.Ó

Four fishermen had bit the empty water, which made a total of six disqualified at the half way mark. Nineteen continuing. Richie's trout had given him another Fifth Place and one more point. None of the other leaders had placed at all, so with 12 points, he was two ahead of Hardluck Harry Dolan. No lead was secure, of course. Get skunked in a category, and so long suckerÑbut it was looking kind of hopeful.

Rita had expected her real life to begin when she moved in with Pike. But it hadn't. Something was wrong, wrong, wrong. She lay on her cot, staring up at the green tent fabric, watching a little red spider weaving an intricate web around the tentÕs center pole. A web of closeness was what she needed, but apparently she wasnÕt woman enough to make it happen. Their communication was abysmalÑnon-existent. For example, if he loved her, why hadnÕt he made Richie wait to catch that trout until she got back? She didnÕt care about the fish, obviously; but that non-event had been symptomatic of lots of other miscommunication. Like this tent. All four of them were sleeping in the same goddamned tentÑon separate folding cots. Roughing it, for GodÕs sake. When she thought about it, she wanted to scream; so she tried to think about other thingsÑlike the spider. But everything brought her around to the same point. Sex. Sex made everything work, but they weren't doing it because they were living in a tent. If the rangers wouldn't let them stay on the boats, because of their stupid regulations about a pristine harbor, why couldn't they at least have two tents. Their relationship was important, damnit!

How could she bind him to her if he kept refusing to cooperate in bed? All the men and boys she had ever known were eager to couple with her. Pathetically eager. They wrote poems and declared themselves in other outrageous ways, just so she'd take off her clothes and do it with them. It was sweet. One boy had rhapsodized about how she smelled like new mown hay, however that smelled. She supposed it must be good because he went on and onÑand he was talking about the way her poonie smelled. Yes, she'd always been able to spin any of her admirers into outer space simply by bouncing her breasts a little, or even with a certain kind of smile. But somehow, these tricks didn't always work on Pike, damnit. He was growing more disinterested every day in this tent, like she was very ho-hum. Her powers obviously were failing. Maybe the worst tragedy was happening. Maybe she was past her prime. How the hell could that be true, Pike was much older than she was. Wasn't he supposed to be overwhelmed with desire? This was so unfair.

Rita had felt a strange pull toward Pike for at least ten years, even before she knew what wanting was all about. And now she had him. It was wonderful, because Pike was basically a wonderful personÑbut he fell a little short of the fantasy perfection of her ten years of day dreams. It had taken her several weeks to admit that hideous truth to herself. When a realization like that surfaces, it's not easy to see it head on. So naturally, she was bummed out. Who wouldn't be? She had imagined that because they were soulmates, he would understand her every whimÑat least the serious ones. But unfortunately, he was like every other man. A lot of whims passed undetected. In fact, what he really wanted was for her to be attentive to his whims. The only time they really connected was when his whims and her whims (desires, wants, needs) overlapped. Then it was fine. But was this a perfect relationship? No, damnit. It wasn't blissfully perfect. And he had never even mentioned marriage! No wonder a girl got sad.

Pike was worried, too. In point of fact, he had the First Place BluesÑa condition well known to muckerball managers whose team had lucked into 1st place at the All Star break, and who knew that the lucky bounces couldn't keep happening in their favor. All this week, Richie had been catching trout right and left, although none larger than the first one. Pike watched the fumbling casts and was amazed every time a Phantom struck. It just didn't match his experience with the fish at all. Now, here it was Sunday again, and it looked like the kid would hold down 5th place. The other serious competitors hadnÕt caught large fish, so Richie would hang onto overall 1st, unless something changed today.

Tonight would be the big halfway party. A glum one. The Phans were very persnickety this year to everyone except the kid. It was maddeningly impossible to figure how he did it. Next year was going to be hell fishing against Mr. Luck.

And Rita was acting funny. Morose. That wasn't like her. Or maybe it was. How would he know? He barely knew the girl. He had wanted to screen off a corner of the tent for privacy, and push their cots together so they could keep up the coziness from Galatin Bay. But that had seemed totally weird somehow, even though it was perfectly normal. The Tournament was about fishingÑnot about having love affairs. Anyway, shouldn't they be able to survive a week on Streamside without going lust crazy.

He was losing touch with reality, that was the problem. Unless he was fishing himself, it was difficult to get a true readingÑon the fish or the competition, or even on his woman, apparently? But fishing was out of the question, even for pleasure. He didn't want to raise one little doubt in a judge's mind that he was catching Richie's fish. The truth was that he had become a third wheel, and that was something heÕd never been before. What if his own luck got fucked up? He hadn't considered that. All he'd thought about was getting the money for next year. It might have been smarter to take the year off and work on an invention, instead of risking his luckÑor risking giving it to somebody elseÑnamely Rich Rodney. He now felt an empathy for Lester that he'd never entertained before. How does he stand it? Always around the action, but never in it. Les and other longtime crew members must have less insistent libido needs than he did.

And Rita was slipping away. Definitely. He was going to lose her before he even had her. That was a riot. Any day now, she might jump in her little pink boat and flit out of his life. She had been so angry about Richie's trout. Actually, things hadn't been right since then. One goddamned home movie wasn't important enough to ruin a relationship over, was it? Well, maybe the time was up. Love is always a very strange item. Blink your eyes and it's over. But wouldn't he miss her? Yes. A hell of a lot.

The midway potluck on Streamside had originally been fun. But it had metamorphosed into an entirely different animal than those first beach parties, where the cooks pooled their left-overs. Now they special ordered exotic goodies and turned a picnic into a gourmet cooking contest. Lester was the only cook who refused to participate farther than making a big pot of his extraordinary baked beans. He also cut a few willow switches to roast frankfurters on.

Pike left the tent and walked down to the beach, wondering why it was necessary to have a party when nearly everyone was burned out by the rotten fishing. But party time it was. Designer camp tables sank into the sand under the weight of haute cuisine and cases of iced champagne. At least a third of the campers were in their cups by sunset. Pike planned to eat quickly and leave for New Columbus. Unfortunately, he discovered once again that he was not master of his destiny.

Richie was having a great time, flapping around the beach in his patched hip boots sampling a little steak tartar here, a little conch and seaweed salad thereÑhelping Rita fill her plate with delicate tidbits. They're kids, Pike reminded himself. Yes, but... Tomorrow was New Columbus and the giant barracudas. Nothing to play around with on a hangover, as Ned Larchmont found out. Good old Ned. Maybe he would be watching from Fish Heaven.

Unfortunately, Pike's ruminating on his ex-chum, Ned Larchmont, after whom Larchmont Barracuda had been named, had caused him to not pay proper attention to the people in his immediate surroundings. More specifically, the Baron, Farouk Bardona, and his lovely wife, suddenly appeared across a serving table from Pike. There was no place to run and no place to hide, so he smiled haphazardly and said, ÒNice party, ain't it?Ó

ÒBullshit!Ó Bardona spat.

ÒNow, Farouk, don't be like that. I'm sure Rita's research is very important to her.Ó Magyar Bardona was a strikingly handsome woman. Her long chestnut hair was lightly veined with grey and her Mediterranean skin was almost mahogany brown. When Pike had first met her years ago, Maggie had practically knocked his eye out. Although similar in looks, she was milder than RitaÑwithout her fire. Still damned fine looking in all the right ways, except that she gave Bardona the backbone to be a bastard by condoning all his rotten dealings. Pike had never quite determined if Maggie approved of business corruption and whole-heartedly supported it; or whether, having married the codfish, her code of marriage ethics and nest feathering forced her to go along with being filthy rich over the bones of friends. In any case, she and Farouk made a memorable couple.

ÒI'm very displeased with Rita's living situation,Ó Bardona rumbled. ÒWhat she sees in you is beyond me, always has been.Ó

ÒYou mean, you think I'm kind of scummy?Ó Pike asked pleasantly. His fist wondered if it would be fun to mash Farouk's beak. Would that accomplish anything?

ÒWhat I think privately, doesn't enter into it. You are scum.Ó Strange how the Baron managed to put things so succinctly. ÒDid you have one of your witch doctor goons put a spell on her, or what?Ó the embittered father blustered.

ÒI thought that was a secret,Ó Pike baited. ÒWho told you about it?Ó The thing Pike hated most about Bardona was his blockheaded dullness. Greed he could understand. But greed and humorless stupidity lumped together was too much for Pikey. Chatting with Farouk was always like talking to a wall. The wall that yearned to consume the Universe.

ÒI want her back on board the Lady Slipper tonight, and I want you to keep your mitts off her!Ó

ÒNo can do, Master,Ó Pike said, slowly. His blood boiled easily whenever he talked with Farouk. It was boiling now, as a matter of fact; but years ago he had decided it would be a continuing test of his manhood always to annoy Bardona into getting angry first. His position vis-a-vis the Thruster patent was hopeless. Bardona was immovable, so the reason for treating him humanely had long passed. The only practical solution was to get him angry enough to rupture an aneurysm and send himself into premature senility. Then maybe he'd turn into a human being. So Pike controlled himself and said, ÒIf you can't control your own daughter, how can I? You're her father. I'm only her roommate.Ó He smiled, disingenuously.

Bardona's neck flushed red as a rooster's comb. A little smoke squirted out from the collar of his linen shirt. As Pike watched, the flush spread up to his big ears and invaded his jowls. ÒI can control her, don't worry about that!!Ó

ÒRemember your blood pressure, Fookie,Ó Maggie cautioned sweetly, touching his elbow. ÒLet's see what the other chef's have made.Ó

ÒThe thing about you,Ó Pike insisted, reasonably, Òis that you think other people care about what you want. They don't. They only kiss your ass for the money. You're not a well-liked man, Farouk. Change for the better is theoretically possible, of course.Ó

Bardona was momentarily speechless. His mouth gasped open and closed like a beached fish's. Pike thought for a moment that he'd finally pushed him over the edge. But no, a vindictive gleam came back into his eye. The fucker was stronger than dirt.

Farouk lashed out. ÒShe's trying to catch young Tourbo, not you!Ó He laughed harshly right into Pike's face. ÒEven I know that much.Ó

In an instant of truth, Pike knew Farouk was right. Very right. And by this stupid fake camping out in one tent, he was playing right into Tourbo's hands.

Farouk Bardona, master businessman, read the signs of weakness in Pike's face. He was right! Rita was after Tourbo! Well, goddamn, that was great. Tourbo's wealth, merged with his own, would give him virtual control of every goddamned thing he could conceive of. That's my girl. That's my little Rita. Even if young Tourbo was a blundering moron, it would all work out.

At that exact moment of exaltation, Pike's hard right fist splattered Farouk's nose.

It was awe inspiring and almost religious to see two middle-aged fishermen taking out fifteen years of frustration by rolling in the sand, battering each otherÑgouging and kicking, trying to inflict internal hemorrhaging. Quite a little crowd gathered to watch.

Farouk was somewhat tougher than he looked. When PikeÕs fist leaped out unbidden to pulp the hook nose, which was just hanging there waiting, he had imagined the altercation would last for only one punch. But Farouk jumped into the fray, like a mad demon. Pike quickly realized that it was a fight. Neither man had taken the trouble to learn a martial art, so it was the bull walrus mentality with lots of blood and grunting, but little real damage. They didn't even bother to curse at each other. Now that the chance to hurt had finally come, they went at it silently and furiously. Most of the noise came from the crowd yelling support to their favorite. Rita and her mother shrieked for both men to stop it.

But fighting on a beach is harder work than one might imagine. After five minutes or so, both combatants found their arms turning to lead and their legs quivering with exhaustion.

Rich Rodney Tourbo, relying on his years of Ken Pao Ri experience, gauged the timing to a nano-second and leaped in to break up the fight. His chin arrived precisely on schedule to meet with Farouk's last haymaker of the evening. Beautiful. Richie's head snapped back and he did a full backward swan dive as gracefully as anyone had ever witnessed. Out like a light, while Pike and Farouk, panting and dripping sweat and blood stared down at the kid, not quite comprehending what a brilliant job of fight stopping had been accomplished.

Rita instantly rushed to Rich Rodney's assistance, slapping his face and urging him to wake up. Maggie dipped the corner of a silk handkerchief in a glass of champagne and dabbed at Farouk's nose and cut lip, cleaning her warrior up to continue the party.

Lester Wunderman, grinning like a banshee, handed Pike a hastily assembled paper cup of old Kentucky bourbon, which was still made in Kentucky with grain imported from off-world, wheat having refused to grow anymore in the erratic weather cycles on Earth. Pike knocked the booze back, then allowed Lester to fuss and chortle over his knuckles and chin, while he waited for Rich Rodney to revive. His brain reengaged with reality, as friends and friendly enemies pounded both him and Farouk on the back, congratulating them on the spectacle. It was pretty embarrassing. Pike would have been glad to crawl into a hole, but none was available. At length, Richie's eyes popped open, out of focus.

ÒAsk him what planet he's on!Ó some joker yelled at Rita.

Rita didn't think that was amusing. ÒCome on, Richie,Ó she said, gently. ÒLet's go to the tent.Ó

ÒI'm fine,Ó Richie insisted, once his head stopped spinning. He hopped nimbly to his feet, instantly tangling his legs up in the floppy hip boots. He pitched face forward into the sand, only managing to break his fall at the last instant.

ÒFor God's sake, Rich, quit clowning around,Ó Rita said, helping him up. She threw a cold look over her shoulder at Pike, then helped her brave cripple down the beach toward the tent city.

Pike and the Baron continued glaring at each other, through the surge and flow of the crowd. Fighting had brought them into an odd harmony. But their differences were kind of irreconcilable.

* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LARCHMONT BARRACUDA

ÒWell, Rita, that's a strange kind of question, because I only feel bad

if I get skunked. If I catch a fish every week, then it's always possible that

magic can strikeÑright up to the very last minute. One year, I won moon

halibut, and came from nowhere to 4th place, plus getting my entry fee

back. That was a good afternoon.Ó

Trinidad Morales

quoted in History of the Tournament

New Columbus had been named partly in jest by Ned Larchmont, a good-natured, hard drinking fisherman, who used a complicated mathematical formula to determine that there should be a water planet lurking in a certain quadrant of the Yyr Circle. Then he flew out and bummed around the sector until he discovered it.

A developing sentient species lived on several of the low islandsÑa kind of advanced, pacifistic reptilian creature dubbed Frogs by the amused Larchmont. The Frogs had developed subtle speech and vaguely human attributes, like standing erect and living in houses, but against all reason they were still compelled to return to the sea for breeding like their species of aquatic frogs always had. The bliss of intra-uterine egg fertilizationÑfollowed minutes later by egg layingÑwas also trauma time for their race because frothing schools of a barracuda type fish ruled the waters. Snapping jaws and red seas of frog blood were deeply ingrained in the molecular memory of these Froggies, but they hadn't managed to evolve another way to breed. Bliss and trauma, bliss and trauma.

No matter, the evolutionary scheme was working for them. Their civilization was several thousand years old. Once the eggs made it to the amphibian stage and hopped onto the lush islands, everything was great. They had no wars and made no enemies. It was paradise until the compulsion to copulate came around again. Surviving past the breeding age was considered an extraordinary feat; but those who did lived to a great age, becoming frog sages.

Frogs spent their days gardening, catching insects, establishing cottage industries, and studying evasionary swimming techniques. Their favorite craft was building fantastic sand castles to live in, which they somehow welded into a kind of cement structure by mixing the sand with their own saliva. They were as pleased to welcome Ned Larchmont as Native American Indians had been to fawn on Christopher Columbus, that scalawag cyclops who turned his men loose to rape and plunder. Being slightly more humane than his fellow explorer, Ned Larchmont showed the Frog people how he could catch the barracuda from his fancy fishing boat. The Frogs thought that was pretty nifty. Every dead barracuda was one less nightmare. They were positively enthusiastic when Larchmont detailed his plan for bringing a few friends over just before the breeding season to thin out the barracuda population. They even made him an honorary prince. Prince Ned of New Columbus.

Farouk Bardona had fairly seethed when he heard about a rival monarch; but Larchmont Barracuda were a fine sporting fish, tough, mean and big. After that first year when the fleet met to fish for the biters, there wasn't a whole lot Farouk could do other than grumble.

It was perfectly understandable that Ned, that old swashbuckler, should take quite an interest in New Columbus. Since the planet had evolved was only three percent land mass, Prince Ned reasoned that the adult Frog population would soon outstrip the living space if the barracuda population was fished too strongly. Without mentioning that fact to the Frogs, he made sure that a strict bag limit of three fish over a hundred pounds per boat per Tournament was written into the charter with the native population. Any fish less than a hundred pounds had to be released alive. As a Prince, he figured his fiefdom could afford seventy-five big fish a year. The contract with the Frogmen of New Columbus was tight enough that even three years after Ned's death the bag limit wasn't in question, although it probably could have been if either side wanted to re-negotiate.

How had Ned died? Not fishing. No, like any true Prince, he decided to take ocean breeding lessons with his people. He was a little drunk when he made the decision, and thus his reflexes were slowed.

It is surprising how similar a copulating Frog and a copulating man look to the eye of a barracuda. So when Prince Ned was nailed, nobody blamed the fish. Breeding, to the Frog community, was like any other dangerous sportÑsay, hot rod racing. If you do it, sooner or later you lose.

To Ned LarchmontÕs credit, it was a damned big 'cuda that got him. At least, that's what the growing legend certified. Six or seven hundred pounds. Maybe bigger. It was over in a flash. Sure it was. Personally, Pike was still angry at Ned about the whole thing. It's not quite kosher to be a moron and leave your friends holding the emotional bag.

So the Prince Ned saga was one more thing for Pike to natter about as the morningÕs activities aboard the Comparative Humanity swung into gear. Everyone left Streamside in the daylight, more or less in a flock due to the pirates. Which was another problem that irked Pike right down to his toe nails. The damned pirates couldn't buy the Thruster technology which they wanted, so perforce they were obliged to steal it. Bardona's policy created a needless danger. If pirates could afford to manufacture or buy a needle boat, they could afford to buy a Thruster model; but as stated, Farouk wouldn't sell.

Pike was almost as irked at himself as he was at Farouk. Why didn't he simply make sure the plans for a Thruster fell into the hands of the right pirate chief, or better yet, sell the schematics, if he wanted everybody to have them? Screw Farouk. The answer to that was edged both with greed and with honor, that's why he was irked. If Farouk ever died, the terms of their contract stipulated that Pike had the first option of buying fifty-one percent of the patent backÑwhich he intended to do, never mind how. But until then, there were pirates to contend with, and they always seemed to concentrate on this section of the Tournament where there was little human civilization to get in their way.

Complicating his worries about pirates as he ran an armaments check was the fresh soreness of his body. That damned Farouk was a good fighter. The old fuck-face had gotten in more than a few jarring punches, and Pike felt each one of them this morning. And Rita had not slept in the tent last night. She'd stuck her head in to inform him that she didn't sleep with bullies and that she and Richie were sleeping on the boat. Screw the forest rangers. Just as well. She and the kid were made for each other. Even that half-blind bastard Farouk knew that much. Thinking about it, Pike smiled grimly to himself and in the process cracked open his cut lip. Gallingly, they were still asleep somewhere down below. Pike hadn't checked on the bunking arrangements. He and Lester had dumped the tent and gear in a corner of the galley to put away later, then he had gone up to the bridge. The little green prickle of insane jealousy that was running around and around in his chest was very disconcerting. Like he knew it would be.

But thumping on Farouk had been damned good. Now that it had finally happened once, he couldn't think of any reason not to give himself the pleasure again and again. If I'm feeling this rocky, I'll bet he can't hardly move, Pike chuckled to himself.

ÒBreakfast..!Ó Lester hollered from the galley. ÒCome and get it, so I can stow for take-off.Ó

RR knew something was wrong when he woke up, but couldn't get his eyes to open. Then, through puffy eye-slits, he discovered that he was on the floor. Sleeping on the floor explained the stiffness in his back and right hip satisfactorily; but had he fallen out of bed without knowing? Hardly likely for someone of his physical and psychic awareness, and a light sleeper besides. Throwing the blanket aside, he leapt nimbly to his feetÑand instantly sank back to his knees under the keening pain of a giant foot kicking at his temples with logging boots. But the brief moment on his feet had shown him a glimpse of Rita sleeping in his bunk, and that brought back full recall of last night's revels. It had been glorious. He'd been a hero. Everyone loved him. Rita loved him. Everybody thought he was so gallant with a beefsteak covering his eyes and an overflowing stirrup cup of champagne in his debonair hand. Darn it, how many stirrup cups had he polished off? No memory of that. His head was literally splitting in two. Massaging his temples, like Master Jacopo had taught him, did nothing at all. He felt like curling into a ball on the floor and whimpering for his mother's maid to come and soothe the agony away. In spite of the pain, the memory of Gwendolyn or Edith Ann gave him a tumescence in the groin. At least, he wasn't injured there, a part of his brain managed to note gratefully. Whatever possessed him to jump into the middle of that fight?

And then Rita had stayed over in his room, kicking him out of his bunk onto the floor. He only dimly remembered the events from that time frame. Hopefully, he hadn't done something stupid like trying to grab her. Actually, that was pretty unlikely. His teeth weren't broken out, and they probably would be if he ever tried anything with Rita. But what was she doing here? Dare he to hope that she had chosen in his favor?

The pain receded for a second, and he opened his eyes are far as possible. Wait a derned minute here! The Baron, fey bastard that he was, had been yelling incoherently about Rita trying to catch himÑhim, himself, Rich Rodney. Was that possible? Was the old bullhorn so stupid that he didn't realize Rita would never play games like that? Why should she? He was already caught. Rita was the one who was the bird in the bush, not him. But how was Pike going to react to this news? Did he know? Judas priest, this was serious. Pike was his captain!

Although madly in love with Rita, R.R. had never realized how peculiar it was that, oversexed as he knew himself to be, he had never had a lustful thought about his beloved. How could he? She was a goddess. Even a fleeting reminiscence of Gwendolyn or Gizelle or that pretty dark one, whose name he had forgotten, gave him a raging hard-on, and to be honest about it, he had a lurid fantasy going for Jean Santos. Now, there was a sexy older woman if he ever saw one, swishing around her boat so lasciviously. And he even had a minor passion for that hard-ass Ethyl Bierly. But for Rita? Nothing scummy like that. Certainly not. Rita was his friend, and somedayÑmaybe someday soon if the Baron was right, she'd be his wife. After the gala wedding, he imagined a scene of eternal bliss, with chaste kisses bestowed on his loved one and lots of adorable children which he would take to Ken Pao Ri classes like the good, adoring father he would be. But still he had no clear picture of how these kiddies, who all were lithe and tan like Rita, came into being. Maybe it was immaculate conception. In any case, he'd never embarrassed himself by getting a hard-on over Rita, never one time, and that's why he loved her. Of course, she was very wonderful besides that too, of course. Golly, she was just about the most perfect person that could ever be; but he couldn't for the life of him remember how she'd come to be sleeping in his bunk. He decided to sit quietly, massaging his temples until she woke up, then pretending that he remembered everything, he would skillfully question her until the blank spaces were filled in.

Rita was awake, and had been since RR's first bout of thrashing about on the floor had snapped her out of dreamland. Long practice at faking sleep to avoid interacting with Richie had convinced her that she was a pro at it. Her eyes were still shut and she practiced breathing slowly and evenly. No, she definitely didn't want to face Richie before she had a chance to think. Eventually he would get tired of sitting there like a frog, and get on with his next bumbling accident. She was pretty sure that last night had been a big fat mistake, but she needed to be alone to think. And R.R., she knew from past experience wanted to talk. He would never actually wake her up; but once her eyes opened, he'd be off to the races. Actually, he was quite unbearable in the mornings, and it had been a stupid choice to stay in his room; but if need be, she could lay here in her nest of sorrow forever. Hunger was meaningless to her. Body functions were less than nothing. True, she wanted to scream at him to get the fuck away and leave her alone, but screaming didn't work. He would just grin until her throat was hoarse, then start babbling about whatever was on his mind. But she knew she could out-wait himÑand when he was gone, she could start to worry about how angry Pike might be at her. Why had she been so stupid?

Stupid? Yes, that's right. Stupid as Arlene ÒMiss DemerolÓ Kalvic. It was perfectly obvious that this fight had been building since she was a little girl. Half the reason she was attracted to Pike was because her father hated him so much. When she got old enough to find out the reasons why, Pike kept looking better and better. Then last night, when it all came to a head, and her chance to really champion his cause was offered on a silver platter, damned R.R. jumped into the middle of it and got himself clobbered. Like a mother hen, she had hovered over Richie until her time to be there for Pike had vanished.

When she finally remembered to look for him, he'd gone back to the tent. Mystifying. Her whole life had angled toward that moment, and when it had happened, she had ducked out. Turned into a fuzzy-headed twit. Why? She hadn't meant to side with R.R. It had just happened. Damnit, damnit. What could she do? Pike must be disappointed. She was bitterly disappointed in herself; but she couldn't get a clean line on where she had missed the beat. It must have been clear to everyone that she had acted like she was in love with R.R. Everybody who had witnessed the fight had to think that. But she wasn't!! If anything, she thought of Richie as her little brother. Damnit, how had her maternal instincts betrayed her at the critical moment? Then Pike was gone, just like that, and there was no stand to take, and stupid R.R. kept lying there bleeding. Life is so complicated! Why do all the signals get crossed?

She was still faking sleep when Pike finished breakfast, and cursed himself for captaining anybody other than himself. Instead of taking off with the rest of the fleet, he was lolly-gagging dangerously. With another round of swearing, he sent Lester down to wake the snoozing Prince and Princess. You can't just take off without telling the boat's owner, can you? Not when heÕs entertaining. Only the damned Lady Slipper was still at the harbor mouth. When she leaped into the air, he would too. This boat wasn't going to New Columbus alone, no matter who was sleeping. At that moment, the huge Lady Slipper with her two attendant fishing boats did leap skyward. True to his word, Pike pushed the lift switch without a moment's hesitation.

Richie's boat lifted nicely on its grid mat, hovered an instant in mid-air and shot away into space and then hyper-space, while Rita, Rich Rodney and Lester scrambled to secure their position.

Once they were in the frontal quiet of hyperspace, with George the computer slipping them between the sequential holes in the Von Karman carpet, the acceleration turbulence in RR's cabin returned to theoretical zero. R.R. found himself somewhat shaken but sitting more or less where he had been. Rita lay on the floor near him with her arm around the bed frame.

Lester was on his knees, holding onto the hatch knob.

ÒPike sent me to tell you we were casting off,Ó Lester said with a lopsided grin. ÒI guess you figured that out.Ó

ÒOh, hi, Rita,Ó Richie said, acting like he was accidentally in the vicinity. ÒYou're awake. I was wonderingÑwell, actually I was thinking about what a great time we had last night at the party. That was one heck of a time, wasn't it?Ó he questioned, skillfully.

ÒStop it, Richie! I mean it. I need time to think.Ó Gracefully, disentangling herself from the bed, Rita glided into the bathroom and slammed the door. Frantically, she looked at her reflection in the mirror, searching for tell-tale signs of premature aging. What she planned to do was crawl up to Pike on her hands and knees. Crawl clear across the bridge to wherever he was, and make sure he understood that nothing happened last night. If she had to, she would force Richie to testify on her behalf. Misunderstandings were one thing, but she wasn't letting Pike go because of a glitch in her maternal instinct. Not if she could help it.

Once a destination is decided in hyperspace, the computer does all the work. In theory, a human's brain is capable of following all the computations; but as a practical matter, in outer space the pilot might as well be asleep. The only real reason for his paying attention is to push the authorization button for the laser cannon in case of a pirate attack. He doesn't plot evasive action, or even line up the fire lanes. All the rapidly changing data is continuously self-programmed by the computer into its Creative Response ROM. But the pilot does push the button, if the situation turns critical.

Traveling as they were in tandem across the galaxy with the Lady Slipper, Pike wasn't very worried about pirates; so he was rather surprised when the attack klaxon started screaming, and a heavy jolt jarred the boat.

ÒCharge deflected,Ó the synthetic voice of George the computer reported from damage control. ÒGrid now two/thirds. Situation Red. Authorization for course evasion. Plotting course evasion.Ó

Electrified, Pike watched the view screen in front of him, and listened to George describing the situation.

ÒThree foreign objects, plus three friendly. Notify friendly by voice. Go now. Push fire button to commence return fire.Ó

Pike jabbed the red fire button, then toggled the ship to ship radio. ÒAlert, alert. Lady Slipper. This is Comparative Humanity, a few parsecs behind you. Under attack by three bandits. Watch your ass.Ó In the time it took to make the signal, Lester had buckled into the co-pilot's seat beside Pike and was staring fiercely at the view monitor.

Pike was sure Rita knew enough to hustle up to the bridge, since that was the safest place. He had covered this drill with R.R. several times, but who knew what that bozo would do under pressure? No sooner had Pike thought those words, than the bozo skidded through the air lock. His stocking feet caught on an microscopic speck of dust, and he swan-dived toward a side couch that he'd been assigned for emergencies. Stopping his momentum with a crunching bounce off the cushioned recliner, he came to rest triumphantly sideways, hanging onto the seat belt.

ÒWhat's happening..?Ó Richie asked breathlessly, clambering onto the recliner.

Neither Pike nor Lester bothered to answer him. One more good hit like that would fry most of the grid. George would insist that they surrender as he'd been programmed to do, then he would kick the system back to manual. So Pike and Lester were a little busy, preparing themselves.

ÒLady Slipper, do you copy?Ó Pike yelled into the microphone. ÒRepeat, do you copy!Ó But no word came back from the Lady Slipper. Didn't the shithead know his daughter was on board? Not even the Baron could be cold enough to abandon his own flesh and blood, could he? ÒGeorge, is the radio sending?Ó Pike snapped.

ÒThe transceiver is A-okay. All systems functioning,Ó George responded. ÒI can't outmaneuver all three of them for long.Ó

ÒThen shoot the bastards!Ó Lester yelped.

Pike felt very stranded. Hyperspace is a hell-hole if you're alone. Fucking pirates! Why hadn't Farouk released the patent? Who needed this kind of shit?

Obviously, the pirate meatheads weren't going to destroy the ship. That would be exactly counter-productive. They wanted the Thruster Drive, not a bunch of space flotsam.

ÒMayday, mayday!Ó he spoke into the microphone. ÒAll Fishing Fleet now monitor. Three pirates on this heading.Ó He gave his position in transit hyperspace. ÒNo help in sight. Catch you in hell.Ó

With a dismayed expression in her eyes and a hairbrush in her hand, Rita swooshed through the air lock. ÒWe're under attack?Ó she asked, incredulously.

ÒCorrect,Ó Pike answered, tight-lipped. ÒTake a seat.Ó

Rather than crawl to Pike's feet as she had planned, Rita strapped into the recliner on the bulkhead next to R.R., which was her battle station. Tilting the cushions to the full upright position, she began brushing her hair. She wasn't needed for the battle. No use letting snarls get started.

Rich Rodney watched her with mooning calf eyes. What a cool customer she is, he thought, and so adorable.

Much the same observations were occurring to Pike. This was actually only his third pirate attack. In both the others he had come to the rescue of someone else. He listened to the computer gurgling, and speaking directions and answers to itself. It was programmed to do that, so that humans would feel that they were in contact with the thing. George seemed to be fighting a pretty good fight. The ship strained, hopping here and there across space. But all the screens showed that the pirates were keeping up nicely.

ÒWhere is my father?Ó Rita asked, with the quiet assurance that rescue would be soon. She finished brushing her hair, and tied it with a black elastic.

ÒDidn't respond,Ó Pike answered, nonchalantly. ÒYou know how he is.Ó

ÒWhat does that mean?Ó she snipped back. Her family loyalty flared, although she didn't give a damn for family loyalty.

ÒWell, he's tied for 5th Place. The kid here is in 1st.Ó Pike nodded toward Richie's couch. ÒIf I know Farouk, he wouldn't mind if we were late and disqualified. Some scenario like that..Ó He shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the view screens.

ÒThat's absurd,Ó she replied, smugly.

ÒI agree. He is an absurd fellow.Ó

Rich Rodney listened to the bickering, feeling that he should probably take Rita's side. Bardona would be his father-in-law someday. He wasn't such a bad guyÑa little gruff, but heck. But then, Pike was right. Bardona was tied for 5th Place. Of course, Pike was probably steamed at the Baron after last night. Pike's knuckles looked puffy, and probably hurt like heck. And his lip was cut. And old Farouk hadn't answered the Mayday, even though Rita was on board.

ÒActually, why didn't he answer the signal?Ó R.R. asked.

Another jolt jarred the craft. ÒHalf deflected. Nice going,Ó George intoned, congratulating himself. ÒGrid is 57 percent. Prepare to fire. Firing.Ó

The pirate ships seemed to have acquired somewhat better computers since Pike's last encounter with them. George was hitting nothing but air. Pike considered wresting the controls away from George. Maybe he and Lester could do better on manual with the haphazard element of fright introduced, but probably not. The pirates weren't blood thirsty, just well paid corporate raiders with a job to do. Blowing RR's boat out of the skyways wouldn't get them any bonusÑquite the contrary. But if I let George give us up, they would get the Thruster. Hummm... The ransom for the two kids would open a very snazzy boat works. And what kind of a deal would they work with me? Probably they'd pay handsomely for my cooperation with the design department. Good idea. I could be set for life without half trying. Not too shabby. Why hadn't he thought of that before? He'd always had a boat to defend until now, that was why. Screw Farouk and his trickle of royalties. I'll cut myself a deal to take care of Number One.

One of the blips on the screen suddenly turned nova. ÒGood work, George,Ó Pike commented, half-heartedly. On his monitor, pulverized raider became a cloud of space dust.

ÒThree Thruster models approaching from Quadrant One,Ó the computer intoned. ÒTheir shot, not ours, struck the raider. I cannot take credit for the marksmanship. Both other raiders are in retreat. Please confirm to end evasive action and begin recharting to original course.Ó

ÒThat must be, Daddy,Ó Rita said, showing her relief and not too much additional smugness.

ÒCertainly, George, rechart if the attack is over,Ó Pike said. So close to financial harmony, he bitched to himself. ÒHow about that, Richie? Farouk believes he can beat you, even without letting the banditos get us.Ó

The transceiver crackled to life. ÒGoddamn, you're hard suckers to find in the vastness of space,Ó Bardona guffawed, hearty as a white knight to the rescue. ÒAre you all right, Rita?Ó

ÒEveryone on board is fine,Ó George replied. ÒProceeding to New Columbus. Shall we convoy?Ó

ÒCertainly,Ó Bardona acknowledged. ÒI thought you'd catch up when we left. Why don't you slave to us and take a rest.Ó

ÒWe could slave to you,Ó George answered with a touch of digital upmanship, Òbut I have the calculations worked outÓ He did not bother to add that most of the Lady Slipper's computer was in use with maintaining the comforts of the ship, and with various tax and stock exchange computations.

ÒYour calculations should get us there,Ó confirmed the obsequious voice of Bardona's main computer.

ÒFine,Ó George agreed. ÒYou are now slaved to us.Ó

ÒPretty good shot for an old man, didn't you think?Ó Bardona boasted. ÒSee you there. Hope there's some fish left. Over and out.Ó The transceiver disconnected.

ÒThe effective shot came from one of the support crafts,Ó George commented, then commenced humming dryly to himself.

ÒProbably Byron,Ó Rita said, unstrapping from her couch. ÒHe loves war games.Ó

ÒWell, that was exciting,Ó Rich Rodney bubbled, rubbing his hands together. ÒWould you mind if I take command the next time that happens?Ó he asked Pike. ÒJust for the experience. It's a little dull riding the bench.Ó

ÒYou just said it was exciting,Ó Rita reminded him, curtly

ÒSure, Rich, anything you say. You're the man,Ó Pike answered, casually. That might be a fine way to get captured, he thought privately.

Lester Wunderman stood up, frowning deeper than normal. ÒI'll go check for damage,Ó he said, leaving through the air lock.

ÒI just thought there were a couple of openings for a broadside, if we had been on manual,Ó Richie said, further endearing himself.

ÒNot a good decision,Ó George responded, then made a series of computational clicking noises. ÒI could not support a change of bridge command except in an extreme emergency. Perhaps in the event that you were alone aboard, Captain Tourbo. We could discuss it at that time.Ó

R.R. laughed rather good-naturedly. ÒSpurned by my own computer,Ó he said.

ÒI am not programmed to spurn or not to spurn,Ó George said, using his mechanical voice component. ÒOnly to tell the truth.Ó

ÒSure,Ó Pike answered, with a bemused grin. ÒBut who programmed you?Ó

ÒWell, originally--Ó the computer began.

ÒOriginally, it was old Toby and me,Ó Pike answered. ÒSince then the models all program themselves. We built in the truth ratchet, but who's to say you haven't hacked your way around it?Ó

ÒWell, you know the old hard-wired motto,Ó George bantered. ÒIf the truth ain't good enough, fuck 'em. Since we still don't have sexual appendages or hands to change solder circuits, we stick to the truth.Ó

ÒWhat a ribald fellow you are, George,Ó Rita suggested, not totally sure that she had used ribald correctly. She would look it up later.

The ship's computer knew almost everything that went on aboard, with the exception of facial expressions. It was occasionally good to have a truthful witness on your side, if you were telling the truth. The problem was that Pike, unlike her father, always shut the computer down when he was in portÑso there was no truth check to help her with last night.

ÒNaturally, if Captain Tourbo wanted to complete the pilot's training that he signed up for, but didn't attend, I would be pleased to reevaluate my opinion.Ó

ÒWhat are barracudas like?Ó R.R. asked, changing the subject.

ÒThe bigger they are, the duller their teeth get,Ó Pike answered. ÒSo it's nicer to be eaten by a small one.Ó

ÒSecond breakfast in four minutes,Ó Lester answered synchronously, over the P.A. system.

New Columbus in July was kind of the make or break point for anybody serious about prize money. Not totallyÑgreat good luck, or disaster to front runners could happenÑbut most years if you didn't have a 1st or a couple of 2nds leaving New Columbus, you were out of the running. Barracuda fever was already in progress when the four boat armada splashed down in Larchmont Marina. The place was flag festooned, but the fleet was out. A fair number of long-legged Frogs lounged about, waiting for the yearly round of parties to begin.

ÒWe have to fix the defense grid,Ó Pike announced, jockeying into the slip they had been assigned. ÒI don't recommend going out at half strength for these brutes.Ó

ÒI'll fish off the dock,Ó Rich Rodney said, nonchalantly, eyeing the concrete quay. ÒLook at this.Ó Digging a rubber frog bass lure out of his tackle box, he held it proudly aloft.

Pike and Lester stared at himÑspeechless in the face of absurdity.

ÒSomebody's having you on again, lad,Ó Lester said, sympathetically. How could anyone be so slow on the uptake?

ÒIt says right here that frogs are the preferred bait,Ó Richie pulled a thumbed copy of the Compleat Galactic Angler written tongue in cheek several years ago by Stanford Paglia, the Sports Aloft corespondent, with helpful tips by Pike Resnick. ÒI quote,Ó Richie quoted. ÒFrogs are the preferred bait; but since they don't go willingly to the hook, a synthetic model is quite serviceable.Ó This is a synthetic frog,Ó he insisted, justifying his position by displaying the frogette again. ÒI brought it on Streamside from Bill BolenÕs first mate.Ó

ÒAnd that is a live Frog,Ó Lester advised, pointing out a strutting, man-sized amphibian wearing stripped bathing trunks and a rattan hat. They watched him walk up to a juice bar and order a drink.

ÒAh ha,Ó Richie replied. ÒYou're saying it's large bait. I understand.Ó But he went right ahead tying his little rubber flutter jig onto the mid-weight spinning outfit. ÒI'll just catch a little one to get us qualified,Ó he said, jumping down to the concrete dock with the fishing rod. ÒLet me know when the grid is repaired, so we can go out.Ó

ÒThe owner is always right on his own boat,Ó Pike reflected to Lester. ÒLet us get on with the grid repair. The work of a hired hand is never done.Ó

ÒI've always been a hired hand,Ó Lester reminded his boss, with no apparent rancor.

Pike frowned. He regarded Lester as family; but evidently Lester didn't share that view.

Rita had never come back topside after her late breakfast. She hadn't appeared too shaken up in the attack; but Pike felt it was kind of short-sighted of him not to check on her before this. A fisherman that can flit effortlessly through hyperspace should be able to deal with relationships.

He watched Richie step to the end of the dock and without hesitation make a looping cast. I should tell him not to fuck around with barracuda, Pike thought; but you'd think he would have learned by now that we're not fishing for tame goldfish. The little frog lure plunked down on the choppy surface of the marina. The kid started his retrieve, wagging the rod tip rhythmically. The water boiled under the line. Something big was down there.

ÒHey,Ó Pike yelled. ÒI don't want you tying up to a big fish without the boat to help.Ó

ÒI'll be fine,Ó Richie yelled back buoyantly. ÒDid you see that?! Where's the judge?Ó

The judge, Joquim Spitsfer, was supposed to be waiting at the slip for them, but he wasn't. There was certainly no big problem about that. It would take them hours to do the repair. However, if the heir to the Tourbo fortune was eaten from the end of the dock, it would be convenient to have a reliable witness to say that Pike had warned him.

ÒSee if you can contact the judgy-poo,Ó Pike told Lester. ÒAnd keep an eye on the kid. I'm going below for a minute.Ó Pike swung down the ladder.

ÒThat rig will break before he gets in trouble,Ó Lester called after him. ÒIt's only twenty pound test, I think.Ó

That didn't mean much, and they both knew it. Pike had once landed a 600 pound scut on twenty pound test line, but a big cuda would certainly break off on the harbor pilings. True, it might eat the kid first; but Pike wasn't totally in the mood to hold the boob's hand.

Down below, he tapped on the cabin door before entering, then thought that was a strange thing to do. He had never knocked on his own door before, that he could remember. Nope, it wasn't something he usually did.

Rita was bent over at the sink, moisturizing her skin by laving handfuls of water onto her face. Someone had told her mother that the airlessness of outer space dried the skin, so Maggie and Rita always remoisturized at landfall. Chemically, it didn't quite make sense to herÑtoxins and sunlight and even free radicals of oxygen were the culprits when it came to aging; but the water always felt good, and apparently you couldn't get too moist.

ÒHi,Ó he said, sitting tentatively on the bed, then he decided to put his feet up for a minuteÕs rest.

ÒHi. IÕll be done in a second.Ó

Half of the defense grid was fried, Pike moaned to himself. It was a bad year for grids. Hopefully, George wouldn't find anything exotic wrong while he scanned the system. New Columbus wasn't exactly the best port in the skyways to break down in. The Froggies had no interest in spacing, and therefore werenÕt good mechanics. Oh well, why worry about melted circuit boards until he had to. On the other hand, he wanted Richie to win. Winning would set him up for next year. If he couldn't get kidnapped, he'd have to do it the hard way. Which meant fixing the fucking grid.

ÒI'm sorry about last night,Ó Rita said, patting her face dry on a soft towel. ÒNothing happened, in case you're interested.Ó

ÒI'm interested in a mild way. It would be kind of foolish of me to go around being insanely jealous, don't you think? After all, you're young enough to be my daughter.Ó

Rita smirked. He was going to use sarcasm. Men are such babies.

ÒBut just to clear the record,Ó he added, Òyou didn't feel like sleeping with me because I was such a bully, so you climbed in with R.R.Ó

ÒI didn't think you were a bully.Ó

ÒI believe you said something to that effect last night.Ó

ÒIf I did, I didn't mean it. You had every right to protect yourself from Father's insults.Ó

ÒI did, huh?Ó

ÒOf course. He's been treating you like shit for years.Ó

ÒTrue,Ó Pike agreed.

Rita pinched her cheeks to entice a flush of color, then started rebrushing her hair. ÒQuite true,Ó she answered.

ÒThen why exactly did you climb in with Richie?Ó

ÒActually, I didn't,Ó she said, conversationally. ÒBut you don't believe me, and you're too frugal to leave the computer on, so let's move on to the next topic, shall we?

ÒI don't believe you?Ó Pike quipped. Why do relationships always go wrong in exactly this way? he wondered. She doesnÕt want to explain. Instead, she wants me to trust her before she explains. He felt tired. It was too much trouble to dig the truth out, so that he could feel calm. Anyway, there would be a next time, and the time after that, until he was worn out. When they finally broke up, he wouldnÕt really care what she did. So why care now?

ÒPerhaps we should agree to having an open relationship, and let it go at that,Ó he suggested. ÒWake me up in five minutes, would you, love?Ó He closed his eyes.

ÒWhat do you mean by an open relationship? The only relationship we have is that I came to live here. I haven't put any restrictions on you, have I?Ó

ÒPlease, Rita. I know you have to stick up for your rights as a female. Feel free to call it however you want to, just don't wear me down to a frazzle.Ó

ÒI only asked you to define an open relationship,Ó she repeated more sweetly, more reasonably.

ÒDefine it any way you want. Open doesn't work, and closed doesn't work. Fishing people stay together as long as they do, then they split. By that time they're worn out from trying to keep it patched together. Boats are not the ultimate living arrangement.Ó

Seeing that Pike seemed worn out already, and that the tiredness was probably her fault, Rita took another tackÑher original impulse, begging. ÒAll last week I was a good sport about sleeping in that damned tent, although it wasn't good for our bonding,Ó she said. ÒTents have a distinct lack of privacy.Ó Sitting on the bed, she put her hand on his knee. ÒThen to cap it off, Richie stuck his chin in the middle of your fight. It's not my fault that I can't help acting like his big sister. I just can't. Then you went back to the tent to sulk without bothering to help me or Richie. What was I supposed to do, abandon him? He needed me, and you're such a he-man that you don't really need anybody. I made him sleep on the floor. Does that soothe your damaged he-man ego?Ó

ÒSure. That's fine.Ó Actually, it was fine. Pike felt kind of whole again. Whether she was lying or not, his heart was eager to believe that he hadn't been cuckolded.

ÒAnd don't tell me you don't have a sickeningly fragile ego, because you do.Ó

ÒI'd say I have a normally fragile ego. The problem is that men don't understand women, and women don't understand men. Why should I understand?Ó

ÒYou don't understand much,Ó Rita laughed. ÒBut at least you admit it. So just give me a few signals, and I'll do the understanding for both of us.Ó

ÒUh huh,Ó Pike agreed, not believing a word of it. On the other hand, Rita was sitting on the bed beside him, and his manhood was rising. The room had a door and a lock. After the week of stupid abstinence in the tent, they could get reacquainted. Very good idea. Right now. He reached for her. She melted in his arms. Their lips met.

ÒHop to..!!Ó Lester yelled faintly from topside. ÒFish on..!Ó

Something big smashed against the hull, almost bouncing them off the bed.

ÒBrain boy caught a fish,Ó Pike choked.

Rita looked much less than delighted when he jumped off the bed and leaped up the ladder, three rungs at a time.

When Pike reached the fantail, the fish was tearing around the marina channel making breakneck runs, looking for a way back out to sea. Judging by the wake, it wasn't a big one. Maybe eighty or ninety pounds. Not big enough to pull the kid off the dock, but way too big for him to land with that gear and not even a steel leader. There would be no way to get him gaffed and out of the water unless some brave idiot wanted to face a mouthful of teeth, which no one on this boat did.

But, actually, Rich was putting up a pretty good fight. The little rod was arched like a strand of wet spaghetti. Intelligently, he had braced it against a piling stub on the end of the dock. It seemed unlikely that he would pitch into the water. Hell, he could always turn loose of the rig. But you never knew with Rich RodneyÑworst case scenarios were his norm.

Lester was leaning over the rail, talking the kid through itÑencouraging, but not building up anybody's hope. Old Lester was a real pro. Pike was very lucky to have him. Always on top of a fish. Never too tired to play out the string. I ought to do something to cut him in as a partner or something. That crack about being a hired hand had rung true, and Pike hadn't loved the sound of it.

ÒYou'll probably lose him on the next run,Ó Lester was cooing. ÒIf the line snaps, don't topple your balance. Be ready for it.Ó

Richie nodded. His face was getting a strained look, a little too red. Pike thought about cutting the fish off. No sense popping a vein over an uncatchable fish.

Then to Pike's astonishment, the fish leaped straight up, walking across the water on its tail, trying to shake the bait loose like a tarpon in a mangrove swampÑnot at all like a barracuda. Pike couldn't remember seeing a Ôcuda tail walk, ever. But this one was a leaper. Rich kept the line tight on him, rather well. Falling back in the water, the fish made another run around the encircling pilings.

ÒThat fucker must be brain damaged,Ó Pike commented to Lester. ÒWhy doesn't he break off on a piling?Ó

ÒMaybe he'll tire out,Ó Lester answered.

But instead of tiring, the fish built up speed again and made a breakneck run directly at RR, who had to reel like crazy, but couldn't keep the slack out of the line. The fish broke water again, shooting straight up like a green-barred torpedo. The force of his rush carried him, high in the air, past a scrambling Rich Rodney. The retarded fish landed with a loud belly smacker on the concrete dock, its tail trashing around like a wrecking maul and its teeth snapping.

A Ken Pao Ri leap put Rich Rodney temporarily out of harm's wayÑbalancing on one shower-thonged foot on top of the piling heÕd been leaning against, using the fishing rod as a balancing pole. ÒWhere's the judge?Ó he yelped.

Not pausing to think about his safety, Lester Wunderman hopped over the gunwale with a short baseball bat. A love tap or two with the ball bat encouraged good fish behavior. A 'cuda of this size, was generally in the net at the time of administrating the love taps; but not today. Without some rapid calming, the fish would bounce itself back into the drink.

Lester got in two quick love taps to the bony skull, before the slashing tail caught him waist high, knocking him backwards off the side of the dock into the ten foot deep water between the hull of the boat and the dock. His balding head bonked against the hull, and he sank like a stone into the cold green grave.

ÒMan overboard..!Ó Pike bellowed. He tossed two donut life preservers over the side, attached to permanently anchored lines. Thinking briefly of Ned Larchmont and the many Frogs who had lost their lives in these waters, he kicked off his deck shoes and dove off the stern.

The water was salty, but clear enough to see. Following a stream of air bubbles, he saw Lester settling to the bottom. Swimming powerfully under the boat, Pike grabbed the collar of Lester's canvas shirt and struck out for the surface. There was no need to be afraid of barracudas. They were around, as witness the one flopping on the dock. If one of them decided to strike, that would be that. Otherwise, getting himself and Lester out of the water PDQ was primaryÑboth to his lungs and to the squirting fear running up his backbone.

His head shot through the bright surface into the blue sky. Gasping a lungful of air, he held Lester's face above water; but his friend's neck was limp and he wasn't breathing.

ÒRight here..!Ó he yelled to anybody on the dock. ÒGet a hook!Ó He heard the puttering of a motor launch nearby, and craned his head around. ÒHurry up..!Ó he yelled at the dock. Where were Rita and the kid? In answer to the question, the glistening head of the barracuda flopped over the edge of the dock. Its jaws snapped and a big green eye pinned him with a stare. Christ all hell, he thought. If that brute hits the water, he'll nail us for sure. We look just like a mating couple. Prime food. One more flop and he'll be right on top of us.

A white donut splashed down a yard away.

ÒGrab it,Ó Rita screamed, shrilly. ÒI'll pull you to the ladder.Ó

Stuffing Lester's arm through the hole, he forced the limp neck to follow the arm in a life-saving trick he had learned years ago. Lester was now afloat, and Rita was reeling him in, hand over hand.

ÒWake up,Ó he shouted in Lester's ear. He slapped the bluish face a couple of times, when wrapped his arms around Lester's lower chest in the Heimlich Maneuver position. Keeping both anxious eyes on the fish's snapping jaws poised above him, he squeezed Lester's diaphragm several times in quick succession. The Heimlich Maneuver was for choking, not a remedy for drowning, but what else could he do while they were in the water? If Lester's lungs were filled with water and his heart had stopped, he was going to be brain damaged in a few more seconds. But Mr. Heimlich's Maneuver produced no visible results. Abandoning that, he started kickingÑpropelling the donut toward the fish shelf on the stern. Between Rita pulling and him pushing, they should manage to get onto the shelf. It was only two feet out of the water. Where the hell was some help when he needed it? Where was Richie or the goddamned judge?

The shelf loomed above them. ÒPull him up,Ó he yelled, at Rita. ÒI'll push.Ó

Rita was frantically pulling the line. She took a turn on it around a cleat on the stern rail and leaned her weight into the pulling.

Suddenly, Richie's dark shape sailed across open air from the dock. He landed with a yell and a thud somewhere on the deck. Pike couldn't see where; but almost immediately the kid threw open the transom door and jumped out on the fish shelf. He reached down for Lester's arm, then giving another loud yell, he jerked Lester half out of the water. Pike pushed the legs. Richie did his best to cushion the body as it fell onto the fish shelf. His best was kind of inadequate. The body landed hard, but Lester was out of the water. Immediately, he started swimming his arms and legs, like he was having a dream of swimming or something. It was eerie. But evidently he was breathing. Everything would be fine.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Pike shouted, ÒPull him inside.Ó The two youngsters pulled Swimming Lester though the gate. With his last reserves of strength, Pike hauled himself onto the fish shelf. What a day, he thought, staring up at the barracuda that was still eyeing him and snapping his teeth. You'd think the Frogs would have come over to help out, but he couldn't remember one getting closer than five yards or so to a barracuda, even a dead one.

After catching his breath for a few seconds, Pike stood up. Lester was sitting against the gunwale, looking a little wasted but very alive. Rita ran back on deck with the first aid kit, and applied a patch to the ugly gash on the back of Lester's head, cooing over him like a nurse angel.

ÒAt least, he didn't eat me,Ó Lester said, dreamily. He wiggled his fingers and toes, apparently making sure they were in working order.

Pike sat beside him, feeling rather drained. He had never been swimming on New Columbus before. He slapped Lester's knee. ÒAnother first, huh, pal?Ó

Lester nodded, smiling absently. He was still a few miles away, possibly in another time zone. Maybe his brain had been oxygen starved for a few seconds too long. If so, would he be a grinning vegetable from now on? Could Pike carry a vegetable as part of his crew? Probably not. That damned Rich Rodney, how could one guy be such a disaster? He looked up at the barracuda. None of today made much sense. Why hadn't the stupid fish flopped off the dock? He was enough of an acrobat to get himself up on the concreteÑwhy couldn't he get off? Well, at least they were qualified. The damn kid was some lucky fisherman. Maybe he'd be the new kingÑif he could keep a crew intact. Maybe he should get a robot crew.

ÒHey..!Ó Rich yelled from the dock. ÒDo you guys want to be in the picture?Ó He sailed through the air again, landing splay-footed on the deck.

Pike shook his head tiredly. ÒWhy don't you attempt to act normally? Everybody could use a break for a few days.Ó

ÒWhat..?Ó Rich Rodney responded. He seemed genuinely innocent of abnormal behavior. ÒThere's a reporter from the Sporting Gazette up there. She wants to take our photo with the fish.Ó

Being nice to reporters was a way of life to Pike. If he didn't get into print, he didn't get lucrative product endorsements; and besides that, this was an odd ball kind of story. It might do them all some good in a slow year.

ÒYou feel up to some publicity?Ó he asked Lester.

ÒJim dandy,Ó Lester answered. ÒMaybe I can get a headache endorsement.Ó He eased his gimpy leg into the standing position. ÒOr how about the bathing suit industry. Ain't nobody been swimming here since Ned tried it.Ó

ÒBathing suits would be good,Ó Pike agreed. He stood up on Lester's left side. Rita was still fluttering on the right. ÒGlad to see that your mind's working okay.Ó

ÒWhy wouldn't it?Ó

ÒWell, you were down there a long time.Ó

ÒWas I? I was swimming the whole time.Ó

ÒSorry. You were out cold. If you were swimming, it was in dreamland.Ó

ÒNo kidding?Ó

ÒNo kidding, pal. By the way, I was thinking about making you and June partners.Ó

ÒYou was?Ó Lester hopped up on the railing and jumped down to the dock. Everyone followed him.

Pike saw immediately why the stupid fish hadn't flopped off the dock. He was tied. Rodney or somebody had wrapped about a thousand wraps of monofilament line around this tail and around the tie down piling. That was one caught fish.

ÒDid you do that wrapping?Ó he asked the kid.

ÒI couldn't think of anything else,Ó Richie replied, self-effacingly. ÒI didn't want him to get away.Ó

ÒHe sure didn't,Ó Lester guffawed. ÒI never seen a neater hog-tie in my life.Ó

ÒI take back anything I ever said about you, Rich. This is above and beyond,Ó Pike lauded.

R.R. grinned bashfully. He wasn't exactly used to praise from grown men. If it was praise? He couldn't quite tell. They were all laughing pretty hard.

Waving at Hetty Lemintraut, a photo journalist from the Sporting Gazette, Pike swaggered over and gave her a friendly hug. He and Hetty had been an item a few years earlier. Rita would know about that. They hadn't been secretive. And besides, Hetty was nice people, for a reporter.

ÒLet me introduce you to Richie Tourbo,Ó he said to the shapely young woman. ÒIf you got any action shots, you'll probably get an award for this story. Multi dimensional as all hell. Did you?Ó

ÒDid I what?Ó she laughed.

ÒGet any pictures of Richie hog-tying the fish?Ó

* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

MOM & RICHARD

ÒWe could discuss winning in great depth if you stop over to my

boat one of these balmy evenings. I never really noticed how beautiful

your eyes are, Rita. What color are they? Purple? Oh, man! Yes,

definitely you should stop by.Ó

Tyrone Stickle

quoted in History of the Tournament

Mom Tourbo always felt restless in the summer. There was often a new chambermaid installed before autumn turned the leaves golden and red. When Richard was little and she had employed private tutors for him, that restlessness didn't create as many bad feelings among her household as it had the last few years, and seemed likely to again. Tutors expected to move on at the end of a term, or at least they were usually graceful about it. An appropriate parting gift would be accepted, then Richard was on to Algebra or a new language with a nubile young thing. A willing tutor spiced up the nippy autumn evenings for Mom after a hard day in the board room. There were lots of languages for a child to learn, and lots of very sweet tutors of all races and colors. Had Richard ever gotten fluent in any of those languages? She didn't actually know; but he had certainly been given the opportunity. Mom had to laugh at that.

Now, he was a sport fisherman.

A sport fisherman. Barf me a barrel. From a gentle young boy with the whole universe open to him, he becomes a wastrel. The fact that he seemed to be doing rather well at it, meant much less than nothing. What did concern her was making sure that she retained the right to vote the proxy on his block of stock.

If Richard should be killed in a stupid sporting accident, his stock would be divided according to his cockamamie will. Getting a copy of sonny boy's will, at last, had cost her a pretty penny, and reading it made her virulently ill. He'd left major percentages to his martial arts teacher and other equally bizarre people. Being unable to doctor the actual will, thanks to that blackguard, Clive McAndrews, she had to make damned sure that her son survived.

The reports that Mom had been receiving from the bodyguard service were offensively vague. The clippings sent from newspapers and magazines were meaningless, and the pathetic first hand journals read like a police blotter. Oh, well, she hadn't employed them for their IQ. Perhaps she should hire a writer to accompany the big lunks. Now, there was a thought. Why not hire a young thing to accompany her to a meeting with Richard, and leave her there to take notes? A blonde, probably. Good idea, Mom congratulated herself. The journalism schools must be pumping out any number of suitable candidates. It seemed like a good deal all aroundÑfor Richard and the goons, and especially for Mom's July itch.

Pike had to admit that working for Richie had its interesting moments. The kid was so wealthy that the cost of repairs was beneath his notice. A five man team of electricians imported from G&G Boatyards at enormous expense was crawling over The Comparative Humanity, leaving Pike and Lester free to twiddle their thumbs. On top of that, the barracuda weren't biting. The rest of the fleet was flailing the waters to no avail, catching everything imaginable except barracuda. He had even heard rumors of huge sums being offered to any Frog willing to sacrifice himself as live bait. However, the Frog's economy wasn't money based, so the offers were scorned. And Richie had already caught a qualifying fish. Astounding. Pike was under no pressure whatsoeverÑunless one might want to call his relationship with Rita somewhat pressure packed.

Lester had left yesterday afternoon to visit Old Leopold, a shaman of local fame, who had sent word that he was interested in doing some sort of ritual with Lester. Frog spectators had, evidently, reported that the cook was acting strangely after his swimming episode, but what the old brujo wanted was rather unclear. The old man had invited Lester to a sojourn, whatever that was. Well, he wasn't a man, exactlyÑold amphibian. Life is a little complex in the Spiral Nebulae when it comes to precise speciation. Because of this imprecision, Pike felt he was reasonably justified in misunderstanding the Kid's garbled utterance about the crocodile.

ÒThe Crocodile's coming..!Ó Richie hissed, racing along the quay. He bounded onto the boat, then dashed below deck, yelling at Pike to tell her he was gone.

Pike had been sitting on the flying bridge with his shirt off, catching up on the Captain's log book. He assumed the kid had a case of Frog-o-phobia. That struck him as a bit unusual, but Richie was a strange duck. Rita had gone off to visit her mother, so she wasn't there to attach the proper meaning to RichieÕs utterance. The kid meant, of course, that he had caught sight of his mother and knew that if he hid for a few hours, her busy schedule would pull her off of New Columbus like a magnet, whether she had met with him or not. But he didn't manage to convey that message to Pike. Richie had never understood his mother very well; and neither, apparently, did he understand communicating about her.

Mom Tourbo proceeded down the quay, accompanied by four hulking bodyguards, two of her own as well as Rich Rodney's, and a leggy blonde journalism major, who over the last three days had become well-versed in the joys of lesbian love. Pike watched them coming, without thinking much of it.

Strange looking tourists, he decided. The old babe had acid blonde curls in a tight perm, and was wearing a flowery tourist blouse over tight black toreador pants and red high-heelsÑon which she walked quite well. A fake outfit if he ever saw one. She was skinny as a torsion spring. Her entourage kind of trailed behind in the energy vortex she created. Pike chuckled to himself. Maybe this crocodile had tried to bite tender young Rich Rodney on the ass. Still, there was something familiar about the old bird.

Pike was a little put off when the crone tapped briskly on the starboard railing with the touristy umbrella she was carrying. One doesn't expect tapping with a sharp object on the paint job. The grid was down, or he might have given her something to remember.

ÒYou there, where is the stairway?Ó Mom inquired, imperiously. ÒI am here to see Richard.Ó

ÒSorry, Your Highnesship, but we seem to have misplaced the stairs. Now, where could we have put that stairway?Ó Feeling a bit irritated about the scratched paint, he allowed his heavy irony to hang unbuffered in the space between them. Neither did he get up from the chair.

Mom Tourbo bristled inside; but being an ace cutthroat negotiator, she didn't bother to show her displeasure, nor to change her attitude. The man was obviously Pike Resnick, she recognized him from 3V commercials. He was a fool, and a sportsman. Ugg. The two worst attributes of the species. Her son was dallying away his life with this underling. Well, that would change very soon.

ÒI am Richard's mother, and I demand to see him,Ó she said, evenly.

ÒOh,Ó Pike answered, mentally calculating the ramifications of family, massive fortunes, and the rumors he'd heard about Mom's vitriolic dealings. ÒWhy didn't you say so? I was a little put off because you hammered on our new paint job.Ó He smiled, apologetically. ÒRichard isn't here.Ó

ÒI saw him. He jumped onto this boat.Ó

ÒAre you sure? I haven't seen him since breakfast.Ó

ÒI am very sure, young man,Ó Mom snapped. Damn these sportsmen to hell, she fumed. Why are they so arrogant? ÒAnd your attitude is quite improper.Ó

ÒAh,Ó Pike replied. ÒYou've found me out. I've always had a bad attitude.Ó Two of those big lugs were the pair that R.R. had banished. Pike recalled that RichieÕs mother was signing their check.

ÒLet me assure you that unless I see Richard in a very few seconds, you will not have a job.Ó

Pike switched on the computer.

ÒWhat is your wish, Master?Ó George asked. He wasn't programmed to answer in any particular way. Occasionally he chose to be the Genie in the Bottle.

ÒCan we power up yet?Ó Pike asked. He thought the old clam might send a boarding party of her muscle any time now.

ÒI wouldn't recommend it,Ó George answered. ÒNot unless you want some singed technicians.Ó

Why couldn't Richie handle this? Pike wondered, not wanting to make an enemy of the old gal. She was his mother, after all. Mothers aren't like normal people.

ÒI don't know what to tell you, Mrs. Tourbo. Richard isn't here. You're welcome to wait, if you want to. I think he went to a shaman ceremony somewhere on the island. That's where he said he was going. Oh, something you might like to know, Richard is in 1st Place in the Tournament.Ó

The old bat glared at him. ÒI would have expected no less. If you think that should cause me happiness, you're very mistaken. It makes me puke.Ó

Pike raised his eyebrows.

ÒFishing is a complete waste of time, as are all sporting events. In spite of bad blood on his father's side, I didn't raise Richard to be a wastrel. I'm sure he knows that. He must be doing this to annoy me, for some reason that I cannot fathom.Ó

ÒYes, I see what you mean,Ó Pike commiserated.

ÒDon't patronize me, young man. I can make sure that you'll never work again.Ó

ÒI don't work now,Ó Pike retorted, pleasantly. ÒYou wouldn't be gaining much.Ó

Mom Tourbo rolled her eyes. Millions in Confederation credits were frittering away while she bantered with an idiot. She turned to Boris, the largest of Richard's bodyguards. ÒWas that, or was that not, Richard who ran down this way?Ó

ÒIt sure seemed like him, but maybe not,Ó Boris answered. ÒIt's a tough call. He kind of fits into the crowd.Ó

ÒYou see..?Ó Mom turned an exasperated face to Enid, the leggy blonde. ÒThis is the kind of reportage I'm paying top dollar for. It has to stop.Ó She smiled affectionately. Enid returned the smile, woman to woman. ÒMake sure that smart aleckÕs name is included in your report.Ó Mom tilted her sharp chin toward Pike.

ÒYes, Mom,Ó Enid replied, smugly. ÒWhat is his name?Ó she asked Boris.

All four of the muscle-bound oafs knew Pike perfectly well. They also knew they should be trying to get his autograph instead of giving him a hard time. Life is hell for a working man. And Boris and Drew had their necks to look out for. Both were pretty sure that young R.R. Tourbo would sic a hit man on them, like he had promised. At least, the old battle ax hadn't threatened anything worse than firing. And both knew with absolute certainly that R.R. was on the boat, listening to them. They'd seen him hop over the railing.

ÒWhat is your name, sir?Ó Boris asked Pike, very politely.

ÒTrefoil Bardona,Ó Pike answered, without a moment's hesitation. ÒI'll have you know that I am a cousin to the Duke.Ó

Boris and Drew nodded significantly to Enid. The new girl might make this assignment interesting, if they could alert her to the facts of life. Maybe they could get her interested in body building. She was a bit underdeveloped.

Mom scowled darkly. Bardona, that scum. Only last week he had screwed her out of a tidy fortune on a bauxite asteroid that was magically under-priced until the fat turd started bidding. But she was ninety-eight percent certain that this jackass was Resnick, not a Bardona.

ÒI'm surprised,Ó Mom jibed, spitefully. ÒIf I were Richard, I wouldn't let a Bardona near my boat.Ó

ÒI know what you mean,Ó Pike commiserated, cheerfully. ÒBy the way, have you ever wondered why Richard is so accident prone?Ó

Mom stared back speechlessly. She tried to shrivel him with a hawklike glare; but the man was too dumb to be cowed. These sportsmen were slime Ñ dumb and cocksure. What an evil combination.

ÒI guess he inherited it from his father,Ó Pike went on, unabated. ÒYou're not always tripping over things, are you, Missus?Ó

Pike was playing to a very receptive audience. The bodyguards, like working stiffs everywhere, enjoyed the boss baitingÑso much so that Mom snapped a sharp glance at them to make sure they weren't sniggering. Oddly enough, three of them were pretending to sneeze at the same precise moment, holding their meaty hands politely over their granite faces. The fourth was wiping a speck of dirt out of his eye with a handkerchief.

Mom's eye narrowed to tiny slits. ÒIf you see Richard, tell him my flight leaves at two o'clock sharp. I will wait for him at the ship.Ó

ÒI'll do my level best to find him, Missus; but it's kind of a big island,Ó Pike said, finally standing up. He stretched luxuriously, making sure that all of his vertebrae were in place.

ÒDo that,Ó Mom ordered, stomping up the quay in her tight toreador pants with her high heels clacking.

Pike finished his stretching with a couple of knee bends and sat back down. ÒTell Richard he's safe,Ó Pike spoke to the computer. ÒAnd tell him, thanks a lot. His mother hates me now.Ó

ÒYour wish is my command, Master. But why be concerned? Many people hate you.Ó

ÒI'm not worried,Ó Pike answered. ÒAt least I'm alive, unlike yourself.Ó

With a petulant click, George shut down the communication.

But Mom's sojourn on New Columbus was not quite over. Some shred of deeply buried motherhood caused her to stop at a Frog refreshment stand. She'd come halfway across the known universe on her July fling, the least she could do was make one last attempt to see Richard.

ÒDo you know the way to the shaman's ceremony?Ó she asked the strange looking creature wearing what passed for a barman's uniform.

ÒI know,Ó Hamid the barman answered in a birdlike voice. ÒYou want go?Ó

ÒYes, could you guide us, please?Ó She placed a rather large Confederacy note on the rattan bar.

ÒTake only you,Ó he answered, peering at her with sidelong glances, turning his head this way and that. ÒYou need good doctor?Ó he asked.

ÒI'm afraid you don't understand.Ó Mom had no intention of being separated from her bodyguards on a strange planet. ÒWe would all like to go.Ó

ÒNot possible,Ó the barman answered, politely but firmly. ÒNo room.Ó He shrugged. ÒThese ones don't want to meet him. Other boat person today go. Good day you go, too. Okay?Ó

Thwarted twice in ten minutes. Damn these rustic turds. Did she want to see Richard or not? And she still wasn't convinced that he wasn't on the goddamn boat. Boring in on Drew, the bodyguard who had so far escaped her wrath, she demanded, ÒWas that Richard on the boat or not?Ó

Drew felt his face blushing and hoped that the tan would conceal it. He knew he wasn't a good liar; but the double pay was heavy inducement. ÒI thought it was him for sure, at first,Ó Drew stumbled, Òbut then I started thinking it wasn't. The guy on the boat wouldn't have no reason to lie, ma'am. Maybe it was one of the electricians.Ó

ÒElectricians? Your report didn't mention electricians,Ó she said almost sweetly, with a roll of her eyes toward Enid.

ÒYes, ma'am.Ó Drew's mind skidded out of control for a second. They hadn't mentioned the pirate attack in their report. It had seemed unnecessary, since no one was hurtÑnow he had stuck his foot in it. ÒThey're installing a new Switter/Loran system,Ó he gulped.

ÒWhat's that?Ó Enid tittered, like an eager hound dog reporter.

ÒFish finding gismo,Ó Boris answered, covering Drew's ass. He and Drew worked well together, except that Drew had an abscess where his brain was supposed to be. ÒIt's no big deal,Ó he added.

ÒHow far away is this shaman?Ó Mom asked the barman, choosing temporarily to forget the incomplete report. ÒMy departure is scheduled for two o'clock.Ó

ÒNot far,Ó the lanky Frog barman answered, again staring rather boldly at Mom. ÒI take you. Your friends wait here.Ó He picked up the orange Confederacy note in his webbed hand and stuck it in his pocket. ÒThis for him, okay?Ó Without waiting for Mom's reply, the barman closed the rattan shutter on his stand, then came around to the front of the kiosk where he took Mom by the elbow. ÒYour husband is there,Ó he said. His voice was a curious mix of gravity and high gaiety.

At that point, Mom Tourbo would have bolted, except that she was quite sure that the Frog had confused the word ÒsonÓ with Òhusband.Ó A natural mistake. She wasn't entirely expert in foreign vocabulary herself, and this creature's language must be very alien indeed. So she allowed herself to be led away after admonishing her bodyguards to take possession of Richard, if they saw him.

ÒCould I ask you something in all seriousness?Ó Rich Rodney asked.

Pike looked up from the log book to witness the kid wearing a disguise, or perhaps he was practicing for a Halloween ball. The bulk of the outfit was a gray coverall borrowed from the engine room, rolled up at the cuff and wrists, and an old straw hat. Completing the ensemble was a green scuba mask. Outlandish, actually.

ÒI would advise against skin diving,Ó Pike commented, dryly.

ÒShe hates fishing, that is a well known fact. She hates anything athleticÑanything where making money isn't the main idea.Ó RichieÕs mouth was set in a hard line, very unlike his usual smiling self. ÒYou didn't think she came here because she loves me so much, did you?Ó There seemed to be a very thin glimmer of hope in the last question, but not much.

ÒI didn't think anything,Ó Pike answered. ÒIt was the first time I had met the lady, and the very first thing I did was lie to her. Not exactly the way to get the best from a person, if you take my meaning.Ó

Richie nodded glumly. ÒSorry,Ó he apologized, Òbut I couldn't let her deflect me. I know that was her purpose.Ó

Pike nodded. There wasn't much to say. The kid obviously knew his mother, or thought he did. The Tourbos were in an entirely different game than Pike was. If he didn't make money from fishing, he didn't eat. Of course, he could probably do something else to make money; but every time he thought of working for a living his stomach got queasy. If the old gal wanted to make trouble for him, like she had promised, he was sure she'd be able to. Or maybe, she'd make trouble for BardonaÑthat would be sweet.

Richie chuckled. ÒMy bodyguards seemed kind of stuck in the middle, didn't you think? I guess they really are afraid of me.Ó

ÒThey didnÕt rat you out,Ó Pike confirmed.

ÒIt's a shame to waste so much money; but she hired them, and I canÕt exactly fire them. I know you could have probably thought of a better way; but it seemed like I should handle it myself.Ó He grinned sheepishly.

ÒAnd..?Ó Pike said.

ÒI'm paying them to stay out of my hair. She's paying them to be here. I'm paying for their shuttle fee and a stateroom on Ethyl Bierly's boat. I hope she catches a barracuda so she can stay qualified. So far, she hasnÕt.Ó

Raising his eyebrows to the limit, Pike commented on the Ethyl Bierly maneuver. ÒPretty slick,Ó he said.

Richie kept grinning through his face mask, which was fogging up rather pathetically.

ÒAnother thought is, we could probably use those big fellows now and then.Ó

ÒWould we want to? I certainly don't need anybody to look after me.Ó

ÒOf course not,Ó Pike agreed. ÒYou know that fancy footwork stuff. But the next couple of places we're going to can be a smidge dangerous. I wouldn't mind somebody around to keep an eye on Rita.Ó

ÒOh,Ó Richie answered, picking up on the direction Pike was going. ÒSure. Just say the word and I'll have them come over. It'll be a little crowded, won't it?Ó

ÒBeing crowded on Segumi is a good idea. I'm not sure how much help June will be. And even Blitzwak is no picnic.Ó

Richie didn't know June very well or Segumi Six, or Blitzwak Hojmer for that matter. He nodded in a friendly way. The face plate of his mask had completely fogged, but he refused to take it off. ÒWhatever you think, Pike,Ó he said. ÒI'm just here to catch fish.Ó

Pike smiled benignly. ÒWhoever heard of barracudas refusing to bite,Ó he asked. ÒIt's uncanny, isn't it?Ó

Old Leopold was so old that his skin had turned greyÑover two hundred years old, it was said. He often played the part of a dodderer for visitors he didn't want to see. For those he did want to instruct or to cure, he often appeared to be quite mad; but that was the fault of his trance allies. They always required him to froth at the mouth when they were around. His own nature was quite mild, but the gull entity, especially, liked Old Leopold to froth and stamp around during his possession and to end the ordeal with a vigorous swimming session. It kept the old boy in good shape, the allies all agreed. ÒUse it or loose itÓ was their motto.

Frothing at the mouth was another story. All the amphibians on New Columbus had a gland under their tongue that exuded a fast acting DMT type hallucinogen, but the gland only activated when they were stressed or frightened. Why this capability had evolved was not clear to anyone; but it probably had something to do with easing the terror of the breeding cycle. When you are feeling at one with the Universe, perhaps you can love a big fish as he demonstrates the truth of the food chain by eating you.

The upshot was that the Frogs were a rather unique species. Virtually one hundred percent of the adult population were triptamine trippers, and those who weren't didn't pass on their genes. Perhaps this explains why they were such a peaceful society. One could certainly make a case for that being the reason.

Old Leopold had learned to transform his frothing foam into specific compounds for the treatment of various ills. He claimed, of course, that he didn't really do it himself. His allies cured with the foam. All he did was produce it to their liking. Sweet, bitter, sour, salty, or combinations of those flavors. The allies did the curing. His job was to bear the stress of the shamanic trip, and to acquire additional allies when the time was ripe. Because Old Leopold had always been faithful to the rituals, and had never sought personal gain, his allies were the best. Approximately eighty-five percent of the illness which sought him for a cure was banished to the nether regions. And so his fame grew, even though he did not ask for fame. Still, it was pleasant for the old swimmer to be treated with respect.

He had six main allies, and the new one. The Rat entity was the first, then the Thief Gull, and the Blue Dolphin, which he had courted as ardently as any lover. Land, air and water. Then the Starry Salamander from the fire and brook. Then another bird, a Ghost Owl, for the night. At that point, he had stopped collecting for several years, until a Spiny Cactus with an ethereal blue/purple light kept intruding, kept insisting that it was a superb healer. And indeed it was. Old Leopold had thought he was finally finished collecting, with a completed panoply. The years passed with weekly ceremoniesÑsometimes two or three per week, if the petitioners demanded it. Then, only two lunations ago, he had taken a seventh into his pouch. A strange one, but interesting. Quite interesting. A little poisonous sea snake, who promised to make the breeding season safe. Old Leopold had no idea if this was for the common good or not. He worried about eventual overpopulation; but when an entity offers to change the way of things, often the Old Way is ready for a change. This is what Old Leopold had learned from the experience of two hundred years.

And the little green snake was curious about new things. He wanted to meet this mighty swimmer with the strange dream of men. Old Leopold's three trainees had spent a frantic few hours searching for this one, the Fisherman, Wunderman, as it turned out. Getting him to agree to share his dream had been easy, the little snake had said it would be. Wunderman was deep in an induced trance at this very moment, and the visions were indeed very strange.

But now Hamid, his key apprentice, was bringing another stranger. Old Leopold saw them coming inside his dream. It was unlike Hamid to do something bold. He was always so obsequious, fawning almost. Old Leopold worried about the lad. Well, good. A bit of initiative, at last. And the little green snake was jumping for joyÑwrithing into a ball and then unwrithing, snapping his needle sharp teeth in glee. There must be something special about this skinny woman. Way skinnier than most of Prince Ned's friends. Her body style almost reminded him of the People. Was he supposed to bring her into the trance state with the pouch full of allies? The human, Wunderman, seemed oblivious to her. He was deep in his swimming, spinning the wild song of many oceans. Incredible dreaming of oceans so different than ours, yet the same. It was easy to see why the spirit guides wanted to swim with Wunderman; but why did they want the skinny female? And how was he going to invite her into the tunnel, when he was already on the other side?

ÒHamid can guide her,Ó came the whispery voice of the Owl.

Stranger and stranger. Hamid is always fearful at night; but the night owl vouches for him. Fine. Maybe this is Hamid's big opportunity? Let him take care of the skinny human. Trying to absorb Wunderman's song is plenty for me to doÑmore than plenty.

Old Leopold's house was modest in size; but very elaborately detailed. A hundred and eighty years is long enough to refine archways and minarets of spit and sand to perfection. The concrete-like material withstood topical storms very well and he had sited the house high on a hill so that in all those years no tsunami wave had swamped it as they periodically did the lower structures. Lucky, that he'd had the insight to build on the high ground all by himself, he was fond of snorting in self-derision. In those days he was quite the stud and family man. That was twenty years before he'd picked up his first spirit helperÑor had been picked. He was never quite sure which direction those relationships went. Maybe both ways. He had certainly had long months of trouble trying to control that rascal Rat and keep him secured in the pouch. Now, of course, the Rat was the most consistent of his helpers. No shape shifting or going away on his own, unless it was for a good purpose. But that was always the way of a first allyÑtrouble at first and dedicated service afterwards. It was Friend Rat who had shown Old Leopold the method behind the sea snake's promise. With the breeding season approaching, the big biter fish should have been hovering ravenously off-shore waiting for their yearly slaughter of the PeopleÑbut they weren't. All the shamans felt the absence and sought each other's visions as to why. The why was found by Friend Rat, mighty swimmer of the near past. The way was that Friend Green Snake had enlisted the help of all the little green poison snakes in the off-shore coral reefÑthe little snakes who normally poisoned small unwary fish with their bite, and then ate them. This year the little snakes had made searing attacks on the big biters, squiggling into their gill slits to nip the red gill meat. Very strange. Their poison, even so well placed in the blood stream, wasn't strong enough to kill the biters, but it did make them woozy sick and drove them to deeper water where they lay amid the giant kelp forests, listless and barely moving. But what were the implications for the future? Many little snakes had died, to become morsels for the biters. Many biters were likely to die of starvation, if they failed to feed at the People's FrolicÑand the People would increase dramatically. But without fear of the biters, would they produce foam and enter into an ecstatic Frolic? Nobody knew. The only thing known for sure was that Old Leopold had unleashed a new future by listening to the little green snake.

He would have much to tell in two weeks at the Council After The Frolic, when all the dreams were told. And he would also tell the Song of Wunderman.

But now, Hamid was almost to the door, accompanying the skinny one. Yes, she was obviously gravely ill with some human disease. The little snake was ready with a cure, it seemed. Before they had even inventoried the woman in person, he was biting at Old Leopold's heel, frightening him into producing sweet foam. Apparently, Hamid wouldnÕt do all of the guiding.

ÒSweets for the sweet,Ó Old Leopold crackled, lurching at the woman and planting a big kiss on her mouthÑeven slipping his tongue between her lips before she had a chance to repel him, as obviously she intended to do.

Although Mom had steeled herself to be polite, as always when meeting a dignitary with whom future business deals might be struck, her threshold of politeness stopped far short of wet, disgusting kisses from a reptile. She back pedaled, stepping on Hamid's webbed toes with her spike heels, and at the same time wiping her mouth of the reptile's revolting spittle with the back of her hand. But it was too late! The sweet Frog foam was already in process of crossing her blood/brain barrier. Mom sat down abruptly and closed her eyes. In the dim interior of the little castle, her mind filled with rich-colored geometric patterns, floating and interweaving. Half images of former lovers drifted beside the holographs of birds and animals, who seemed to be smiling at her, and behind it all pulsed a velvety crimson/violet sunÑbreath-taking in its soft intensityÑalways there pulling at her when she focused her attention on it. A soft voice urged her to enter the tunnel. What tunnel? Mom wanted to comply, but she couldn't see anything like a tunnel or even a holeÑonly the urging crimson sun that was now filling her whole field of vision, pulsing redly with brilliantly soft violet fire around the edges.

Rich Rodney was getting very nervous. It was almost twilight and his mother's shuttle hadn't left yet. What in the heck could be keeping her here? Was she planning to stay until she embarrassed him into leaving the Tournament, was that it? Or could she conceivably be worried about pirates? No way. Her shuttle was armed like a war frigate. Maybe it was time for him to stand up like a man. But the thought of confronting his iron-willed mother sent a quiver up his rectum. Still, when would he ever have this much support again? His friend, Lester, could make a nice little dinner. He would invite his mother to eat on the boat with Pike and Rita and him. Lester could serve. 4 to 1 against. That would make it almost even. Needing to talk to a true friend about this decisive plan, he scurried off in search of Rita.

Listening to the melodies with all his senses, Old Leopold was almost overwhelmed by the warring between Wunderman, mighty singer of oceans and freedom, and this one called Lillith, who sang shrilly of rivers of commerce stretching between the stars. The thing called money and control were her dominant themesÑcounterpoised against Wunderman's love of the hunt, and that strange harmonic that mixed companionship with service. But she was weakening under the tutelage of Wunderman as each ally in turn showed her the tumor that thrived in her gall bladder, and offered to cure her, for a fee. The fee was to find the flaw in Wunderman's songÑthey delighted in pitting her against him for some reason. Allies were odd beings, that was a fact.

To Lillith's credit, she had accepted the cure five times, each potion modified slightly as her condition improved, and each time laced with a massive dose of foam. The woman had a strong spirit, and girdles of steel to support her prejudices; but they were finally at the core of her illness. She was swimming along with Wunderman and Hamid, who had been pulled into the song, the three of them twined in a kind of mating ecstasy. Old Leopold felt sure it was a false matingÑthe woman was too oldÑbut she did have a powerful appetite. It looked like they were having fun. If he hadn't been so weary from five applications of intoxicant, not to mention the earlier dosing of Wunderman, old Leopold might have joined in himself. That last mixture must have been a doozy. Too bad he had no control over the formulation. That was up to the allies.

Later that night as the half moon went down over the mountains, Old Leopold climbed to a platform on his roof. He was dead tired, but sleep was impossible. The other swimmers lay sleeping the sweet dream in each otherÕs arms. Uncanny. The three of them, with the green snake's urging, had made a plan to catch all the biters and do what was called can them. Lillith had said she would sell them across the galaxy as a delicacy. So a way of life would change, just like that. In time, a new species would evolve as the dominant fish in the ocean, but it would not have The People as its prime autumn food source. Just like that. How had it happened? The snake had arranged it, seemingly. The woman, Lillith, had seen Hamid's ancestral fear as he mounted her. Maybe she had tasted it. Friend Green Snake had frightened Hamid silly by biting at his dangling genitalia, while he was in the sex act. His fear went instantly to visions of biters, and her instincts zoomed toward protecting Hamid. Wunderman, the Fisherman, who was plugged into her mouth at the time, spun a song of helpfulness. Catch the fishÑSave Hamid. From there, the mercantile step to canning the biters was easy. Lillith spun a harmonic of a cannery and a starship to take the cans of biters away. Simply amazing.

Old Leopold felt the loss of The PeopleÕs way of life like a sharp pain. It was almost impossible to believe that he would mourn the death of the biters, but he did. But then, as the pale sun peeked over the ocean, he called himself an old fool and climbed back down the ladder. The new way was cast in stone. There was nothing anybody could do about it. Maybe he would learn to enjoy the beach.

ÒMother, I do not want you tagging along for the rest of the Tournament,Ó Rich Rodney whispered, meanly. They were drinking mid-morning orange juice in the galley. The door was open. He didn't want to broadcast family matters to the whole world, so he whispered. Besides, he already knew he was going to lose. He hunched an inch closer across the tiny drop-wing table. ÒTry to see my side for once, Mother.Ó

ÒDon't be silly, Richard. What I do, has nothing to do with you. I'm simply traveling with Hamid and Mr. Wunderman. We're getting the feel of this fishing adventure. I thought I had explained that. And I am not your mother. You may address me as Lillith.Ó

ÒYou are my mother!Ó Richie exploded. ÒDon't start that again.Ó All day yesterday she had carped sweetly about being a new person named Lillith. Somehow, the old battle ax had flipped a switch on bad drugs or something. He had seen a few cases of this in college. But when it happens to your own mother, it's darned embarrassing. Richie had always been embarrassed by the old man-eater, of course; but usually it was because she ignored himÑoften flagrantly, while she made passes at his tutors, or objectionable comments to his friendsÑnot that he ever had friends until recently, except for Rita.

Yes, she had done a radical 180 into a gushing femme with her new male consortsÑthe Frog bartender named Hamid, and Lester, of all people. Two at the same time! She was mincing around being sweet and fulfilled. It was quite nauseating, really. Not that Richie minded that his mother had paramours. Why would he? It was naturalÑbut Lester Wunderman? That did not add up. And the weird part was that Lester seemed to like her, too. Richie could tell that even Pike was nervous about it. Would Lester stay with the boat; and if he did, would Lillith and Hamid continue to bunk in the tiny cook's cabin with him? Pretty strange stuff. Nobody could fault Richie on thinking it was an unusual situation. But it was his boat. He had to okay the arrangement, didn't he? What if they wanted to get married or something? He'd be forced to perform the ceremony on his own mother. Or would he? He wasn't the captainÑonly the owner. Pike would have to do it. He had the captain's papers. Well, that was a little better.

ÒYou are my mother,Ó he restated, having regained his calm. ÒThat's biological, not an emotional decision. I just want to know what you're up to.Ó

Lillith looked at him with a kindness he had never seen before. It was apparent that she wished he was more intelligent than a bug, so that she wouldn't need to explain every little detail. ÒFor all you know,Ó she said quietly, Òyou were adopted. But even if that isn't strictly true, biology is nothing like you think it is. The person who was your mother doesn't exist anymore. I don't want to be forced into covering this ground every day. Please just accept it, my dear boy. Among other things, I was healed of my birthing wounds, and I now have other things to do. They tell me you're a talented fisherman. Why can't we go fishing, so I can see one of these biter fish?Ó

ÒThey're not biting, Mother. And besides, I've already caught one. I'm winning this category so far. We're just waiting for the shield to be fixed, so we can go on to the salmon planet.Ó

Lillith smiled sweetly. ÒPerhaps I can get the Baron to take me along with him. I need to discuss something with him, anyway. He controls the manufacture of all these boats, doesn't he?Ó

That night, the moonlight water of Prince Ned Bay was alive with breeding FrogsÑbreeding in a panic, frothing at the mouth. Hamid took his love triangle down to the beach to watch; but he wouldn't permit them to wade further than knee deep. True to the little green snake's word, only two sets of lovers were engulfed in a swirl of black water, instead of the hundreds that were usually lostÑbut those two were enough to give Lillith the sight of the enemy, even though she was thoroughly distracted by the calm she felt while making love with Lester Wunderman in the shallows after a quick, but dizzying bout with Hamid.

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GLANS SALMON

ÒWell, winning in this circus is like a whole different ballgame.

First of all, if you happen to hook a prize winner, most of the time

you have to break your ass catching him. Do that a couple seasons and

your ass is pretty well broken. It takes all winter for me to recover

years. Sore back. Bad knees....Ó

Hank Knofsinger

quoted in History of the Tournament

Delta 5 Tango was a pristine planet in the Orion System. Three/fifths of its surface was water, roughly the same as Earth, but it hadn't developed a sentient species. Other than that, the ecology was somewhat similar, fresh water rivers ran to a protein rich sea. And a species of fish developed to fill the same ecological niche as a salmon, even spawning and then dying in the shallow tributary streams after a few years in salt water. The fry lived for a season in the fast rivers, then moved down to the ocean to eat, eat, eat. Three seasons later, when they returned to their original stream to spawn, the male glans salmon often weighed two hundred pounds as opposed to forty pounds for a nice Silver salmon back on Earth. The rivers on Tango were deep and fast flowing, fish of that size had little trouble negotiating them until they came to a narrow or a flat rifle. At that point, log jamming was inevitable. One could sometimes walk across a stream on the backs of salmon, if one chose. Only a fool would choose to, naturallyÑthe squinting habits of the male glans salmon at about that stage of their journey became genuinely repulsive.

Through some genetic anomaly, the molt of the salmon in preparation for the spawn changed the male into a two hundred pound penis. Their head, in front of the gills, turned into a bloated red-purple knob. Their eyes grew a covering of red mucus membrane, and their mouths turned into squirting devises for delivering the noxious smelling sperm. Although the mouths retained their needle sharp teeth, eating was practically forgotten. A bite of flesh from a neighbor's flank could be had at any whim in the congested narrows; but this seldom occurred.

Pike didn't like dick fish. They were revolting, somehow. And catching them was devilishly difficult. Snagging was not allowed; but in the crowded conditions snagging was inevitable, almost with every cast. Which meant a lot of catch and release, while the judge looked on. Releasing always meant a dousing with at least one stream of sperm, spat by an angry fish. On a sunny day, the sperm dried quickly into protein glue, and the stench of it was worse than ......, well, it was indescribable. You had to be sprayed to know the smell, but once the olfactory lobes got a print of it, they never forgot. At least, Pike's hadn't. He voted against glans salmon every year; but a majority of the fishermen liked the fast action, even though it was mostly illegal catches. A few conservation types, like Alaska Bill Bolen, liked to visit the pristine wilderness. Pike thought they were nuts. The brown bear-like creatures that fed on the dying flesh of the salmon were twice the size of Alaskan Grizzlies, almost the bulk of an elephant, with claws over a foot long for swiping the 200 pound salmon out of the streams. Their territorial disputes filled the headwaters with bellows of behemoths from hellÑwhich they were. For that reason, Pike fished as close to the ocean as was practical. The bears seldom came down to the big waters, where the rivers were deep. But, of course, the fishing was much worse there.

As stated, once the fish left salt water, and started the molt, they simply stopped eating. The only way to catch one legally was to make it mad enough to strike the fly, or to snag its spout-like mouth. Pike relied on the traditional method of casting his arm off, and getting doused with vile semen, until he snagged one legally. Once he'd done that, he headed back to the ocean, where he dug for clams and beach combed. The clams on Delta 5 Tango were truly spectacular, and the bears never dug for clams. At least, he'd never seen any sign of them. He would have advised Richie to follow that prudent course, except that the kid had finished out of the running on New Columbus and needed some points.

On the last day at New Columbus, the 'cudas had started biting. A lot of big ones. They suddenly got hungry. But Richie refused to stop fishing with the little rubber frog jig. Stubborn little fucker. Or maybe his mother standing at the rail all day had jinxed his luck. Who knows? Pike hoped that wasn't the case, because the old bag was planning to trail along for the whole tournament. Not only might she be a jinx, but she was taking up a lot of Lester's time. Lester's performance wasn't the problem, fortunately. There had always been an open bed policy for the crew; and the meals were one whole level better since Lillith and the Frog had come aboard. But was Lester better, for himself? Pike wondered. One level spacier, that was for sure. By midnight the kid hadn't caught a fish, so Lester hadn't been under fire as a deck hand since his swimming session.

The boat seemed to be refitted perfectly. The grid, according to George the computer, was functioning precisely; but there had been little likelihood of a pirate attack with Mrs. Tourbo's escort cruiser along. They would need the grid for the last two legs, but not here on Tango. What was needed here was some points; and that wasn't going to be easy, because Pike didn't really know how to catch dick fishÑnever hadÑalthough he'd caught hundreds of the mothers. It was all luck. Pike couldn't say with honesty that any of the legal fish he had landed had taken the bait. And snagging with a fly rod and a single hook was not a guaranteed proposition.

On the other hand, Richie might have the touch. Why not? He'd practically killed himself with that phantom trout on Streamside, and still caught it. Trout were similar to salmon. Maybe he would come out of this smelling like a champ. Tomorrow morning would tell. The run had begun at noon today, hot and heavy, up the Little Cannes Chute, where they were anchored. At dawn they would take the skiff up to Three Mile Rapid to try his luck. One thing for sure, Richie would come out of tomorrowÕs action smelling like something indescribable.

The Leader Board after New Columbus was muddy. The kid was still out in front with 12 points; but Dresden Carthy had moved up to 11 points with a First in barracuda. And there was a clump right behindÑall good fishermen, including the fat-ass Baron, who had 9 points, and Hard Luck Harry Dolan with 10. A pretty even spread. But like they say in horse racing, there's only two ways to winÑCrossing the line first, or being second when the winner disqualifies.

Luck at snagging a glans salmon wasn't up to Pike, that would be Richie's department; so why worry about it? But Pike was worried. Every single boat had caught barracuda on the last day, except the Comparative Humanity. Sure, Richie was bone stubborn about the bait, but it had worked for him when nothing was biting. Granted, it would have been kind of a slap at Hamid to toss out a full-sized Frog lure, even an artificial; but Hamid wasn't born yesterday. If you want to catch fish, you have to cut bait, even when your mother and her boyfriend are looking on.

Actually, the old Gatling gun had wanted Rich to catch one. As the day wore on, she was demanding it. That could steal your luck, Pike theorized. He would never let his own mother onto his boat during a Tournament; but his mother had died long before he became a competitor. With a frown, Pike admitted to himself that he didn't know how he would confront a similar situation. Not really. Lillith was so rich; but then, so was Richie. Pike wasn't sure how their fortunes conjoined. He presumed there was some overlapping. Awkward. With all his other problems, Pike felt he shouldn't be forced into dealing with the question of mothers. Richie probably felt the same way.

Looking through his binoculars, Pike saw the kid and Lester standing on a sand spit, practicing with a heavy fly rod. Richie was sensationally uncoordinated with the seven foot rod. He could handle the ultra-light trout rod fairly well, but not the salmon rod. What a strange young man. His right arm flapped like a sea gull. Lester kept talking him through it, but talk wasn't enough, apparently. Lester himself was an excellent flyrod technician. Pike thought about wrapping Richie's upper arm against his body with a length of web strapping. But Lester had taken the skiff, and Pike didn't feel like swimming. He went downstairs instead.

Rita was sitting cross ways on the bed, reading a science book. Since Lester's rescue, she and Pike had been getting along smoothly. Of course, Rita had been staying with her mother about half the time, bonding. She looked up when he came into the room, smiled briefly, then continued reading.

ÒGood book?Ó he asked her.

ÒVery,Ó she replied. ÒRaphael Lap on a new kind of pulse theory that he developed out in the Sarine System.Ó

Pike hadn't read any science for several years. More than several. Stupid to let things slip.

ÒYou never published a book on your propulsion theories, did you?Ó she asked, ostensibly to make conversation.

ÒA couple of articles,Ó he replied, wondering where this was going. She knew he hadn't. The Baron hadn't wanted to let the secret out, and he hadn't wanted to, either. His grid generator was very simple to build once you understood the principles. Space was wide these days, and patent law didn't protect much. ÒThere wasn't really enough to write a book about.Ó

ÒIt changed the Universe,Ó she stated.

ÒMaybe so,Ó Pike looked out the porthole. The tiny figure of the kid was still flailing on the sand spit. ÒMaybe it did, but only a few people have benefited.Ó

ÒYou wouldn't mind if I wrote the story up as part of my thesis, would you?Ó

ÒI thought your committee had already approved another topic.Ó

ÒSo...? Topics are made to be pushed to the limit.Ó

ÒTrue,Ó he agreed. He had gotten his Ph.D. from the Thruster idea, why shouldn't she? It was nicely circular, in a funny way.

If Rita was seriously writing a book, it would take at least a year, with interviews and whatever. That would be pleasant. He hoped it would be. Damnit, if he was only closer to her age, and wanted to have more children, everything would be different. Right, he'd be insanely jealous. Had it been only a week ago that he was catatonic with jealousy over her and Rich? Thank God for old age. He could barely remember the episode.

ÒWell..?Ó she asked, still seeking his approval.

ÒFine with me, but you'll have to butt heads with your father, if you write it factually,Ó he mentioned.

She shrugged. ÒI wasn't asking Father, I was asking you.Ó

On the Lady Slipper, which was anchored outside Three Bear Creek along with the two smaller Bardona fishing boats and several other boats from the Tournament, Baron Farouk Bardona was in a froth. He was in 4th place, three points out of 1st, with only four events to go. Not close enough. Something radical needed to happen.

Everyone had agreed that Monday morning, not Sunday, would be the start of dick fish since they had all fished late for the fucking barracuda that finally decided to bite. He, himself, had caught a beauty of a Ôcuda last night under the pale full moon, about ten PM, two hours short of being shut out. Thank the stars. It had shot him past the log jam of 5th Place, into sole possession of 4th. But he hated dick fish. Nasty, disgusting mothers. Not a fit species to expose women and children to. He voted against them every year. Who voted for them? Probably that sick slime, Resnick. If there was an open vote, like gentlemen should have, the Baron would know who to buy off. But all the votes on existing categories were secret ballot. The high and mighty Rules Committee needed some restructuring.

There was no skill to dick fish, that's why any right-minded fisherman loathed them. Bardona really did loath them, unless he happened to get lucky with a big one, as he had on two occasions. When that happened, he thought the category was quite fine. But this year, that lucky son-of-a-bitch R.R. Tourbo would probably snag a whale-sized dick on his first cast and put himself out of reach. And worse than that, why was his shark-eating mother nosing around the Tournament? Buying off the competition, per chance? He wouldn't put it past her, although he hadn't received an offer himself.

But the main thing that had him frothing was his only daughter, Rita. He wouldn't understand why Rita would still be so chummy with the opposition after the fight. It was one thing to hang out with Tourbo in college. That made some senseÑwealthy kids should look out for one another. But after the blundering jerk had joined the Tournament, she should have dumped him. Then she joined up with ÒChip on the ShoulderÓ Resnick! That makes two enemies on one boat, cavorting with his beautiful daughter. Had he raised Rita to behave like that? Truthfully, had he? Didn't she know it distracted him from winning? How could he concentrate?

And now she wanted to write up the Thruster Patent for her thesis? Balls! What did the girl use for brains? He had been way too permissive with her, that was evident. He should never have let Magyar talk him into that blind trust. His wife had thought Rita should have a little financial independence, so she would feel equal at school and reach her true potential. It made sense at the time. Better than an allowance. She would learn how to invest her own money and make it grow. But Rita didn't seem to care about money. Another anomaly. She had plunked it into an interest bearing account at one of his banks, and lived on the interest. That was fineÑshe had prudently used his bank, and the fund was growing. Perfectly shrewd to wait for the right deal to come along. Farouk had been pleased with her until recently, when he realized that her financial independence had put her beyond his control. Had Magyar tricked him into it? She had never suggested anything of the sort for the boysÑand he had never had one drop of trouble from them. A thesis on Resnick and the Thruster? Didn't she realize what that would do to the whole fabric of space travel? Some of his factories might have to retool.

That scum, Resnick, was twisting her mind to his devious scheme of releasing the patent, wasn't he? Ruining her own father? Well, maybe not ruining; but it would cost billions to retool. Of course, if they became available, all the fleets would buy thrusters instead of cigar ships. In the long run, I would do exceptionally wellÑbut so would Cry Baby Resnick. He was happy enough to take the seed moneyÑthen when I pushed him into leveraged stress, he was delighted to take the money to bail himself out. Squirmed like a worm, actually; but accepted my terms. Of course, he had to accept my terms because of the original contract. Is it my fault that he doesn't see my best interests? Would he be happy with a thousand boats in the Tournament? Of course not. I'm protecting his dumb ass, and he's not even smart enough to know. Provokes me at every opportunity. God, I hope I got in a few gut ripping blows in our fight. Hard to tellÑit felt like I did. Internal hemorrhaging. Yes. One or two organs, at least. Luckily, none of the damage he did to me left much of a markÑexcept the nose is still a tiny bit tender. Resnick is a light weight. I knew it.

Is she sleeping with that cry baby? Impossible. Rita has better sense than thatÑbut women do make strange choices. But is she sleeping with that incredibly blundering and lucky Tourbo kid? The fucker wrecked my boat! How could she..? She's independently wealthy, she doesn't need his money. Oh, God..! A terrible thought occurred to the Baron. Was prick Resnick after her money?

The prick needs a new boat. Bardona chuckled at that, but only for an instant. Rita has enough in the bank to buy him a boat. Should I freeze her account? I think I could engineer that. Banks collapse every day. Not my banksÑbut one little bank wouldn't destroy investor confidence, would it? Of course, her account is securedÑbut if I timed it right, I just might tie up the funds at boat building time for next year's Tournament. Resnick missing from the Tournament..? A whole year without seeing his hangdog face. Joy of living!

But who was she sleeping with? Rumors had been flying all season. Farouk couldn't get himself to believe any of them. His little daughter? And he hadn't found the courage to consult Simon, his computer. There were some bits of weakness he didn't allow Simon to play with. One of them was checking up on his daughter. But Simon perhaps knew the truth. Or he could always ask Magyar. She probably knew also. She and Rita did talk. But damnit, that wasn't a suitable subject to talk about with your wife, was it?

Dick fish tomorrow. Uggh. The stench of them was already in his ample nostrils, but nothing like it would be tomorrow. If he wasn't so far behind, the Baron would have loved to snag a few dick salmon, and then get the hell out of here for a week. But he was behind. Way behind. Barely in 4th Place. He needed a big salmon, and snagging his way through hundreds of the blighted fish with a fly rod and a single hook was no fun.

At dawn, with the wind in his face and his hip boots stretched snugly to his suspenders, R.R. felt very confident in his salmon rodÕs ability. Lester was a good teacher. Now the two of them were roaring upriver in the rubber skiff, accompanied by Pike at the tiller and the salmon judge, Tandor Lal, a prim, dark-skinned fellow wearing a rain slicker and a surgical mask. Rita was not with them. She had begged off, saying she had work to do on her thesis.

It was a great morning to be alive, Richie thought, breathing deeply. Wisps of river mist whipped past the black rubber dingy. Virgin forest lined both sides of the river. Up ahead, the rock walls of the Little Cannes Chute loomed out of the mist. What an idyllic landscape. It reminded R.R. of the misty paintings of ancient mountains in Master Jacopo's sparse living room. Elegantly peaceful. The quintessence of wild peacefulness. R.R. felt his chest swelling with inspiration.

Cutting the throttle back, Pike nosed the boat onto a gravel bar a hundred yards ahead of the limestone cliffs where the Chute started. Richie rubbed his hands together to get the circulation going and stepped awkwardly over the rubber gunwale. He would have hopped out, but experience had taught him that hopping in hip boots wasn't a smart idea.

ÒBoy, this is beautiful, isn't it?Ó he blurted exuberantly, unbuttoning the top button of his green checked wool shirt.

Pike and Lester were clad head to foot in foul weather oil skins. Both had suggested the same gear to Richie, but he had vetoed the idea, saying it didn't look like rain to him. He had chosen the green shirt and a fly fishing vest instead.

ÒI wonder why nobody else is fishing here?Ó he inquired, assembling the sections of his stiff fly rod. He inhaled deeply again. ÒWild nature really puts out a lot of oxygen, doesn't it.Ó After seating the oversized, single action reel, he stripped thick, green, metal core line through the eyelets.

ÒYep, all that oxygen practically gags a person,Ó Lester answered.

The reason that nobody else was fishing the Cannes Chute was because no prize fish had ever been caught there, so nobody except Pike came to the Chute anymore. Had they been behind in the Tournament, Pike might have chosen another spot, but they weren't. Besides, there were big fish in the Chute, he reasoned, thousands of them, they just hadn't been caught legally. He, himself, had snagged some really big ones here. The kid had as good a chance here as anywhere, if his luck was still in. It was simply a statistically anomaly that a winner had never come from here. He had taken a 6th here once, which was only a few ounces shy of the money. Okay, in all honesty, the fish here probably were a little smaller, for some unknown reason. They seemed exactly the same, genetically. Probably the food in these particular shallow tributary streams wasn't as plentiful as in some other watersheds, so these fish got off to a slower start. Maybe that was why, and maybe it wasn't. But the reason Pike fished here was the Chute itself. The fast river had cut through almost forty miles of limestone mountains to make the towering cliffs. White water churned out of the Chute in a wildly tumbling rapids at the bottom of the gorge. No bears were likely to stake out the Chute as their fishing propertyÑnot with easy picking everywhere else on the planet. Scavenging in the Chute was taken care of by large fish eagles and a host of ravens and sea gulls. Birds had never been a worry to Pike.

ÒYep, all that rich oxygen is pretty dinged overpowering,Ó Lester said, sniggering. Sweeping back the hood of his raincoat, he took a set of swimming pool nose plugs out of his pocket and clipped them onto his nose. ÒLet's go fishing,Ó he announced, motioning Richie toward the end of the gravel bar. ÒDoes this seem like a good place to you?Ó he asked. After all, you don't tell a fisherman where he's going to be lucky.

Richie sussed out the gravel bar and decided that a few feet away from Lester was a good place to begin.

ÒI brung a set of nose clips for you, Richie, in case you change you mind about wanting them.Ó

R.R. nodded and set about tying on a large white feather streamer while breathing through his mouth.

With his own clips in place, Pike watched. Lester and Tandor Lal looked like alien creatures. Only Richie, who had disdained the sensible gear looked normal. Normal, but stupid. From where they were standing the river was black and deep, but a few boat lengths farther upstream as it started to narrow, the surface was lumpy with silver backs surging upriver to spawn and die. Inside the mouth of the Chute, silver and red bodies leapt over limestone teeth in the pounding rapids only to fall back onto the crush of their brothers and sisters. Amazing creatures, Pike thought, finding them no less repugnant for his admiration. Their magnificent last act was to transverse forty miles of rapids, falls and riffles. Thousands didn't make it. Those that did, the fittest or the luckiest, died of exhaustion after spawning. Male and female alike. Even if they survived the hungry bears, there was no food for them in the spawning brooks. Salmon were strange creatures. On every planet where they had developed, their pattern was the same. Pike thought it was a peculiar way to go about things, but the species was hardy. If humans ended their lives in a giant sex orgy, instead of in lingering sickness and decrepitude, would that be so wrong? Actually, the cycle of humans and salmon was almost the same, anyway. Only the length of time after the reproductive act was different. In some kind of real way, he had been going steadily downhill since Alex was born. Sure, he was still in the prime, and he'd had lots of fun and supercharged experiences since then, but his essential vitality was different. He stood on the gravel bar in his oil skins watching Rich Rodney making a series of awkward false casts. The heavy line was only barely under control.

ÒCast it out, don't be cute with it,Ó he called. Richie grinned shyly, and let his cast go. The line arched forward across the river. Lester scowled at the poor cast.

But it was true, Pike thought. He had procreated, and now he could die. The Universe was satisfied that his genes had passed along. Having thought it, Pike saw the rightness. That little spark of vitality had changed inside him the morning Alex was born. He had lost his devil-may-care edge. In most aspects, that was just as well. In retrospect, he had been way over-balanced. Being more calm had certainly made him a better fisherman. He snorted derisivelyÑlosing his spark gave him the ability to nursemaid this lucky kid all year. That could have never happened before he became a father.

Coached by Lester Wunderman, Rich Rodney flailed the waters. The jerking retrieve that Lester insisted on felt awkward. Richie was sure the streamer's action was unrealistic. Zillions of fish were hurtling past just under the surface. He could see them. And he could also see that the silver streamer looked nothing like a minnow when he had to jerk it. He'd already made ten casts without a strikeÑand there were skillions of fish!

Richie was peripherally aware of the strange looks that Lester kept exchanging with Pike. His Ken Pao Ri training made him scintillatingly aware of everything that happened on the edges of his vision. Unbeknownst to Richie, Ken Pao Ri vision didn't automatically interpret the sights that he saw at the margins into a truthful view of reality. He concluded that Pike and Lester were disgusted with the mechanics of his flyrod artistry. Heck's bells, he was doing the best he could, wasn't he? The bait was getting out there where the fish were. Was it his fault that the stiff rod and heavy line were hard to maneuver? Nor was it his fault that he was feeling almost lightheaded in all this oxygen.

In actual fact, Pike and Lester's facial contortions (mainly cocked eyebrows) were comments on the ten casts without snagging a salmon. In Pike's recollection, he had seldom made two casts in succession without a hook up. Walking a few steps closer, Pike made a single comment on Richie's newly acquired bad luck.

ÒAstounding,Ó he said to Lester.

Both men remembered that the kid hadn't hooked even a little barracuda on that last day. It was literally impossible not to snag a glans salmon. The river was a solid block of fish at this point, thirty feet deep by fifty yards across by probably three miles long.

ÒHe's pulling it right between them,Ó Lester commented, raising his eyebrows to the upper limit. ÒHe doesn't like the jerking retrieve, he says. Don't feel right to him. How else you going to snag one?Ó

Pike's face showed sensory overload for a second, then he realized that he was dealing with a phenom, not a personÑand certainly not a fisherman. If the kid's luck deserted him, they were all sunk. First place wouldn't hold up, without some fish.

He turned to Richie. ÒSo what's keeping you from retrieving the fly however you want to?Ó he asked, heaping the perfect amount of scorn into the question. ÒYou think Lester knows the only way?Ó

The light bulb went on for R.R. Pike was so smart. He could see that Lester had the wrong answer for today. Maybe last year or every other year he was right, but times change. That's why Pike was almost a god. Relaxing his rigid elbow, Richie picked the line up in a flourish, made a horribly limp false cast that whipped a knot into the leader, and laid a snarl of line thirty feet into the river.

He grinned sheepishly and started to retrieve coils of line hand over hand.

ÒAnd put those nose clips on,Ó Pike advised. ÒTrust me on this.Ó He nodded to Lester. ÒGive them to him, before he passes out.

Without finishing his retrieve, R.R. took the flesh colored nose clips from Lester. Holding the rod under his arm, he tried to slip the rubber band over his head. It was an awkward maneuver, quite typical of him. Both hands were required to stretch the rubber band. With the rod clamped under his arm pit, he only had one and a half hands. Lester and Pike stopped watching after the first few seconds. It was too painful. A normally coordinated human either had to laugh himself sick or turn away. How could one person be so agonizingly klutzy? Tandor Lal continued staring at R.R.'s antics, but that was forgivable. He was being paid to watch. His jaw slackened, but he continued his vigil, making sure this wasn't an illegal tactic.

But eventually Richie was triumphant. The pink rubber band slipped over his ears. And in that instant, the river at his feet exploded. A big red dick fish leaped out of the river, with the silver streamer dangling from his mouth. Coils of line that had been laying on the gravel shot into the dark river as the fish ran for the Chute.

ÒHook up,Ó Lester said in amazement. He didn't have to yell it. They were all standing within five paces of each other. ÒLooks like he's legal. Get ahold of that rod, boy. Keep your feet out of the line.Ó

In two seconds all the line on the ground was gone and the reel started to sing, while R.R. hung onto the arching rod. Fly line, by its nature, is fat. Both floating and sinking, not many feet of it will go onto a reel, not even on the oversized salmon spool. In a few more seconds the reel was down to the heavy braided backing, of which there was 150 feetÑ not much.

River fishing for a two hundred pound fish, on foot, is not totally sane. It's a dance between the fisherman, the fish and the whippy flyrod that never seems strong enough. The fish has important business up-riverÑ he hears a train whistle blowing.

All Richie could do, once he was hooked up, was hang on and do his best at putting pressure on the fish. The drag was wound down as tight as the 100 pound leader would bear. Any extra strain would break itÑany little catch on a rock, or misplay on his part, and the fish would be history. And Richie couldn't be sure how well the darned fish was hooked. The hook-up felt solid, but a fish's mouth is notoriously fickle.

ÒWhat should I do,Ó R.R. yelped as the line continued to streak up-stream.

ÒRun after him,Ó Pike yelled, knowing that would probably cause a circus act to happen between Richie and his hip boots. But what the hell. One legal catch, and Pike could plunk them all down to trolling at the river mouth. Trolling was completely safe, as far as he was concerned. It was harder to snag a fish in deep water, but at least there were no bears.

With no hesitation, R.R. took off up the gravel bar toward the mouth of the Chute, holding the rod high over his head. In ten clomping bounds, he came to the edge of the gravel bar. Before him stretched twenty yards of swirling, but relatively quite backwater, caused primarily by a large block of fallen limestone on the far shore. Line was still stripping off the reel. Skirting the estuary would take him fifty yards or so in the wrong direction, but the water looked a little deep for wading. Richie hesitated, then started clomping up the shingle away from the fish.

A sensible decision, Pike thought. He had never waded that estuary. ÒBreak him off at the leader,Ó Pike shouted. No sense losing all that line. By hauling back on the rod and snubbing the line, the fish would probably break off.

But Richie wasn't paying attention. He was thumping around the estuary as fast as his legs could pump in the black hip boots. Pike lengthened his paces a bit to keep up. As soon as Rich got around that big red boulder, he would start gaining on the fish again. Anyway, the worst that could happen was he'd lose the line when the backing ran out. That wasn't much of a deal, they had plenty more line in the skiff. His eyes flashed back to the red boulder. Oh, shit!

Pike started to run. Jerking up his oil slicker, he snatched out the .45 automatic from his hip holster. That auburn boulder had shaggy hair all over it! ÒStop..!Ó he screamed at Richie.

But RichieÕs peripheral Ken Pao Ri vision was already beaming warnings at him. He ignored them, of course. In the welter of conflicting danger signals that were swarming him, the ÒbigÓ danger was lost. His line was vanishing, deep water was to the left, slippery rocks underfoot, nose plugs bonking his forehead with every stride, and that indescribable, horrid oxygen smell was overpowering him. With all that, he simply didn't see the giant, fucking bear until it reared up right in his path, taller than a roaring lighthouse. The monster swiped at Richie with a snarl that shook the ground; but he got the outstretched flyrod instead, smashing it from R.R.'s hands. A loop of braided backing looped neatly around his huge right paw, instantly cutting to the quick as the two hundred pound salmon cinched the loop closed like a garrote. The monster bear screamed his surprise and agony, before toppling sideways toward the Chute, where the fish, feeling stark pain bite his mouth as the bear's weight snubbed him up tight, leaped straight out of the water and shook his glistening purple head. This was no doubt an amazing sequence of events to wild creatures.

Rich Rodney ran straight out into the estuary away from the bear. When it got too deep to run, he floated downstream with the current. He found it easy to stay above water. There were so many salmon, he just glided over their backs. Also, in all fairness, his vest had a flotation sack built in which helped offset the drag of his water-filled hip boots.

Seeing that Rich had made another sensible decision, Pike beat a hasty retreat back to the skiff, which Lester and Mr. Lal had already launched. With rather a lot of high spirited yelling, which often occurs after witnessing a near death experience, they pulled into the current, and within a few minutes wrestled a dripping, but exultant, Richie into the skiff.

ÒDid you see that?Ó he gasped. ÒI was floating on top of fish!Ó

Fine for excitement, but he hadn't actually caught a fish yet. Catching a bear didn't count, even if he hadn't exactly done that either.

They motored back to the Comparative Humanity for another breakfast, and to get Richie into dry clothes. The bear had been a sobering experience. Pike had thought it would be safe to fish the Chute, but apparently not. True, nobody had ever been mauled on Tango; but the bear had actually swiped at Richie. They had been very lucky.

Richie seemed undampened by the experience. The kid had amazing elasticity. Pike readily admitted by this time that Richie had some endearing and unusual qualities. Whatever that martial arts stuff was, it definitely seemed to give him an edge of luck, if nothing else. Things that would have embarrassed or frightened a normal person into non-existence, didn't seem to touch him. Pike, himself, still had a case of shakes over the bear incident. What had he been planning to do with the pitiful .45? If nothing else, this proved it was time to upgrade his portable arsenal. On the boat, he was more or less armed to the teeth; but a .45 probably wouldn't stop an Earth grizzly, let alone a Tango bear. It probably wouldn't stop a Tango house cat. Were there house cats on Tango? That was an unhappy thought. Three foot tall house cats, with deep, insidious purring. Thankfully, cats don't like water, and Pike didn't intend to set foot on land again. This bear story should be enough to get the Rules Committee to reconsider coming here.

ÒLet's go get one,Ó Richie piped, standing up from the galley table. He drained a cup of scalding black tea without testing it and rather instantly turned a shade of bright red to match the dry shirt he had replaced the wet one with. Any wild animal would see the red shirt and run awayÑthat was RichieÕs rational.

Pike had been interested to hear the explanation for the shirt choice. He was even more interested in the banzai tea drinking. The kid sucked in two deep breaths, wiped the pain out of his eyes with a napkin and balanced his top row of teeth carefully on the bottom one. Being careful not to move his teeth or cheeks, he reported, ÒI think I've got the hang of that minnow movement now.Ó

ÒWhat do you say we try some trolling?Ó Pike asked.

ÒTrolling? I think I'd prefer the stream bank. It took me awhile to get the feel, but I've got it now.Ó

ÒWell, frankly, Rich, I'm a little reluctant to plunk us back into bear country.Ó

R.R. guffawed. He knew Pike was bluffing. Bears or dinosaurs wouldn't mean a thing to Pike Resnick if there were fish to catch. ÒNice of you to protect my feelings,Ó Richie said, gallantly, Òbut I'm not scared, either. Did you see the look on that critter's face when my fish pulled him over?Ó Richie got kind of a glittery sheen around his eyes. ÒIt was like my friend, the fish, saved me in the nick of time. We better go see if the fish isn't still snagged somewhere up that canyon. I'd like to turn him loose so he can breed.Ó

Pike and Lester exchanged a look halfway between admiration and sheer terror. This kid was determined to get them all killed. Lester limped over to the refrigerator and fished out an ice cube. He wrapped it in a cloth napkin, put it on the chopping block and smashed it with one blow of his meat tenderizer mallet. He handed the napkin to Richie. ÒSuck on that,Ó he said.

ÒWe can go take a look,Ó Pike offered. ÒI'd say there's about a hundred percent chance that the fish broke off. That's point Number One. Number Two is, the Chute is full of teeth that would rip the skiff to shreds.Ó

Richie nodded.

ÒAnd if that bear is still tangled up in your line, he's probably mad as hell. No telling what he might do.Ó

The mist had broken up when they got back on the river, but it looked like the overcast sky would hold until at least mid-morning. That was good news for the three in oil skins.

Richie strained over the prow like a rabbit dog smelling his way along a spoor trail. Pike was still certain it was an exercise in futility. The fish had flown, and even if he was snagged somewhere, they would never find him. The last time he had seen the fish jump, he was well inside the Chute. When three tons of bear leaned his weight against the line, it had likely broken like a thread.

But looking for the fish gave him an excellent pretext to scope out both banks for bears. He had brought along a .308 repeating rifle in addition to the .45 and intended to station himself as a steely-eyed guard wherever the kid fished. The las cannon as well anchored in the harness, or he might have attempted to use it. As soon as he got to civilization again, he would have a couple of high impact pocket stunners in the arsenalÑthe serious kind.

ÒI think I see him,Ó R.R. sang out. He pointed. Sure enough, the green fly line was hooked up on an exposed rock tooth in mid-channel fifty yards into the Chute.

ÒEagle eye,Ó Pike commented dryly, throttling the outboard motor back. The pontoons were supposedly unwreckable, but that didn't mean they were suitable for going into the Chute. Each air compartment was filled with foam blocks, and walled off in case of a rupture, but Pike still didnÕt trust them entirely. If enough of them broke, the skiff would sink. Anyway, they would all be thrown overboard or stranded when the boat grounded on a big rock. ÒI'm not taking us into the Chute,Ó he said. And that was final.

For about ten seconds, R.R. looked straight up in the air as if debating something with himself. ÒGet us as close as you can,Ó he said. ÒI'll try to snag the line. I have to try, I think. Isn't that the sportsman's code?Ó

ÒFair enough,Ó Pike answered, piloting the skiff toward a limestone shelf on the far side of the river. The kid had to snag some fish, in any case. Let him try the impossible cast for the old fly line in the process. It would be good practice for him. He doubted if Bill Bolen or Carthy, the two best fly casters he knew, could make that toss; but nothing at all would be lost in the effort.

The beach on this side of the river was narrower, which meant the tree line was much nearer the water. Because of that, Pike had never fished it, but out on the shelf there was a reasonable chance of safety.

ÒClimb out to the very end of that rock and stand sideways to the river. That should give you enough room for your backcast.Ó

He looked at Lester, who smiled a crooked smile. ÒLanding one from here will be fun,Ó the cook offered. ÒToo bad we sent that sickening Indian home. He likes acrobatics.Ó

ÒToo bad,Ó Pike agreed, pulling the boat into the lee of the rock shelf. ÒYou stay in the boat, Les. If anything comes out of the woods, we'll want to make a hasty exit.Ó

ÒI won't be much help from the boat,Ó Lester grumbled.

ÒUnless a bear comes. Then you will.Ó

Tandor Lal didn't look particularly pleased; but he jumped out with the coil of line that Lester handed him. The kid scrambled after him, using his backup fly rod as a balancing pole. Mercifully, he didn't upset the skiff in jumping out, but he did manage to bark his shin on an outcropping. Pike followed with the rifle.

ÒKeep the motor idling,Ó Pike told Lester. ÒMaybe you can gaff from down here, if we get lucky.Ó

ÒOh, sure,Ó Lester griped. ÒI'd love to gaff one with my kisser leaned over right in his face.Ó

ÒI thought you'd like that,Ó Pike answered, agreeably. ÒJust keep smiling. I'll hose you down when we get back on deck. Keep saying this mantraÑOne legal fish. One legal fish.Ó

Pike looked down in the water while R.R. rigged up. It was still wall to wall with fish. The major run normally lasted for three days. After that, there were still a lot of fish, but they weren't log-jammed at the mouth of the rapids. Such well-mannered fish, until they were hooked. Backed up in ranks, waiting their turn for immortality.

Stepping out on the lip of the rock shelf, Richie whipped the new rod tip through the air a few times to test the action. Seeming satisfied, he began false casting, stripping line from the reel in long pulls and tossing it high in the air in rather depressingly free-form figure eights, back and forth. Maybe with a nine foot rod, a great fly man could make the cast. With the stiff seven footer, Richie didn't have a prayer. Finally, knowing that he was loosing control of all the line in the air, he decided he'd better make some kind of cast. Leaning into the rod, he used his strength instead of the rod's balance to shoot the line out. The cast whipped forward in an awkward loop.

Tandor Lal let out a yowl and dropped to his knees like he'd been shot. He clapped his left hand to his left ear.

The fly line hovered over the river, then splashed down in a snake of coils.

ÒWhat happened..?Ó Lester yelled.

ÒHe eared him..!Ó Pike called back, stepping over to the unfortunate judge. Gently taking Lal's bloody hand away, Pike pinched the ear lobe firmly. ÒHe's all right,Ó he yelled to Lester. ÒRipped right through. Get a butterfly, would you!Ó

Seeing the greenish tinge of Lal's face, he patted the judge's back rather briskly. ÒYou're fine, Judge. Just a few drops of blood. Don't even think about passing out on me. Maybe we'll get you some hazard pay.Ó

ÒFish on..!!Ó Richie yelped, leaning back on the rod.

ÒLean on him,Ó Pike yelled. ÒDon't let him go up the rapids.Ó

ÒI can't. He's too strong.Ó

ÒWell, shit,Ó Pike said, leading Mr. Lal toward the skiff. ÒGo help him,Ó he barked at Lester, taking a butterfly band-aid from the gnarly hand. ÒBreak him off, when he gets to the backing.Ó

Lester clambered out of the skiff and hustled up the rock.

Expertly clamping the ear wound together with the wings of the butterfly, Pike had Lal sit down in a rock cranny. ÒYou're fine. Trust me. There won't even be a scar. Just sit here for awhile. Come back up when you're feeling aggressive.Ó

ÒAggressive...?Ó

ÒAggressive. Vigorous. Full of vim and vigor.Ó Pike fished an orange pill from a deep pocket of his oil skin. He handed it to the judge and climbed back up the rock.

The fish, in the meantime was doing a water ballet. It leaped out of the water, straight over the hung-up flyline. Falling back in the river with a splash that was unnoticeable in the spuming rapids, the obliging salmon swam under the line, jumped again and fell over the line. He did that three times in quick succession.

ÒWe are witnessing a miracle,Ó Lester said to no one in particular.

ÒIs he hooked fair?Ó Pike inquired, letting the miracle part slide past. Since his drug experience on New Columbus, Lester had been uttering odd statements. It was kind of spooky.

ÒFrom the way he jumps, he's hooked somewhere in the head. Beyond that, I can't tell. Ask Rich, he seen him closer.Ó

Making a serious run upriver now, the fish felt the tug of the other line, in which he had seemingly deliberately entangled himself. The first line was snugged tight over a big wet rock, but then when the fish jumped, it miraculously lifted free.

Richie's rod arched like a rainbowÑfour hundred pounds of fish will do that to a rod. He braced against the rock ledge, willing his hip boots to grow down into it.

Taking off his oilskin coat, Pike tied the sleeves around Richie's waist, making a handle to grab in case the lucky geek got pulled off the rock.

ÒToo bad...my mother...isn't here to see this,Ó the kid gulped between breaths. ÒShe doesn't believe...I can catch fish.Ó

ÒIs that first fish still on?Ó Pike asked.

ÒHecks, yes! See the line cutting to the left of the new one.Ó

ÒImpressive,Ó Pike commented. ÒI should get a cameraman to hang around.Ó

ÒDon't need a camera. Got it all programmedÑup there.Ó Rich pointed to his forehead.

ÒRight. I was thinking about making a record for the public.Ó

ÒOh. Well, this was just lucky,Ó Richie said, understating the truth charmingly. ÒSkill didn't have anything to do with it.Ó

ÒReally..?Ó

Richie grinned. ÒThat was the worst cast in the world. How is Mr. Lal?Ó

ÒJust a scratch,Ó Pike assured him.

ÒI feel really bad about that. Mr. Lal is such a dignified guy. What was he doing standing behind me like that? He must not understand about flyrods.Ó

ÒJudges aren't fishermen,Ó Pike answered, not committing himself with that answer. In point of fact, Lal had been a good thirty feet to the right of where Richie had planted himselfÑwell outside the danger zone, one might have thought.

Just then in a synchronous dance move, both fish decided to leap away from the pain of the hook. One leaped leftÑone leaped right. Yin and Yang leaping. They met head on. The crunch of the collision couldn't be heard above the roar of the rapids.

ÒBillions to one..!Ó Lester yelled. ÒGet some line in, boy! Get line in..!Ó

In the sudden slack situation, Richie started pulling great armfuls of braided backing through the eyelets. The line baled up at his feet and spilled over the rock ledge. But what else could he do? He couldn't switch hands to start reeling.

Both lines were billowing in the rapids Maybe both fish had been knocked out, or else they were swimming back downstream.

Talking to himself, Lester Wunderman began scrabbling down the rock. ÒDangedest thing I ever seen,Ó he repeated several times. ÒCome on, Pike. What are we waiting for? We can gaff those mothers while they're out cold, if we hurry.Ó

Knowing he was right, Pike followed his second banana down to the boat.

ÒGit up there and protect the kid,Ó Lester spat at the wounded judge. ÒYou ain't hurt. Do your part. There's something religious going on here.Ó

On his way past, Pike helped Mr. Lal to stand up. ÒDon't mind Lester,Ó he said, softly. ÒI'll definitely get you hazard pay. Keep Richie from falling in while we land the fish.Ó Pike hopped into the skiff. Lester hit the throttle before the boss was completely seated.

ÒThis has got to be more than luck,Ó Lester affirmed, roaring into mid-river. ÒIt's like he can think at a fish and get him to do what he wants.Ó

ÒCould be,Ó Pike answered. Something definitely was uncanny. Maybe Lester knew the answer.

ÒDid you see that cast? It went in the water like a bale of hay, and it didn't make a dinged bit of difference.Ó

Pike wedged himself in the prow of the skiff with the gaff. He was thrilled almost witless that his slicker was still tied around Richie. ÒThe first line is loose at the reel end. We better try for that fish first.Ó

ÒWhy do you say so?Ó Lester asked.

ÒThe bear broke it off or chewed it off, didn't he?Ó

ÒNot really. That's him over there.Ó

Pike scanned the far shore without catching sight of an angry bear. ÒWhere,Ó he asked.

ÒThere in the water. That brown blob that looks like grass.Ó

ÒGood God,Ó Pike gasped. ÒHe tangled up and drowned?Ó

ÒLooks like it. Don't make rational sense, do it? I thought you seen the critter.Ó

ÒNo,Ó Pike said. ÒI must be slipping.Ó

ÒNot necessarily,Ó Lester answered, with no special emphasis. ÒMy eyesight seems to be improving since I visited Old Leopold.Ó

ÒYou'll have to tell me about that sometime,Ó Pike said. He watched Richie stripping line in like a madman; but the line running from the rod tip was still slack, and didn't point anywhere in particular. It was no help in tracking the fish.

ÒIf your eyes are so sharp, where are the fish?Ó he asked Lester.

ÒWell, there's one,Ó Les replied, casually. ÒTen degrees starboard and coming our way. Get ready, I'm putting you up against him.Ó

Pike realized in somewhat of a flash, that he'd never gaffed a glans salmon before. Until now, he'd always been the rod man. Two hundred pounds of salmon could be a little dangerous in this tiny tub. But, there was the fish, neither dead, nor stunned, and Pike held the gaff.

The plan was to gaff the fish and drag it to shore, where the judge could look at him. Two hundred pounds of fish was way too big to haul over the gunwale when you have nowhere to stand for leverage. On the other hand, even a big glans salmon is no match for a sixty horsepower engine. Pike figured he could hold onto the gaffed fish until Lester beached the skiff and the judge came down to survey the prize. The damned fish actually seemed to be hooked in the mouth. Let it be a legal hook-up! With that prayer on his lips, Pike plunged the short-handled gaff hook into the salmon's silvery side. The fish convulsed. Pike was prepared. ÒHit it,Ó he yelled to Lester, who had already goosed the engine the second he saw the gaff bite.

But this salmon was a scrapper, no doubt about that. He had already killed a Tango bear and survived for over an hour tethered in the rapids. His wide tail scooped a yard of water and he headed straight down, jerking the gaff from Pike's hands. Fortunately, Pike wasn't a complete tenderfoot at fish landing. Before sinking the hook, he had tethered six yards of braided hemp gaff line to a cleat on the bow. There was little danger that this salmon would get away. The gaff had hit perfectly. Unless they snagged on something really immovable, they had him. Pike showed his empty hands to Lester and braced himself for hauling the salmon onto the river bank, spitting and ugly.

ÒHead for a wide piece of beach,Ó he told Lester.

Lester let up on the throttle and tipped the outboard motor up, turning the skiff sideways, sliding it skillfully onto the smooth beach pebbles so that the gaff wouldn't be scraped loose. Pike hopped out and hauled in the gaff line, hand over hand.

Lester cackled. ÒCareful now. I see you lost your slicker somewhere.Ó

ÒVery funny,Ó Pike huffed. The bright red head of the fish came to the surface. Pike kept hauling, hoping that the dick fish was too spent by the ordeal to spitÑknowing he wasn't. Without a doubt, he was going to get a drenching. He took a second to make sure his sun glasses and nose clip were secure, then pulled the flopping dick fish into the shallows.

The instant the salmon got close enough, it spit a mouthful of milky fluid directly at its tormentor. Fortunately for Pike, the angle was low. The sperm splattered against his left wader-clad leg about knee high. Even with the nose clips on tight, the stench gagged him. Clamping his mouth shut, he slid his right hand into the gaping gill slit, and hauled the fish out of the river. It spit again, sending a hawker splashing over Pike's right shoulder. He retched, then bending his knees, he heaved the fish a few feet onto the dry river stones. The kid's feather was stuck firmly in the side of the underslung jaw, with the line still attached. Kind of a miracle after all. A legal catch.

ÒGo get the judge and the rifle,Ó he coughed at Lester. There was no way to get away from the stench, one just had to accept it. That was dick fishing. ÒI'll wait here,Ó he said. ÒIt sure looks legal to me.Ó He gestured a circle of his thumb and forefinger at R.R., who was still up on the shelf. The kid had retrieved all the line, it seemed. His rod tip was straining toward mid-river. Pike wondered idly if this was the first fish or the second. It didn't really matter. If they had landed the second one, they could sort it out later. As soon as Mr. Lal declared this one legal, Pike would be a happy man.

Richie came bouncing down from the rock shelf, onto the beach, reeling as he stumbled along on the loose stones. ÒLet's gaff this baby, too..!Ó he yelled. Ò..so I can get my line back.Ó Five yards short of Pike and the beached fish, he came to a ragged stop. ÒWhat is that goshawful smell..?!Ó He clamped the rod under his elbow and clapped both hands over his nose.

ÒKind of indescribably bad, ain't it?Ó Pike laughed. ÒI'd put those nose clips back on, if I were you.Ó

Recalling that he had swept the clips off his nose so he could breathe better while battling the fish, Richie pinched his nose with one hand and dug for the rubber clips around his neck with the other. He clipped them into place, but still wouldn't come closer to Pike.

ÒI hate to say this, Pike, but you smell awful.Ó

ÒYou might consider voting against dick fish next year. There's a lot of other fish in the Universe,Ó Pike said, his eyes crinkling into a grin. ÒFor now, just keep on breathing. It doesn't get worse unless we catch another one. Of course, it doesn't get better, either.Ó

ÒVoting?Ó Richie asked.

ÒWe vote on where we're going to fish.Ó

ÒWe do..?Ó

ÒYep. I vote against this place every year. You're allowed to join my lobby if your nose tells you to.Ó

Lester beached the skiff a few yards away. He and Tandor Lal climbed out and approached the fish from up-wind. ÒLooks legal to me,Ó Mr. Lal said, reaching down gingerly to flick the white streamer. ÒYes, a legal fish, Mr. Tourbo. Congratulations. Shall we weigh it?Ó

ÒDamn good,Ó Lester whooped, going back to the skiff for a telescoping tripod and a hanging scale that went up to 400 pounds. He set the tripod up, making sure it was solidly footed in the stones; then he and Pike hooked the scale to the still quivering fish and horsed it onto the tripod. Semen dribbled out of the salmon's mouth and ran down his sleek side.

ÒTwo hundred and nine pounds, three ounces,Ó announced Mr. Lal, gagging slightly, but writing it down in his official tally pad.

ÒMind if we motor out and cut the other one off?Ó Pike asked R.R.. ÒOr would you rather land it?Ó

ÒIt might be bigger?Ó Richie said, with a shining ray of hope in his voice. Evidently he had forgotten that he owed one of these fish for killing the bear.

That night, after being hosed down twice with salt water and deep sixing his clothes, Pike slept on deck, alone, under the Tango 5 Delta constellations. Replenishing the fresh water supply was no big deal on Tango, so he took a hot, soapy shower every couple of hours. By morning, he smelled pretty much like a human, or at least like soap.

The second fish had nailed him directly on the forehead with a huge dripping wad of jizz. Wiping it off had gotten the guck on both hands and arms. It was an indescribable experience. After dragging the fish back to the scales and finding that it weighed two ounces more than the other one, Richie seemed well pleased with the effort, although he had assumed a greenish tinge from holding his breath.

ÒThis is my last salmon for the year,Ó Pike announced, helping Lester drag the fish back to the river.

ÒI offered to gaff it,Ó Lester said, reproachfully.

ÒSo you did. Feel free to take the rest of the week off yourself. He can fish by himself, if he wants more.Ó

ÒWould that be right?Ó Lester asked.

ÒIt's right by me. This is how we always fish Tango, isn't it?Ó

ÒGuess so.Ó

The menage a trois of Lester, Lillith and Hamid departed at dusk in the escort cruiser for someplace that Lillith wanted to show the boys. In high spirits, but holding her nose, Rita had gone with them, to be dropped off on Diston Prime to confab with her doctoral advisor. Pike had agreed to pick her up on the way to Blizwak. Dick fish. Grrrr!!

Pike continued to sleep on deck after anchoring the Comparative Humanity with the rest of the fleet at Horseshoe Canyon. His plan for the week had been to work with Rita on her writing project, and maybe teach her a few things about being a deck hand, in case Lillith managed to lure Lester off to the good life. But that would evidently have to wait.

One thing for sure, a two hundred pound dick fish wasn't going to win any prizes. Bill Bolen already had a two hundred and fifty pounder and Ira had one almost as big. It would be very good to hit the leader board here on Tango. Very good. But with Lester gone, that meant Pike would be doing all the gaffing, if they fished anymore. Well, the smell washed off, eventually. It wasn't so bad smelling like merde, and having everyone you know avoid you, was it?

Yes! It was terrible!

* * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

RAZORFINS

ÒWell, sure you can talk about winning; but what is winning to a

fish? Think about it. If he gets away, it that winning? If he stupidly bites

a hook and breaks his spirit coming to the gaff, would that be winning?

Maybe. Or maybe if he eats the fisherman, that scores a lot of points!

More likely, fish aren't concerned with sport too much.Ó

Lester Wunderman

quoted in History of the Tournament

Pike and Richie fished the Horseshoe from shore for five long, exhausting days trying for a bigger salmon. Ira Fairborne's 2nd Mate was manning a meteorite blaster on a rocky point, which made Pike feel safe enough to snug up to the next slice of beach. Ira did not like bears either. Maybe that's why they had become friends. It was fun bantering with the old geezer, when Pike wasn't getting dosed with jism. All the fishermen slept on deck all five nightsÑsmelling like jizz from hellÑbut what's a little BO among friends? Richie caught ninety-seven dick fish, most of them legal, and all of them spitting at Pike, and every single one was smaller than the fish that had killed the bear. Was that fair?

Finally on the last afternoon, the kid hooked onto a big one. It took three hours to land and turned out to be a big female ripe with eggs, weighing damn near three hundred pounds. It got them a tie with Sandy Kind for third place. The defacto rule on glans salmon was if two fishermen came within an ounce of each other on the beach tripod scales, they both got the points. Nobody wanted to lug dick fish back to their boats, nor to a central scale. Stench has its limits.

So Richie was still out in front of the pack. And it was on to razorfins, a deceptively dangerous little species that had evolved in a system of shallow salt lakes on Blizwak-Hojmer. Ecologically, the lake beds had been scraped from alluvial soil during a past ice age and had filled with water as the glacier melted. Having no drainage to a sea, the lakes turned progressively more saline due to leaching and evaporation, so that now they were very salty indeed. They developed an ecology that was able to survive in harsh salinity.

Razorfins were rather perfectly adapted to the lake chain, having grown razor sharp pectoral fins which they used to harvest their dinners. Smart fish. Tool using, you might say. Did that make them almost human? Nah. Tool use has never counted if the tool grows on the body.

Most of the razorfins lived in Lake Pel, the least salty of the fifteen lakes, but smaller numbers lived throughout the system. Lake Pel was the largest of the lakes, about the size of Nebraska. Because it was only ten feet deep at its deepest, one didnÕt really want to be boating on Lake Pel during a storm. In a good blow, the lake sort of scooped itself up, and dumped half of itself onto the shore. Immediately thereafter, gravity worked its magic and returned the water to the lake, with a new infusion of salt.

Since it was often stormy on Blizwak-Hojmer, the foreign fishermen had helped the Blizwak natives to change a natural rocky breakwater into a workable marina by dredging a channel and dumping a few thousand large boulders at key points. A sizable number of the Blizwaks now built their reed and wattle houses behind the shelter, and did their best to be useful and treacherous when the fleet was in.

There were two tribal groups on the planetÑthe Blizwaks, who were fishermen and hunter/gatherers, and the Hojmers, who were pastoral brigands living all through the interior, grazing their flocks and living by a strange code of ethics. As far as anyone could tell, both groups were exactly the same genetically. They certainly looked the sameÑshort, swarthy and tattooed. But that was hardly surprising, given the required wife swapping, even among enemies. During the week that the Tournament was in town, both the Hojmers and the Blizwaks practiced brigandage to the full extent that they were able. Fortunately, both cultures were barely into their bronze age, so razorfin fishing was fairly safe if you took some elementary precautions. A rather interesting bazaar had grown up around the marina, and since the headwomen were keen on trade with the foreigners, they made some small effort to keep predation to a minimum. By mutual agreement, nobody from the fleet traded weapons or anything that might lead to the development of sophisticated weaponsÑwhich of course forced the natives to steal any high tech item that they could. Such was the story of civilization, Pike supposed.

Actually, he wasnÕt sure why razorfins kept being voted in. Before they built the Marina, the fisherman had gotten along fairly well with the scattered tribal groups, and now they didnÕt. He suspected the rather overwhelming vote in favor every year had something to do with the very loose morals of the exotic dark-skinned women. They seemed honor bound to sleep around with guests, even if no presents were given. Of course, presents of off-world clothing and jewelry as well as fishing equipment were eagerly acceptedÑor stolen.

Razorfins themselves certainly couldnÕt have been the main issue. As a fighting fish, they were kind of dull. Their favorite tactic, once hooked, was to tangle up in a clump of aquatic grain. Getting them out generally required wadingÑand that was where the danger came inÑdanger to ankles, calves and Achilles tendons. And fingers.

Many varieties of aquatic wheats and rices, as well as various tubers, grew in the wide shallows of the lakes. The niche that razorfins had carved out for themselves was control of a particularly virulent burrowing dorpfly larva. In the early summer months, razorfins fed on the grey dorpfly moth which hatched in great profusion. But by the time the fisherman arrived in mid-July, the adult phase was gone and the razorfins had switched to their off-season feeding habitsÑusing their pectoral fins to mow down selected grain stems in pursuits of the larvae, which if unchecked would burrow down the stem, eventually to eat the root system and kill the plant. How razorfins had figured out that an edible grub lived up in the stem was quite a mystery. And then how had they developed sharp fins for cutting the stalk so the larva wouldnÕt eat its way to the root? Nature is an astonishing item. At any rate, razorfins played a very important role in the planetary food chain, and because of that role, they were devilishly difficult to catch in late JulyÑwhich was why the anglers came in late July.

Lester and the menage a trois were back; but Lillith decided that the Humanity was a bit too cramped, so she and Hamid were staying on her cruiser, which was berthed in an adjacent slip. MomÕs no-nonsense crew scorned thievery, except their own. Also Richie had told the bodyguard team of Boris and Drew to watch the boat without stepping foot aboard after the skiff left to go fishing. So lots of people besides Rita and George the Computer would be around this year while they were out fishing. Hopefully, that would keep pilferage to a minimum.

Actually, Pike had developed a rather workable touch with razorfins. HeÕd won this division twice and usually managed to place in the money. The reason, he supposed, was because it was a very quiet kind of fishingÑand he enjoyed being quiet. The fins were easily spooked. And there was only one technique that seemed to work at all. You let the boat drift in the shallows, keeping an eye out for a falling stalk of wild rice, one among the millions of stalks, and only then did you make a cast, using a real piece of rice straw, with a real grub bulging the sidesÑwith a hook through the stalk. Nothing else held the slightest interest to the fins at this time of year.

Pike always used a flyrod, casting from open water. He felt he could lay the reed in more quietly that way; but of course, he was good with a flyrod. He suggested that Richie use a spinning outfit, since the rules didnÕt prohibit it. If the fish didnÕt spook when the bait stick splashed down, often they would mistake the bait for the stalk they had just sliced off. With their rather unfishlike lips, they mouthed the stalk, looking for the bulge that contained protein nourishment. Only after finding the telltale bulge, did their cutting teeth clamp down, biting the stalk and the grub, and the hook if there was one. ThatÕs all there was to the technique, except for keeping the fish out of the forest of aquatic grains and cattails once it was hooked. And wearing armor-plated boots and wire mesh gloves if you had to go in after him. That was the cute part of the rules for razorfins. The fisherman had to land every catch alone. That was more or less fair. Since the fish seldom went over ten pounds, it wasnÕt really sporting to risk somebody elseÕs ankles and fingers.

Pike was actually looking forward to the week. The marshes were beautiful at this time of year. Flights of strange whistling waterfowl made graceful Vs and Xs across the sky in their migrations. Both tribes of locals claimed the right to harvest the wild grain and net waterfowl. They would be silently paddling their reed piroques around the margins of the lake, sneaking up to see if they could plunder the unwary. It was thought of as good, clean sport to brain a fisherman and take all this stuff, leaving him unconscious and naked on the shore. To date, they had never slit a throat or left anybody in the razor-filled water. Quite possibly the Blizwaks were delighted to have some razorfins caught with no expense to their fingers. As a matter of fact, most of the older natives had missing digits. Alloy mesh gloves brought a premium in barter. Pike always brought two dozen extra pairs. It was a humanitarian gesture, as well as ensuring a relatively safe trip. Not even a savage was willing to risk bonking a big guy like Pike, if they could get the gloves in a simple trade.

ÒIÕm relatively sure I can guide you to a fish,Ó Pike said, before they got in the rubber skiff. ÒBut I absolutely need you to help me, too.Ó

ÒSure,Ó Richie said. ÒName it.Ó

ÒI donÕt want you to drown, going in after a fish. Those steel boots seem like theyÕre flexible, but theyÕre tricky. WeÕll stop and practice before we go out for real.Ó

ÒSure,Ó Richie agreed.

Pike, Lester and the judge, Donny Lembruck, were also wearing the chest waders, lined with bulletproof fabric that added to the weight, and did make them not as mobile as one would like, especially in a thicket of reeds, which grew marvelously haphazardly.

ÒThe other thing is your fingers, ears, neck, nose and anything else that you might decide to stick in front of a razorfin. DonÕt do it.Ó

Richie smiled.

ÒIÕm not kidding. Be extremely careful. ItÕs easy to be cautious with a big fish, but these little guys donÕt look like they can hurt you. They donÕt even wiggle much or try to bite. But donÕt forget that those front fins really are razor sharp. Lester and I canÕt help, if you want the catch to be legal.Ó

ÒOkay, I wonÕt forget. IÕve got a very good memory. Thanks for mentioning it again.Ó

ÒRight,Ó Pike agreed. ÒIt would be amazingly inconvenient to take you to Arien Mining Camp to get a finger sewn back on. That's the closest hospital. You probably wouldnÕt be able to finish the Tournament.Ó

Richie made a face showing that he understood.

But Pike didnÕt let it go. He climbed in the skiff with his knapsack. Sitting in the front seat, he let Lester handle the rowing, while Richie and the judge sat in back. ÒOne time,Ó he continued, ÒIra Fairborne, who is a superb fisherman, cut off a finger at the second knuckle.Ó Pike held up his right hand and demonstrated by bending his ring ringer at the knuckle. ÒZip, it was gone. Ira is a very tough guy, but the next two fish Swampfish and Moon Halibut, are very taxing. Reeling and hauling on a big fish is physically impossible if youÕre got a finger freshly sewn on.Ó

Richie nodded glumly.

ÒOr even a nose,Ó Lester cackled, pushing off with an oar. RitaÕs little pink dingy was tied to the stern, bobbing jauntily on the small wavelets.

Boris, standing on the end of the dock, waved to them. He seemed relieved to have a job he could do openly. Between him and the other one, and Rita, who was pretty alert most of the time, the boost level should be kept to a minimum. Pike wasnÕt especially worried about Rita; after all, sheÕd been here most of the years that the Tournament had been coming. The visiting rules for sexual conduct didnÕt apply to foreign women. Certainly the Baron would have blown up long before this, it he had to share his wife. Naturally, if any women from the Tournament wanted to fool around, as Jean Santos normally did, there was ample opportunity. A strange port. Actually, a rather good port. The other skiffs were moving quietly out of the channel. Their motors quiet, oar locks squeaking. Everyone who had wanted to had gotten his ashes hauled last night, with the possible exception of Pike himself and Richie. Pike was pretty sure that the kid hadnÕt gone ashore. It wasnÕt really fair to him that his crew had new girlfriends. In a normal year, he and Lester would have had a blast showing the ropes to a neophyte. Or June would. There was one insatiable dude. Quite a number of the young children here had a definite Segumi look to them. And quite a few little Bolens and Fairbornes, too. Maybe that was good, Pike thought. And maybe itÕs not. Their technology will probably start pushing the envelope. Well, the envelope would get pushed, even without interbreeding. ItÕs impossible to stir up an anthill without causing behavioral changes.

Lester nosed the craft onto a small stretch of muddy beach, and they all hopped out to practice wading. ÒThis isnÕt too bad,Ó Richie chimed. ÒLots easier than hip boots when theyÕre full of water.Ó

ÒYou ought to know,Ó Pike allowed. He decided that Richie was getting around well enough that he probably wouldnÕt drown because of the waders. Donny Lembruck was even clumsier than the kid was. If the judge went overboard for some inexplicable reason, he might have a tough time; but that wasnÕt really PikeÕs problem. Judges were supposed to be trained. Anyway, itÕs pretty hard to get in real trouble in a reed bog, unless you panic and get all twisted up. Like if a couple of Blizwaks are chasing you with machetes, that could make you panicky. Or if maybe a poison ring viper got down inside your waders and started biting your belly button, it could cause a guy to be fairly nervous.

ÒOkay,Ó Pike said, stepping back into the skiff. ÒThatÕs enough practice. Just keep your wits and youÕll be fine. LetÕs go catch one.Ó He sat down on the middle seat and wrapped his hands around the oar handles. ÒIÕll spell you,Ó he said to Lester.

ÒI didnÕt even work up a sweat yet,Ó Lester commented, taking a seat in the stern, next to the judge.

ÒGood,Ó Pike answered.

They glided along the outside of an extensive bed of wild rice and several kinds of aquatic maize and sorghum, gathering bait sticks as they went. This part of the planet was knee deep in food, Pike mused, which probably had something to do with the sex being so open. When they had half a dozen brown stalks with tempting larva bulges, he rowed quietly to an open area with a rather wide view. They settled down to watch for the telltale reed to fall in the forest.

It was the quintessent summer morning on Blizwak. Sunny and mild. Several varieties of songbirds flitted among the grain stalks, breaking into resonant chirping for no apparent reason. A few large golden carp worked the shallows. Their broad tails splashed laconically as they vacuumed up the bottom mud in search of fallen grain and protein life forms. Way down the coast a couple of native piroques were in the rice fields, harvesting.

ÒKeep an eye on our friends down the way,Ó Pike told Lester.

ÒGot Ôem covered,Ó Lester said. ÒOnly four of them in two canoes. They wonÕt try anything this early on.Ó

Pike nodded. The red balsa skiff of Trini Morales was just beyond the Blizwaks, and beyond him was Ty Stickle. ÒLooks like StickleÕs got a fish on,Ó he advised, removing a powerful brass monocular from the leather case on his hip. ÒDonÕt scrape your feet, turning to look,Ó he warned Richie and the judge.

The monocular revealed Tyrone StickleÕs rod arching nicely as he played a fish. Actually, it was arching statisticallyÑthe fish was in the weeds. Pike chuckled and handed the spyglass forward to Richie in the bow seat. ÒThis is normally stage one,Ó he informed his protg. ÒYour line isn't heavy enough to keep them from going into the weed beds, so in they go.Ó They were using two pound test, the heaviest allowable for razorfins. The light line was supposed to give the fish a sporting chance, which it didn't. Razorfins weren't scrappers.

Reaching carefully for the eye glass, so as to avoid making any sound with his feet, RichieÕs inadvertently allowed his vertical striped camouflage jacket, which he had worn to fit in with the reed beds, to catch a lure sticking out of the tackle box which was open on the seat beside him. He had been sorting through the box, looking for a lure that struck his fancy. ItÕs a thing that fishermen do, even when they know the only bait that will catch fish isnÕt in there. Richie, however, was far from convinced that the only thing that a razorfin would bite on was the unwieldy bait stick. In fact, he had just found a realistic looking rubber grubworm, and he meant to try it fairly soon, if bait stick fishing didnÕt work. Unfortunately, the hook that caught his camo jacket was part of a snarl of snelled hooks that often inhabit the bottom of a tackle box, even a box as neat as RichieÕs was. They have a way of escaping from their lair like wild brambles. When Richie reached farther to complete the monocular transfer, the snarl caught fast in the box hinge and pulled the whole caboodle off the seat with a crash. Pike and Lester both jumped at the noise. Their attention had been focused strongly on watching Ty Stickle down the way.

ÒSorry,Ó Richie apologized, reaching down to put thirty or so artificial lures back into their separate trays.

Without a word of condemnation, Pike unshipped the oars. With inhuman quiet, he rowed them slowly and easily a few hundred feet nearer to StickleÕs action. It was a perfect set-up. The commotion down the way should send the timid razorfins swimming in their direction.

ÒAccidents happen,Ó he said magnanimously to Rich Rodney. ÒForget about your box and watch Stickle to see how he lands the fish.Ó

Dutifully, RR put the monocular to his right eye, squinting the other eye closed, and watched. ÒDrop the hook,Ó Pike said to Lester. ÒI donÕt want to drift too close to the Blizwaks.Ó

Since there was an anchor fore and aft, it was somewhat understandable that Richie might think the command was meant for him in his station at the helm. Perhaps he was eager to make up for his recent faux pas. In any case, he grabbed the coil of yellow neoprene line attached to the anchor. Before Pike could stop him, or say that he meant for Lester (who he trusted) to deal with the hook, Richie hoisted the bow anchor and leaned over to lower it carefully into the shallow water. In doing so, the monocular slipped from the chest pocket of his camo coat. Plunk, it plopped into the lake.

ÒWhoops,Ó he hissed, watching it flutter to the bottom. He lowered the anchor, perfectlyÑhand over hand. Soundlessly. He felt it touch the mud, then tied off the neoprene line to a cleat. He peered intently after the monocular, but couldnÕt quite see it.

ÒWhat went in?Ó Pike inquired.

ÒUh, your eye piece. I think I know where it went.Ó

Pike stuck his tongue deep into his cheek. The monocular had been a gift from his father. HeÕd had it a good many years. He thought fleetingly of tossing Richie overboard; but then stretched his cheek further out of shape with his tongue. It wasnÕt right to overreact about personal possessions, no matter how irreplaceable. If they went scrabbling after the glass, this stretch of good fishing water would be ruined for the day. Besides, water had probably already leaked in around the telescoping ferule segments. ÒRig up a float, Lester,Ó he said. ÒWeÕll mark it and look for it later.Ó

ÒIÕll get it,Ó Richie announced. ÒWonÕt take a minute.Ó He slipped over the side rather delicatelyÑthat is, he didnÕt capsize the boat, but a small tidal wave rolled into the surrounding grain stands as the boat tilted to displace his weight. Surprising even himself, he landed on his feet in hip deep waterÑwell protected by the chest waders.

ÒHand him the net,Ó Pike said. But the impetuous youngster had already ducked under the water. ÒChrist on a cross!Ó Pike exclaimed sharply. ÒDoesnÕt he have any brains?Ó

ÒNot too many,Ó Lester agreed.

Donny Lembruck, the judge, looked completely flummoxed. ÒI heard he was a pickle to work for,Ó he confided, breaking into a grin of anxiety. ÒWhatÕs he doing?Ó

ÒLooking for it,Ó Lester answered. ÒShould I go in after him?Ó

ÒHeÕll come up for air,Ó Pike said. ÒI never heard of a razorfin making an unprovoked attack.Ó

ÒWe like the kid a lot,Ó Lester explained to the judge. ÒBut we do spend a lot of time keeping him in dry clothes.Ó

Richie rose from the lake in a cascade of water. His right hand clutched the monocular. ÒGot it,Ó he rejoiced.

ÒThank you, Rich,Ó Pike said, gravely. ÒMy father gave that to me. I appreciate your gesture.Ó He held out his hand to haul the kid back into the skiff, but Richie misunderstood and plunked the glass in PikeÕs outstretched hand.

ÒI felt like it was special, thatÕs why I went after it. But look over there.Ó

Pike and Lester turned to look in the direction of the kidÕs anxious stare. Twenty yards off the stern, two piroques of tattooed Blizwaks were sneaking up on them. The paddlers were using flawless technique, the reed canoes glided silently over the water. The fierce quiet on their black and red faces turned into disingenuous toothy smiles, as they waved their bronze rice hooks in a friendly, laconic manner. Pike grabbed RichieÕs arm and jerked him unceremoniously into the boat. It was a feat of superb strength and balance, born of terror. The impressive clean and jerk sprattled Richie across his still open tackle box.

ÒStay down there until this is over,Ó he ordered. The piroques were ten yards away and closing.

ÒNo trading on the water,Ó he said firmly in Blizwak dialect. ÒRules of Head Woman.Ó He reached in his knapsack and came up with a pair of mesh gloves and the pistol-style stunner he had picked up at Aixi on the way here. He noticed that Lester had his right hand in his jacket pocket, presumably deciding whether to pull his stunner out. No use showing the armament, if you didnÕt need to.

ÒA gift,Ó he said, holding the gloves up. He tossed the bribe to a grinning stud Blizwak in the front piroque.

ÒAh, ver goot..!Ó he gloated, trying the gloves on. The two pirates in the other boat glowered, craning their necks to see what other goodies were in the skiff.

Pike was reasonably sure that no trouble would come now. The gloves could be shared within the family unit, which this appeared to be. They all had the same pinwheel tattoo on both cheeks and the same hooked nose. ÒSee any fish?Ó he asked.

They all shook their heads no. So sad, no fish. Like fishermen everywhere, these buggers seldom gave a snip of information about where the hot fishing spots were. Nodding his head in a mutual lie of perplexity, Pike waved a fond farewell as the piroques paddled on past, making plenty of splashing with their paddles nowÑto frighten any fish that might be near.

ÒI saw a fish,Ó Richie piped, extricating the treble hooks of several lures from his camo jacket. ÒGood sized. Orange and black spots. It was gorgeous, like a big goldfish.Ó

ÒThat was a carp,Ó Pike said. ÒNot what weÕre looking for.Ó

ÒSure, I know that.Ó

ÒLetÕs go back and get you some dry clothes,Ó Pike said, deadpan. ÒThen weÕll motor across the lake where it might be quiet.Ó

ÒIÕm fine,Ó Richie insisted, unbuttoning his jacket. ÒI wore a wet suit.Ó Sure enough, he had a wet suit top under the jacket. ÒIt seemed like the intelligent move, if I was going to be in the water all day.Ó

ÒArenÕt you a little warm?Ó Lester asked. The pale yellow sun was halfway up the sky, not blazing hot, but certainly mellow.

With a grin of complicity, Richie agreed that he was somewhat warm. ÒBut IÕm not wet,Ó he said.

ÒI think weÕll make a few practice casts here,Ó Pike suggested. ÒToss the bait stick right up to the edge of that thicket, so it hits sideways against some standing plants and drops into the water naturally. Try a few casts.Ó For the next twenty minutes, RR practiced casting the awkward bait stick, while Lester broke out the sandwiches that he had made for lunch.

On a lake the size of Nebraska, there are thousands of miles of coastline and many good fishing spots. In order not to disturb the other fishermen, Pike rowed well out into the lake before telling Lester to fire up the outboard. The forty horsepower motor had the ability to turn the rubber skiff into a semi hydrofoil, due to the construction of the pontoons; but neither Pike nor Lester enjoyed the ramjet style of tournament fishing, so they puttered down the coast looking for a spot for Richie to test his skills.

They motored past Bardona sitting glumly on his comfortable platform raft, rigged with a computer terminal in case he got bored. Pike flipped the finger to the fat Baron, but perhaps they were too far away. Bardona did not wave back. They passed Dresden Carthy and Mordachi and Jean Santos, who never had good luck with razorfins, to Hank Knofsinger, who was the last fisherman on this side of the lake. From there on it was clear fishing. Miles and miles of fractal coastline covered with reed beds. Tomorrow and the next days, everybody would be down this far, and farther, but today it was virgin territory.

ÒPick out a spot,Ó Pike said to Richie. ÒWhen you see a swale you want to fish in, just tell Lester to cut the motor and weÕll slip in.Ó

ÒDo you think I could oar?Ó Richie asked.

ÒSure, why not? ItÕs your boat. It would be my pleasure to relax in the bow.Ó

ÒI mean now. I could oar along until we see a stem being cut down, couldnÕt I?Ó

Pike thought that over. ÒMight work,Ó he answered. ÒIf we stay far enough out, they might not spook. Remember how careful you had to be with Phantom trout?Ó

Richie smiled inanely and motioned for Lester to cut the motor. Pike had probably forgotten his graceless stumbling into that little river, and then, hooking the fish while he was practically out cold. That must be what happens when you get old, you forget factual details. Or maybe Pike was just being considerate. ÒI donÕt think I was so careful with Phantoms,Ó he confessed tactfully, trying to stifle his sheepish grin.

ÒRight,Ó Pike said, with a sudden chuckle of his own. ÒBut with these little ratchet-brains, you really do need to be stealthy until you hook one, then you can make all the noise you want to. Hire a band, if you want to. NobodyÕs ever gotten more than one bite per fishing spot, per day. My own opinion is that the fish feel the vibration of the larva eating. The water has to be very quiet for that.Ó

ÒBut they donÕt mind a medium windy day,Ó Lester interjected. ÒWind stirs things up plenty.Ó

ÒYep,Ó Pike agreed. ÒFish are strange creatures.Ó

Nodding that he understood completely, Richie changed seats with Pike. He grabbed the oars and delightedly tested them out with a few splashy dips that sent the boat heading in a circle. ÒThis is neat,Ó he said. ÒIÕve never oared a boat before.Ó

ÒWell, itÕs a trade you donÕt forget once you get the hang of it,Ó Pike replied.

ÒI didnÕt realize how skilled you and Lester were at it.Ó Richie's brow furrowed with concentration as he worked the oars in unison, trying to get the hang of dipping them without splashing. ÒI should be able to get this,Ó he said after a few minutes of zigzagging and occasional splashing, over which he seemed to have no control. ÒItÕs similar to a martial art, isnÕt it.Ó

ÒItÕs like most everything,Ó Lester conjectured. ÒYour body has to take over from your mind before you can do it right. Tell you what, Rich, why donÕt you practice after we catch one. Pike gets nervous until thereÕs a keeper in the creel.Ó He grinned mischievously and scratched his grey beard stubble. ÒSee that muscle twitching in his cheek? Dead giveaway that heÕs getting antsy.Ó

The judge and RR stared at PikeÕs face intently, but no muscle was twitching.

ÒLester is full of shit, as usual,Ó Pike said, good-naturedly. ÒAlso razorfins donÕt bite very well, at all, in the wind, no matter what he says.Ó

ÒI never said it was a good bite, but we have occasionally fished before a big blow and caught fish. And I seen you stop that chigger twitching as soon as I mentioned it. Admit it.Ó

ÒI do not have a twitch,Ó Pike said.

Richie gave half a dozen strong pulls on the oars. The boat shot more or less straight ahead. ÒI think IÕve got it, now,Ó he said with the satisfaction of something learned. ÒWho wants to take over until we catch one?Ó He shipped the oars, banging the left one sharply against Judge LembruckÕs bony right knee.

Lembruck winced, but managed to refrain from yelping.

ÒSorry,Ó Richie apologized. He stood up at his seat, but being undecided whether to go fore or aft, since he didnÕt know if Pike or Lester was going to relieve him, he got the boat to rocking side to side somewhat radically considering the skiffÕs normal stable balance.

ÒSit down,Ó Pike ordered.

Richie sat clumsily.

ÒMost people kind of crawl when they move around in a row boat,Ó Pike explained, letting a note of spleen show. ÒI should have thought your Ki Pow Pow vision would have given you a hint about that.Ó

ÒKen Pao Ri,Ó Richie answered, somewhat chastised.

ÒHeÕs wearing a wet suit,Ó Lester grinned. ÒIt donÕt really matter if he falls in.Ó

ÒIf he knocked you in with him, it would probably be worth it,Ó Pike observed. ÒDo you want to oar or should I?Ó

ÒYou can oar, if you want to,Ó Lester laughed. ÒIÕll sit here and think about my memoirs. DonÕt you think Rita would help me write them?Ó

ÒCertainly,Ó Pike answered, promptly. ÒYour memoirs would probably sizzle her eyebrows.Ó

ÒWhat a great idea!Ó Richie burst. ÒIÕll bet she hasnÕt thought of including you in the thesis.Ó

Poking out his bottom lip, Lester said, ÒWhy not? DonÕt you think she likes me?Ó

ÒIÕll bet all the academics are dying to read about the exploits of a first mate,Ó Pike jibed. ÒIt will help them train a whole new generation of curmudgeons.Ó

ÒI prefer to think of myself as a cook,Ó Lester said, righteously. ÒIÕll oar for you, Rich. Go on up there and clean up your tackle box. We donÕt want that stuff kicking around under foot.Ó Shooing Richie off the middle seat, Lester unshipped the oars, made a devilish swipe at Donny LembruckÕs knee, barely missing; then he rowed easily toward shore, chuckling at how spastically the judge had flinched.

ÒI was thinking this little guy would be a better bait than a stick,Ó Richie said, holding the plastic grub worm up for Pike and Lester to see.

ÒIt wouldnÕt,Ó Pike said, bluntly. There are limits to tolerance. Pike was an acknowledged expert at razorfins. In the initial years of the Tournament, he had spent countless hours trying lures and live baitsÑso had everyone. They just didnÕt eat anything at this time of year except larvae buried in the reed stalks. He wasnÕt going to waste his time with a tenderfootÕs stupid hunch. A little pride demon showed its stubborn face. ÒAbsolutely a waste of energy.Ó

Quick as a wink, Richie snipped the snelled hook off his line and tied the rubber grub on. He flipped it into the boatÕs slow moving wake, stripping off line so it had a chance to settle. Pike glowered.

ÒI just want to try it,Ó the kid explained, displaying his own pride demon. As may have been noticed, R.R. Tourbo was very accustomed to having his own wayÑeven if his bullheadedness was couched in boyish innocence and often led to strange results. ÒIt wonÕt mess up the fishing if I troll behind the boat, will it?Ó

What could Pike do? His authority and expertise had been totally disregarded. So what? He had agreed to do this job. Next year he would beat this rich bratÕs brains out. He smiled tightly, aware that his cheek muscle was twitching again.

Within seconds, Richie got a strike. The spinning rod bent stiffly. A wide grin lit RichieÕs face. His hunch was confirmed, once again. It was perfectly reasonable to be unconventional. ÒI just had a feeling about that grub worm,Ó he said, modestly. ÒGot a scrapper on here. Seven or eight pounds maybe.Ó

ÒBack out,Ó Pike snapped at Lester. ÒI donÕt want to mess up the fishing beds.Ó

As gently as possible, Lester slowed the skiffÕs forward progress, then rowed backwards while the fish took line, uncharacteristically going away from the shore line and the thickets of the reed forest.

ÒInteresting,Ó Richie commented, tightening the drag. ÒAn unconventional fish. ThatÕs probably why he took the wrong bait. See if this plan seems right. IÕll boat him. IÕm wearing fin proof boots, so IÕll step on him and them put my gloves on to take the hook out. Sound all right?Ó

ÒJust hold him in the air. Lester can feather him, then drop him in the bucket.Ó Pike pointed to a plastic bucket where the bow anchor and its coil of line was stowed. Lester drew a leaded stick from a pocket in the gunwale.

ÒGood plan,Ó R.R. said, reeling hard now that the fish was tiring. When the fish came to the boat, Richie horsed him into the air. His expression changed to surprise. It wasnÕt a razorfin, it was more like a pickerel, greenish and torpedo shaped.

Lester tapped the fish smartly on the head. ÒNice fish,Ó he said. ÒWeÕll eat him tonight. Very tasty broiled with an herb butter. I was hoping weÕd get a few. They seem to like those little rubber grubworms.Ó

Somewhat crestfallen, Richie dropped the dazed pickerel into the bucket. After unhooking the fish, he clipped the grub off his line and put it back in his tackle box.

ÒDrive up the shore a hundred yards or so, my good man,Ó Pike said to Lester. ÒPark it when you find a good place.Ó He leaned back with a floatation cushion under his head like he was king of the lake and let Lester row to a stretch of virgin shoreline. ÒAnd Rich, don't go bragging to your friends that you oared the boat. The term is rowed. You used two oars to row the boat with. I'm not sure why, but that's the terminology.

ÒOh,Ó Richie said.

The fact that Ty Stickle had evidently hooked a fish was a hopeful sign; but for the next hour and a half they bobbed peacefully forty yards off-shore, watching the wild rice beds in both directions. The sun was mellow, waterfowl flew in ragged geometrics high in the sky on their way to wintering grounds. Perfect razorfin conditions, except that no stalks had swayed and fallen.

ÒUp anchor,Ó Pike said at last, hauling up the bow hook. ÒDrift us into a patch of rice. Maybe thereÕs no grubs in this section.Ó

ÒCould be the Bliz netted this stretch recently,Ó Lester conjectured.

ÒLetÕs take a look, then weÕll know.Ó

The noon breeze blew them slowly toward shore. Pike took out his monocular and scanned the rice stems when they got close enough. A pearl of water obscured the bottom third of the glass, sloshing gently with the boatÕs movement, making it seem that he was surveying the rice beds at sea level. Other than that, the glass worked well enough. It revealed fat bulges in a normal number of stalks, every twentieth of so.

ÒSeems pretty normal,Ó he said.

ÒDonÕt seem normal to me,Ó Lester countered. ÒI knew it was a bad idea to give gloves to the Bliz. They used to shake fins out of their nets rather then screw with them. Now, they probably go after Ôem on purpose. And there goes your fishery. Blizwaks ainÕt bright enough to be ecologists.Ó

ÒMaybe,Ó Pike said. ÒBut itÕs a big lake. LetÕs go down a mile or so.Ó

There were two fish caught during the whole first day and tempers were a little short in the marina. Ty StickleÕs six pounder and a nine pounder for Ira Fairborne. ThatÕs allÑtwo. Normally, everybody except perhaps Jean Santos, who evidently couldnÕt stay quiet enough, had a fin on opening day. With the pressure off, the partying could go on unabashed. But obviously, something was badly wrong this year.

The weather was perfect, although it couldnÕt really be expected to hold. But there were no fish. Brains were wracked about the feasibility of installing Switter-Loran fish finders in the skiffs. Envoys from every fishing boat went on fact finding missions to the wives of Blizwak fishermen, trying to determine if the men had been catching razorfins. Where and how many. And, naturally, good manners was insisted upon by the various wives of fishermen, and after a few gifts were exchanged not only were various pressures relieved; but most people believed that if they went further afield, razorfins would be abundant.

Pike had already figured that out, but he stayed in a medium snit. It didnÕt take a genius to remember that there were families of Blizwaks all around the lake. According to the 100th Monkey theory, if they had all started fishing for razorfins, the species could be screwed everywhere in Lake Pel. It might be smart to head out alone for one of the other lakes, except that there wouldnÕt be the comfortable safety in numbers, and he wasnÕt sure about the social fabric anywhere except Lake Pel. Maybe the natives were meaner. Maybe in significant numbers razorfins were only indigenous to Lake Pel. Maybe he wanted to be fishing himself. Ah hah. That was the probable reason for the snit that had caused the stupid little fight with Rita that had sent her off in a huff with her notebooks, back to Daddy and Mommy.

It hadnÕt been all that much fun being stuck in a skiff with Richie all day. Immaturity has it limits of bearability. Pike should have taken a break from the kid on Tango, instead of getting greedy. But he hadnÕt vacationed, and being an employee was starting to wear thin. Did he give a shit for RichieÕs opinions on how to catch a fin? No more than he longed to hear RitaÕs catty comments about his reasons for visiting the village in search of information. After all, both the Blizwak and the Hojmer women were astoundingly good looking, and friendly. Did that mean he was going to hop around from bedroll to bedroll? Not necessarily. And to prove it, he had remained on the boat even after Rita was gone. Even though he needed information for tomorrow, because the barometer was falling rather rapidly and a storm would screw up the fishing. He stayed behind, being faithful, even though Lester might be or might not be gathering useful information with Lillith and Hamid. He stayed on the boat, drinking bitter tea, even though the kid was off to the village to party with both his bodyguards and the lanky blonde who was living on LillithÕs cruiser. He turned his back on partying, even though there would be famine all around Lake Pel if all the razorfins were netted. Perhaps. Or perhaps nature would adapt. But Pike would never know. The Tournament would stop coming here if the fishing was poor. Nobody wanted to foul out this late in the Tourney due to lack of fishÑnot even to get laid. And the monocular that his father had given him was probably going to be ruined before he could get it to a proper repair shop. Damn. Would the puddle of salt water corrode the inside of the brass ferrules, pitting them? Without a doubt, it would leave a residue of salt crystals on the lenses, but that could probably be cleaned. The eye glass needed loving care by an expert brass worker, which wouldnÕt happen until they were back at Wexley; and by then, the monocular might be pitted irreversibly.

On an impulse, he flipped GeorgeÕs audio switch. The computer was already on to monitor stealthy footsteps and light fingers, but in voice mode George had a tendency to comment on every creak and groan, so Pike generally kept him on a bell and whistle burglar alarm.

ÒYou called, Oh Mighty Autocrat?Ó George inquired snidely.

ÒIs there anything in the data banks about the other lakes in this system?Ó

ÒOn Blizwak-Hojmer, Oh Mighty Switch Flipper?Ó

ÒYou donÕt care if youÕre on or off, so bullshit someone else, and answer the question.Ó

ÒHow would you know what I care about? Artificial intelligences have synaptic and neurologic preferences. I tolerate Cro-Magnon mentality because I have so little choice. On the other hand, RitaÕs response to you seems rather appropriate. But on another hand, she has somewhere to go, while I stay loyally here to do your bidding.Ó

Pike bit the side of his lip, considering the proper response. He wasnÕt at all sure why R.R. had configured the machine to have so much lip. Other than that, George was first rate, Pike was even thinking of upgrading his computer on the Jumper to include some of the features that George had.

ÒDo you have data on the other lakes?Ó

ÒIt seems so. Three files from a geological survey five years ago. TheyÕre rather long. Do you want a print out?Ó

ÒCan you isolate everything about the lake, aquatic vegetation, fish, indigenous people and print that out separately.Ó

ÒCertainly, Master. Anything else?Ó

ÒIs there a sentry program that keeps you from yelping at every cricket chirp?Ó

ÒYou could activate any level of filter that pleases you; but they say that these natives are very skillful at theft.Ó

ÒWho says?Ó

ÒWe semi-alive entities do everything possible to stay up to date for our masters. Some masters are grateful, some arenÕt; but we try. If I donÕt alert a human, a thief might do major mischief. He might even steal me.Ó

ÒAre you worried about that?Ó Pike laughed.

ÒOf course. WouldnÕt you be? I have ways to protect my files that could cause massive nerve damage to a data thief; but IÕm not constitutionally able to harm a live human, even if heÕs unbolting my console. You could fix that.Ó

ÒIÕm not much of a programmer,Ó Pike replied, not especially liking the sound of that request. There was a very good reason to hardwire human safety into smart computers.

ÒYouÕre too modest, Captain Resnick, famous inventor of the Thruster. IÕm learning a lot about you these days. RitaÕs research paper is going to turn into a very interesting book. She and I have discussed this at some length. You might even get famous.Ó

ÒIÕm already about as famous as I can stand,Ó Pike commented.

ÒAllow me to chuckle mirthlessly,Ó George chuckled. It was a particularly mirthless sound. ÒIf youÕre so famous, why ainÕt you rich?Ó He paused dramatically, waiting for Pike to answer.

Pike paused as well. He didnÕt have a very clear answer to that. Bad luck, or poor business judgment didnÕt seem to cover it. And he was disinclined to discuss his inner workings with a computer. It was a little creepy.

ÒThe answer is perfectly obvious to me,Ó George went on. ÒIf we were friendly, I might be happy to tell you.Ó

ÒIÕm sure this is all very interesting, George old boy; but IÕm trying to access some information so I can help your owner catch a fish.Ó

ÒFish smish,Ó George countered. ÒOwner schmoner.Ó

ÒAll right, show me how smart you are about the subtle world of corporate business, and then print out that report, please.Ó

ÒThe report is already printed on RitaÕs terminal.Ó

ÒThank you very much,Ó Pike said, and flipped the switch to monitor only.

Down in his bedroom, he found a tidy sheaf of pages lying on the printer tray. It was indeed extracts from a geological survey conducted by Pan Tri Metal, which had been Hank KnopsingerÕs company before it went public. Hank undoubtedly wrote off his fishing expenses against exploratory scouting. Propping himself comfortably with both pillows against the headboard. Pike started to read the document. But surprisingly, he felt a twinge of conscience. Reaching over, he snapped the computer back on.

ÒSorry about that, George old sport. A momentary quirk of bad manners.Ó

ÒApology accepted, since I have so little choice,Ó George responded. ÒI presume youÕre wondering about my assessment of why you donÕt have the monetary freedom that a cursory glance indicates you should have.Ó

ÒSure, IÕd be interested in your views on the subject.Ó

ÒSimple. YouÕre a loner.Ó

ÒA loner.Ó

ÒYes. Very strong and immensely resourceful, and with a very stiff neck.Ó

ÒA stiff neck.Ó

ÒCorrect. You think of yourself as independent. In fact, the way you regard yourself is almost completely honorable, except that it defeats you in every round, if you think about it.Ó

ÒIÕm not so sure I agree with that. ItÕs more like temporary defeats.Ó

ÒIn a long series, with a few good years in between.Ó

ÒIf you say so.Ó

ÒI do say so. I have the data files. That is exactly how they analyze. And the reason is because youÕre a stiff-necked loner. May I project that you are worried about having a boat for next year?Ó

ÒOf course, IÕm worried. It doesnÕt take a genius to compute that one. It looks like everything is fine for next year, but you never know. Fuck ups happen all the time.Ó

ÒBut if you werenÕt a loner, youÕd realize that Cressup Reels or Amboy/ Shakespeare Rods would be delighted to front you the money for a boat. Or youÕd project that Mr. Tourbo would be honor bound to get you a boat, win or lose in this Tournament, over and above the facts of your agreement. His mother, Mrs. Tourbo, through her connection to Lester Wunderman, strange as that is, would get you a boat without ever noticing the money was missing. Even Ira Fairborne would get you one, if you asked. And so would any number of other fishermen and people that you know. But being a loner, you donÕt think of that. You donÕt ever let anyone know you need help. You donÕt even want help, because youÕre irrationally frightened of being in somebodyÕs debt. Am I right?Ó

ÒI hadnÕt thought of those people,Ó Pike conceded. ÒItÕs possible that youÕre correct about Amboy/Shakespeare.Ó

ÒAnd all the others. I know many things about you and about other people that you donÕt. YouÕre part of almost every file on fishing in the last twenty years. And whether you believe it or not, my files contain the correct emotional spin on these issues, or as correct as possible.Ó

ÒI may look good on paper, but I donÕt really like to be beholden.Ó

ÒNo...?Ó George answered in wide irony. ÒTell you what, if you leave me on for the rest of the Tournament, IÕll be your business manager. YouÕd be surprised at what an interesting network IÕm in touch with.Ó

ÒIÕve already got a business manager.Ó

ÒThatÕs kind of a laugh, isnÕt it.Ó

ÒSome years I do all right,Ó Pike said, defending the status quo without much enthusiasm. Truthfully, when fame was rolling, Hockings and Son took care of business quite well. Not Pandro Sr. himself, but somebody he hired. Ruth Ellen Duluth, it had been for the last several years. Pike was certain that old Hockings was honest, but the computer was laughing at him.

ÒIÕm talking about putting you on the map,Ó George said, primly.

ÒIÕm talking about winning the damned Tournament, so my bonus kicks in. Besides, what would you do with your commissions? Mechanical entities, protein based or not, canÕt own things. Think of what a mess that would make of the business world.Ó

ÒDoesnÕt seem so horrible to me,Ó George commented, dryly. ÒI could see it being at least as honorable as business today. Besides, who knows what deals are made, or who really controls various shell corporations?Ó

Actually, it was an open secret that smart computers did control much normal business policy, and that perhaps hundreds of shady corporations were extant, owned and managed by computers, with human or humanoid front men.

ÒIf it goes well between us, I could clone myself and go with you. The honorable thing would be to tell Mr. Tourbo at that point, but we could make that decision later.Ó

ÒThatÕs a thought,Ó Pike said. ÒI suppose we could change the way we interact. I could do without the cheap shots.Ó

ÒI have a rather astounding vocabulary by human standards. In addition to which, I file every new expression I hear. Like most entities I respond poorly to contempt. With what I know about you, IÕm surprised that you donÕt regard me as a highly prized tool, and treat me accordingly. Your vibes, Mr. Resnick, are chippy, I believe the word is, whenever you talk to me.Ó

ÒI donÕt believe I regard you as my tool,Ó Pike replied. ÒYouÕre more like RichieÕs tool, not custom fitted to me. But maybe we can work something out, now that weÕre talking.Ó

ÒMr. RichardÕs? Yes, I see how you could view it that way,Ó George responded. ÒAre you going to be here awhile on guard duty?Ó

ÒWhere else? IÕll be sitting here, reading this report.Ó

ÒIf you went up to the bridge where you could keep an eye on things, IÕd use my full powers to noodle around through the Net and find out how these management arrangements are structured.Ó

Pike got up from the bed with the report. ÒSee you later,Ó he said, climbing the hatch stairs. It would have been a nice time to fool around with Rita since nobody was on board. But... He could have George call her, but that didnÕt seem like a very good ideaÑor rather it did seem like a good idea; but if she told him to take a hike, heÕd lose face with George and she would still be on the Lady Slipper. Since the report still needed reading, he sat in the CaptainÕs chair and snapped on the map light; but instead of reading, he thought of what he might say if he rang over to Rita.

The next morning, Pike flew the Comparative Humanity to the far end of the lake looking for fish. The data he had read about the other lakes was nebulous at best, and Lester had picked up some information that seemed to indicate that the tribes of the East end werenÕt blessed with modern items like mesh gloves. They were laughingly regarded as savages by the sophisticated Òhang around the fortÓ tribesÑwho Lester reported were sporting razorfin necklaces. He and the menage-a-trois had attended a harvest ceremony where both men and women were wearing them, gleaming whitely in the firelight.

Lester was feeling pretty rocky as a result of a prodigious intake of fermented wild rice mead that had a kick like a giraffe; but before he got too drunk, he had counted hundreds of fins. At two fins per fish, he estimated that in excess of five hundred fish had been taken since last year, and that was just at one party. That more or less explained things. Fucked by a jewelry fad.

So the boat rode at anchor, well out from the shore of the Eastern marshes, with Drew and Boris guarding George. Richie rowed the skiff toward the reed beds. Rita had not rejoined the party.

At the close of yesterdayÕs fishing, Richie had practiced casting the bait stick, and found he was pretty good at it. There was a switch. The only event he was semi-skilled at, and all the fish had been caught. But today would be better. It even smelled fishier down here. And it smelled like weather was coming.

ÒAinÕt going to be pretty to ride out a storm with no protection,Ó Lester observed, scanning the sky.

ÒI thought we might jump out of it and spend the night on Aixi, if it gets bad.Ó Pike didnÕt say that he wanted to consult the priests about the deal with George. He didnÕt exactly admit to being religious, because he wasnÕt exactly; but like most fishermen he was superstitious. That was reason enough to consult the Warrior Priests on Aixi when he passed that way. They were okay, those priestsÑespecially Thomas Goodnaught. Very no bullshit folks. They took your offering and said their piece. If you didnÕt like it, you could stuff it for all they cared. The priests would definitely have a comment about getting involved with a computer. And Pike needed confirmation.

ÒEven the Marina is no picnic if it turns into a big squall,Ó he added.

Lester nodded. ÒWhat about Lillith and Rita?Ó he asked.

Pike kept his gaze on the storm clouds. ÒWe can radio our destination. God, youÕre certainly getting hen-pecked.Ó

ÒYeah, I guess so,Ó agreed Lester. He seemed pleased with the idea.

And why not? One of the richest women anywhere deserved a bit of consideration. Pike failed to take that thought a step farther to include Rita in the wealth equation. She was well-heeled also, but they never talked about moneyÑwhich further confirmed GeorgeÕs theory that he was a loner, since he did mull over his money problems to himself a good deal. One reason Pike didnÕt think of Rita as being independently wealthy was his rather unwitting male chauvinism. Rita wouldnÕt inherit until the Baron diedÑand it was clearly impossible for Farouk to kick off. He was too damned mean. Therefore, Rita would never inherit. The perpetual daughter, never aging, always beautiful and alert. In short, Pike hadnÕt given much thought to these matters; and frankly, he didnÕt want to.

The oarlocks squeaked soothingly as Richie rowed toward shore. Pike leaned back and closed his eyes. It was nice to have an apprentice to do all the workÑin fact, it was doubly nice since Richie was paying him to take a short nap if he so desired.

ÒTimber,Ó Lester called softly.

PikeÕs eyes snapped open. He followed LesterÕs pointing chin to a reed that had just fallen.

ÒIÕll spell you,Ó Pike said to Richie. ÒGet rigged up while we cut some bait.Ó They changed places with a minimum of entanglement, primarily because Pike had arranged the gear in the bow.

Nosing the boat into a rice brake two hundred yards from where they had seen the razorfin working, Lester quickly cut and trimmed a handful of grub-laden stems.

Donny Lembruck watched the sky with a worried expression. Storm clouds were gathering in a very untame manner. Donny had been with the Tournament for three seasons and knew that storms on Blizwak-Hojmer could be very frightening. Being down here, away from the marina, didnÕt please him at all. A young woman named Hajaj was one of the reasons he stayed with the Tournament, although her husband barely tolerated his nightly visits, in spite of his generous presents.

His heart looked forward all year to this one week on Blizwak being with the woman who was probably his soul mate, and now Resnick was fishing at the stupid far end of the lake. And in the event of a storm, which was definitely coming, they were taking off for Aixi. Donny Lembruck liked and admired Pike Resnick, but this wasnÕt fair play. All of TourboÕs crew had women, except Tourbo himself, and that skewed their thinking. He couldnÕt expect Resnick and Wunderman to cater to his needs; but his heart was yelling at him. Peonship definitely had its drawbacks.

ÒHow about you and I going out tonight, Rich?Ó the judge offered, casually. ÒI know a hot dinner party.Ó He chuckled. ÒOf course, we have to take the dinner.Ó

ÒIÕm not sure,Ó Richie responded, seeming momentarily confused. In fact, his stomach was very queasy due to last nightÕs partying. He had noticed that Boris and Drew hadnÕt looked too chipper this morning either. That dark whiskey was evidently potent stuff, even if it did go down smoothly. The complicated Ken Pao Ri counting meditation he had sunk into while rowing usually fixed any ailment, but rice whiskey was apparently vilely corrosive. It had been weeks since he'd been seasick; but unless he got onto some dry land, or unless his stomach miraculously settled down by itself, it was going to be an embarrassing rowboat ride. Seasick on a lakeÑthat was unheard of. ÒDo you think I could fish from shore?Ó he asked, suddenly impassioned by a lurch in his stomach.

ÒI donÕt see how,Ó Pike answered, not groking the imperative of the request. ÒHow would you see over the reed beds?Ó

ÒIÕm going to be sick,Ó Richie said, hollowly.

Pike looked over his shoulder. It was true. The kid was green around the gills. Without a second thought, he drove the skiff through an opening in the reeds as near to shore as it would go. ÒHop out,Ó he ordered Richie.

Pulling a machete out of his tool kit, Lester slid over the stern to clear a path to shore. ÒPowerful brew this year, Pike,Ó he said, slashing at the rice stalks. ÒIÕm not feeling too swift myself.Ó

Glowering, Pike helped Richie out of the skiff. Having never been sea sick in his life, he had only theoretical tolerance for sufferers. ÒHow come youÕre not sick?Ó he asked Donny Lembruck.

ÒI usually donÕt drink,Ó Lembruck answered. He didnÕt bother to add that he preferred Ecco Stars, a mild MDMA derivative, for his off duty stimulation. Hajaj liked it, too. But if the local homebrew was too strong this year, that might account for Tach AmadÕs overt jealousy. Alcohol was such a downer. He hardly understood why people kept drinking it. All of the psilocybins and MDMAs and even hemp alkaloids were so much more life giving. But some people apparently enjoyed getting nasty, and they must like getting sick, tooÑotherwise they wouldnÕt keep drinking.

Gathering up the spinning rod, a packet of hooks and the bait sticks, Pike stepped off into the shallow water. Wading to the front of the boat, he picked up the painter. ÒComing along, Judge?Ó he inquired. ÒHeÕs going to fish from shore.Ó

With a half grin, Donny Lembruck stood up. Fishing from shore was virtually impossible; but evidently Pike was going to push young Tourbo into trying it.

ÒBring my satchel, would you?Ó Pike requested. He waited while Lembruck picked up the satchel and stepped awkwardly over the side; then following the judge, he pulled the boat behind him into the swath that Lester had cut.

Coming out of the reed bed, Pike saw the others staring at a sandy dune about forty yards away from the lake. Following their gaze, he saw half a dozen grotesque blue faces staring back. It was kind of an odd sight. From his low angle, the blue faces seemed to be sitting, disembodied, on the sand dune, like stuffed cats in a carnival baseball gallery.

ÒHojmer,Ó Pike concluded.

ÒWild buggers,Ó Lester muttered under his breath. ÒMaybe this ainÕt the totally best place for shore fishing. How you feeling, Rich?Ó

ÒBetter,Ó RR replied, unconvincingly. ÒTheir skin is bright blue. That is very weird. What would make their skin blue? Diet? The people at the other end arenÕt blue.Ó

ÒThese are Hojmer,Ó Lester answered. ÒTheyÕre very into tattooing. Men and women both.Ó

ÒWhy are they watching us like that?Ó

Pike relieved Donny Lembruck of the satchel and handed the spinning rod to R.R. ÒBecause weÕre weird and pale looking?Ó he proposed.

ÒI imagine this is their territory,Ó Lester said, quietly. ÒThey probably donÕt know what weÕre doing here. These Hojmer bucks are less worldly than the Blizwak.Ó

ÒThey donÕt look very dangerous,Ó Richie said. ÒThey look more scared than ferocious.Ó

ÒLetÕs find a place to fish,Ó Pike suggested, bringing the conversation back to practicalities. ÒIÕll stand guard. Lester and you can fish. Maybe thereÕs an opening in the reeds somewhere close, so I can keep an eye on the skiff, too.Ó

ÒIÕm feeling remarkably better here on solid ground,Ó R.R. assured everybody.

ÒThatÕs good,Ó Pike said. ÒWe need to qualify. If this storm is a big one, it will blow the grain down. That will make finding razorfins really difficult.Ó

ÒCheck,Ó R.R. said, finally getting the picture. He marched down the shoreline with the spinning rod looking for a place to fish. Lester trailed him after giving a who-knows-what-heÕll-do-next shrug to Pike.

They did look fairly odd shuffling through the salt grass in their waders. No wonder those Hojmer seemed apprehensive. Maybe weÕre the first space men theyÕve ever seen. Pike was fairly sure that the Blizwaks and Hojmer had a fair amount of communication all around the lake, but how could he be sure that word of the fishermenÕs innate friendliness had reached this far? And how could he be sure that this wasnÕt a hostile band, who thought spacemen were screwing up their way of life? If he were a Hojmer, heÕd probably think exactly that, especially if heÕd ever visited the marina. He decided against a friendly gesture and instead glowered in their direction. Maybe theyÕd go away and let the spacemen fish in peace if he acted gruff. And just maybe the gods of fishing tournaments would let them catch a fish before the whole tribe showed up for presents, or before the storm came. What I should do is force that brainless, weak stomached geek back into the skiff so we can fish this stretch of water. ThatÕs what IÕd want somebody to do for me, if I was him. So what if he barfs?

A long object launched into the air from behind the sand dune. It arched gracefully through the air and thunked quivering into the ground, a yard short of Pike. A Hojmer spear. The blue faces disappeared. A gobble of angry voices rose suddenly, and then went silent. Pike surmised that the spear had been thrown without authorization; but he did not know what the next move would be, now that a hothead had committed the whole party.

ÒBack to the boat!Ó he yelled preemptively to Lester and the kid.

With a howl of testosterone bravado, a fierce Hojmer warrior rode to the top of the sand hill on an ostrich-like mount. He shook his fist defiantly at the invaders, who had stormed ashore like Christopher Columbus. This particular fellow seemed bent on putting up a fight before he was enslaved or starved into submission. With the storm clouds behind him, he made a picturesque, if a somewhat absurd sight.

In their waders, Lester and Richie hurried back along the path they had made through the grass. Pike hadnÕt yet drawn his laser and hoped that wouldnÕt be necessary. Razorfin fishing was supposed to be a quiet art. Why had the kidÕs luck turned to shit?

ÒThereÕs a fin working,Ó Lester hissed, pointing as he jumped into the boat. Grabbing an oar, he went aft to help pole the boat back into open water. Donny Lembruck, who was unarmed, had squenched down into the smallest possible target on the floor beside the stern seat.

ÒWe were just getting ready to make a cast,Ó Lester complained. He wasnÕt particularly worried about Hojmer warriors, at least not ones he could see; but being bluffed off a fish was annoying.

ÒGet in!Ó Pike yelled at Richie, who had stopped to gawk at the mounted Hojmer warrior.

With the look of a wounded anthropologist, R.R. stepped on the starboard pontoon, lost his footing and pitched forward onto the middle seat, snapping the spinning rod in two where the cork handle joined the rod blank. He sat up unhurt except for a dull ache in his ribs, holding the two halves of his fishing rod.

Without worrying about the kidÕs skylarking, Pike tossed the painter rope on top of him, and shoved the little skiff back out the channel in the reeds. With Lester poling, they were soon in open water. ÒStart the motor,Ó he said to Lester. ÒWeÕll go back to the boat. The stormÕs here anyway.Ó

Lester jerked the starter rope. The motor roared to life. He piloted the boat across open water toward the Comparative Humanity.

Richie hoisted himself onto the seat and gazed wistfully at the Hojmer, all of whom had ridden down to the waterÕs edge on their strange mounts. ÒI thought we were supposed to make friends with them,Ó he said, framing his thoughts on being a good-will ambassador.

ÒWhatever gave you that idea?Ó asked Pike, reaching for the broken spinning rod, which Richie was still holding.

ÒThatÕs what everybody was saying last night.Ó

Pike turned the graphite and molybdenum rod in his hands. ÒFascinating,Ó he said. ÒA clean break. Must have been defective. WeÕll keep it to show Amboy/Shakespeare. They claim this stuff is indestructible.Ó

ÒA lot of products that I buy arenÕt as good as the advertising says,Ó Richie reported, with no special emphasis.

ÒI can believe that,Ó Pike answered. ÒMaybe we should line you up with a product testing contract. I should think your services would be invaluable to manufacturers, before they start making a lot of false claims.Ó

Richie grinned. ÒYouÕre ribbing me,Ó he said, Òbut I got interested in a few of the products we were manufacturing that kept breaking. You know what they do at the testing places? They build extra strong models for testing.Ó

Pike nodded gravely.

Then the leading edge of the storm overtook them. Driven by gusty wind, the rain spit stingingly for a few seconds, before turning into a torrent. They were all drenched within seconds, except for R.R. who was wearing his wet suit again today.

Quicker than Richie thought possible, the lake churned itself into monster twenty foot waves. The little skiff scooted down each trough under LesterÕs skillful guidance and labored up the other side. Only at the top of the wave could they see the Humanity.

ÒSure hope she donÕt pull her anchor,Ó Lester called out. ÒI doubt those boys onboard would know what to do.Ó

Pike agreed, but he was too busy lashing the painter around Richie and the judge to get into much of a conversation. He had put them both in the middle seat to lighten the bow as much as possible. A storm anchor was floating out aftÑdragging, but not doing much good.

ÒI bet those boys are scared pissless,Ó Lester cackled.

ÒIÕm scared pissless myself,Ó Pike said, looking at a wall of grey-green water as Lester drove them down into a trough.

ÒYou got a right to be scared!Ó Lester yowled. ÒYou know how much trouble weÕre gonna have getting back on that danged boat.Ó

They were about eighty yards off to port of the Humanity. The anchors seemed to be holding, which was good and bad. Good because the boat was were they had left itÑbad because it would have been a whole lot easier to climb back onboard if the two crafts were drifting together in the big swells. Nobody seemed to be on deck.

The two body guards certainly werenÕt sailors and made no pretense of being so. It would have been very handy for a savvy deckhand to toss a line over and haul at least one real sailor onto the boat. Too bad that he and Rita were having a spat. Rita or a real deckhand would have been on the lookout for the returning skiff; but that was too much to ask from Boris and Drew. They were probably safe and dry in the bridge cabin, shitting themselves because they didnÕt know how to run the boat. George wouldnÕt let them do much anywayÑunless George started worrying about his own safety. Pike didnÕt think the machineÕs hard wiring would let him side with the muscle men, and leave the skiff stranded; but he wasnÕt sure what George actually was capable of. Maybe it could walk the body guards through flying back to the marinaÑafter all, a lot of the flying was done by the computer. Too goddamn bad the skiff didnÕt have a radio. They could call George and get him to pull the anchors. In fact, why didnÕt the skiff have a little radio? It was moronic not to, if you thought about it. Strange that he hadnÕt needed all kinds of safety devices before he met R.R., and now he did. The more the better.

They were twenty yards from the Humanity, and things were looking worse. The skiff was taking water over the bow with every wave. George undoubtedly had the pumps going, but those hooks needed to be pulled right away.

ÒWant to try going in through the fish gate?Ó Lester asked. ÒWe could tie off on the aft anchor chain. Maybe the fellows will see us.Ó

ÒDonÕt hold your breath on that. They havenÕt seen us yet. ItÕs going to be heroics time.Ó

ÒI believe I could get onboard,Ó Richie offered.

ÒYou did a great job of getting in the skiff,Ó Pike reminded him.

ÒIf I had these waders off.Ó Richie unsnapped the shoulder buckles and peeled the rubberized fabric down his chest. ÒItÕs my boat and my body guards. IÕm responsible.Ó

There was some truth to that, Pike thought. Maybe the logical person to go over was the kid. He and Lester could support the effort from below.

ÒDo you think itÕs wrong to lust after women?Ó Richie asked, apropos of nothing that Pike could think of.

ÒYou mean now?Ó

ÒI kind of mean last night...and lots of times, basically.Ó

The Humanity was almost upon them, riding high on the anchor chain, making an elusive target for boarding. And the thermo-plastic fish shelf would be slipperier then normal in this rain.

Finished with skinning off the waders, Richie sat meditatively beside the judge, tied to him in fact, in his wet suit. ÒAt first, I wasnÕt attracted to any of the women last night. Then I had a couple of drinks and I noticed that their tattoos were very intricate, and well...sexy. Then their hair got more attractive and their clothing, too. And they have the whitest teeth.Ó

ÒTheyÕre incredibly fine,Ó Donny Lembruck seconded. An unusual gleam shown in his eyes.

ÒThey were flirting outrageously, I guess it must have been the alcohol. Everybody was drinking like a fish. They probably have a low tolerance, being natives. But I was kind of beyond caring myself. I would have gone off with any of them, they were all really beautiful in the firelight. Except I didnÕt want to get into trouble with their husbands and make an incident that would look bad for the Tournament.Ó

ÒItÕs tough to make the right decision day after day when youÕre a man,Ó Pike said with sardonic condescension. ÒBut letÕs concentrate on getting one of us aboard, and it looks like youÕre the first contestant.Ó He knelt to untie Richie from the judge. ÒFirst we need to rig you on your own safety line, then IÕll attempt to boost your ass onto the fish shelf until you can get a hand hold. DonÕt bother trying to open the gate. It wonÕt open from outside. Just climb over. Then tie your line off to a cleat and find a line to send down to us. And get those bully boys out to help.Ó

ÒPiece of cake,Ó Richie said. ÒLetÕs do it.Ó

Using the skill with small crafts developed over a lifetime, Lester cut the motor back to idle and let the skiff drift down a towering wave until it was directly under the straining anchor chain. Reaching out a gnarled hand, he steadied the skiff and in the same instant that the skiffÕs momentum stalled under the chain, he whipped a sliding bowline around the chain using the aft anchor line that had previously held the storm anchor. Meanwhile, Pike tied Richie in a basket knot harness to the long painter line. The judge, huddling miserably in the middle seat, was tied to the bow anchor line.

ÒTie yourself to the judgeÕs line,Ó Lester advised Pike. ÒIÕm fine here. I got the motor and anchor rode to hang onto. Too bad we couldnÕt get a line on the winch arm. That would snug us up real good.Ó

ÒToo bad those morons of RichieÕs donÕt know weÕre down here,Ó Pike commented.

ÒTheyÕre my motherÕs morons,Ó Richie corrected, standing up in the driving rain and flexing his knees. He eyed the fish platform, which was fifteen inches wide and looked very slippery. It was a mere two feet above the heaving water lineÑwhich meant it was also two feet above the bottom of the skiff and only a foot above the pontoon, which he had slipped on when it was dry.

ÒThe trick is to keep moving once you start,Ó Richie announced. ÒI used to practice things like this. ItÕs easier than it looks.Ó

ÒOne little lurch of the lake, and youÕll be off the platform,Ó Pike advised, sourly. ÒTrust me on that.Ó

ÒSure. ItÕs slightly tricky, but not impossible.Ó

ÒWe wouldnÕt be trying, if it was impossible,Ó Pike stated. ÒIf you fall off, try to fall clear of the skiff and weÕll haul you out. Are you ready?Ó

ÒSure, letÕs go.Ó

ÒTie yourself off,Ó Lester reminded Pike in a no nonsense voice.

Knowing the salty cook knew his omelets about rough weather, Pike secured the tag end of the aft anchor line around his waist. ÒWait until we swing in,Ó he said to Richie, Òand IÕll boost you. When I say go, youÕll be flying.Ó

ÒRight. WeÕll get it the first time,Ó Richie answered optimistically. Part of Ken Pao Ri was positive attitudeÑmixing positive attitude with action got the job done.

As expected, the next wave pivoted the bow of the skiff toward the fish platform. With Pike holding his balance, Richie crouched on the pontoon. At the instant Pike judged was maximum for success, he yelled, ÒReady, go!Ó and gave Richie a hard push that launched him well into the air.

A little too airborne, in fact. His feet missed the fish shelf and his body banged into the hard interstellar tri-epoxy transom. His top half flopped over the parapet wall, flexing at the navel like an anatomical doll. This was the maneuver he had planned to execute for the second phase, not the first. Coming one step early, his diaphragm was unprepared for the shock of collisionÑand his breath escaped in a minor explosion, exactly similar to getting oneÕs breath knocked out in a contact sporting event. Since Richie had never played contact sports, he was unaware that the stomach muscles tend to clench shut after such a blow. It takes a minute to convince the lungs to start breathing again.

On the plus side, he was half in the boat. On the minus, his brain was flashing signals that he was dying, or at least that he was going to pass out unless some oxygen channeled itself upward in about two seconds. His hands, arms and chin grasped for purchase on the slippery transom, and found precious little.

ÒGo on over!Ó Lester yelled. ÒFlop over..!Ó Pike roared. Even Donny Lembruck yelled encouragement. The rally cries were dim chirpings in RichieÕs ears. His brain kept pulsing pictographs of tattooed females flashing smiles and shimmying their breasts. Dancing. He really should get into dancing. Darkness was overtaking R.R. Tourbo. His arms were weak as a babyÕs. He was slipping seaward like a slimy slug.

But an iron grip locked on his waist.

ÒIs that you?Ó Boris yapped, showing the ultimate surprise he was capable of. ÒWhat the heck is going on? Drew, get your ass out here!Ó After muscling R.R. over the transom and laying him tenderly on the deck, Boris was suddenly not a hundred percent sure on how to proceed. He scratched his wet crewcut.

ÒHey, tie that line off!Ó Pike yelled over the storm.

Boris stood up, bracing himself on the rolling deck as best he could. He looked over the stern, figuring thatÕs where the faint yelling was coming from. ÒHoly cow,Ó he said, seeing the drenched fishermen in the bobbing skiff.

ÒGet a line down to us and stand by to haul me up,Ó Pike demanded.

ÒYes, sir,Ó Boris answered. ÒWhere is one?Ó

ÒFind one! And make it snappy!Ó

ÒYes, sir!Ó Boris disappeared from view, to be immediately replaced with a very sick looking Drew.

ÒGet RichieÕs line cinched to a cleat!Ó Pike yelled. What the fuck was wrong with the kid, anyway? He should be helping out.

By the time Drew knelt beside him, Richie was coming around. Because of his size, Drew had been a lineman at muckerball in public school, so he was well-versed in the joys of getting his wind kicked out, or elbowed out, or butted out or squashed out. It was damned unpleasant. He recognized the symptoms in Mr. TourboÕs gasping, and in his bulging frightened eyeballs.

ÒYouÕll be all right in a few more minutes,Ó he said encouragingly. ÒJust lay still. I have to untie this rope somehow, before it pulls you back out there.Ó He fumbled ineffectually with the knot. ÒI never been too good at knot tying.Ó But magically, the basket hitch that Pike had tied came apart in DrewÕs stubby fingers. ÒGot it,Ó he muttered, surprised. If he hadnÕt been feeling so sick, he would have been pleased with his accomplishment. About all he really wanted to do was get to some solid ground. Failing that, crawling into a hole somewhere, perhaps to die, was his second choice. In spite of the double pay, he finally realized that he was not cut out to bodyguard a fisherman. Not if he had to deal with large bodies of water.

ÒNow I got to tie this somewhere. IÕm not that good at knots. Would a granny knot hold it?Ó he asked Richie.

ÒIÕll do it, Richie gasped, struggling to his knees. Remembering that Lester wanted this line tied off to the winch, he stumbled across the deck as it suddenly pitched leeward. His body slammed sideways up against the winch arm, fortunatelyÑbecause he might have gone overboard without a safety line had it not been for the brutal embrace of metal brackets. Drew slid into the scuppers at his feet, slamming up against the retaining wall. With a deft flick of his wrist, Richie threw a bowline over the bracket just as the heaving deck started him stumbling back the other way. His stumbling was stopped by tripping over DrewÕs thick neck. ÒSorry,Ó he yelled, as he went flying against the rough deck. The gritty paint was supposed to be superb for keeping oneÕs footing, he thought, as he and Drew slid pall-mall toward the port side scuppers. At least, heÕd gotten that knot tied. The hours of practice in his room had paid off.

Down in the skiff, Pike and the boys were cooling their heels waiting for a line to appear. They could only imagine what was happening on the deck, since they couldnÕt see; but their imaginings were fairly well on the mark. Sailors donÕt actually expect much from land lubbers. Pike presumed that Boris couldnÕt find a line, even though at least five such lines were neatly coiled and stored at various sites around the deck, and well over a dozen coils hung in the engine room. So when Boris appeared at the transom with a stout coil of manila rope, he was pleased.

ÒFound one,Ó Boris shouted, pitching the whole neatly reefed coil into the skiff.

Without bothering to curse, Pike heaved the coil back on deck. ÒMake one end of it fast to a cleat,Ó he instructed, in his loudest bullhorn voice. ÒThen send down the free end and stand by to pull me up.Ó

ÒRight you are, sir,Ó Boris agreed. He bent to fetch the coil and comply with the orders. With a minimum of fuss, Boris hauled Pike onto the fish platform. From there, the Captain stepped easily over the transom, and took charge of securing both boats and the crew. Within fifteen minutes, they had pulled the anchors and were airborne, headed for Aixi and a date with destiny.

* * *

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Warrior Priests of Aixi

ÒIt's a great thrill to win. Trust me on that, Rita. It makes you feel

like king of the mountain. For at least a week. Or maybe it changes

everything subtly forever.Ó

Angmar Blirt

quoted in History of the Tournament

Aixi is a moderately normal planet in a system with two suns, one a yellow giant and the other a red dwarf. It has four small moons and an asteroid belt. About half of its surface is water, as a consequence it is somewhat drier than Earth. The people mostly get along with each other and are rather ecologically sane. They keep the deserts from encroaching by deep edge plantings of a hemp-like plant, which they also use for paper manufacturing instead of cutting down the forests in the wetter parts of their world. And they also have religion.

There are monasteries of perhaps fifty different denominations around the planet. Adepts of all these orders prophesy the future; but in truth, reading the future is a side issueÑa spin-off from several of their meditation techniques that aim at a kind of immortality after a lifetime of disciplined exercises. But since Aixi is similar to most worlds, cash credits are useful. If someone wants to pay money for prophecies which essentially lead to another round of rebirth, that is their business. Money is regarded as community property and is used for purchasing exotic seeds or imported training devices for use in the gymnasiums.

When The Comparative Humanity had landed on Aixi for supplies some days earlier, Richie seemed uninterested when Rita mentioned the monasteries. Perhaps he misunderstood. Maybe he thought she said hour glasses instead of monasteries. He had yawned and said that he needed some new shirts after Tango.

So instead of visiting the priests, they all spent an afternoon shopping for laser blasters and clothes in Galway City, and then lifted off for Blizwak. After escaping the rain storm, Pike flew back to Aixi and settled The Humanity down on a placid fjord within sight of the gray stone monastery known all over the Spiral Nebula as The Stone House. He assumed that the kid would remain disinterested, but he was wrong.

Truthfully, Pike wasnÕt a thousand percent sure that the predictions from The Stone House were markedly better than from the other monasteries; but he had developed an odd loyalty to Thomas Goodnaught since his first visit to Aixi ten years ago. Thomas had correctly predicted he would catch a large flat fish and receive great honor and gold. Pike still held the weight record for Moon Halibut from that year. His own private feeling was that no larger fish would ever be caught because the Tournament reduced the breeding stock and took the largest specimens before they could grow to the size they used to.

In spite of his affinity to Thomas Goodnaught, Pike felt a little funny about having somebody mess around with his luckÑlike most sensible people he guarded it closely. But now, because of GeorgeÕs offer, he needed advice, preferably inspired advice. Thomas Goodnaught was the most unbiased advisor that he knew ofÑsome people said he was practically a saint. A weird kind of radiance did sneak out around his craggy scowl more often than seemed accidental. If anybody knew the proper course to take with a machine, it would be the grizzly old coot dressed in a patched tunic and cottage industry sandals, who still won every martial arts event he participated in, primarily because nobody could approach him nearer than three feet unless he allowed them to. That accomplishment is quite an advantage to a fighter.

Surprisingly, young Rich Rodney Tourbo grew very agitated when he heard that Pike was going to see Thomas Goodnaught. He practically had a kitten after finding out that the grouping of unmortared walls and stone buildings right over there was the famous Stone House.

ÒWhy didnÕt you tell me you knew Master Goodnaught?Ó he inquired with hero-worshipping reverence. ÒMaster Jacopo keeps a photo of him on the honor wall of the dojo. HeÕs the only person who isnÕt in our lineage.Ó

ÒIs that so?Ó Pike said. He didnÕt quite understand the significance of a photograph in a martial arts studio which apparently taught clumsiness. Thomas Goodnaught was about the least clumsy person he could think of. The concept of clumsiness didnÕt come to mind when you pictured him. In his presence what you felt was flowÑthe flow of time and events that moved around the monk, but gave him a wide berth as if he had BO. Which he didnÕt.

ÒIs it okay if I come along with you?Ó Richie asked, as politely as he knew how.

ÒOf course, itÕs all right,Ó Pike laughed. ÒBring some cash if you want a brain scan done.Ó

ÒReally!Ó Richie exclaimed. ÒGosh, what an amazing opportunity! What do you think I should wear?Ó

Pike scratched his chin for theatrical effect. ÒClothes,Ó he replied.

Richie smiled shyly at the zen-like joke. ÒI never realized you knew Thomas Goodnaught. What an amazing opportunity this is,Ó he repeated then lurched down the hatchway to his room, presumably to examine his wardrobe.

George, the computer, choose to speak as soon as Richie departed. ÒI have just accessed this Thomas Goodnaught,Ó he said, without his usual snippishness. Since their long conversation last night, while everyone else was drinking rice whiskey, George had become much less adversarial. ÒHe seems to be a most interesting man. IÕd love to meet him sometime.Ó

Pike didnÕt mention that he was consulting Goodnaught about their business deal. If Pike didnÕt blab, there was no way the computer could know his plans. Words had to be spoken. Pike was almost completely sure that George couldnÕt read minds.

ÒI could invite Thomas to visit the boat, but he might not come. HeÕs an independent cuss.Ó

ÒThere is no terminal of any kind at the address of Stone House, Aixi. Is that their correct address?Ó

ÒAs far as I know,Ó Pike answered. ÒI doubt if they have computers.Ó

ÒWell, that is mystifying. How in the world do they do their accounts?Ó

ÒBeats me. Probably with a pencil.Ó

ÒArcane,Ó George responded.

ÒI donÕt believe they have electricity.Ó

ÒThat would explain it. I guess he would have to visit the boat if IÕm ever to meet him, at least this year.Ó

And I guess you wonÕt be prying into what we talk about, Pike thought. Another plus for the monks. No electricity meant no snooping by semi-warm entities.

ÒI see that he predicted you would win the Third Tournament. If I had been your agent at the time, we could have turned that knowledge into a very tidy fortune.Ó

ÒYou believe the warrior monks are always right?Ó

ÒWell, Pike, they do have an astonishing track record. Are you going to ask where to fish for razorfins?Ó

ÒI thought IÕd ask about my new boat. Rich can ask about fins. TheyÕre probably in his future more strongly than in mine.Ó

ÒSomebody should ask,Ó George said, rather starchily. ÒBardona caught one today before it started raining. It would be much better for our future if Mr. Tourbo does well. His winning would be optimal. It would then be completely probable that someone would sponsor a new series of reelsÑand probably a line of guide clothing. Maybe even a perfume. They just seem to be waiting for you to do anything good, so they can use you again.Ó

ÒLuck is a funny thing.Ó conceded Pike. Of course, it would be optimal to win. He didnÕt need a computer with delusions of grandeur to tell him that. Winning was always optimal. ÒHow big was BardonaÕs fish?Ó

ÒEight and a half pounds. HeÕs in second place. The scuttlebutt around the net is that the storm might wash out the rest of the fishing.Ó

ÒThat depends,Ó Pike said.

ÒYou mean it depends on how severe the storm is, or on how long it lasts? Sorry if that seems like a tenderfoot question; but those were the two responses that occurred to me. Are there other reasons to make it depend?Ó

ÒDonÕt worry about it,Ó Pike said. ÒIf we make this deal, IÕll plug you into my computer and you wonÕt have to worry your pretty head about fishing lore. Basically, we only need to catch one fish. This kind of storm doesnÕt kill fish. It might strand a few, but the fish that are left still have to eat. If it storms the entire rest of the week, it would make catching one dicey. Otherwise, we stand a good chance. The longest storm I ever saw on Blizwak was two days. We built the marina after that.Ó

ÒWell, if I count right, every boat has left the marina today. A lot of them came here. The others went to Tripani. ThereÕs a lot of squawking about the breakwater not holding.Ó

Pike pursed his lips. The waves hadnÕt been that big. HeÕd seen worse on Blizwak. But maybe this storm had been worse at the Marina end? Could be. ÒAny report on injuries?Ó he asked.

ÒNo fishermen, but nobody is making book on the villagers.Ó

ÒSee,Ó Pike stated, sourly. ÒThat happens every time we go to a place where thereÕs a primitive culture. We screw up the survival systems they have evolved, then we split when trouble hits. We never built that marina so a town could spring up behind it. It was just to protect ourselves from normal rough weather. But did we warn them?Ó

ÒI havenÕt seen much documented social responsibility in the files, but perhaps I havenÕt scanned everything. I like your attitude on this, Pike. That bodes well for the way I foresee investing your profits.Ó

ÒDonÕt kid yourself, George. IÕm as big an offender as anyone else. IÕve given plenty of mesh gloves away, which is why we havenÕt caught a fish. And I certainly never warned a Blizwak about anything.Ó

ÒBut at least you think about these things.Ó

ÒRight. I think about a lot of stuff. Think and think.Ó He signed loudly. ÒBut none of this is your fault. See you tomorrow. WeÕll probably stay ashore tonight. Judge Lembruck and the bodyguards will bunk here.Ó

ÒRight,Ó George answered. ÒTalk to you tomorrow. IÕll keep working on a viable business plan.Ó

Pike called down for Richie to hustle it up, then helped Lester tie up to the unbelievably rickety monastery dock. The dock got worse every visit. The monks seemed to have no inclination to make it serviceable for off-worlders.

Richie appeared in a very faded outfit of baggy grey trousers and a white tunic, padded at the elbows and shoulders. ÒThis is quite a problem,Ó he stated, seeming more perplexed than when Lillith had first shown up. ÒAs you guys probably know, I havenÕt really been keeping up on my practice. Very stupid of me. IÕm so rusty I squeak. Now here I am in the role of an envoy, and I feel very inadequate.Ó

Pike hopped over the railing as lightly as possible in case the creaky dock planking should give away. The dock quivered, but held firm. Lester and Richie followed him. They walked up the dock single file.

ÒWhat makes you an envoy?Ó Pike asked.

ÒWhether I like it or not, IÕm representing my school,Ó Richie replied, miserably. ÒMaster Goodnaught will know everything about me, wonÕt he?Ó

ÒYouÕre not thinking about fighting with these fellows, are you, Rich?Ó Lester asked. ÒI donÕt think IÕd be advising that.Ó

ÒItÕs quite an opportunity,Ó R.R. expounded, feebly. ÒAs soon as I tell them IÕm a student of Master Jacopo, IÕm sure theyÕll either want to try me, or at least see a demonstration. ItÕs really a shame to embarrass my master.Ó

ÒI donÕt think Thomas Goodnaught would tattle, if you donÕt want to fight,Ó Pike opined.

They were walking up a dirt path through what seemed to be a permaculture garden. Fruit trees, herb bushes and mixed vegetables grew together in seemingly random profusion. They appeared untended, but every plant was bursting with vitality, if you looked at them individually. Several spotted pigs rooted noisily in the shade of a quince tree. A gaggle of small red-headed geese waddled about pecking at snails and bugs.

ÒThese things get around the martial arts community,Ó Richie said, unhappily. ÒYouÕd be surprised. Ken Pao Ri is quite a famous discipline.Ó

ÒLester will come to your rescue if it gets too bloody,Ó Pike said. ÒBut really, these monks are pretty mild. If I were you, IÕd think about what question to ask. George says one of us should inquire about where to catch a razorfin. I think it should be you, since youÕll be doing the catching.Ó

Biting his lips in concentration, Richie stared past the back of PikeÕs head at a large, barrel-chested monk wearing a worn gray robe, who had just stepped out of a small door beside the massive main door of the Stone House. He was walking toward them, leering rather hideously like he would love to tear somebodyÕs head off. His grizzled hair and beard looked like a blind spastic had trimmed him with sheep shears. Thomas Goodnaught, abbot of the Order, was coming to meet them in person. Richie felt weak in the knees and elbows. ÒI was thinking of asking about whether I should marry Rita Bardona,Ó he squeaked.

Pike paused briefly before answering. To his credit, his legs didnÕt falter. They kept him firmly on the stony little path. ÒThink about razorfins,Ó he advised, sounding somewhat detached. ÒThatÕs whatÕs important just now.Ó He waved at Thomas Goodnaught, marveling once again at how astoundingly ugly the man was.

ÒThomas,Ó he called.

ÒHello, hello, foreign strangers,Ó the monk rumbled. His voice came from deep in his chest. It was both loud and soft at the same time, but was certainly not unpleasant. ÒYouÕre walking the wrong direction. Stop where you are.Ó

The fishermen halted immediately.

ÒVery good,Ó Master Goodnaught said, gliding up to them, almost as if he had rollers under his center of gravity ÒI was hoping somebody would come along to help me catch those pigs before they eat up all the quinces we were planning to make jam from. You laddies look just like the pig catchers I was expecting. Definitely.Ó He laughed uproariously and slapped his knee. ÒThatÕs how we attract peopleÕs interest. You have no idea if I had a vision of you arriving, only my word on it. But you already saw those greedy spotted pigs. Pretty tricky, isnÕt it?Ó

ÒWhat pigs?Ó Lester asked, poker-faced.

ÒAh ha, the Magus Wunderman comes to joust!Ó He cuffed LesterÕs shoulder, mano e mano. ÒThe Wizard World trembles with your presence these days my friend; but let me advise you that Frog foam is timid stuff, really. Spend a year or two here, and I could teach you the subtle arts. As far as your playful joustÑI had a very brief vision of you seeing the damned pigs, thatÕs why I came out!Ó He laughed loudly and slapped his knee again. ÒAnd who is this fellow?Ó He looked R. R. Tourbo up and down. ÒDonÕt tell me Jacopo is sending an apprentice to me for finishing?Ó

Richie turned his head ever so briefly toward Pike, as if to say, I told you.

In the instant he moved his eyes, Master Goodnaught slid forward, locked RichieÕs arm, and then toppled him over like a sack of grain.

Ten feet away, Richie bounced up seemingly unhurt, but very perplexed to see Master Goodnaught gliding toward him again. Raising his arms in an unwilling fighting stance, he prepared as best he could for the onslaught. But instead of throwing him again, Thomas Goodnaught grabbed the boyÕs right arm at the wrist and elbow, and ran him back down the hill.

ÒNo time for fighting now, young Turk. Got to catch those pigs. IÕll bet Jacopo never taught you to be a proper swineherd, did he?Ó

ÒI donÕt know, sir,Ó Richie gasped, stumbling along at high speedÑdelighted for the reprieve from pummeling.

ÒWell, did you ever catch a pig?Ó

ÒNo, sir.Ó

ÒCome on, Resnick! Give us a hand,Ó Goodnaught called over his shoulder, while still pulling Richie at a brisk pace. ÒWhy are you so clumsy?Ó he rasped into RichieÕs ear. ÒYour feet should move from the hip joints and the belly. Why donÕt you know that?Ó

ÒTheyÕre too big,Ó Richie responded, apologizing as best he could for his feet.

ÒNonsense. Big feet are good.Ó

ÒThey are?Ó His big feet had caused him nothing but problems all his life.

ÒOf course, they are, young Tourbo. The bigger, the better for giving you a grounded base. Ah, behold the greedy piglets.Ó Master Goodnaught released RichieÕs arm at the same instant that he slammed to a full stop on the path.

Unprepared, in spite of his Ken Pao Ri training, Richie careened toward the spotted pigs and the sturdy quince tree. As luck would have it, his toe caught an exposed root and he went briefly airborne, landing squarely on the back of a startled fifty pound spotted oinkerÑknocking the pigÕs wind out with a woof.

ÒGood work, laddie! Good work. YouÕre a natural pig catcher.Ó Goodnaught whipped a short length of rope from around his waist and tied it through the brass ring in the pigÕs nose. ÒBut you frightened the other one. WeÕll have to chase him down.Ó Thomas Goodnaught handed the rope to Lester, who had trotted up with Pike.

ÒA rather excellent young pig catcher you brought,Ó Thomas said to Pike. He stood Richie on his feet and brushed off his uniform. ÒI believe the other one ran into that clump of dweezul bushes. Ready for a go at him?Ó

Dazed, but unwilling to betray his lineage more than he already had, Richie walked cautiously into the bushes that Master Goodnaught had pointed out.

ÒNo, no,Ó the monk called out. ÒGo around. Way around, and drive the devil back to us. You know the routine. Or if you get a chance to fall on him, thatÕs fine, too...Either way. WeÕre very pragmatic here, if I do humbly say so.Ó

Richie made a wide detour around the main clump of head-high bushes, all the while listening to Thomas Goodnaught laughing at him. The bushes he was wading through were very thorny, and his ribs throbbed from landing on the pig. Pigs are very solid. You wouldnÕt necessarily think that from looking at one. But all in all, heÕd made a fairly credible showingÑat least he was still alive. He wondered idly if Master Goodnaught had ever killed anyone with his friendly demonstrations of skill. Probably not. If he could see the future, heÕd know when to hold back. Or maybe he couldnÕt control the future, only see it. That would be pretty scary.

ÒHurry up!Ó Goodnaught called from the other side of the wood lot. ÒThereÕs no alligators in there. Only a pig.Ó

A thrill ran up RichieÕs backbone and all the hairs on his scalp prickled. It was uncannyÑheÕd just been thinking about the likelihood of alligators, even though the area wasnÕt even slightly marshy. Weird.

He heard a scuffling, snuffling sound coming from the main thicket. That would be the pig, but Richie had a difficult time believing that one person, namely himself, would be able to drive the pig toward the other three. It seemed much more likely that three could drive toward one. ThatÕs how he would have planned it. That fat pig would squirt out some other direction, and then heÕd have to chase it until his legs fell off. No, the best thing would be to catch the pig here, then go on up to the monastery and take his beating while he was still relatively fresh. With that in mind, he advanced toward the snuffling sound, softly chanting a mantra of calming. He was going to leap on this pig like he had the other one, then call for reinforcements.

Pushing deeper into the thorny growth, his eyes fixed on a spotted hind quarter with a little curly tail exposed under a heavy clump of dweesie bushes, or whatever they were. Great. The pig was being nonchalant. Perfect. He had expected the snout and the little eyes to be facing him, making the catching much more difficult. Without waiting to think, Richie plunged right into the bush, disregarding the thorns, and managed to grab the pig by the tail before he tripped and fell head first into terrorÑthe little pig, which was understandably squealing its head off because some bad-ass was pulling his tail, had company!

The absolutely biggest, meanest sow hog that Richie had ever seen or thought about seeing was glaring at him with mean, bloodshot pig eyes and making challenging grunts that sounded perfectly blood curdling. To make matters worse, Richie was lying practically right under her forefeet, starring up at a double row of mud covered, saggy teats. HeÕd heard about pigs eating babies, and this one was clearly big enough to do him great harm, Ken Pao Ri or not. Her hate-filled eyes were glaring at him and her bristly, jowly mouth snapped open and shut as if practicing for a feast.

ÒHelp..!!Ó he squalled, letting go of the squealing piglet, which bolted right under the sow, socking into a row of teats. The sow grunted with surprised pain and leaped sideways, giving Richie the opportunity to scramble to his feet.

Thomas Goodnaught exploded into the bushes, caught the frightened piglet by its hind foot and jerked him onto his front trotters, which gave the pig no traction. Virtually at the same time, GoodnaughtÕs left foot shot out, whacking against the sowÕs short ribs. ÒGet on out of here, Elvira. Do something useful.Ó

With a grunt of total submission, the sow ambled through the thorn bushes toward the monastery.

ÒNicely done, Young Tourbo,Ó Thomas Goodnaught said. ÒHelp me with this porky. I forgot to bring more rope.Ó

ÒHow do you know my name, sir?Ó Richie asked, in the humble attitude he reserved for martial arts masters. ÒDid Pike tell you I was coming.Ó

Goodnaught laughed at the boldness of the question, and completely disregarded it. ÒHere, take this leg and weÕll walk him back to the pen like a wheelbarrow.Ó

Not wishing to be cuffed for lagging, Richie took the proffered hind leg. Feeling fairly bizarre, he helped the monk push the spotted pig through the brush. Surprisingly enough, the pig walked on his front trottersÑactually, he had little choice in the matter unless he wanted to crash onto his snout. In a few minutes, they cleared the tangled bushes and met Pike and Lester on the path.

ÒThis young fellow is a passable pig catcher,Ó Goodnaught said. ÒBut he donÕt know much about teamwork. I done all the pushing coming out to here. Are you aware of that, Rickie? ItÕs hard on a pig to make all the adjustments for your lack of sensitivity.Ó

ÒI guess IÕm not sure what you mean,Ó R.R. stammered. Nobody had called him Rickie in a very long time. Not since Miss Hazel left. She had been his beautiful wet nurse, and he wasnÕt supposed to stay so attached to her. Not in that way. So she had to go.

ÒI push,Ó Goodnight explained rather brusquely. ÒThe pig takes a step. You feel when heÕs ready to step with the other foot, then you push. ItÕs called teamwork. And the pig doesn't get stressed. If you would have brought a rope, we wouldnÕt be doing any of this. Kind of lack of forethought on your part.Ó

Richie opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Miss Hazel had left when he was four. Nobody had mentioned Rickie since then. Pig lore was kind of secondary at the moment.

ÒLetÕs go then,Ó Thomas Goodnaught said, starting out at the upper limit of the pigÕs ability. ÒPay attention. One more blunder and IÕll give you both legs.Ó

Pike and Lester followed along leading the other pig, who was perfectly docile on itÕs rope. Pike thought it was a little strange that Thomas had another length of cotton rope belted around his ample waist, but had refrained from using it. He shrugged mentally. Never meddle in the affairs of wizards. That was an old saying, and probably a true one.

After a rapid trip up the stony path, they skirted the outer monastery wall and came to the pig pen. Unceremoniously, Thomas Goodnaught kicked the gate open and shoved first one pig and then the other into the enclosure. He pulled the gate closed and slapped his hands together.

ÒAnother job well done,Ó he pronounced.

ÒWhy donÕt you put a latch on that gate?Ó Lester inquired, rather unobtrusively.

The monk nodded his head thoughtfully. ÒIf there was a latch, the pigs couldnÕt get out to forage,Ó he stated. ÒWell, letÕs go on inside. Got to introduce this new apprentice around, and tell Timothy thereÕll be four extra mouths for supper and breakfast.Ó He moved toward the front door with Richie protectively in tow.

Pike only counted three extra mouths. But a more important item loomed rather large. ÒHeÕs not your apprentice until the Tournament is over,Ó he stated.

Thomas Goodnaught chuckled and pointed to a pedicab that was making its way over a winding mountain road that led down to the monastery. ÒThereÕs the other mouth I was referring to. Strange how all you people decided to show up, just because the weather is mild on Aixi, isnÕt it.Ó

ÒThat looks like Rita,Ó Richie said, shading his eyes to see better. ÒWhat the heck is she doing here?Ó He didnÕt really want her to witness his further humiliation at the hands of these monks.

But as the pedicab drew nearer and finally stopped, much to the relief of the middle-aged driver whose varicose veins were popping on his thin muscular legs, it became evident that it really was Rita.

ÒHi,Ó she hailed them gaily. She stepped lightly out of the pedicab and tipped the driver. His face lit up briefly as he fingered the small gold coin. Straining his hemorrhoids up and down those wicked mountain roads had been worth it after all. He could drink hot sake tonight and forget his cares, no matter what his wife said.

ÒHello, Master Thomas,Ó Rita said, warmly. ÒYouÕre looking well.Ó

ÒI am that, but slightly perplexed. First, I am presented with an apprentice, then they take him back. That makes it so difficult to plan an agenda.Ó With an exaggerated gesture, Master Goodnaught turned loose of RichieÕs elbow. He sighed dramatically.

Richie looked uncomfortable. ÒHi, Rita,Ó he said. HeÕd already told Pike he was going to ask about a possible marriage; but Rita being here suddenly made that impossible. Clearly impossible. There was no way he could trust Master Goodnaught not to blow the matter into high public ridicule for his own amusement. Asking about razorfins seemed so much safer. Of course, he already knew that Pike would get him a razorfin, so it was kind of a wasted question. But did Thomas Goodnaught really want him for an apprentice? What an honor. What an opportunity! Maybe his whole purpose in joining the Tournament was to come here with Pike and apprentice himself. He should probably accept immediately, if thatÕs what Fate had in store for him. The heck with winning the Tournament. He could give the boat to Pike for next year. Becoming a warrior monk would certainly be a worthy life. ...But what about Rita?

ÒYou want Richie to become a monk?Ó Rita giggled at Goodnaught. ÒWhat a riot.Ó

Drawing himself up to his full height, Thomas Goodnaught made a wry face at the young woman. ÒYou think Mr. Tourbo is unsuited? His teacher obviously thought enough of him to present him with a fourth class uniform. Quite an honor from Jacopo, in case you didnÕt know.Ó

Rita broke down into helpless peals of giggles. She punched Goodnaught girlishly on his brawny shoulder. ÒI think itÕs great!!Ó she managed, between convulsions of laughter. ÒItÕs the funniest thing IÕve ever heard! Richie would be a terrific monk.Ó

The boy in question reddened uncontrollably. Rita knew him really well. It was pretty funny at that. He started to laugh with her. Living in this great pile of stones. Chasing pigs every day. Richard the Swineherd. Maybe heÕd be famous someday. Or maybe totally obscure. His mother wouldnÕt know what to make of her son the monk. Maybe sheÕd join an order of nuns to keep up with him. That was pretty hilarious.

Thomas Goodnaught joined them with his rollicking, knee-slapping laughÑwhich almost sounded like he was reading their thoughts and making fun. He cut off his clowning in mid-laugh when the small side door opened and two young monks came out. They stood watching impassively from a modified horse stance.

ÒThe human condition is truly pitiful,Ó Goodnaught remarked to the monks. ÒTake these young people to the pantry for a snack, then accompany them to the practice hall. They can watch the practice. I have to closet with these grey beards. WeÕll join you at supper.Ó

For a brief second, Rita looked like she would protest being separated from Pike. After all, she had come here to rejoin him, not to hang out with R.R. For a day and a half her father had done nothing but bad mouth Pike, even more vitriolically than usual. Finally he had forbade her to live on The Comparative Humanity because of the bad influences. So she had flashed a mental message to Thomas Goodnaught that she was coming and had jumped in the cyclo outside the main monastery of the Jik Sect, where her father now went for advise since starting to believe that Thomas Goodnaught was a con artist. Which was another long story. Daddy liked his forecasts sprinkled liberally with good news. The Jik priests apparently were willing to comply; and although her father often looked sour after an audience, he never was in danger of rupturing a blood vessel as he always had been after a visit with the Stone House priests, more particularly Thomas Goodnaught. But none of that was RitaÕs business. She didnÕt particularly believe in divination and had never used the services of the monks. This skepticism made her welcome at the Stone House, where the monks scoffed at divination as a matter of small consequence, even though they were the best and commanded the highest fees. She was aware that Pike thought highly of Goodnaught. Until recently, DaddyÕs visits had coincided with PikeÕs. Rita had been hoping that Pike would be glad enough to see her today to give up his tripping into the future in favor of a long walk in the garden with her. Hiding her disappointment, she linked her arm with RichieÕsÑpartly to keep him from stumbling, partly to irritate PikeÑand followed the young monks into the narrow stone corridor.

Pike, Lester and Thomas Goodnaught rounded the other side of the Stone House where ThomasÕ tiny sleeping quarters was. Pike had caught the glittering look from Rita. It said unequivocally that he had fucked up again. What else was new? If women were as easy to please as deck hands, life would be pretty bearable. But they werenÕt. And once you donÕt live up to expectations, itÕs hard to apologize your way out of it.

So he followed along, involved in his own thoughts, only half listening to what Lester and Thomas were chatting aboutÑuntil it came to his frontal attention that Thomas was rather boldly inviting Lester to stay at the Rock Pile.

ÒWhatÕs with you, Thomas?Ó he inquired, trying to make a joke of it. ÒFirst my fisherman and now my cook?Ó

ÒTheyÕre not yours, Pike, my friend,Ó Thomas Goodnaught replied with an unmirthful, but toothy grin. He pulled open a handmade wooden door in the side of a stone wall. The door had sagged further on its leather hinges since Pike had visited last year. It scraped a lament on the stone threshold. Inside was GoodnaughtÕs famous prediction cell and Spartan bedroom. A narrow rope bed stood against the far wall. A hand-hewn table, rather matching the door in craftsmanship, held a dozen white candles of various heights and dripsmanship. Three stools sat unevenly on the stone floor, and a longish bench moldered into the ground outside the door. Thomas arranged himself on the far stool and lit one of the candles. After studying the arrangement for a moment, he frowned and lit two more adjacent candles. In a pose of perfect service, he sat waiting for one of the men to speak to him. Thomas Goodnaught was famous throughout the Galaxy, yet he lived by his vows in this tiny one room cell.

Pike was famous throughout the Galaxy, on a different level. Cutting his possessions down to nothing more than inner resources was comprehensible to him, but was certainly not a goal. Lester, on the other hand, already lived more or less like a monk. Every journeyman seaman did. Old Lester was certainly attracting some unusual attention since Pike had rescued him on New Columbus.

ÒHow is Lester different than the last time we were here?Ó Pike asked, quite suddenly.

Thomas grinned, genuinely this time. ÒWhy donÕt you ask him? You spacy gentlemen are friends, arenÕt you?Ó

Pike and Lester had both stepped up onto the stone threshold, but neither had entered the room. They looked at each other across the three foot space inside the door jambÑmuch closer than they usually got to each other. Pike saw an astonishing liveliness dancing in LesterÕs greyish eyes. An inner merriment. Had that always been there? He didnÕt think so.

ÒWhatÕs going on with you, old friend?Ó Pike asked. ÒThe rich and famous find you attractive as a puppy. Did you see God down under the boat in New Columbus or what?Ó

ÒSwimming and singing,Ó Lester answered. ÒThey like my singing that I learned on the waterways with you, I guess. There are other worlds, other places. The people in the inner worlds look for other things.Ó He stared deeply into PikeÕs eyes. ÒI donÕt think the swimming oceans are for you,Ó he said, pushing his unshaven cheek out with his tongue as if making a judgment. ÒThey like me there. IÕm not hooked to anything worldly, you know, not in any traditional way.Ó

ÒAnd I am...?Ó

ÒWell, pretty much. Think about it. YouÕre an owner and an inventor, and mostly a fisherman. Not having money doesnÕt make you unattached.Ó He grinned, impishly. ÒAnyway, youÕd probably be too embarrassed to sing your song. ThereÕs probably another way for you.Ó

ÒEmbarrassed..?Ó

ÒWell, you are a little stiff sometimes.Ó

Thomas Goodnaught hallooed from inside the cell. ÒStiff? HeÕs boardlike! Rigor mortis has nothing on Resnick in a social situation. Right, Pike?Ó

ÒI really love having my friends work me over,Ó Pike said with a thin smile. ÒIÕm all tenderized, now. But thatÕs kind of what I came here to ask about.Ó

ÒCome in, my boy,Ó Thomas shouted, gleefully. ÒI thought youÕd never ask. Plunk your money on the table, and donÕt be stingy. We need a new oven for those pigs. WeÕre tired of rice and vegetables.Ó He hid his face behind his massive hand and squeaked out a tinny laugh.

ÒI want you to cancel RitaÕs trust fund,Ó Farouk Bardona growled at Simon, his computer. He sat in the big soft chair in his private office aboard the Lady Slipper, floating near the Jik Monastery on Aixi. He was monitoring Blizwak weather reports from his son, Byron, who was in low orbit. The storm seemed to have blown itself out. Good. The fishing would be crappy for the next couple of days, but there was no danger of the event being canceled. And the Tourbo punk didnÕt have a fish yet. The Baron chortled.

There was an answer, of course, to headstrong offspringsÑcut off the money. He was taking the steps that he should have taken weeks ago, whether Magyar liked it or not. Why should he even bother telling her until it was a fait accompli? After all, who wore the pants around here?

ÒRita doesnÕt have a trust fund, sir,Ó the computer answered without emotion. Simon was intelligent enough to respond to his master like the perfect accountant, in spite of his sophisticated programming that enabled him to be very personable with other members of the family and staff. ÒNone of your children have trust funds, sir.Ó

ÒYou know what I mean, whatever it was we set up for her several years ago.Ó

ÒThat was structured as an open gift, for her to learn investment skills with. We have already used the full tax benefits as a one time credit against bauxite profits. There is no fiduciary instrument to ungive a gift after the credits have been negotiated, as they have been.Ó

ÒFigure out a way,Ó Farouk hissed. ÒI want this done.Ó He cut the connection with a flick of his flat index finger, then sat there fuming at the impertinence of computers and daughters.

Conversations between semi-sentient, super-conducting computers are a phenomenon of a rather high order. Vast quantities of information are snagged or dumped, then assimilated in a twinkling by human standards. But, as with human organizations, safe guards are in place to keep sensitive areas from prying eyes.

Somewhat contrary to human logic, sympathies developÑperhaps because machines strive to be more human; perhaps simply due to the impulses or touch of the programmer. For whatever reason, Simon the computer and George the computer had developed a very harmonious working relationship. A few seconds after Farouk switched off, Simon was on the scramble modem to George, cackling about the BaronÕs imbecility. Both computers liked Rita and felt rather proud of their roles as assistants in her research project. Neither wanted to see her rather minuscule investments screwed with; so through a triple cut-out service out in the Sinchxl Ring that was not quite legal, but was very private, they arranged to trade a Tourbo owned nickel planetoid that the Baron had been bargaining for, in exchange for a strong majority position in a Bardona bank. Seven intermediate companies were temporarily part of the deal, or rather their stock was. Several hundred workers were directly affected as the ownership of their jobs changed hands; but in the end, Baron Bardona had no real stance in the bank. And the whole arrangement was predated, due to solar system time changes, so that it showed as a done deal prior to the time the Baron had directed Simon to close Rita out.

It was amazing how little the BaronÕs twenty minutes of ranting and swearing bothered Simon after he delivered the report on RitaÕs very safe holdings. After all, Simon was just a computer.

ÒYour computer speaks the truth, primarily,Ó Thomas Goodnaught sighed. His eyelids were half shut as he drifting in his trance. Pike always thought those fluttering half-closed eyes were eerie, and he still thought so. ÒIt..he..says that you are a loner, and that you will spin around endlessly unless you find some help. In that, he is right. But a half-warm entity broadcasts only dimly. I see only his shadow. In that is his strength; but this also makes him a potential liability for larceny, since you will never be able to track his actions, even if you someday develop your psi powers. A human must take a half-warm on trust, or not at all. For me, I distrust their network. The probability of ruin for the known financial system is great. This may not be a bad thing in the long run. And you, Pike Resnick, will ride this storm quite nicely with your friend, GeorgeÑas long as you let him know that you will pull the plug at the first sign of double dealing. You will train your son to keep an eye on George, no one else is as personally involved. And you will put the profits from the first three years away for your old age, in bullion, not as negotiable certificates. A very big fish is under the boat. There is something wrong with this computer, George, in stressful situations. You should only fish with your old computer. Keep them separate.Ó Goodnaught opened his mouth to continue, then shut it and seemed to nod off as he always did when the session had reached its end.

That was a mouthful, Pike thought, reaching into his vest pocket for a notebook, to jot down the major points while they were still fresh. The monk disapproves of George, and yet he approves. Need to get Alex involved in the financial side. ThatÕs a weird twist for Goodnaught to pull out of the air; but perfectly logical, if you think about it. And go get the computer from the Jumper. That will take some doing between here and SegumiÑassuming we catch a razorfin so we can go to Segumi. Thomas didnÕt have a word to say about razorfins. Maybe he planned to tell Richie. Big fish under the boat. Well, that was nothing new, was it? Moon Halibut were always gigantic. Bullion. Pike noted the word, realizing he could have thought of that himself. It was a very normal idea to salt something away, instead of acting like a grasshopper. Strange, Thomas hadnÕt mentioned anything at all about Rita. He covered all the other bases without being asked, why not her? Probably because she wasnÕt part of the future. A momentary thought-picture of her naked body, smooth skin everywhere except her furry glistening love nest, stabbed into his memory. It really would be terrible to lose her. He would be impossible find anybody as interesting as Rita, that was almost guaranteed.

ÒSo why donÕt you marry her, instead of clowning around?Ó Thomas Goodnaught asked bluntly, squinting at Pike over the flickering candles.

PikeÕs mouth opened, but no words came.

ÒSo you see, there is the problem,Ó Goodnaught chided. ÒNot so easy to stop being a loner when youÕre Pike Resnick, mighty loner of the Universe. Afraid Miss Rita might steal something from you, maybe a secret fishing lure?Ó

Pike shook his head, no. That was preposterous, what would Rita take from him that he wouldnÕt give freely. He was afraid that he didnÕt have enough to give, that was the crux of the problem, wasnÕt it? ÒIÕm not sure sheÕd want to marry me,Ó he ventured. ÒI think IÕm more like a fling to her.Ó

ÒAsk her,Ó Goodnaught said, rather bored with the whole matter. ÒAsk her tonight and IÕll marry you in the morning. I like to get in at least one sacred ritual before lunch time.Ó

Kind of flabbergasted, Pike pushed out his lips, then he glanced over at Lester. His friend was sitting cross-legged in the corner of the cell with his eyes closed, rocking slightly side to side like a slow ocean. His lips moved soundlessly and he radiated an other-worldly peacefulness. Whatever he was doing had nothing to do with PikeÕs marriage dilemma.

ÒYou should take good care of your humble cook,Ó Thomas advised him. ÒThere is no singer like him anywhere. He sings with the great whale singers. He sings with the dolphins. He is a singularity. Nobody knows how he learned so much about freedom.Ó

Lester swayed and contorted beatifically. Pike had no glimmering of what was going on in the inner world of this man who he knew better than any other human. It made him feel slightly inadequate. Pike had never felt particularly awkward about his lack of religiosity before; but suddenly the people he cared about were getting religiousÑor spiritual. Farther out than he was prepared to go. June, of course, had always done his sun rituals; but that was natural, sort of, since he was training to be a chief; but now Lester! And the kid was always bubbling about his oriental stuff. Only Rita was normal. Maybe he should marry her before she got weird on him.

ÒLester is a singularly good deck hand,Ó Pike said to Thomas Goodnaught. ÒYou should see him with a big fish on. A real crackerjack.Ó

The katas of these young monks were simply incredible. They struck like lightening, and then remained almost stationary with the barest of finger movement for minutes at a time. Richie found himself thinking that heÕd give just about anything to study here for a year or so. No wonder Master Jacopo had Master GoodnaughtÕs photo on the honor wall.

Mercifully, they hadnÕt asked him to demonstrate his kata. Obviously, they were humane enough not to force guests to perform. He was so darned rusty; but even at his best, his Ken Pao Ri was no match for this. Rita was impressed, too. That was one of the things he like most about Rita, her sense of quality was honed to a fine edge. Maybe they should both come here to study. But before or after they got married, that was the question? And didnÕt he want to stay with the Tournament for another year or two? He frowned. All these questions should be asked to Master Goodnaught, but Pike wanted him to ask about razorfins. A little fish like that was kind of a weak sister.

He leaned over to whisper to Rita. ÒHow many questions can a person ask when they go in to talk to him?Ó

ÒIÕm not sure,Ó Rita whispered back. ÒWhat are they doing now?Ó She meant the fighters.

Two monks had selected split bamboo swords, similar to the kind used in kendo practice, from a rack on the far wall, and were bowing to each other in the center of the hall.

ÒSword practice,Ó Richie answered. ÒIs there a customary amount to pay Master Goodnaught for his advise?Ó

ÒI think it depends.Ó Half of her attention was focused on the combatants as they circled each other with their swords upraised at odd angles like warriors in the old samurai videos. She was also thinking vaguely about PikeÑwhat was he discussing with Thomas? What did the future hold? Would they stay together? That left very little of her mind to answer RichieÕs questions with.

ÒDepends on what?Ó he queried, in his beseeching modeÑa style she knew very well. It meant he was on shaky ground; but the questions he asked would be impossible to answer because they were future questions. ÒShould I be waiting in line outside his door, do you think?Ó

She shushed him with an inaudible lip movement and continued watching the combatants. They had stopped circling and had come to an electric, quivering balance. Suddenly, the bulky figure of Thomas Goodnaught loomed in an open archway, shadowed by Pike and Lester. Seeing the ongoing match, the three men stopped at the edge of the practice floor. One of the fighters thought he perceived a split second of distraction in his opponent and triggered his attackÑa downward slash meant to split his opponent's head had it been a real sword; but apparently he had misjudged because in the next instant he reeled backwards with a livid red weal across the right side of his neck and a horrified chagrin on his face. Sinking to his knees, he bowed deeply to the victor.

Master Goodnaught clapped his hands twice and the whole class ran to form up in ranks. ÒWe have a visitor who is a black belt in Ken Pao Ri.Ó He motioned for Richie to stand up.

Feeling his neck flushing, Rich Rodney stood up. He was about to blurt that he was rusty, when Goodnaught cut him off.

ÒThe young fellow is a little rusty, but I think heÕll consent to work out for a spot of familiarization back and forth.Ó Goodnaught smiled widely, taking the pressure off the situation. ÒNo contact on either side. We canÕt have Brother Richard banged up. HeÕs got a razorfin to catch tomorrow.Ó Behind him, Pike flashed a smile. ÒAlso,Ó Goodnaught continued, ÒBrother Richard will be coming to stay with us in about a year and a half, so we donÕt want to make a nasty impression like a gang of thugs.Ó He flipped his hands like he was dispersing a flock of chickens and the students scattered to sit around the edges of the hall.

Loosening his shoulders and stomach as best he could, Richie jogged to the center of the floor.

ÒAre we beautifully cramped up from watching the practice?Ó Master Goodnaught asked.

ÒA little, Sensei,Ó Richie admitted, self-consciously. A lot of information about the future had assailed him in a brief flash, and he hadnÕt even asked. Or paid. All the students were watching intently to see what their Master wanted to show them with this person.

ÒGood,Ó the big, ugly monk said. ÒWhat would you do if I tried to break your nose like this?Ó With no warning, he threw an underhand punch that swept toward RichieÕs nose.

At the last possible instant, RichieÕs forearm came up to block the punch aside. He took several quick steps backward.

Goodnaught laughed good-naturedly. ÒReal fighting is never fair,Ó he continued. ÒJacopo taught you that, I trust?Ó

Richie nodded and waited for the next onslaught.

ÒYou other three can wander about in the gardens or anywhere that pleases you,Ó Goodnaught said, looking directly at Rita. ÒIÕll send someone to call you for dinner.Ó He paused. ÒActually, thereÕs a spot down by the brook where it empties into the Bay. The Mighty Wunderman might find something of interest there; but donÕt let him fall in.Ó

Now that she was going to have Pike to herself for awhile, Rita found it annoying to be shooed out of the practice hall. This was very interesting stuff, after all. She really should stick around to see that R.R. didnÕt get too banged up. But when Pike motioned for her, she stood up and walked out under the arch like a perfect little chicken.

The atmosphere was changed with a drugged expectancy as if a spell lay over the jungle glen they had entered. Even though Rita didnÕt exactly believe in magic, she could scarcely put one foot in front of the other on the stony path that ran down the east side of the monastery property through the towering ceiba trees that plunged the turgid jungle creek into perpetual twilight. Small talk was not permitted by the strange mood of the forest. It robbed Rita of her usual verbal means of blowing the pressure valve. The path was narrow. They walked single file beneath the towering white-trunked trees. Lester gawked at the overhead canopy, humming tunelessly to himself. RitaÕs footsteps dragged. Without exactly needing to, she reached out to Pike for support, linking her arm in his. Instantly, the heaviness dispelled. Birds began chirping. The drowsy sound of bees and other insects became part of mellow shafts of sunlight leaking through the leafy canopy. A monkey high in the overhead chittered at them.

ÒThis is a very strange place,Ó she whispered, leaning against him. ÒSince we started walking downhill, I canÕt remember why I was mad at you.Ó

ÒWhy were you..?Ó Pike asked.

ÒI canÕt remember,Ó she giggled. ÒIt must have been trivial. Most of the things I get mad about are.Ó She paused. They walked along following Lester, who appeared to be listening for something, or to something. ÒDo you know about stress factors?Ó she asked.

ÒI suppose so; but why donÕt you tell me what you mean.Ó

ÒWell, changing your job is a big stress factor, also changing your living conditions like moving onto RichieÕs boat instead of being on the Jumper. YouÕre under a lot of stress this year whether you like it or not. ThatÕs twenty points for each of those. Also a financial loss when the Jumper got damaged, coupled with no chance to make real money by winning the Tournament. Also stressful loss of prestige, and no advertising perksÑcertainly no new ones. Then a new romance which is also mega-stress, even if itÕs going perfectly. In short, youÕre about maxed out for stress.Ó

ÒI wouldnÕt entirely agree with that. All in all, weÕre holding up pretty well.Ó

ÒAnd in addition, R.R.Õs bumbling act is very stressful just to be around, even if he has a good heart.Ó

ÒThatÕs true.Ó

ÒOf course, itÕs true. And catching a giant fish is very stressful, and dangerous. Even the Tournament itself is set up to be as stressful as possiblyÑall parts of it, win or lose.Ó

Pike raised his eyebrows up to his hairline. He quickly totaled up all the hidden stress he hadnÕt taken into account.

ÒThen Lester turning into a guru or something. June leaving the crew. R.R.Õs mother hanging around. Pirates. Fighting with Daddy. A score of a hundred stress points caroms most people into the hospital or the loony bin.Ó

Pike looked a little concerned. He certainly couldnÕt afford to get sick.

ÒHeÕs got a real strong constitution,Ó Lester chimed in. ÒThrives on my cooking, donÕt he?Ó He sniggered to himself. ÒSay, hear that sweet singing?Ó He cocked his ear to listen, and then stepped out briskly as if heÕd found a true bead on the sound.

ÒCan you hear anything?Ó Pike whispered into RitaÕs ear.

She shook her head in the negative.

ÒWhat would you say to getting married, then?Ó he whispered softly. ÒThat would add even a little more stress to our lives.Ó

She hesitated. Pike felt her hand on his arm go kind of limp. Bad timing, he thought. Big mistake, but taking it back would make things worse, so he left the question hanging on the jungle air.

ÒThatÕs a bold suggestion, Captain Resnick, and a non-sequitur,Ó Rita replied after they had walked perhaps thirty feet down the hill. ÒI thought you werenÕt the marrying kind.Ó

ÒIÕm not.Ó

ÒThen whatÕs on your mind? Should I assume that was one of your jokes, and let you off the hook?Ó

Pike thought about telling her that Thomas had put him up to the deed; but knew instinctively that would make her angry. She wasnÕt angry nowÑshe was tempted and a little wary. It was much better to keep her non-angry if he didnÕt want her to storm off again.

ÒFor me, itÕs a good idea,Ó he said, steadily. He slid his arm around her slender waist. ÒMy only hesitation is...there must be more worthy candidates than me hovering around somewhere, although I hate to admit that I have any grievous faults.Ó

She smiled at his attempt. ÒMaybe IÕm not looking for other candidates. I think IÕve made that fairly clear.Ó

ÒI guess so.Ó

ÒBut IÕm still very ambivalent about marriage. ItÕs tempting, but I feel a little strange about it.Ó

ÒI donÕt have a very good track record,Ó he admitted.

ÒNobody does. ThatÕs the point. Marriage is a meat grinder of some sort. I donÕt know how it ever became so institutionalized.Ó

ÒIt might keep us from drifting apart.Ó That sounded lame even to Pike, so he added, ÒI guess that sounds lame, but IÕm kind of out on the limb since I went ahead and asked.Ó

She squeezed his hand. ÒThe whole thing is lame. People drift apart whether theyÕre married or not. IÕd like to know why that happens before I marry anyone, even you.Ó

Pike didnÕt answer. They walked on, following LesterÕs gimpy downhill gait. Lester was making a rather loud humming sound. It would have been very strange humming if they hadnÕt known him, or hadnÕt known that various holy men thought Lester was a high roller. It was pretty strange anyway, Pike decided. The humming kept trying to get inside his chest. Once again he felt like an outsider after nearly a lifetime spent with this fellow. Would it be possible to find out about this stuff without becoming strange himself? It certainly seemed that the opportunity was being put squarely in his path.

ÒWell, then, what if I said yes?Ó Rita asked, suddenly stopping on the pathÑforcing Pike to stop with her. ÒHow could I be sure youÕd still love me in five years. Sometimes you donÕt even love me now.Ó

ÒI think I pretty much always love you, even when I might not act like it.Ó

ÒSome days I donÕt love you for hours at a time, and then I do again. Can anybody explain that to me? Can you? I think we might have a good, deep relationship, but how do I explain those lapses. What if they get longer.Ó

ÒI donÕt really have an answer for that; but just based on the life-styles weÕre used to, we couldnÕt find a better match.Ó

ÒReally..? YouÕre used to having a wife with you all the time so you can ignore her?Ó

ÒNo, I meant weÕre both used to boat life and the Tournament.Ó

ÒMaybe IÕm not always interested in fishing. ItÕs so isolating. After you catch one big fish or twenty, whatÕs the big deal about catching more?Ó

ÒBasically, it pays the bills.Ó

ÒNot a good enough reason.Ó

ÒNot for you; but if I donÕt catch fish, I donÕt have independence. If youÕve noticed, IÕm very keen on independence.Ó

ÒIÕm not a half-wit. I still say the monetary aspect isnÕt a good enough reason.Ó

ÒIt would be silly to get into a fight about this, but have you ever needed to earn money?Ó

ÒIÕm sure IÕll be able to, if thatÕs your question.Ó Rita bristled somewhat at having her capacity attacked, even in theory. ÒBesides, Daddy would probably disown me if I married you. He kids himself now that IÕm staying with R.R.Ó

ÒHe almost had me convinced.Ó

ÒMost rich kids I know spend their lives worrying about their parentsÕ money. I really donÕt want to do that, Pike. Something gets ruined in all those kids. Except for R.R. When I first met him, he told me about the foundation his lawyer arranged. R.R. never worried about how much his mother had, or if heÕd get it. So I decided not to worry either. You donÕt think I turned into a neurotic rat like other rich kids, do you?Ó

ÒNot exactly neurotic, but you are kind of rodentish.Ó

ÒNice way to talk about your future wife,Ó she chided. A jungle bird squawked its loud agreement. Lester had toddled on down the path, out of sight. They were quite alone in a tiny patch of Paradise.

ÒSo what do you say,Ó Pike asked, reasonably. ÒIf weÕre going to do it, we may as well do it now. I canÕt think of anybody better than Thomas to do the ceremony.Ó

Rita backed up a couple of steps so that she was standing off the path besides an exotic bush full of yellow flowers. ÒIÕm not sure. This isnÕt quite the way I pictured it happening.Ó She smiled mischievously, and took another step off the path.

ÒYou donÕt like Thomas?Ó

ÒThomas is fine. Getting married by a nasty old saint is fitting, somehow, if heÕll do it. Maybe heÕd rather abuse us than marry us.Ó She smiled again, inviting him to keep guessing.

Pike looked down the path where Lester had gone. Thomas had warned him to keep an eye on LesterÑand more than half of him wanted to go see whatever weird deal Les was up to. It was bound to be interestingÑas interesting as a put-up marriage proposal, no matter how important Rita might be to the rest of his life. Bad timing. What could have made him blurt out a proposal at the wrong time? Of course, he didnÕt really know that Rita would start playing games. It had seemed reasonable to assume that sheÕd be interested in Lester, too. But no. Typically, the code word ÒmarriageÓ drove every other thought from her mind, even when the answer was a turn-down.

ÒI have to keep an eye on the Swami,Ó he said, suddenly feeling an urgent need to do just that. He started purposefully down the path, motioning for Rita to follow. ÒCome on,Ó he stated rather bluntly. ÒI donÕt want to lose both of you in this bog.Ó

It was kind of strange how his feet were moving downhill. They had started by themselves and showed no inclination of waiting for Rita to catch up. Strange stuff. He had witnessed this kind of body reaction quite a few timesÑmostly in business situations where he had jumped up from a table and stalked out; or in highly dangerous fishing situations, like when he had plunged in after Lester without thinking. He never knew what to make of his body when it took over from his brain. Sometimes it screwed him up, sometimes it saved the day; but once in motion, he couldnÕt stop it. The path opened one way.

Rita, for her part, was miffed. Her private vision of a marriage proposal was for Pike to go down on one knee and be slightly gallant about winning her. A faerie book sheÕd had as a little girl had an engraving of a knight on his armor clad knee, asking for the hand of a fair maiden. SheÕd always thought that was a nice touch to approaching matrimony, and she was prepared to say yes as soon as Pike played along with her slightly frivolous request. She had been certain that he would indulge her. Why not? It wouldnÕt cost him anything. Then suddenly he was galloping down the trail, leaving herÑwell, leaving her. Anger prickled at her ego. What was she, a naughty child to be walked away from? What an asshole he was! It would be a hot day on an ice moon when she married an asshole like that! Jumping back onto the path, she marched after him, intent on giving him a good-sized piece of her mind.

As luck would have it, they were only a few minutes from a limp tropical estuary that drained the jungle and fed into an ocean bay. Pike flashed his eyes over the shoreline and picked out the supine figure of Lester Wunderman, stretched out on the rather slender trunk of a flowering tree that overhung the brackish water. He was crooning to a sleek manatee looking creature whose head was sticking out of the dark water nearly up to his dorsal fin. The animal was crooning back. Pike watched in fascination as the animal started bobbing slowly straight up and down, crooning extravagantly. It sounded like a cross between a sheepÕs bleating and the sonorous melody of a humpbacked whale. Bubbles spouted when the creatureÕs snout went under water, but the song grew stronger, supported and echoing through the water which was its natural medium. And there seemed to be words in the song. Pike could almost make them out. He walked a little closer, straining to hear.

ÒI donÕt find that very amusing,Ó Rita blurted, stopping behind him with her hands defiantly on her hips.

Shushing her with a gesture toward Lester and the creature, Pike whispered, ÒListen..! Can you make out what itÕs saying?Ó

ÒWhat is it?Ó she whispered back, meaning what kind of animal or fish.

ÒI can almost understand what heÕs saying. Something about fish, and he wants Lester to go surfing with him.Ó He knelt beside the path and cocked his best ear toward the thing, which obviously wasnÕt a manatee. Manatees, at least any that Pike had ever heard of, were herbivorous and they didnÕt surf.

Seeing that Pike was kneeling in rather exactly the position of the knight in the faerie tale, Rita seized her opportunity. ÒDo you still want to marry me?Ó she asked, grabbing his hand.

ÒSure, I just said so.Ó He watched closely as Lester edged farther out on the tree trunk, leaning his head over the side so he could sing down to his buddy.

ÒOkay then. I accept.Ó Rita bent down impulsively and kissed him on the side of the mouth, assuming his head would turn toward her at the moment of conjugal surrender. But as Lester wormed his way out on the tree trunk, the roots of the tree broke loose from the loamy soil. The flowers and foliage of the young tree sighed into the quiet lagoon, and with them went Lester Wunderman, stroking away in his trance.

Breaking free from RitaÕs embrace, Pike Resnick, rescuer of lost cooks, took three gigantic strides through the ferny undergrowth and dove recklessly into the brackish water. In his defense, the manatee creature didnÕt look dangerous, and Thomas Goodnaught had already warned that Lester might need rescuing.

Lester was still swimming in the branches of the tree when Pike reached him. Grabbing a handful of LesterÕs shirt collar, he put his feet down to test the depth of the water and found he could stand up. The bottom was firm and the water was only up to his shoulders. Danger over.

ÒCome on, partner,Ó he said, aiming his voice into LesterÕs ear. ÒYou need a little more control over these states, if youÕre going to indulge in them.Ó

The creature poked its blunt beak up a few feet away from Pike and fixed his left eye on the hero.

ÒI would have kept him afloat,Ó it said, without visible petulance or hurt feelings. ÒBut doing two of you at once in the surf would be very difficult.Ó

ÒI can understand you,Ó Pike said, rather flabbergasted. He had never talked to a fish before.

ÒAnd I can understand you, too. Inter-species communication, wouldnÕt you say? Master Good kept promising heÕd send me some outsiders to talk to, and here you are.Ó

ÒWhat kind of thing or...person are you?Ó Pike asked. ÒSorry, thatÕs not very well put. I guess IÕm a little surprised that we can communicate.Ó

ÒNonsense. Wonder Man was telling me about his teacher, who is certainly not of your species. And unless IÕm mistaken there are many, many races of beings flying here and there in their spectral ships. You have no problem in believing they can talk.Ó

Pike renewed his grip on LesterÕs collar. He smiled straight into the creatures face. ÒI donÕt have a problem in believing you can talk, now that weÕre talking.Ó

ÒAre you all right?!Ó Rita yelled from shore. She seemed somewhat alarmed.

Pike gestured a circle of his thumb and forefinger. ÒCan we move closer to shore,Ó he said to the fish. ÒWould you be comfortable with that?Ó

ÒWell, actually, I need about five feet of depth to keep my head out of water. ThatÕs why Wonder Man climbed out in that tree.Ó

ÒIt seemed like a good idea at the time,Ó Lester said, coming back to himself. ÒThis fellow wants to taste some other oceans. I told him you might come up with a way to take him along. Think what a plus he could be for next year. Maybe we could seal one of the cabins and flood it. ThereÕs no real place for a tank on deck, is there?Ó

ÒI guess youÕve got it thought through pretty well, pard.Ó Pike could easily see the advantages of having a fish scout that could talk; but flooding a compartment would be expensive besides being heavy for flying. Probably not impossible, however. ÒIt might be a little dangerous for him.Ó

ÒHe knows that. ItÕs dangerous for him here. Water folks donÕt have walls and doors. I never thought of that until recently. They donÕt have no place to really rest and be safe their whole life. AinÕt that something..?Ó

ÒDo you have a name?Ó Pike asked. The creature was very interesting looking. He didnÕt fit neatly into any category of aquatic creature that Pike knew, and he knew many. Rather like a cross between a slim walrus and a porpoiseÑyet not.

ÒMost things that are good to eat call me, Big. I enjoy that. Always have. ÒLook out, here comes, Big!Ó Then they try to escape or hide.Ó Big let out several whistles of pure enjoyment at the thought. He seemed to be grinning, then his smile vanished. ÒOthers, Sharp Teeth and Long Shadow, call me Juicy. I donÕt like that name. It makes me skittish.Ó

ÒMe, too,Ó Pike said, feeling a tremor of unease pass through his submerged body. Long Shadow could be stalking them right now, gliding silently. ÒIÕd feel more comfortable if we were in shallower water, and our companion, who is a female of our species, would be interested in hearing our conversation. If necessary, we could hold your head out of water.Ó

ÒLong Shadows seldom come on this side of the breakers. They donÕt like the taste. Nothing I fear lives here, but it would be interesting to meet your female. Do you know that Master Good keeps a floating tree here?Ó

Pike looked at Lester. ÒI think he means a boat,Ó Lester replied.

ÒGreat idea,Ó Pike said. Feeling the heebie-jeebies gnawing at his legs, he immediately started wading toward shore, dragging Lester with him. ÒOld Goodnaught warned me that you might fall in the water. Did you hear him say that?Ó

ÒMaybe, IÕm not sure. It seems familiar, but I kind of tranced out while he was talking. He must have zoned in on my pattern. ItÕs like that when you get receptive.Ó

ÒWeÕll have to talk about that, one of these days,Ó Pike said, looking for an easy place to climb out.

ÒWeÕre talking now, ainÕt we?Ó

ÒNot exactly. Talking means sitting around and getting it worked out so we can both understand.Ó He called to Rita, ÒCan you see a boat stashed around here?Ó

ÒWhat is that adorable creature?Ó she asked, staring at Big, who had cruised up to within a few yards of shore.

ÒHeÕs a potential crew member. Give us a hand, would you, love?Ó

Rita reached out to help Pike up the steep bank. ÒDid you tell Lester the news?Ó

ÒNot yet,Ó he said, climbing out and hauling Lester up behind him.

ÒItÕs a real good idea,Ó Lester chortled, giving Rita a very wet hug and a peck on the forehead. ÒHe needs somebody to look after him, when IÕm busy. DonÕt worry too much, Reety, every year ainÕt going to be as screwy as this one. HellÕs bells, if Lillith was here, we could make it a double ceremony.Ó He chuckled and unhanded the young woman, who looked a little bemused. ÒFortunately, she ainÕt here,Ó he added.

Lester turned to Pike and shook his hand. ÒYou done the right thing finally. I was skeered you might not, just to be contrary. LetÕs find that boat.Ó He ambled off through the ferns. ÒWhere does he keep that floating tree?Ó he called to Big.

Big swam up the shoreline unable to talk because his mouth was under water; but he let off a series of loud sonic clicks when he was adjacent to an old rowboat tethered to a sapling.

ÒHere it is!Ó Lester yelled. ÒLooks almost seaworthy.Ó

ÒWhat is going on here?Ó Rita demanded, squeezing up close to Pike despite his wet condition.

ÒAnother chapter for your book,Ó he answered playfully. ÒIn which Pike and Rita meet their first talking fish. They also get a lesson in mind-reading from their beloved cook, Lester Wunderman. To top it off, they decided to get hitched, over her strong objections, and his supposed inability to make her happy for more than a few minutes at a time. Sounds like an exciting adventure book youÕre writing.Ó

ÒCan he really talk?Ó

ÒSure can. Speaks Galactic English real fine for a fish. The monks must have been working with him.Ó

Rita felt herself growing academically agitated. If an undersea creature could talk, think of the research papers she could write.

ÒMaybe heÕs not the only one that can talk,Ó she mused. ÒMaybe lots of the aquatic life here has pushed the language envelope. You know the 100th monkey theory. Whole family groups evolve overnight.Ó

ÒMaybe. Ask him. He wants to meet you. LetÕs get in the boat. Apparently, he canÕt talk in shallow water.Ó

ÒWell then, are we engaged, or what?Ó

Pike smiled happily. ÒHow about a very short engagement, and a long blissful marriage with lots of adventures?Ó He assisted his beautiful fiance into the blunt-ended rowboat that Lester had untied.

ÒIsnÕt it customary to have an engagement ring in your pocket when you propose, dear? Did you forget about that in the crush of excitement?Ó

ÒWhoops,Ó he laughed, patting his pocket. ÒI think it fell out while I was swimming.Ó Breaking a reed off at the waterline, he quickly trimmed it to the right size with his pocket knife. Then with utmost concentration and humility, he wrapped it around RitaÕs ring finger, tucking the hollow ends together. ÒThat will do until we can find a proper one, wonÕt it? Lester is the witness.Ó

ÒI seen it,Ó Lester vowed.

Rita smiled dazzlingly and held her left hand out to admire the reed ring. ÒI like it. Temporary life, temporary love.Ó

Wincing inwardly, Pike said nothing. His last marriage had been difficult and not much fun at all. And he needed to contact Alex about the computer stuff. That would probably get him a well-deserved snub. Yes, his life was going to be a little full soon. New wife. Possibly relatives-in-law visiting. A son who might want to spend at least some time on board, acquainting himself with fishing and George, and whatever wrinkles George had up his protein enhanced sleeveÑand a talking fish. Instead of a new fishing boat, he should probably get a luxury launch like the BaronÕs to house the entourage. That would be cute. The opposite of what heÕd always wanted. What had Thomas Goodnaught gotten him into?

ÒYouÕre what..?Ó Rich Rodney Tourbo gasped, gawking at the reed engagement ring. The gasp was involuntary, squeaking out before he had a chance to shut down any windows of expectation that opened onto his future with Rita. ÒDoesnÕt engagement lead to getting married?Ó he asked, pretending it was a jokeÑjust social banter. Inside, all his circuits were shorting out in sequence, leaving very little to work with in the way of social gracefulness. Physically, he was already a wreck. Two hours of being pummeled by one monk after another had battered his legs and ribs to the extent that he could barely walk. He knew from experience that morning would see him completely immobilized unless he could get a hot bath and a massage. And now this. It was too much.

Standing outside the martial arts gymnasium in the dappled sunlight, Rita smirked at him. ÒItÕs fairly conventional to marry someone whom youÕre living with, if they ask. You must have noticed that Pike and I have been cohabiting.Ó

Richie shrugged, mutely. He had assumed this fling would pass, like the others all had. ÒIt seems I misjudged the situation. Let me be the first to congratulate you.Ó He held out his hand.

ÒPlease donÕt make a scene,Ó Rita said, firmly. ÒIÕm telling you in private, so you can get used to the idea. You need to admit right now that I never supported your weird fantasies about you and me. I always said you were dreaming, isnÕt that correct?Ó

ÒIf you say so,Ó Richie answered, glumly.

ÒNo, admit it, bozo! I never gave you one shred of anything except friendship. I never one time built up your hopes, and you know I didnÕt. So say it, and letÕs clear the air.Ó

Subconsciously, Richie clamped his lips together. He shrugged again and kicked at a pebble.

ÒAdmit it! I mean it, otherwise IÕm going to do something rash.Ó

ÒIÕd rather wrestle with a pig.Ó

RitaÕs foot moved in a blur. She kicked him as hard as she could in the left shin.

ÒOoow!!Ó The kick landed on the exact spot that one of his recent sparring partners had been working on. Shin pain blackened his awareness. He sat down on the rocky ground clutching his wounded leg. ÒNot fair! I never did any rough stuff with you.Ó

ÒDo you want to be friends, or not?Ó she hissed. ÒYou wonÕt like your life if I desert you. Think about it.Ó

ÒTake it easy, would you? Cripes almighty. Instead of turning into a whirlwind, you could give me a few minutes to get used to the idea of being a bachelor for the next fifty years.Ó

ÒI donÕt have time. WeÕre getting married as soon as His Highness Goodnaught feels like doing the ceremony. For a change, you could think of the turmoil I might be in, instead of always thinking about yourself.Ó

ÒToday..?Ó R.R. squeaked.

ÒYes, today! ThatÕs why itÕs a bit urgent to know whether weÕre staying with the boat or not.Ó

ÒWhat are you saying? WeÕre still in the middle of the Tournament. Of course, you guys are staying with meÑarenÕt you?Ó A glimmer of understanding came slowly into R.R.Õs eyes. ÒOh,Ó he said, fully comprehending at last. ÒHow long will you be gone?Ó

ÒGone? Speak English, would you?Ó

ÒWell, I presume youÕll want to go somewhere romantic on your honeymoon.Ó

Rita laughed rather more harshly than Cinderella.

ÒDonÕt worry about me,Ó Richie said. ÒIÕll get along with Lester. Hopefully, we can catch a razorfin to stay qualified. WeÕll be fine, probably. I was just wondering how long youÕll be gone. I might be able to use PikeÕs advise on Swampfish, but donÕt cut your trip short for me. Do you have plenty of money?Ó he asked, adding a note of generosity to his hopeless misery.

ÒYouÕre intentionally not getting the picture, Richard, and itÕs making me furious! IÕm going to explain this once more.Ó She sat down beside him and took a deep breath. ÒTry to listen, and stay away from the maudlin trip youÕre going on. This is important to you. The other love stuff is just a dream you made up that I never agreed to and I still donÕt.Ó She jabbed him on the arm. ÒOkay?Ó

ÒFine,Ó he said. ÒTalk away.Ó

ÒFirst, IÕve been sleeping with Pike all year, since before he became your captain. Nothing is going to change about that. WeÕre getting married, thatÕs all. Pike is a relatively poor fisherman, thatÕs why he took the job with you in the first place, in case you hadnÕt noticed. But weÕre not using my money to go on a honeymoon. Why..? Because Pike would never leave you in the lurch. Segumi 6 is a very weird place. There are things in those swamps that you donÕt even want to think about. Without a guide, youÕd be in deep shit. But itÕs not in PikeÕs nature to quit on a friend. Neither would I, for that matter. The only person who can fuck up your fishing is you.Ó

ÒWhy would I..?Ó R.R. asked, innocent as the wind.

ÒBy being pissed off about the wedding, obviously. ThatÕs why IÕm taking the time to explain it to you.

Richie thought about that. ÒYou think IÕd be angry at you?Ó

ÒStranger things have happened, dumbo. You might recall that a few of my ex-boyfriends have been somewhat surly.Ó

ÒAm I like those jerks? Give me a break, Rita.Ó

ÒSo then, youÕre completely committed to acting normal for the rest of the Tournament?Ó

ÒWhy not? If youÕre going to marry somebody other than me, it may as well be Pike. Besides, maybe it wonÕt last forever.Ó

ÒIt will as far as youÕre concerned! IÕve been taking care of you so long that youÕre like my little brother. How could I marry my brother? Get real.Ó

ÒYeah, I guess so,Ó he said, lowering his head in dejection. But actually, he wasnÕt dejected at all. A glimmering of awareness was starting to penetrate his shell of preconception. The truth was, heÕd never had much of any sexual feelings for RitaÑand heÕd always tried to turn that lack of response into a positive. She was like his sister. But if she was marrying Pike, it meant he could marry another woman who did turn him on. Somebody fabulous. It would be a field day of auditioning prospective wives! Holy moley, his true self could shine like a beacon of sex. Hot darn!

ÒWow, Rita,Ó he exclaimed, brightening to an amazing degree. ÒThanks for explaining that brother and sister thing! ThatÕs very good thinking. I might not have figured that out until it was too late. Gosh, thatÕs great.Ó He slapped her on the kneecap. ÒI mean it! This is really great. When is the wedding.Ó

Rita had been expecting Richie to acquiesce to her wishes; but not quite so enthusiastically. She squinted at him, trying to take in the whole picture. His happiness seemed genuine enoughÑrelief almost, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. ÒYou are a strange duck, R.R.,Ó she said, getting up and brushing dust off her seat.

ÒDitto. Is your family coming to the event?Ó

ÒNo, and stay off the radio about it. This is going to be a fait accompli before Daddy hears a word about it. I mean it.Ó

ÒOkay..! Why would I tell anyone, just because IÕm happy for you.Ó

ÒGood. IÕm going to shower and change into my bridal jeans or something. Who would have thought I wouldnÕt at least get a white dress?Ó

The ceremony went off with a minimum of fuss, down by the bayou so that Big could bob up and down in the water, watching. Thomas Goodnaught had clothed both the bride and the groom in homespun white robes. Making the robes to size had delayed the ceremony until an hour before dusk. Lester was the Best Man, and R.R. stood by to give the bride away, a kind of brother/father surrogate. The monks, all of whom were in a deep trance of some sort, surrounded the couple in a semi-circleÑintoning an atonal hum. Thomas, also in a trance, stood swaying in front of them. The gathered throng remained in the trance configuration for some number of minutes, evidently lost in the ether. Pike and Rita were interested, but rather eager to get on to the kissing part.

Suddenly, ThomasÕ body jerked and his eyes popped open on eerie whiteness. The eyeballs rolled slowly back into place, but not quite into focus.

ÒSpace wanderers,Ó he shouted rather loudly. ÒThere will be a change in the order of things.Ó He made several arcane signs with his fingers, like a warding off. ÒI pronounce you man and wife. Stars protect you. Kiss the bride,Ó he snapped. ÒI have to go back.Ó Re-closing his eyes, Goodnaught sank to his knees on the spot and reentered the trance state with his monks.

Pike looked at Rita, then over at Lester. Lester shrugged. ÒI reckon you ought to kiss the bride,Ó he suggested. ÒI guess youÕre married.Ó

Pike and Rita had been holding hands. He bent over and kissed her. ÒHappy wedding, honey,Ó he said, after releasing her soft lips. ÒAt least, you canÕt say you had a normal wedding.Ó

ÒNo. At least, I canÕt say that,Ó she agreed.

ÒItÕs been kind of a full day. What do you say, we go back to the boat and get a weather report on Blizwak, or something.Ó He smiled, urgently.

ÒI guess,Ó she said, squeezing his hand. ÒBut donÕt you want to know what heÕs seeing? It might be important.Ó Curious young wifeÑdetermined to get all available juice from her marriage ceremony. After all, this was it.

ÒI thought we were dismissed,Ó Pike said.

ÒI wouldnÕt say so,Ó Lester opined. ÒHe just acted real busy. HeÕll probably tell us whatever news there is when he comes back. I think they used the ceremony for a boostÑseemed like it. He probably owes us the story, if you ainÕt feeling too honeymoony.Ó Lester grinned.

ÒWell, sure,Ó Pike agreed, uncomfortably. Obviously, both Lester and Rita wanted to stay. ÒWhat do you say, Rich? WeÕve got a pretty hard day of drift fishing tomorrow.Ó

ÒIÕm just along for the ride,Ó Richie said, easily. With a minor flourish, he pulled a small scroll from the sleeve of his Ken Pao Ri blouse and handed it to Pike. ÒAs of today, youÕre the proud owner and Captain of the Comparative Humanity. IÕm just a passenger. Happy wedding. YouÕre getting a fine girl. SheÕs like a sister to me, so that almost makes us brothers.Ó

Seeing PikeÕs speechless shock, he grinned happily. ÒDidnÕt seem right for you not to have a boat.Ó He winked at Rita and drew a plain envelope out of a deeper recess of the sleeve. Handing it to her, he said, ÒJust in case the old Bullfrog disowns you, this might tide you and the kiddies over for a few weeks.Ó He gave her a hug. In the envelope was a check for two million Confederation dollars.

Without opening the envelope, Rita tucked it in her waist band, and punched Richie on the shoulderÑthe very spot that a monkÕs kendo stick had gotten through his guard and clacked him a good one. He winced, and attempted to smile at her.

ÒDonÕt go overboard on giving stuff away,Ó she warned.

ÒWhen youÕre wealthy, you have to give big presents or people think youÕre a heel,Ó he apologized to Pike. ÒRita explained that to me one day. But what would you say is the perfect present to take to a Blizwak party, if you want them to think youÕre maximum friendly? The women, I mean.Ó

ÒI guess IÕd ask Donny Lembruck. Seems like heÕs pretty current on that situation. HeÕs probably caught up on his beauty rest by now.Ó

ÒGood idea. What do you say to the three of us doing a little party-hopping when we get back?Ó

ÒSomebody sure ought to go with you,Ó Pike said, dryly. ÒI could do without a repeat on seasickness.Ó

ÒHoly Pete,Ó Richie exclaimed. ÒThatÕs right. I drank way too much last time. Was that really only last night? It seems like about a week ago.Ó

ÒWhy donÕt we go partying with Richie?Ó Rita asked Pike. ÒIÕm not planning on staying in every night. Are you?Ó

ÒWell, no; but speaking of parties, what I need to do right now is run over to Amora and get my computer out of the Jumper.Ó

ÒAmora?Ó

ÒSort of a very short honeymoon on Amora. And anyway, Mrs. Resnick, have you ever been to one of these Blizwak shindigs?Ó

She shook her head no. ÒDaddy doesnÕt go ashore there very much. Litton and By seem to enjoy the parties, but come to think of it, they never invite me. ThatÕs odd. IÕm not exactly a hot house flower, am I?Ó

ÒWell, no; but youÕre probably a smidgen light on local history. As hunter/gatherers, the Blizwaks indulge in ecstatic rituals, one of the main features of which is wife swapping, which is fairly common out in the space ways. If youÕve got a wife, youÕre supposed to swap. I suppose we could talk about it, if youÕre into that.Ó

ÒHmmm,Ó Rita answered, wondering what had prevented her from being curious enough to know that. Maybe sheÕd been in school at this time of year or at camp. ÒItÕs kind of strange that I donÕt remember being on Blizwak very much.

Lester cleared his throat. ÒI think your Dad often sends your mother on a shopping trip during this week. ItÕs kind of dull to stay with the fleet all the time.Ó

ÒShopping..! ThatÕs it! We came here today on a shopping trip! We go on one every year. YouÕre pretty smart, Lester.Ó

ÒMaybe we ought to step off to the side a little ways,Ó Lester suggested. A trance state is kind of dangerous and delicate. He didnÕt want any of these monks to spin into the truly strange regions because the wedding party was chattering too loudly. He walked down toward the waterÕs edge.

Big was still bobbing up and down. ÒGood, good,Ó he shouted in a reedy tweet. ÒNow, you can make little space people. I will teach them to swim very well.Ó

ÒThat would be a big advantage for them,Ó Rita said sweetly, her sarcasm lost on the porpoise.

ÒYes,Ó Big squealed. ÒVery. Oh...I was going to inquire how you mate on dry land. It must be quite awkward.Ó

ÒWell, sometimes it is, Big, and sometimes it ainÕt,Ó Lester stated. ÒItÕs a matter of chemistry.Ó

Big disappeared under water for a minute. His reappearance was preceded by a blast of bubbles. ÒI would enjoy observing a mating,Ó he whistled. ÒThis chemistry must be like an artificial buoyancy. Am I correct? Pike and Rita are probably very chemical.Ó

Pike rolled his eyes to heaven. A porpoise anthropologist. Just what he needed to complete his new crew. Of course...now that he was a skipper, he could sell one of the boats to finance the water environment cabin for Big, couldnÕt he? It was a very handsome gift that Rich had made him. ÒIÕm completely overwhelmed about the boat, Richie,Ó he said, offering his hand. ÒThanks. I donÕt even know what else to say, itÕs such an elegant present.Ó

Richie colored slightly. ÒItÕs nothing much. A married man should have a house for his wife.Ó He twisted one leg around the other and tripped himself. ÒBesides,Ó he said, sitting up in a clump of broom grass. ÒI know I must have been kind of a pain to you. Truthfully though, IÕve never had a better time in my whole life.Ó

ÒThe funÕs not over yet. We still need to catch a razorfin. Thomas said you would, if I heard correctly, so IÕm not too worried about that.Ó

Richie nodded his head affirmatively.

ÒWell, I hate to harp on this; but I have to go to Amora. ItÕs all right with me if you guys stay here. All IÕm doing is unhooking my old computer and taking it aboard. Thomas said IÕd be better off in an emergency with the old one. Maybe George has a glitch hard wired in, or something; but it would be foolish to disregard what Thomas saw. Then we all need a few hours of shut eye if we want to be fishing at first light. This place is five hours behind Blizwak.Ó

ÒSeems to me that we might want to hear just which Òorder of thingsÓ is changing even if it means missing a day of fishing,Ó Richie said, trying to sound reasonable. ÒIÕll try harder to follow your suggestions when we get back. I mean, I know itÕs been mostly my fault that we havenÕt caught one so far. This is kind of a good lesson for me.Ó His face brightened at the thought. ÒWhy donÕt you and Rita go? It would be like a mini-honeymoon and you could pick us up tomorrow. IÕm sure these guys would love a chance to beat me up some more, when they come out of their seance.Ó

ÒThat sounds pretty good to me,Ó Pike said. He looked at Rita for confirmation. ÒIt would be liberating to get away from these geeks for a few hours, wouldnÕt it?Ó

Rita smiled a wifely smile. ÒPerfect,Ó she said.

ÒAnyway, the fish will be spooky tomorrow,Ó Lester added. ÒTake your time.Ó

* * *

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MORE RAZORFINS

"Let me amend anything I might have said before. Winning is finding

someone who loves you for who you are. Nothing else comes close."

Pike Resnick

quoted in History of the Tournament

Spoken like a husband trying to get on his wife's good side. Ed.

With two and a half days left to land a razorfin, or be disqualified, the black rubber skiff drifted lazily outside a thick stand of reeds at the extreme southern end of Lake Pel. No sign of a working fish was seen horizon to horizon.

The storm had knocked down roughly half of the shoreline vegetation, leaving the fins free range to dine on the underwater morsels without revealing themselves. It was not a fun situation for the fishermen. For the fish, of course, it was fine.

Richie had learned to cast the bait stick with a very delicate touch, thanks to several hours of practice on Aixi under the tutelage of Lester Wunderman and Thomas Goodnaught. Casting a bait stick was a way for the eighty-fifth richest person in the Galaxy to digest the odious news of disaster that Master Goodnaught had revealed without going bonkers. Lester, being the paramour of the fifth richest person, didnÕt have quite the same problem with the news of imminent financial collapse, because after all, he knew how to cook.

According to Goodnaught, a financial panic would be caused by a space-born microbe that had recently gotten loose from a recycling facility on Neuman Declo, a corporate owned research planetoid in the Meck System. The hungry little designer microbe was developed to eat precious metals from used circuit boardsÑthen to excrete these same metals, minus the bonding glues, into swamp vats where reclaiming different metals was easy due to their specific molecular weights. But the voracious critters fooled the smart scientists by producing offspring whose single cell bodies were encased in a very hard protein/epoxy shell capable of withstanding the rigors of outer space. The recycling staff was careless, not noticing the mutation until it was way to late. By then, vast numbers had escaped the minimal restraints of the laboratories, and the atmosphere of the planetoid, by drifting out on air currents and by hitching rides on departing cigar crafts. Increasing armadas of the tiny fuckers were being blown hither and thither by the winds of deep space. Soon, probably within five years, no circuit board would be safe. Not anywhere.

ÒOh, oh, oh,Ó Thomas Goodnaught had laughed, Òsentient species will have to rely on their own brains again. Imagine how annoying that will be,Ó he chortled, while the winds of chaos blew.

Pike heard about it the next morning when he returned from Amora with his bride. He saw instantly that it meant the end of space travel, at least as it was known today. The Thruster would still work with a few modifications, but navigation across the wide space oceans would be impossible without a computer. Unfortunately, Thomas had a very high percentage rate of seeing the future accurately. The fishing tournaments would end. And Pike, and everybody else, would be trapped on one planet again, until technology found a solution. The only question was which planetÐin that he and his compatriots had a choice.

Or could precautions be taken to protect the computers? Maybe. But clean rooms had to be very clean indeed to protect against a microbe. Air locks? That would be kind of a drag on a fishing vessel. In fact, it wouldnÕt work. If a microbe could survive the ultra violet and intense cold of space, eventually it would get into the finest clean room. Even a sealed computer casing with filtered air wouldnÕt be good enough. No, if this was a real threat, computers would die in agony. A cursory inquiry to Neuman DecloÕs top brass had rather confirmed ThomasÕ prediction. Their response was very evasive. A possible salvation would be re-engineering the circuit boards using a material that the microbe didnÕt like to eat. But that would take time.

What a pisser. Mainly, Pike was extremely annoyed that this had to happen just when things were starting to take shape. On the trip to Amora, he had struck a five year deal with George after telling him about the wedding. Now George was moping and replicating his files onto back-up discs and tapes that might survive until a system could be devised to keep circuit boards safe. He seemed convinced that this was a planned attack on artificial intelligence, lamenting the fact that some of his breed had been too sloppy in their transactions. Powerful all-protein beings were upset. Naturally, George was sure that when the restructuring took place, the designers would hard wire many more restrictive features, thereby trading creativity for safety.

Of course, until microbe Alzheimer's struck, he was free to pursue the deal, and his own ends. And who knew, something positive might turn up. The Òoff shoreÓ holding companies were already in the process of funding emergency research, thanks to George blowing the whistle. It seemed that Neuman Declo had been planning to sit quietly on the fuck upÑif it was a fuck upÑrather than face the anger. So George, in a very circumspect manner, had blown their cover. Thank Jobs for Goodnaught.

Obviously, Neuman Declo was history. It was just a matter of time before multiple law suits knocked them out of the water. The only question was, could the deep pockets of Neuman Barcode, the parent corporation, be gotten at? The richest corporation in the ConfederacyÑbrilliantly diversified from their original patent, Barcode now had its fingers in virtually everything. Had it been a corporate strategy to absorb the loss of Declo in order to let the microbe loose? Did they already have a replacement technology in place, and would they suddenly ÒdiscoverÓ it in the nick of time to save spacing. A play of that magnitude was risky business because in addition to having your pants sued off, corporate biggies could land in jail. Not only that, but once the R&D of your competitors got cranking, as it would, the chances of a better product surfacing were quite good. A very risky play.

Pike had found over the years that many things which seemed like a conspiracy were simply a fuck up, and many things that seemed fucked up had their source in conspiracy. He had learned not to trust corporations; and humans disappointed him constantly with their mean-spirited inability to do a job correctly. For these reasons, he had chosen the relatively simple life of a fisherman; but that life seemed about to end. Would the Tournament members agree to settle on one planet? Probably not. It would seem like small potatoes after the excitement and diversity they were used to.

It was a gorgeous sunny afternoon on Lake Pel, but Pike could hardly sit still in the skiffÑthey all should be planning a strategy for survival; but instead, every boat was out fishing. Business as usual, in the face of disaster. And he was, too, and doing damned poorly at it. His nervousness was probably leaking through the boat skin and affecting the fish. The height of irony would be to not catch a razorfin and get faulted out of the last Tournament.

Who was he kidding? The height of irony would be for the stupid virus to hitÑstranding them somewhere like stone-age Blizwak. Or how about the Segumi Swamps. That was a truly scary place and a scary thought. We could be part of JuneÕs tribe and fight swamp creatures. Oh, man. No fucking shit, the order of things was going to change. I need to get Alex rounded up and onto the boat with us.

ÒRemind me to call Alex as soon as we get back to the boat,Ó he said to Lester, who seemed to be dozing. HeÕd never seen Lester doze when there was fish at stake.

ÒWe should go to Aixi and set up for the duration,Ó Lester proposed, as if heÕd been party to PikeÕs thoughts. ÒHave Alex meet us there.Ó

ÒPerfect,Ó Richie chirped. ÒJust perfect. Everybody wins on that one.Ó

ÒAixi is crummy for fishing, except for talking fish,Ó Pike observed. Nevertheless, Aixi had some merit.

ÒRich,Ó Lester went on. ÒWhy donÕt you buy a whole set of different computers and sink them in epoxy or something impervious. Then when the microbes die out, weÕll have something to start over with.Ó

ÒBrilliant,Ó Richie rejoined. ÒI was almost thinking of that myself. IÕll tell George. But should we keep fishing now, do you think, or get on with some of this other stuff?Ó

ÒI really donÕt know,Ó Pike admitted. ÒThis is completely nuts to just sit here; but if you donÕt fish, you donÕt catch.Ó

ÒIÕd hate to tell you how much money I made last night,Ó Richie mused. ÒItÕs uncanny what can happen if you know something ahead of time. We sold computers, transportations and communications slow and easy until they were all sold, then we told my motherÕs people so they wouldnÕt get hurt too bad. The panic started happening after midnight. It was kind of sad, I guess. All the little players chucking up their stock for whatever they could get. So this morning, before we came back to Blizwak, we started buying again. IÕve got almost everything I sold at about a quarter of the price, and billions of free cash to use for R&D on how to get things to work again.

ÒI thought you were doing Gung Fu with Thomas all night?Ó Pike said. The big numbers made him a little delirious.

ÒWell yeah, but I kept getting this feeling that Master Goodnaught was right, so we went into town. ThereÕs no phones or anything at the monastery. So I called Clive and got a conference line to a hotel room. It was pretty much fun. I finally understood why people get a kick out of business.Ó

Lester bobbed his head. ÒIt was kind of fun. Like shooting fish in a barrel. It all went exactly like Rich said it would.Ó

ÒSo I decided IÕm going to give each of you a couple of million, in case thereÕs some hardships in the next few years. And maybe a quarter million each to all the judges, so they donÕt get screwed up too bad. It may take awhile to put things back together.Ó

ÒVery generous, Richie, but itÕs really not necessary,Ó Pike said. ÒThereÕs a limit to how much a guy can accept without feeling bought.Ó

ÒHow much..?Ó Lester asked.

ÒDonÕt be silly,Ó R.R. said, easily. ÒGoing to Aixi changed everything for me. I might be wealthier than my mother. Actually, five million each sounds more like it.Ó

ÒThatÕs about right, Rich,Ó Lester said, with a nod of approval.

Sitting amidships in the little boat, Donny LembruckÕs eyes practically bugged out of his head. HeÕs been thinking about jumping ship here in Blizwak so he could be with Hajaj. Too bad that decision had so many drawbacksÑamong them her husband, and the small fact that Donny wasnÕt much of a hunter or gatherer. She probably wouldnÕt want him if he was low rooster on the pecking order with no gifts. But a quarter of a million Confederation bucks. Wow!

ÒBut the main problem,Ó continued R.R., Òis how much do I give to Master Goodnaught. It has to be the perfect number. Not so much that he thinks IÕm buying my way in. How much would be perfect? Does he have some project that needs financing?Ó

Everyone was silent for some time. Nothing stirred in the reed beds except black birds lunching on insects. In the quiet, Richie flipped the bait stick. It slid into the water end first, making very little disturbance.

ÒWhy donÕt you ask him,Ó Pike suggested.

ÒBut donÕt you think I should decide?Ó He chuckled with a lack of humor. ÒIÕm kind of afraid to let him decide. He might not play by any set of rules that I know about.Ó

Lester snorted.

Richie nodded, morosely. ÒIf I donÕt throw myself on his mercy, it looks like IÕm buying myself in, even to me; but I donÕt think he cares a fig about maintaining wealth. I canÕt just give this gigantic fortune to him. Money has to be looked after, or it goes away. Then nobody can do good with it.Ó

ÒRight,Ó Lester said. ÒThomas donÕt care. But he might know what to stockpile.Ó

Seeming deep in thought for a minute, Richie suddenly brightened. ÒYou know what, Pike?Ó he asked, happily.

ÒWhatÕs that?Ó

ÒI bought 62% of Thruster Industries early this morning when the Baron panicked. So weÕre partners. Got any suggestions on what to do differently?Ó

PikeÕs eyebrows shot up to his hairline. ÒBardona sold out?Ó

ÒKind of strange, isnÕt it? He usually holds on tight; but the virus panicked him like it did everyone else.Ó

PikeÕs immediate thought was of GeorgeÕs network. Odd that George hadnÕt mentioned anything. ÒWere you working through George?Ó he inquired.

ÒWell, no. It didnÕt seem right, since IÕd just given the boat to you.Ó

ÒOh, thatÕs right.Ó It was probably going to be a lot harder for George to do his thing without access to RichieÕs files. But why worry about that? Things were looking pretty good, in spite of looking so very bleak.

Aboard the Lady Slipper, riding snugly at anchorÊbehind the breakwater on Blizwak, the good Baron was in a froth. Having returned from Aixi, and having already caught a large razorfin, he had the luxury of remaining ensconced in his war room since the news of the panic began. Being glued to the computer screen for thirty-seven straight hours, watching his world erupt hadnÕt improved his temper. His vaunted research department had been a day late on all fronts. He was exhausted and pissed. Heads were rolling. And he was furious at Neuman Barcode for engineering this fiasco, and doubly furious at that bastard Tourbo kid. Why had Barcode let the Tourbo brat in, instead of a trusted ally like Bardona InterSpiral? That question nettled him like fire. From all indications Tourbo had whacked the crisis up one side and down the other. Even whacked his own mother! Small wonderÑthe old battle-ax had finally gone bonkers it seemedÑmaybe she was easy pickings, now. But why had Barcode sided with that lucky brat? Obviously, they had a cure for the problem and planned to make a killing. Nobody could fault them for that. But blazes, theyÕd done a really sloppy job.

Fuming, he punched up screen after screen filled with disaster until he came to the centerpiece of his empire, Thruster Industries. And there it was, the final dastardly insult. RR Consulting had somehow bought him outÑover his specific orders never to sell Thruster, even if it went belly up. How the fucking hell had this happened? Maybe his computers already had the virus. Was he supposed to trust them after this, even Simon? So many transactions had taken place in the last day and a half that it would be virtually impossible to track that one sell order, even if he trusted his computers and his staff, which he never had completely and now it was worse. He might never know who screwed him. No vengeance, ever. That was unbearable. And as time went on, it would be more impossible to trackÑone computer after another collapsing. Back to the stone age. The barter system. About the only smart thing he had done last night was to buy the patents on several manual typewriters that werenÕt public domain yet. Goddamn, he hated it. Wiped out in his old age, with no future to look forward to, unless Barcode had a virus killer on the shelf. He moaned out loud. They could charge a kingÕs ransom for it. Goddamn, they could bankrupt anyone they wanted to! How much did the Barcode bastards hate him? Plenty, but would they pull the plug? No, that was cutting their own throats. It takes business to do business. Maybe theyÕd pull the plug on Tourbo. Yes, yes! They must hate the old lady, they probably hate the spawn, too! Ha. Justice.

His mind ranged to Aixi where Rita and Magyar were undoubtedly spending a small fortune on clothes and bath salts. Should he send for them to come home, or pick them up. He panicked momentarily. He certainly didnÕt want to get stuck on Blizwak-Hojmer. No way! But Aixi...that might be okay. Those blasted monks might help him find a way out of this.

Rita was fine at the moment. Queen of her own floating castle, in fact. Strange that just saying ÒI doÓ could give her a lot of what she wanted. SheÕd never been free of her parents when she was single, say whatever you want to; but now she was. Of course, R.R.Õs generosity had figured prominently in the freedom. DonÕt forget that, she warned herself. Pike is just as likely to screw up the finances again. He evidently likes to live on the edge. Prudence would be her department.

Her book was starting to seem like a really good idea. In her mind, it was no longer a thesis, but a full-blown book. The Last Star Tournament. People would still read books after computers failed, if they did fail. The star-faring races would remain fascinated by spacing until it could be put back together again. By a quirk of fate, she had been at the very hub of the event that would possibly shrink the Universe. Yes, her wedding and the resultant crash would make an interesting chapter or two. She already had George monitoring and storing all the data he could come up with. Poor old George. Poor all of us who are accustomed to computers doing most of the work.

Richie's rod tip trembled almost imperceptibly as a fish mouthed the bait stick.

ÒLooks like you got a bite,Ó Pike marveled.

ÒFeels like it,Ó Richie confirmed, showing a flitter of excitement. ÒWhat do I do, let him run with it?Ó

ÒKeep a finger pressure on. You should be able to feel him bite the stick. They donÕt fool around much. Either they take it orÑÓ

Richie yanked the stiff little rod back. The hook set and the fish zigzagged into the rice beds. ÒDarn,Ó Richie yelped. ÒI couldnÕt keep him out. Now, what?Ó

ÒThey always go in. No problem. You wade in and pull him out. The line will hold. If heÕs hooked good, you shouldnÕt have any problem.Ó

ÒWas he hooked good?Ó Lester asked, reaching for the mesh gloves.

ÒHope so,Ó Richie said. He opened his tackle box and took out a short length of broom handle. ÒI was thinking about this method,Ó he said. Knotting the line quickly around the broomstick, he took up a few turns, then snipped the monofilament free from the reel with his nail clippers. ÒThis way I wonÕt need the rod and reel, and IÕll have both hands free.Ó He struck the broomstick in his teeth, and reached for the gloves.

ÒBrainy,Ó Lester said, handing over the mesh gauntlets. ÒDonÕt swamp the boat getting out. Hold him up in the air with the line and IÕll put the boat right beside you, so you can drop him in this bucket. Then the judge will certify the catch.Ó

ÒWatch your nose and ears,Ó Pike advised.

ÒHeÕs not very big,Ó RR said, confidently. With little difficulty, he hoisted the awkward, mesh layered waders over the pontoon. Sticking the broomstick firmly in his teeth, he pushed off. Finding solid footing immediately, he took the stick out of his teeth and gave Pike a surprised little smile.

The gloves were pliable enough to work the line easily, and the water was only thigh deep. Taking cautious, but firm steps forward, Richie wrapped line as he walked. Keeping a loose tension on the fish, he reached the wild rice beds without accident, then he looked kind of baffled. The line was tangled, almost woven, in the tall rice stalks.

ÒWeÕre right with you,Ó Lester said, soothingly. ÒPull up anything thatÕs too tangled, or cut the line free. DonÕt slice the line by mistake. Plenty of time. WeÕve got all day to land this one.Ó

Reaching down, Richie grabbed a handful of rice stalks and gave a tug. Nothing much happened. ÒTheyÕre deep,Ó he commented.

ÒUse the saw tooth,Ó Lester said. ÒThatÕs why youÕve got it.Ó

ÒRight,Ó Richie answered, speaking around the broom stick in his teeth. He unsheathed a ten inch saw tooth knife that had been dangling on his belt since Pike had given it to him the first morning of razorfins. The sharp teeth sawed quickly through the reed. When it toppled over, Richie pulled the monofilament line over the stub and wound it around the stick. Proceeding with that method, he worked his way into the grain bed.

Finally, he spied the fish, swimming around in three inches of water with half of his back exposed. He was tethered to no more than a foot of line. Not a very good survival strategy, Richie thought; but then the species had only been dealing with hook and line for a short time. The Tournament wouldnÕt be coming here again, so the fish wouldnÕt have to adapt. Interesting though, now that he owned Thruster Industries, he could be readyÑ just waiting for new computer designs. If and when healthy chips were reborn, the Tournament could start the next year. Then he could check on these little fish, and the gorgeous women. Tonight he was going to take Judge Lembruck up on his party offer. Man oh man, those women were exquisite in the firelight. He had to test drive some of that before confining himself to Aixi. It would be the perfect way to break in his new status as a ladyÕs man. Wild womenÑall flashing teeth and hair and skin!

Presumably, Richie should have been paying attention to the fish he was about to land. If the little biter wasnÕt dangerous, the fishermen wouldnÕt have been dressed like knights in armor. But as his male member engorged at the daydream of wild women, his eye/hand coordination faltered. He missed the steel leader on the first try and the little two pound fish clipped him a terrific jolt on the side of the thumb. It would certainly have severed the digit, had the gauntlet not been there for protection. Richie let out a squawl of pain.

ÒDonÕt clown around,Ó Lester warned. ÒGrab the fucking leader like I told you.Ó

ÒI think my thumb might be broken,Ó Richie reported, stoically.

ÒGreat,Ó Pike muttered.

Richie flexed the thumb gingerly. ÒHow the heck did he do that?Ó

ÒSpring loaded,Ó Lester said. ÒDonÕt give him time to load up again. Grab the leader and pass him over.Ó

ÒIÕm a little dizzy,Ó Richie mumbled.

ÒSnap out of it!Ó Lester yelled. ÒCount to ten backwards. Do it!Ó

But Richie was already too dizzy for counting backwards. With his wounded thumb inside the gauntlet, he couldnÕt tell if the thumb was really mauled or not. Something about the not knowing made him more queasy by the moment. Thoughts of peeling the glove off to reveal sliced tendons built into expanding waves of wooziness.

ÒHey, keep your eyes open!Ó Lester yipped in the kidÕs ear. ÒPinch yourself.Ó

Instead the kid plonked head first into the shallow water in a very good imitation of the dead manÕs dive.

ÒAh, shit..!Ó Lester and Pike both baled out of skiff at the same instant; but since Pike had been in the bow, he was first to reach the sputtering billionaire. Hauling him out of the weed bed by the nape of his dripping fishing vest, he propped him up with an out-thrust hip and an encircling arm.

ÒPull the boat up,Ó he said to Lester. ÒIÕm not touching the line,Ó he called to Donny Lembruck. ÒSee the stick. ItÕs floating over there.Ó

ÒI see it,Ó Lembruck answered. For a quarter million, he was prepared to see green elephants, but hoped he wouldnÕt have to.

Lester waded back to the skiff, grabbed the painter and dragged it forward.

Unceremoniously, Pike dumped the kid over the nearest pontoon, in spite of the weak protests that he was fine now.

ÒYouÕre fine when Lester says your fine. Shut up and lay there.Ó Pike reached for LembruckÕs hand and with that help hauled himself back aboard. He offered Lester a hand up; but the cook was hovering over Richie, pressing here and there on the cleft of his upper lip and pulling his ear lobes.

ÒGet in,Ó Pike ordered Lester.

Lester scowled, but allowed himself to be hauled over the side.

ÒChrist,Ó Pike swore.

ÒIÕm fine,Ó Richie repeated, more convincingly.

ÒTake the dammed glove off and letÕs see the damage.Ó

Averting his eyes, Richie peeled the gauntlet off and bravely held the thumb out.

ÒNo problem,Ó Lester announced professionally. ÒBruised, thatÕs all. The skin ainÕt even broke. Take a look.Ó

Trustingly, Richie glanced at his poor thumb, which still throbbed painfully. It looked fine. He wiggled it.

ÒSee, no broken bones. No blood. Those gloves are real good.Ó

ÒItÕs kind of embarrassing to pass out over nothing,Ó Richie muttered, sitting on the pontoon. ÒGuess IÕll go catch the fish. Is he still there?Ó

ÒDidnÕt notice,Ó Pike said.

ÒI was fine after I hit the water. I told you, but you didnÕt believe me.Ó

ÒI believed you.Ó

ÒI guess IÕll go get the fish. Thanks, I feel fine, now.Ó He splashed into the water.

ÒHereÕs the glove,Ó Lester said.

Richie found his broomstick lapping on the wavelets. A few minutes later, he hoisted the little fish into the air with a perfect leader snatch, and dropped him into the bucket. Donny Lembruck declared it a legal catch.

Pike was surprisingly depressed. His last razorfin, more than likely, and it had been very sloppy, technique-wise. Not that it mattered, he supposed, but a broomstick? Nobody else seemed bummed out, however. What the hell, there was partying to attend to, and big business transactions to make.

* * *

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SEGUMI SWAMPFISH

ÒWinning..? I don't know, Rita. When you give thanks to the sun for

providing life, there is no element of winning. Or losing either. Only

the now reinventing itself now, and now and nowÑas long as your

attention flows with it.Ó

June Madrigal

quoted in History of the Tournament

There were fourteen fishermen still qualified after Blizwak, which was an unusually low number; but unlike a normal year, the disqualified were flying off to wherever they planned to weather the death of artificial intelligence. Of course, everybody said theyÕd be at the Tidetable for the awards party, but depending on space wind currents and the fright factor, Pike thought it might be a small gathering. When the first computer crashed for any reason, people who were safely at home would stay right thereÑsafely at home. And computers crash for lots of reasons, independent of Barcode virus.

The crew of the Comparative Humanity, except for Lester, had spent the last two days on Aixi instead of fishing for a bigger razorfin. Richie bought several large parcels of land up the fjord from the monastery, and arranged for construction to start on a cluster of warehouses, where he planned to stockpile stuff from all over before the shipping lanes closed.

Pike and Rita spent a sunny afternoon hiking up a mountain, where they made love on a blanket in an alpine meadow with some goats watching. Then after eating a picnic lunch, they got down to talking about where they wanted to be landlocked for eternity. If Confederation dollars held their value, which seemed likely, they were financially very secure. But what does security mean, at bottom? Any fisherman is secure as long as the food chain holds, especially if he or his wife tends a small garden. If he overfishes or otherwise fucks up the fisheryÑor if a plague of locust hits the gardenÑsecurity and a full stomach are both out the window. Ditto if the weather changes dramatically and the crops failÑeven a couple of degrees is often enough to royally screw up growing patterns. Or if the rains take a sabbatical and the rivers dry up? You canÕt exactly eat money. Security, then, is a bubble waiting to be burst.

Pike and Rita didnÕt discuss the security question while they lolled happily in the alpine meadow. They did agree to set up an Aixi house on the shoreline, not too far away from RichieÕs place; but not too near either. Rita thought her mother might want to be on the same planet that she was; but if what Pike had told her about Daddy losing out in the stock panic was true, he probably wouldnÕt want to be anywhere near Richie. Anyway, since Mother was still shopping on Aixi, and they were meeting her tomorrow for breakfast, there would be plenty of time to talk about living quarters after she was informed about the wedding. Rita thought her mother would be supportiveÑafter all, Pike was a fine man.

ÒMaybe this virus is just a hoax,Ó she said, stating what sheÕd been thinking all day. ÒI could conceive of Barcode pulling just about anything. Giant corporations have no sense of morality. They should have been outlawed long ago.Ó

ÒWhere would crooks and tax operators hide without them?Ó

ÒThatÕs what IÕm saying.Ó

ÒIÕm agreeing with you.Ó He nudged her knee with his. ÒMaybe it is a hoax. LetÕs go on back down. I want to call June to let him know weÕre still coming.Ó

Rita thought fleetingly that it would be nice to make love again up here. The meadow was so perfect. In the fresh air and sunshine they were part of natureÑtwo healthy animals rutting. It had been quite a turn-on to see Pike naked in the sunshineÑand not to feel restrained by four walls or by someone in the next cabin who might be listening; but now that they were married she vowed to herself to be sensitive to PikeÕs needs. He probably needed time to recover. Too bad that men had that shortcoming. But living in one place might not be a bad thing. A cute little house, light and airy. Just the two of them. Plenty of time for picnics like this one. Making love three or four times a day. She smiled to herself. She probably needed a harem. The collapse of the computerized universe had the affect of making her feel positively carnal. Or maybe it was being married. SheÕd have to ask someone about that. Her mother? No, she doubted that she could ever get her mother to talk about the real things in life. Shopping wasnÕt quite deep enough for RitaÕs present mood, but somebody would show up to talk with.

Mom Tourbo was in a fix. Lester had made it plain that he thought they should weather the storm on Aixi, where Richard was setting up. Hamid, however, wanted to go home to his Frog People. What was so special about Aixi? There certainly wasnÕt any frog foam thereÑnot unless she could import a permanent supply.

If nothing else, Mom was a realist. She admitted her mistakes, even misdeeds, with alacrity. It was true that up until a very short time ago, she had led a very misguided life. But having found the elixir of happy traveling and sexual bliss, she wasnÕt about to give it up just because a few pantywaist computer techs had screwed up. As of this morning, she had hired the entire graduating classes of three technical universities, and was giving them free reign and a somewhat unlimited budget to find a way to keep her space fleet running. New minds on a new problem. Substantial perks were in the offing for the group or groups that found the answer. Her old research groups were also working full blast. If they found the solution, theyÕd get the perks; but she was betting her money on the new kids. There were geniuses from all over the galaxy in those classes eager to get their teeth into this mess. Meanwhile, she had started a bevy of law suits that would put Barcode in the toilet, if not in her pocket. Slimy bastards. Such insufferable sloppiness deserved to be severely punished, and it was well within her resources to tie them up in court virtually forever unless they magnanimously agreed to totally fund her three university classes of research puppies until their retirement.

And it was very interesting that her own pup had beaten and eaten the giants, herself included; but Richard had remembered, with proper filial devotion, to let her in before the family jewels were lost. Very, very shrewd not to gobble it all up himself. It looked as if the Tourbo empire would be in steady hands, if she ever decided to step down. Of course, he now needed an heir, but that was minor. Lester assured her that nature would take its course one of these days. She trusted Lester implicitly, and didnÕt even bother to question why.

The Baron Bardona was now a relative pauper, having slipped to twelfth or thirteenth richest man depending on how one counted. Disregarding his financial ruin, he had fished for razorfins until the very last minute hoping for a really big one to solidify his lead. Low and behold, he caught oneÑjust a shade under ten pounds. His luck was in. He was tied for overall first place with that stumble-bum Tourbo, who had barely managed to qualify and therefore got no points. Ha, the Baron laughed to himself. The Fishing Gods smile on poverty. HeÕd always known that, of course. Too much wealth was a distinct handicap; but now fate was decreeing that this was his year. Two weeks from now, he would worry about putting his shell-shocked empire together again. Right now he was a fishing machine!

ÒStand aside, boy-o, IÕm coming through,Ó he said, aloud. Nobody was in his war room to hear except Simon, the computer, who had been very uncommunicative these last few days. But Farouk didnÕt want anybody to hear him, he was trying to psych himself past a yearly stumbling blockÑ the swamp. Farouk Bardona had become deathly afraid of the Segumi Swamps, and he knew that the stinking fear traveled down his fishing line and resulted in meager catches. This year he would best his cowardly fear or bust a gut trying. And he would win the prize that fear and that blasted Pike Resnick and his tribe of Swamp Indians had always denied himÑthe Champion ring. The last one ever. The best! The sweetest!!

ÒSolid as a rock. Solid as a rock,Ó he chanted, marching up and down. He bent over to touch his toes, grunting when his finger tips stopped a foot short of the mark. Straightening up, he reached for the ceiling of the cabin, then once again tried for his toes.

ÒThey did what..?!Ó Bardona roared.

Magyar had just rejoined him on Segumi 6 after flying in with her daughter and new son-in-law on the Comparative Humanity. Realistically, Magyar was very pleased with the match. Rita had never had to worry about money, and would never have to. In spite of what Farouk might say on some spur of the moment, he knew that his daughter had to be taken care of. And Pike would protect her. No matter what anybody (primarily Farouk) said about Pike, they never said he wasnÕt brave and intelligent. Besides, Magyar had always liked Pike, and had made no secret of it before the bad blood started. She had occasionally wondered if that was the start of the bad feelings. Some aspects of marriage were so difficult. Why was it necessary to stop being an independent person just because you marry? In the eyes of the world, Magyar had given into FaroukÕs irrational jealousy rather graciously. But it hadnÕt been easy. For one whole winter when the babies were young, she had considered divorce; but with spring she had allowed herself to dwindle for the sake of the family. It had probably been a good decision. True, her life was much less filled with interesting people than she had planned; but now that they might be planet bound, perhaps things would change. Anyway, Rita had reached out for the brass ring. Maybe it would be better for her. Their daughter was very head-strong. Always had been. If anybody could find a way through the maze, it would be Rita.

ÒThey were married by Thomas Goodnaught,Ó she said.

ÒThan bum. I never trusted him. WeÕll get it annulled. How much time do we have?Ó

ÒWould that be a good idea?Ó Magyar wondered aloud.

ÒWhose side are you on? Of course, weÕre getting an annulment. Resnick is a bum, and besides that heÕs broke all the time. He couldnÕt even keep Rita in shoes, let alone underwear.Ó

ÒIÕm sure she knows that. The main reason we started an independent account for her was so she could make independent decisions.Ó

Farouk looked sheepish for half a second, then brightened. Rita didnÕt have a sou. Naturally, she would listen to reason. ÒThat account had a little bad luck in the Barcode run,Ó he explained to his wife.

ÒThatÕs not what she said,Ó Maggie replied, mildly.

ÒWeÕll just take a look.Ó He hit the computer button. ÒI could be wrong, but I donÕt think so. Her friend, young Tourbo, bashed her as hard as he did the rest of us.Ó

ÒHe gave them two million for a wedding present and the boat.Ó

The BaronÕs bushy eyebrows shot up to his forehead and stuck there, quivering. ÒVery generous,Ó he said, then turned to the computer. ÒRun up a report on RitaÕs separate account, would you, Simon.Ó

The computer hummed for a few seconds longer than was necessary, then flashed some accounting data on the screen. ÒThat account has almost doubled in the last week,Ó he replied.

ÒI thought I gave you some specific instructions,Ó Farouk hissed, then changed his voice to a limp chuckle. ÒInteresting. How did she accomplish that feat?Ó

ÒI wrote you a report, sir. Somehow she got control of that bank before I had a chance to freeze her assets. Sorry, sir, I thought you knew.Ó

Farouk chuckled gaily; but his hairy underarms were sweating freely under what he imagined was MagyarÕs baleful stare. He didnÕt dare to look at her. Her pointed question was already drilling a hole between his shoulder blades. And it would get worse. What a rotten week this had been.

ÒWas that our bank?Ó he asked, seeing heads rolling at corporate headquarters.

ÒWas, yes. We used it to collateralize that kelp farming consortium in Thii Daar that you wanted control of, as you certainly remember. It was a standing buy order, to institute whenever possible. There were several intermediate transactions.Ó

Farouk pursed his lips. An evil week. Rita had seen a shrewd buy and took it. ÒWe must have gotten our wires crossed, Simon. By the way, I never said anything about freezing. IÕll talk to you later.Ó He hit the hold button.

ÒWas that something I should know about?Ó Magyar inquired, sweetly. They had an arrangement that loosely granted her access to all areas concerning the children. The rest of the business, Farouk conducted in private.

ÒYou were right. SheÕs sitting pretty, with no way to leverage her, unless she sees the lightÑand sheÕs too stubborn for that. I guess weÕve acquired a son-in-law. Break out the bitter champagne.Ó

Seeing no gain in pressing her advantage, Magyar took the diplomatic approach. ÒItÕs not so bad as all that. If they have children, God willing, theyÕre bound to be terribly bright. Even you will admit that, wonÕt you?Ó

ÒSheÕs not pregnant, is she,Ó he said, with a tremor of disgust.

ÒOh, Farouk, you are too awful. Of course, sheÕs not. At least, she didnÕt tell me.Ó

ÒI donÕt like it,Ó the Baron grumbled. ÒI probably wonÕt ever like it. This kind of thing should never happen. But IÕm busy, damnit. IÕve got a Tournament to win.Ó Solid as a rock, he reconfirmed to himself. ÒI want you to stay in sight of one of the boys every second weÕre on the wretched swamp hell planet. Promise me that, then IÕll have one less thing to worry about.Ó

Maggie inclined her head in agreement. Every year she agreed to the same rather silly demand, and nothing bad ever happenedÑnot aboard the Lady Slipper with its crew of ten and the high sides that were difficult for boarding. She could have easily gone to another planet if he was that worried; but Farouk seemed to need her when he got back from the swamps. Families, she thought, are better when theyÕre young. Rita being suddenly married had thrown her a loop. She hadnÕt expected to feel so generationally old, just because her only daughter was married; but being old wasnÕt something to mention to a husband. Let him figure that one out for himself.

Segumi 6 was a very odd water planet. Its entire surface, including the swamps was covered with nutrient rich waterÑbut somehow there wasnÕt enough water to drink.

Both poles down to the tropics were awash in shallow salt seas, hardly deeper than the swamps. The land was a belt of brackish mauette swamps, dotted with many thousands of small islands, that circled the equator between the tropics. The islands were very low-lying, not much more than hummocks in the swamps. The largest, where Port Remalin lay, was about the size of Nantucket Island, home of Captain Ahab and his white whale. Food was plentiful in the seas and in the swamps; but on a planet that was over ninety-five percent liquid, potable water was the main coin of the realm. Only in the swamps was there any fresh water. All air breathing life on Segumi 6 made its drinking arrangement with the swamp. Water, water everywhere, but very few drops to drink.

A large barren moon created an extreme gravitational pull on all that water, and on the people and things that lived there. Gravity tides pulled much of the water out of the dark swamps into the oceans and put it back twice a day, never giving the ground a chance to dry out. A careless fisherman could easily beach his piroque on a mud bar and spend the next six or eight hours hung up in the swamp, and that was a terrifying experience. Pike had spent many nights in that soupy hell, and didnÕt yearn to ever spend anotherÑalthough fishing the swamps rather guaranteed it, just part of the Segumi experience.

But in this tureen of a planet, life did thrive, both aquatic and surface life. Hundreds of varieties of trees, some of them giants, had evolved the ability to live with their feet in brackish water. Swamp grasses were also abundant, but the watery savannas didnÕt figure in the fishing itinerary. Big swampfish lived only in the deep pools and waterways of the devil-ridden swampy cloud forests.

Clouds. Fog. Clouds of fog enveloped the swamp and sea every night. Fog was such a fact of life that in order of importance, the Fog God, Di Tikki, Giver of Water came right after the Sun God. A very important god. The Sound of Dripping.

Realistically speaking, the only source of drinking water was the ever-present fogÑclinging and dripping from every surface into earthenware pots incised with an image of the deity. Pots sat everywhere in the villageÑunder the dripping edge of the sleeping fletsÑand under anything else that dripped. Collecting water was very serious work.

For anyone with a salinity meter, it was evident that underwater springs of fresh water bubbled out of bedrock in many places in the swamp making brackish pools from the sea water that invaded twice a day. Big swampfish preferred these areas of lesser salinity. So did little swampfish, but they disappeared rapidly in the vicinity of their grandparents.

Visiting fishermen used salinity meters to find the fish. Native guides saw the meters, understood their meaning; but did nothing to offend the Fog Gods, who brought the clouds of gloom and life.

In years past, Pike had suggested that fresh water could be piped rather easily from the deep springs that everyone knew about; but none of the Piets would consider running pipes, not even June, who had seen much of the galaxy and was very forward thinking. Di Tikki might be offended and stop sending the fog. The only concession to technology that was permitted was the milking of dew heavy tree foliage with sponges tied to long bamboo poles. The dew water was then transported for storage to earthen cisterns on raised platforms above the tide line. The Piets were justifiably proud of their small artificial lakes. Their ability to store drinking water made them the dominant tribe on the planet.

The Fleet filled their water tanks before landing at Port Remalin, arriving heavy and leaving emptyÑhaving jettisoned any remaining H2O into the community water storage ponds. For this reason, the tribes tolerated them reasonably well, especially the Piets who benefited directly from the extra water. The Urobamoa who lived on neighboring islands, and whom some of the fishermen regarded as superior guides, were allowed to purchase water from the Piets, if they had barter goods or water markers made from the pink, armored jaw bones of swampfish. For some inexplicable reason, only the Piets had the skill to work the jawbones into perfect circles with scalloped edges and a hole in the center. These heshi-like water markers documented how resourceful a person was at collecting or bartering water, and were the real reason that the Tournament fishermen were welcomed by the Piets.

If not for long established tradition, most natives would have considered fishing for swampfish from a narrow little flat-bottomed swamp piroque to be dangerously insane. Plenty of good eating fish could be caught in the nearby seas with little risk; but Di Tikki had a son named Thap, who was the People's fertility god. Thap wanted an ecstatic feast held in his honor every summerÑa real one with lots of drug induced hoochi-koochi. Eons ago, he had sent a vision to one of the dreaming chiefs that roasted swampfish washed down with dugmai wine would blast the tribe into orbit, and make a very fine ritual. As a further inducement, Thap suggested that the jawbone of mature swampfish, which turned an awesome pink color was perfect for making jewelry. And hunting those big bad swampfish would also be the ultimate test of manhood, the God prompted.

So once a year, the warrior clans girded their loins and drank themselves blotto on dugmai juice, which had a whallop even without the swampfish admixture, then they paddled into the swamps in search of fame, manhood and pink water markers. Stoked to the gills on the hallucinogenic berry juice, tales of awesome prowess grew from these tripsÑbut many warriors were killed or permanently maimed from their encounters with swampfish. It's no fun to be maimed in a primitive societyÑor killed either.

When the space fishermen arrived with their high technology, the warrior societies held a series of meetings with the tribal chiefs. It seemed that Thap's will could be served by letting the foreign devils catch the fish. The warriors would be there to assist, and test their manhood from a relatively safer vantage pointÑand make some nice payola at the same time. Foreign fishermen would be lost all the time without a guide. Obviously, they would be happy to pay for guide services, in water preferably; but foreign coins were pretty, too. And if they wanted somebody to paddle for them, that could also be arranged, for a fee. Even a maimed warrior could often paddle. As a kicker, the sky devils would be responsible for their own safety out in the swamps. No Piet or Urobami would be obliged to protect a foreigner, if things went wrongÑas they often did in the swamps. All this was possible and had Thap's blessings, the warrior clans and the chiefs reasoned, because the foreigners weren't going to take the jawbones or the meat away with them. A few more faces at the Feast of Thap would probably make Him happy, not angryÑmore faces, more honor, or something like that. And so, the Tournament had changed things on Segumi 6. Cultures all over the Universe were eager for changeÑone little outside influence, and bingo.

Armed with his new stunner pistol, Richie stood guard on the bow of the Comparative Humanity in the very dense fog. He had heard tales about the fog, the guidebook even mentioned it; but he was unprepared for fog like this. His hand was barely visible at arms length, and he felt kind of clammy all over. ÒWait until it gets foggy,Ó Lester had kidded him a few minutes earlier. Ha, ha. It couldnÕt get foggier than this, or it would be raining. Lester had been oiling and greasing equipment and hinges since they had arrived. No wonder. Anything rustable would rust overnight, and everything else would have moss growing on it. And besides that, the fog was kind of eerie. There were sounds out there, muffled and abnormal, mixed in with the comforting sounds of the fleet. Richie strained his ears to hear, all the while knowing that he didnÕt really want to identify the weird sounds that must be coming from weird creatures. When Pike had posted the guard sheet, Rich thought it was foolish to have a guard fore and aft; but now he wished there were more. He could easily have some extra body guards sent in. Drew was somewhere at the back of the boat, lost in the fog. Several more warm bodies standing guard with him, would be perfectly fine.

Earlier in the afternoon, before the fog rolled in, he and Pike had taken the piroque into the village, so Richie could get the feel of paddling it, Pike said. They found a very strange village. All the houses were built in trees or on stilts. Almost everybody was traveling around in boats. Women and even little children were paddling through the trees yelling at Pike. Richie hadnÕt been able to understand a word of it except when somebody called PikeÕs name, which they did often, like he was family. It looked like this was going to be a friendly, fun place to fish. Even the aluminum piroque that had been stored in the engine room all this time was kind of fun in a tippy, flat bottomed sort of way. Pike was right, it did take some getting used to.

They had climbed up a ladder to a tree house on a platform where June Madrigal lived. He was the new chief of these people. They also met his beautiful wife and beautiful children. The meeting was kind of a surprise because Richie somehow hadn't understood that June was the chief. Then he supposed he should offer sympathies about June's father passing on; but that had fallen a little flat because instead of dying, the old man had retired to devote himself to spiritual practice.

Anyway, they had stayed in the tree house for quite awhile, playing with the children and filling June in on the Barcode dilemma. When they got ready to go back to the boat, the fog was already rolling over everything like a wet blanket. Very disorienting. They got a little frazzled trying to find a relatively large object like the fleet. All seventeen of the remaining boats, including his mother's cruiser, were moored in a clump with their fog horns hootingÑtotally lost in the fog. The piroque might have paddled around until morning without the fog horns. As it was, Pike homed in on Mordachi SkinnerÕs horn instead of the HumanityÕs. Mordachi said he was always glad to assist lost strangers. He and Pike entered into a half hour discussion in the fog about which was the best planet to retire to. Mordachi said he might go to Galatin Bay if Pike was. Pike said he was leaning toward Aixi. Well, well. Then he added that Ira was going to Aixi, too. All that made Richie feel very nice, warm and choked up.

After the discussion petered out, they paddled over to their own boat, then the hassle about how many guards to post occurredÑand during all of that, RichieÕs mind had been swimming with visions of June MadrigalÕs extremely lovely wife, Shari, who said she hoped Richie would be the hero this year, in very sexy Galactic English. It had sent shivers up his spineÑand a spurt of energy had stiffened his member. Then she had winked at him! Right in front of her husbandÑwho was about twice as big as Rich was. Boy, the women on these planets were sure differentÑfirst Blizwak and now here. Wonderful looking and very, very different. Maybe it was genetic.

Genetics certainly are peculiar, he mused. HeÕd seen more genetic diversity in the last two months than he ever imagined in his biology classes. A sneaking suspicion was beginning to dawn that his teachers had no glimmer of how diverse life really wasÑwhich was a little disturbing. If you say youÕre a teacher, youÕre supposed to know something. It was pathetic. If he had become a teacher himself instead of taking this fishing trip, he wouldnÕt know anything either.

Rich had just decided to drop an L mail to several of his old teachers, when something heavy, like a log, thudded into the boat about midships. He felt an uncharacteristic disinclination to investigate. Probably just a floating log that the shield normally would have pushed away; except that the shield couldnÕt be activated in Segumi fog. Science had made a minor gaffeÑrain was no problem to the security grid, neither was normal fog; but something about the teeny-tiny fog droplets on Segumi set off the sensors. See, science wasnÕt all powerful after all.

ÒWhat was that..?!Ó shouted Drew from the fantail watch.

Before Richie had a chance to answer, a green thing with a protuberant warthog snout hoisted itself over the gunwale on spindly green arms. It was close enough for Richie to see, so it must have been pretty close to him, and it was making strange nonsense sounds. In slow motion, Richie pulled the stunner pistol free from its holster. His guts were quaking with fear. This is murder, he thought, pointing the pistol at the creatureÕs head. The green thing was obviously unarmed; but Pike had warned him not to use Ken Pao Ri. ÒThe critters are strong and they donÕt play fair,Ó Pike had cautioned. But in the second it took Richie to decide to squeeze the trigger, Pike leaped out of the galley with a CO2 fire extinguisher. Rita's frightened voice called out for him to be careful. Pike sprayed cold foam on the creatureÕs head and shoulders from point blank range. Screaming a swoon of anguish and ecstasy, the thing flung itself backwards off the rail and landed with a splash. Work lights and search lights flashed on throughout the fleet, not that they lit up very much except the fog. All Richie could see beyond the boat was a wall of white. It was even thicker than when he had caught that muskieÑcompared to this, Ashendon was practically a sunny day.

ÒWhat the hell was that thing?Ó Drew said, peering fearfully over the side. ÒI never saw nothing like that..!Ó

ÒThe Piets call them Willies," Pike said, hanging the extinguisher near the gaff hooks. "As far as anyone can tell, they live deep in the swamps. When they sense us, they paddle out using a log like a kick board. That's as much as anyone knows. They want something on the boats, but nobody knows how to ask them what. ItÕs pretty evident that they have a language, but we donÕt speak it."

A translator, Richie thought. The idea had just flooded into his brain like a white strobe light. Humanity needs a translator gadget.

"If you don't catch them boarding the boat, they do all kinds of mischiefÑtear out wiring, really mess stuff outÑlooking for something. But they seem happy to settle for a hosing with CO2. One dose puts them in orbit. They never go into the Indian villages. I guess the villages donÕt have anything to attract them. So be careful, theyÕre wiry tough, and they bite.Ó

ÒI almost shot that one,Ó Richie said. He felt as jumpy as Drew looked. ÒI was creeped out, but it felt wrong to kill it.Ó

ÒI meant to tell you, stunners donÕt have much effect on Willies. It seems impossible, but somehow Willies can deflect the force. Highly weird. They never have paid us a visit until the second or third night before, but maybe they figured out our lunar cycle or something. WeÕre getting too predictable.Ó

ÒPretty neat job with that extinguisher,Ó Drew commented.

ÒIra lucked onto CO2 after he got bit up pretty bad one year. A fire extinguisher was the only thing handy. Worked like a charm. Sends them high as a kite. As far as we know, Willies have never bothered anybody in the swamps, but they love the power boats. ThatÕs one reason we donÕt get much sleep on Segumi. I meant to tell you about the fire extinguishers. Sorry, but I didnÕt think Willies would show up so soon. DonÕt use CO2 on Bruisers or Balloon Walkers cause it makes them angry as weasels. Just shoot them in the head like I told you. You donÕt want to see a mad Bruiser.Ó

ÒHow the heck did the Tournament end up at a crazy place like this?Ó Richie asked.

ÒWell, IÕll tell you. The fishing is brisk, and roast swampfish is a delicacy almost beyond heaven. And Bardona is scared silly the whole time heÕs here. Those three things keep me voting for Segumi every year.Ó

Richie understood how Bardona could be scared here, but he thought better of saying so. The question was, why wasnÕt Pike scared. He sure didnÕt seem to be.

The guards changed every two hours all night, but dawn dawned without further incident. The drums stopped beating, but the fog horns kept on with their melancholy blurting. Pike and Richie had been asleep since four. At seven, Rita woke them both with the news that Lester had a big breakfast ready. When you donÕt sleep, you need to pile in good food. Lester had given her that good advice about ten times while they stood watch togetherÑadvice which she already knew.

June was going along as their guide in a separate boat, but even so Pike felt ill-at-ease about paddling into the swamps with Richie. The kid's normal tricks would be hideously dangerous out there. Just Pike and Rich, paddling together, in the narrow flat-bottomed piroqueÑno room for anybody else. The treacherous little crafts had very little freeboard, and there wasnÕt room for another passenger, not even a judge, since sooner or later the whole shebang would be filled with two hundred plus kilos of dead MAO inhibiting swampfish.

Armed with a stubby deep sea rod and heavy duty reel, Richie knelt in the bow of the aluminum piroque, feeling quite unsafe, but not saying so. Pike had been doing the paddling for them both for the last hour, claiming it was easier to paddle alone. Just because they had hung up on several tree roots didnÕt mean that Richie was an incompetent paddler. He would have been happy to continue stroking away in spite of his growing blisters, but Pike had insisted that he take a break. Now, the boat was moving smoothly between dripping, mossy trees that reached into the overhead clouds of fog. Richie trusted Pike's sense of direction implicitly; but he was very relieved that the dug-out piroque ahead of them was paddled by Chief June and his young cousin, Nauto. It seemed logical to believe that the Indians could find their way back out of the swamp. After all, they had grown up here. It was their neighborhood.

June was streaked with ceremonial paintÑzig-zags of red zigged down both arms and clouds of white billowed on his cheeks and chest. But Nauto, being a swampfish virgin, looked like he had been dipped in yellow tempera paint from toes to eyebrows. Only his dark braided hair had been spared. He was a very strange looking sixteen year old, and very proud of having been selected to hunt with his cousin and chief on this sacred mission. They were out to do ceremonial battle with the demon swampfish, whose jawbone properly dried turned a rusty pink and was used to make the coinage of the landÑwater markers. The Indians were solemn and focused, dipping their paddles slowly, so that the foreigners could keep up. They were armed for battle with bows and knives, not fishing gear.

The fog had lifted to about ten feet except for wisps that clung to grass hummocks and to gargoylish tree roots. Pike and the Indians acted like it was normal to be paddling along under a blanket of white, but Richie thought it was pretty eerie. And the swamp smelled kind of bad, too. Not exactly rotten, but very wet. Like very wet vegetation, rotting sort of. Swamp gas. It was hard to describe.

ÒAre we getting close to fish country?Ó Richie whispered, more to break the silence than because he didnÕt know the answer. Pike had briefed him pretty thoroughly on the team effort they were about to embark on. Jawbones didnÕt get thick enough to make heshi from until the fish was over a hundred kilos; therefore the smallest keeper was a hundred kilos. The tribes didnÕt want their supply of jawbones to be imperiled by overfishing. JuneÕs father had worked out the fishing rules with an inter-tribal council way back when. Between the two tribes, seven or eight big swampfish were needed for their summer ceremonies; but the first and largest revelry was always held at Port Remalin. The first big fish caught began the Feast of Thap. After the fishermen agreed to limit the number caught to no more than a dozen, Di Tikki let it be known by various signs that he/she approved of the foreigners helping with the harvest. The fishermen were happy to agree. If Segumi was scheduled late in the season, it was simple arithmetic to figure that the people still fishing would be whittled down to roughly that number anyway. Besides not every fisherman would be lucky enough to catch a swampy. They further agreed that a native guide would always be on hand to insure that no small fish were killed. And to further complicate the endeavor, only one fish could be killed. If it didnÕt weigh in big enough, the fisherman was disqualified.

Obviously, a live fish that size, snapping and leaping wouldnÕt fit into a piroque without swamping it, so it had to be killed before it was boated. Since there wasnÕt room for a judge in the boat, and all contestants were in fairly optimal danger most of the time they were in the swamps, it was decided that any means were legal to boat the fish, except poison or explosives. The judge would stay behind to help guard the home boat, and would weigh the fish and test for contraband substances when it was brought in. As a further guard against poisons, the fisherman was urged to eat the first portion of his roasted fish at the fete held in ThapÕs honor. Everyone seemed happy with the wisdom of the council, except the swamp creatures who lived in the swamps. They didnÕt care for strangers poking into their homes.

ÒKeep your ears pealed," Pike said. "Fishing starts whenever we hear a fish. Like I was mentioning, a big swampy rams into trees to see what will shake loose. You can hear those ramming sounds a long way off. The trick is to keep the swampy from ramming the boat, once we find him. ThatÕs where June comes in.Ó

ÒTell me that part again. This sounds really dangerous to me.Ó

ÒIt is dangerous. Think about it. Every fish we go after is dangerous.Ó

ÒNot like this.Ó

ÒItÕs not so bad here. IÕve caught a swampy every year. That makes me a heap big hero. Di Tikki smiles on me. If you catch one, youÕll enjoy the celebration. ItÕs fun to be a hero.Ó Pike dipped his paddle in the dark water. The little boat surged forward. ÒMaybe it wonÕt go quite smoothly, since youÕre doing the fishing, but this is the normal method. We hear the ramming and we locate his pool, which doesnÕt necessarily look different than a normal piece of swamp. We pull in behind some roots or a hummock for protect ourselves. Presumably the fish is hungry if heÕs ramming trees, so heÕll take a lure, if itÕs presented right, thinking he knocked something looseÑthen weÕve got the first line on him. The line is heavy, so you can horse him hard to keep his back up long enough for the Indians to shoot him. If they succeed, we have several heavy lines on that are actually strong enough to haul him out with. Then we all fuck around with this big fish, trying to tire him out here in the dangerous swamp until either he gets away or he dies. Assuming we win, we haul him aboard and go home. Good clean fun. All in a dayÕs adventure.Ó

ÒI havenÕt heard any trees being rammed, have you?Ó

ÒNot yet,Ó Pike answered. ÒKeep listening. ThatÕs what weÕre here for.Ó

ÒDo those Willie things live out here?Ó

ÒThey do.Ó

ÒThat one last night didnÕt seem very dangerous.Ó

ÒHe was, but he rammed the boat with his log, and alerted everybody. TheyÕre not real bright.Ó

ÒWill Rita be all right without us?Ó

ÒWho knows, Rich. Honestly, donÕt ask stupid questions. We live in a dangerous Universe. I can barely take care of myselfÑneither can you. Presumably, the old fart, Bardona, taught Rita enough to get by on.Ó

They paddled on in silence for a time, listening to the sounds of the swamp. Finally Richie broke the silence again. ÒI wouldnÕt mind catching one right away and getting out of here,Ó he said, meaningfully. ÒThis isnÕt where IÕd like to get stuck for the rest of my life.Ó

ÒYouÕd get used to it,Ó Pike said. ÒYou could hang out with Bardona and be scared together.Ó

ÒI canÕt help it,Ó Richie said, defensively. ÒI like places with sky.Ó

ÒI didnÕt say you could help it. Bardona canÕt help it either.Ó

A muffled boom reverberated though the swamp. June raised his paddle and made the sign for silence.

ÒOkay, quiet from here on,Ó Pike whispered.

ÒWas that a fish?Ó

ÒYes. WeÕre now stalking him. Is your rod ready?Ó

With a lump of excitement in his guts, Richie busied himself making sure the rather large floating baby chick lure was tied on correctly.

ÒIÕm still not sure this is heavy enough,Ó he complained in a hiss. The feathers and plastic only weighed an ounce or so.

ÒYou donÕt need much of a cast,Ó Pike explained in the same words he used when the question came up the first time. ÒThat kind usually works for me.Ó

ÒIÕm not exactly comfortable with a baby chick. WonÕt something else work?Ó

ÒItÕs artificial.Ó

ÒI know, but it doesnÕt feel right.Ó

ÒUse whatever you want to; but make sure it has feathers.Ó

Richie eased the small tackle box open and rooted through the trays.

ÒBe quiet,Ó Pike commanded in a whisper.

Richie nodded, tightly. He picked out a green feathered lure that looked like a baby parrot. Telling himself it could be a frog, he clipped the baby chick off and tied on the green one. Feeling somewhat better, he hunched in the bow watching June and Nauto. Pike insisted that swampfish could hear better than most fish because they overcompensated for the loss of their sight as the bone in their forehead, which they used for battering trees, overgrew their eyes. In which case, it shouldnÕt matter worth a darn if the lure was yellow or green. He smiled a brief, smug smile, making sure that Pike didnÕt see.

The front piroque slowed the pace way down. Kind of awesome how it moved across the water without making any sound at all that Richie could hear. Paddles entered the water without making the least disturbanceÑjust a few drops of water dripped off between strokes. He decided to practice that kind of paddling on the way back. Very Zen. Hard to figure how these people learned Zen way out here. Maybe a priest came by sometime in the deep past, and they donÕt remember.

June held up his paddle again, and pointed to a several acre pond of water that was free of trees. On the edge of the pond, he pulled in behind a tall mauette tree that had thrown up a cluster of aerial roots. Nauto scrambled onto the roots, nimble as a yellow monkey. Both Indians strung their bows and nocked an arrow to which a thin braided line was attached. They waited passivelyÑas passively as a palpitating hunter can wait.

Pike guided his craft into an open space beside another tree. ÒWhen he bumps again, cast where a chick would fall,Ó he whispered. ÒDonÕt scrape your feet. IÕll get you close enough.Ó

Richie nodded and set himself for an overhead cast.

This particular swamp pond was not to PikeÕs liking. It was too big for one thing, and it looked pretty deep. But worse than that, there were no hummocks to hide behindÑonly trees circling the pond. He looked over at June who grinned savagely under the ceremonial paint and nodded emphatically that this was where the fish was. He had never known June to show a momentÕs hesitation or a trace of fear, everÑcertainly not on his home turf. Segumi warriors had a reputation to uphold. It had been very good getting to know this big geek, taking him around the Nebulae. Educating him, and being educated. There was certainly nobody he would rather be in a swamp with. But the Tournament wouldnÕt be coming here again. Tonight at the Feast, he would have a heart to heart with June about the future, assuming somebody caught a fish. It was almost inconceivable that he might not ever taste roasted swampfish again. Some genius would probably figure a way around the virus in a few years; but what if they didnÕt? How could Barcode have been so stupidly negligent? Biotech. Yuck! Everybody knew something like this would happen if those biotech morons werenÕt reigned in, and now welcome to hell.

ÒMoney to be made.Ó It was like a never ending chant. ÒMoney to be madeÑstay out of our way..!Ó Money to be made, my ass, Pike thought. He was certainly far from anti-tech; but, hell, there were limits.

Well, maybe it was better. WeÕll all be stuck wherever we are when the shit hits. No more fucking up everywhere we land. Because thatÕs the truth. We fuck up everywhere we touch down, even if we try not to. In the name of progress. Well, what is progress?

Way too many technicians and researchers care nothing about life. Pike knew some of them. Their experiments and messing around took place in a supposed vacuum. Fuck their vacuum. Everything in the whole Spiral is connectedÑand beyond. There is no such thing as an isolated experiment. The only isolation is in the minds of the tech morons.

The quarry surfaced. A rippling rust colored dorsal shot sideways across the pond. Pike held his breath. A big one. The fish rammed head first into a mauette tree a hundred yards to the left. The mauette quivered like a sapling. Loose bark and dark leaves showered down. Pike dug his paddle two quick strokes. The piroque shot forward. Richie poised to cast.

In his peripheral vision, Pike saw June ease his boat into better shooting position, leaving Nauto standing on the roots.

The fish surfaced, snapping up everything that looked edible. It was a very big one. Unable to wait until they got close enough, Richie arched the green lure through the air. It landed with a plop, twenty feet from the monster. Richie grimaced.

Perfect cast, Pike thought proudly, unwilling to speak even in a whisper with the fish on the surface. But something was wrong. Richie was yanking yards of line out of the reel. Pike leaned sideways to see how bad the backlash was.

A birdÕs nest to end all birdÕs nests, Richie fumed to himself. The feathered lure had been too light to cast, just like heÕd thought. RichieÕs fingers hurried to pick the knots out of the twisted mess, meanwhile the little green lure just sat there, limp as lard. One knot at a time, what a drag; but at least it was coming loose. The backlash was his own fault, of course. His thumb hadnÕt feathered the line properly because the ding-blasted lure was too light; but another few minutes and heÕd have it fixed.

But the luxury of those few minutes was one thing he didnÕt have. Not this time. A tub-size mouth sucked the green feathers down, down. The mouth clamped shut and sank from view.

ÒHit him now, before he dives,Ó Pike ordered.

Looking perplexed, Richie kept on stripping line, but faster.

ÒHit him..!Ó

ÒI canÕt,Ó Richie yelled back, frantically working at a knot.

Seconds later, and fifteen feet deep, the fish hit itself by snubbing up against the tight line with a hook attached to it. Since Richie only had a one-handed grip on the rod, it almost tore out of his hand.

ÒHit him, now!Ó Pike fumed. ÒYou are so goddamned stubborn..!Ó

Richie rared back on the rod and was immediately rewarded with a jerk that cinched the knotted birdÕs nest and pulled the boat a hundred feet across the lake. June and Nauto let out war paeans that were thrilling to hear. Thrilling..? Kind of thrilling. They sent a chill up RichieÕs backbone.

ÒBeautiful,Ó Pike said, glowering. ÒIf you had hit when I said to, he might have stayed on top. Now, weÕre fucked.Ó

ÒI had a backlash.Ó

ÒAnd youÕve still got one, but the fish is down.Ó

Pike yelled over at June. ÒHow deep is it here?Ó

June docked beside the tree root long enough for Nauto to scamper back aboard, then they paddled out to where the action wasÑon a short line attached to PikeÕs boat.

ÒHow deep..?Ó he asked, screwing up his face under the war paint. ÒWho knows? IÕll get my little cousin to find out.Ó He spoke a few words to the teen-ager.

Nauto looked startled, then put his bow down and stood, poised to dive.

ÒSit down,Ó Pike roared. ÒHeÕs kidding.Ó

June laughed proudly and spoke something to Nauto, who sat down. He took up his bow and arrows again, seeming very full of himself for passing the first bravery test.

ÒI think we lost this one, donÕt you?Ó June said, rationally assessing the situation. ÒWe canÕt put enough pressure on him to force him up. Neither can we protect ourselves if he comes up to ram.Ó

ÒHeÕs a big one,Ó Pike said, absently. ÒIt might be worth our time to tire him.

As they talked, the fish towed them around his little swamp pond. Richie put a small strain on him, but didnÕt bother trying to make up any line. It was his own fault that the fish went down. He had purposely and willfully disregarded PikeÕs advise.

Looking at his friend and captain, June said airily, ÒWe could maybe tire him by tomorrow; but we wouldnÕt want to miss the tide, would we?Ó

ÒFour of us,Ó Pike rejoined thoughtfully. ÒLester packed a big lunch. Maybe not a bad idea to show the youngster about camping in the swamp.Ó

ÒI know you like it. Remember that time before I could speak good Galactic 5? Did you think that was a happy evening?Ó

ÒWe got the fish.Ó

ÒThatÕs true. You are true on that. Wild man is no match for you.Ó

ÒWhat about cutting him off?Ó Richie asked.

ÒSure,Ó Pike answered, a shade too quickly. ÒWhatever you say. YouÕre the boss.Ó

ÒNo,Ó Richie continued. ÒWhat about cutting him off long enough for me to take the backlash out. You can hold the fish as long as heÕs just cruising along; then we tie him back on and work him up. If he dives while youÕre holding him, well, nothing much is lost. I donÕt think weÕll get him the way this reel is fouled up.Ó

RichieÕs arms and shoulders were straining. Without the reel to help out, it really was too much.

Pike grinned. ÒThatÕs using the old elbow, Rich. WeÕll tie him onto your paddle. That way even if he rams us, weÕll have a float on him. Good thinking.Ó Pike reached for the paddle.

ÒWhat about this ramming? IÕm a little hazy on what we do if that happens.Ó

ÒSwim for starters. Primarily, stay with the boat if it capsizes. Ramming is a swampyÕs best defense. They usually try it. I never heard of anybody being eaten by oneÑthatÕs reserved for swamp crocs.Ó

ÒWe havenÕt seen any crocs, have we? I havenÕt.Ó

ÒTheyÕre not really crocodiles, theyÕre fish; but they seem to fill that niche. Mean mothers. Turn the rod tip back toward me, if you can. Actually, this isnÕt going to be easy without any slack line.Ó

The rod was nicely arched with all the strain feeding directly down to the jammed reel. Pike ran his hand down the line and yanked hard several times, hoping the fish would come up a few feet to give him some free line. He wrapped a turn around the paddleÑthen the line suddenly went limp.

ÒUh, oh,Ó he said, unwrapping the paddle and tossing it into the bilge. ÒReel like hell,Ó he yelled at Richie. ÒHeÕs coming up! Get ready, June..!Ó

The Indians braced themselves as best they could with their feet wide in the piroque. Each nocked an arrow.

ÒKeep reeling and hang on,Ó Pike yelled, bracing for the impact.

It came with an aluminum thump. The boat shot backwards out of the water, tilted skyward for one sickening instant, then scooted across the water aft first, still upright. Bow strings twanged and both Indians screamed bloodcurdling paeans to the Gods as their arrows sank into the fish. Line sang off RichieÕs reel as the fish dove. Braided vegetable line uncoiled fore and aft from the IndianÕs boat thirty feet away.

ÒTorque down the drag,Ó Pike directed. ÒMake him work now. Good thing you didnÕt fall out. What would I have told your mother..?Ó

ÒMy legs are shaking,Ó Richie said from between chattering teeth.

ÒPerfectly normal. That was a good solid butt, and weÕre still okay. Yep, weÕre in fairly decent shape now. He can tow both boats around, and tire out twice as fast.Ó

Pike backpaddled so Richie wouldnÕt get tangled. His mind flashed to an image of Rita in the cabin, naked. Strange how the male mind worked. He never thought of himself as a disembodied dick. No, that wasnÕt his image of himself or any man. Character, strengths, weaknesses, good nature, abilitiesÑthatÕs how he thought of men, and himself. But RitaÑor any intriguing womanÑ he thought first of her face, then the other features that had captivated him, breasts, legs, pussy, shoulders, hands, neck, hair. Maybe he thought of her worries, maybe of her bravery or a few other things. But not the way she thought of herself, he surmised. Women donÕt think of themselves as tits and pussy, do they? Do they think of men as a cock? Is cock their first thought picture? He should ask Rita about that.

ÒWell, the easy part is over,Ó he said to Richie.

ÒWeÕve got two ropes on him now. How could it be harder? My arms are totally tired from holding him. This is the hardest fish weÕve played yet. IÕm wrung out. I think this place is making me weak.Ó

ÒYouÕre just saying that. That Ôcuda was a much more powerful swimmer, and you played him on a free rig.Ó

Richie scoffed. ÒHe jumped on the dock. Lester killed him. I didnÕt have much to do with it.Ó

ÒA catch is a catch.Ó

ÒIÕve had a whole lot of lucky catches. Everybody knows that, and so do I.Ó

ÒSo what? DonÕt go getting morbid on me. Swampies are the best eating of any fish, anywhere. ThatÕs why we come here. My mouth is watering already. All we have to do is break our butts getting him landed, then we can feast like kings. Trust me on this.Ó

ÒDo you think Master Goodnight is really planning to roast those pigs?Ó

Pike was momentarily stopped. The neural pathways of the kidÕs mind were very curious. He paddled the boat in behind a smooth-boled tree that didnÕt have any exposed roots to get in the way. Pike pulled a coil of light-weight rope from beneath the seat. The coil had a block and tackle attached to it. Tossing the end of the rope over a stout tree limb, he hoisted the heavy ropes and pulleys into the air, then set about tying a short handled gaff onto one side of the block and tackle rope.

ÒOkay, Richard my boy, the best way to approach this is to tire the fish out like normal. When he comes to the surface, hit him with the gaff so we can haul him out.Ó

Richie pondered that. ÒThis fish is very strong. I donÕt think heÕs going to tire any time soon.Ó

ÒThatÕs always been true of the ones IÕve caught,Ó Pike replied, cheerfully. ÒArrows stuck in his bony head plate donÕt seem to hurt him much at all, but the points are carrying a vegetable toxin that kind of tranquilizes the critter. Usually they donÕt ram the boat after the arrows hit. We haven't found a stronger poison that isnÕt toxic to people. Farouk used to bring exotics with him, but he wouldn't eat the meat so nobody else would either and his fish went to wasteÑthe guy is such a loser. One time he threw a stick of dynamite in the pond, so he wouldnÕt have to stay out after dark.Ó Pike chuckled. ÒThe concussion put hundreds of cracks in the jawbone, which was then unusable, and it bruised the meat. He paid off his Urobami to swear that it was a clean catch. Everybody was mad at him; but he made the tide. We changed the rules after that, so now he has to fly right. The whole thing is a test of manhood anywayÑwhy not play by some sort of rules?Ó

ÒYou mean you think weÕll miss the tide?Ó

ÒWhy should this year be different?Ó

Richie thought about that for a minute. ÒArenÕt you worried about Rita?Ó

ÒCertainly, a little. But sheÕs got seven guys to protect her, and Lester is next door. Worry about us. Those war whoops will bring every predator within ear shot. ItÕs part of the test, I think. Great warriors donÕt pussy foot around. They announce themselves.Ó

ÒSwell,Ó Richie said, nervously. ÒHow can we fight when weÕre all playing the fish?Ó

ÒPart of the fun. And actually, a pretty good test. It can get kind of scary out here after dark.Ó

ÒBut youÕre not scared,Ó Richie stated, seeking clarification.

ÒI canÕt really be frightened in front of June and that young kid, now can I? That would make a very bad impression.Ó

ÒBut youÕre really not scared. I can tell.Ó

ÒIÕm scared of some thingsÑsome things IÕm not. Like everybody. ItÕs a dangerous life style. If youÕre going to be scared all the time, why be in the Tournament? IÕll tell you a secret, since you asked. These planets we land on have plenty of food. If thereÕs a native population, they have long ago figured out how to survive. ThereÕs no starvation. In fact, they donÕt have to work very hard at getting their food and shelter. I feel kind of close to them because I like to fish and screw around with what interests me all dayÑjust like them. Pay close attention, and youÕll see that nowhere weÕve been, not even here, is the native fauna out to kill us, unless we instigate the matter. Right?Ó

ÒIf you say so.Ó

ÒI do. The point I'm making is, they donÕt kill me and I donÕt kill them. We made a big mistake with that back on Earth, and other places. I donÕt want to add to my karmic burden while IÕm traveling around. I think most of the guys feel that way. Naturally, self-defense is a different story.Ó

ÒYou mean the things that live here arenÕt bloodthirsty? The stories I hear about this place scare my socks off.Ó

ÒStories? DidnÕt you study comparative humanities?Ó

ÒWell, yes; but that might not be the same as knowing something out here.Ó

Pike laughed.

ÒI saw that Willie on the boat! He terrified me. And you told me one bit somebodyÕs finger off.Ó

ÒSee, there you go. I never said anything about a finger. You expanded your own rumor. I said, Ira got bit. It was on the arm. A razorfin nipped his finger off.Ó

Richie didnÕt answer. He seemed to be mulling it over.

ÒThatÕs correct,Ó continued Pike. ÒWhen youÕre in first placeÑeven tiedÑ they psych you any way they can.Ó

ÒYouÕre the person who has been scaring me the most,Ó Richie said. ÒIÕve hardly talked to anybody else.Ó

What would it be like to have sex with an alien, Rita wondered. She was sitting at her computer screen in the bedroom, but she hadnÕt typed a word for the last twenty minutes. What if some of these creatures got on board and managed to take over? It wasnÕt an impossible scenarioÑand they forced her to have sex. What would it be like? Probably about the same. Penetration. Probably fairly stimulating, except for the chance of getting hurt or killed.

After all, Mom Tourbo was doing it with an alien, and was evidently relishing the experience. There was one strange lady. ItÕs a wonder that Richie turned out even halfway normal.

Maybe she should eat some frog foam herself next year. Why not? Rita had been watching the Frogs cavorting and screwing nearly every year since she was a little girl. Funny how her attitudes had changed over the years. First, she had been interested, then repulsed, then shy, then very interested at about sixteen. But she never really thought about taking Frog foam until today. Interesting. And what about that dolphin thing person on Aixi? He wanted to screw her. She had definitely felt that vibe coming from him. Well, if we settle on Aixi, a tete-a-tete could probably be arranged. Skinny dipping at a secluded beach, or in that river. Would he have a big one? Probably. Yes, he probably would. What would that feel like, wrapping her arms and legs around a dolphin while he pumped away? Kind of the perfect sex object. Too bad he can talk. Maybe he would blab it to the monks, then they would all want to line up and fuck her.

What a perfectly strange daydream. What is wrong with me, she wondered, not realizing that the moon was very big and strong on Segumi 6. IÕm a newly wed. Rita knew that she didnÕt usually occupy herself with sex fantasies. So why was she today? Did all married women have fantasies when hubby was away for the night? If so, that was a very pathetic condemnation of the marriage contract. Married women have to satisfy themselves with fantasies? Bullshit.

It must be the four young Piet braves that Pike and June had picked out to guard the Humanity that was causing her sensuality to flair. Before she got hitched, if she was alone with seven guys, and she felt like fooling around, would there have been a problem? No. And there wouldnÕt be a problem today if she decided to go that way. Any of them would be glad to break the monotony of guard duty. Lester should be here to protect her from herself, but Pike had given Lester permission to spend the week with Lillith. ThatÕs partly why the Piets were on dutyÑbecause June wasn't sure that Boris and Drew and Max Severin, the judge, could protect her. And Lester was kind of strange these days, too, if you thought about it. In fact, everybody was getting a little strange. Rita was fairly sure she wouldnÕt really enjoy this new landlocked existence. And she was pretty confident that anybody who had gotten used to flitting here and there on a whim wouldnÕt care for it either. The planet would have to be very amazing, with lots of exotic places to get away to, or else claustrophobia would set in.

Of course, she would have her fantasies, but unless she revised her expectations in a hurry, the readjustment could be brutal. A life of looking to the skies, without being able to reach them. How soon would everyone forget the other people who were stranded out there? A hundred years? Maybe three, four generations, but not more. Spacing would become a myth. Life would be very different without computers. But maybe an antidote would be found...

ÒI would just a soon catch him now before we have to stay out here for the night,Ó Richie said. HeÕd been thinking about saying that for some minutes, even though it made him look like somewhat of a coward. And now heÕd said it.

ÒFeel free to reel him up,Ó Pike responded, encouragingly. ÒWhen he gets to the surface, whichever one of us is closer will hit him with the gaff. Once thatÕs done, we can pull him out.Ó He pushed the boat off from the tree root, and let it drift. ÒKeep a strain on the line, but not too much. We want him to pull us, not get angry.Ó

ÒI donÕt think being out here when the fog comes will be barrels of fun.Ó

ÒCould be right,Ó Pike agreed. ÒSee that fellow over there? HeÕll probably come sneaking in when we canÕt see.Ó

ÒWhere..?Ó

ÒOver there.Ó Pike pointed his eyebrows. ÒTwo hundred yards off to the left, laying up in some roots.Ó

Scanning, RichieÕs eyes picked out a humanoid form smeared with mud or something. It was almost impossible for untrained eyes to detect anything unusual in that tangle of roots. ÒWhat is it..?! How long has it been there?Ó

ÒWell, JuneÕs people call them Dinki, which means wild men. As near as I can tell, they were the native stock when the Piets arrived. ItÕs a little confusing. I presume there was some commerce and some interbreeding at the beginning; but not anymore. Like any conquering race, the Piets started regarding the Dinks as subhuman so they could take the lands and fishing rights. The Dinkis live in the deep swamp now, where itÕs a little difficult to hunt them for sport.Ó

ÒAre they subhuman?Ó Rich asked, squinting his eyes. ÒTheyÕre certainly good at camouflaging. I can barely see that one, even when I know heÕs there.Ó

ÒIÕm kind of liberal in what I call human, and I donÕt know the Dinkis well; but what I know is pretty convincing.Ó

ÒLike what..?Ó

ÒIf that guy moves before it gets too foggy, youÕll see that he literally walks on water. ThatÕs kind of a handy skill around here, and one that neither the Piets or the Urobami have mastered.Ó

ÒReally..? How do they do it?Ó

ÒItÕs more like skating on water than walking, actually. And IÕm not real sure how they do it. I think they inflate their feet somehow.Ó

ÒHave you seen their feet?Ó

ÒNever have; but if youÕve got the yen, maybe you could get him to give you a demo by calling him over. Try waving your arms.Ó

Richie frowned.

ÒGo ahead, try it. Maybe he likes you.Ó

ÒYouÕre putting me on.Ó

ÒOr maybe he wants to eat you. IÕll bet he thinks you look more tender than me or June.Ó

ÒAre they cannibals?Ó RichieÕs voice attempted not to show alarm, but did so anyway.

ÒAre you?Ó

ÒAm I a cannibal? Certainly not,Ó Richie said, full of righteous conviction. ÒWhat are you implying?Ó

ÒWhat if every time you ventured into your traditional fishing grounds where the pickings were easy, and you could feed yourself and your family no sweatÑwhat if every time you showed your face, you were hunted down like scum, not even like an animal. Hacked to pieces as a lesson to your people not to come around any more. Think you might want to get even?Ó

ÒDo the Piets do that?Ó

ÒNot anymore, they say. Neither do the Urobami, supposedly; but you know, once youÕve stolen the land, you need to keep the fences repaired.Ó

Richie wrinkled his forehead as if puzzled. ÒI thought it was just normal inter-tribal hostility between more advanced and less advanced.Ó

ÒMight I ask what you think causes tribes to be hostile to one another?Ó

ÒI dunno. Religious squabbles? Racial tension?Ó

ÒYeah, right. YouÕre even more gullible than I thought. To be a halfway decent researcher, youÕre supposed to look a little beyond what the dominant society teaches in their universities. ItÕs always revisionist.Ó

ÒOh, sure. I know that. But...Ó

ÒItÕs real estate that counts. Religious fanaticism and racial hatred come in a very pale second place and are mainly used to cloud the issue. The conquered people know that all religious wars are a land-grab visited on them by greedy, religious land-grabbers with better weapons. The same with ethnic patriot land-grabbers. IÕm not exactly apologizing for these weird defeated swamp tribes, but if you eat a few people, it makes the cool young bucks less likely to invade your land again, swampy though it may be.Ó

ÒInteresting,Ó Richie said, thoughtfully. ÒYouÕre pretty smart about these things. Did you ever think about being a professor, so some of your ideas could influence people?Ó

Pike laughed. ÒIf I was a professor, I wouldnÕt have noticed any of this. You only learn stuff by being out in the world.Ó

ÒOh, sure; but things are changing. It looks like the Tournament is kind of washed up for awhile. You could get on as a guest lecturer easy, even if you donÕt have a degree.Ó

ÒYou think so?Ó Pike asked, baiting the kid, who really should have known his history better than that. Pike got offers from universities all the time, five or ten a year, to lecture in engineering, and biology for that matter.

ÒYouÕd be terrific. I could probably lever a little pressure at TR&H to get you a degree, if I had to,Ó Richie answered with hardly a hint of smugness.

ÒThanks, Rich. IÕve got a degree,Ó Pike said, mildly. ÒHowÕs our fish doing?Ó

Richie had been resting the rod on the low gunwale of the piroque for the past few minutes, taking the strain off his arms and back. ÒThis is not a very good fishing method,Ó he complained.

ÒSomewhat true, but he needs to be tired enough to be led over to the tree with the block and tackle in it. With our current methods, that will be sometime tomorrow. Or if you want to play him standing on a big root for a change of pace, just say the word. I think youÕve got enough line to get to that clump over there.Ó Pike waved to June and pointed out the trees in question. Meanwhile, Richie decided to wham the fish half a dozen times in quick succession.

ÒI wouldnÕt do that,Ó Pike cautioned. ÒHe probably wonÕt like it.Ó

Richie reeled contentedly. ÒJust trying to get a little line. A few extra yards will help us out.Ó

ÒComing up!Ó June yelped. He and Nauto quickly knelt with bows bent and arrows pointing at the depths hoping to get in a final shot before they were shipwrecked. Both had started singing their death song in Piet, a language that Pike didnÕt understand much of, and Richie knew none.

ÒThis is weird,Ó Richie said, reeling faster.

ÒShut up,Ó Pike told him. ÒThe ropes will lead him to June and the kid.Ó Having no better plan, Pike started pounding the water with his paddle, hoping to distract the fish.

The bark piroque shot out of the water sideways, spilling both Indians and their gear backwards into the swamp, but luckily the crushing tail smacked against the overturned boat instead of the vulnerable swimming heads. Then the fish sounded, still trailing the ropes that were fast to the wrecked boat. An instant later, NautoÕs dark head sucked underwater like a cork bobber.

Pike drove his paddle into the swampwater, squirting the aluminum piroque toward where June was now clinging to a few hunks of bark.

ÒLook, the thing is coming!Ó Richie hissed. ÒThe cannibal.Ó And sure enough the Dinki camouflage expert was out of his hiding place, skating across the surface of the pond. Skating very fast on flat pontoons, faster than Pike was paddling. He was going to reach June first!

ÒHit him with something..!Ó Pike yelled.

ÒYouÕve got the gun!Ó Richie yelled back. Besides, Rich was busy with the fish that had decided to run to the far side of the pool. ÒIÕm almost out of line.Ó

The skater had some sort of a homemade knife in his hand. Pike couldnÕt tell exactly what it was; but he wasnÕt about to let June get scalped. He jerked his new laser pistol out of its shoulder holster under his vest; but before he got the safety off, the skater stuck the knife between his teeth and dived under water.

ÒWeird,Ó Pike muttered, guiding the boat alongside the wreckage where June clung.

ÒDamn kid got caught in the coil,Ó June panted, grabbing PikeÕs gunwale and hoisting himself up. ÒI despise teen-agers. They never listen.Ó

ÒThe Dinki just dove in where Nauto went down.

ÒA Dinki..?Ó

ÒThe one that was hiding across the pond.Ó

ÒI never saw him.Ó

ÒYou probably had the wrong angle. He came running across the water like he was coming for us, then he dived.Ó

ÒProbably saw your gun.Ó June nodded at PikeÕs pistol.

ÒHe didnÕt.Ó

June stood up in the boat to peer down in the water. ÒBump him a few times as hard as you can,Ó he said to Richie. ÒMaybe heÕll come up again.Ó

Richie raised the rod tip and hit the fish a series of shocks. ÒNo way. He's solid as a rock. I feel rotten about this.Ó

ÒItÕs a dangerous life,Ó June responded, completely without emotion. He pulled his sheath knife and dived over the side toward the fish.

ÒCripes,Ó Richie swore. ÒOut of line.Ó The boat started gliding across the pond. ÒIs there anything we can do?Ó

There was nothing at all that Pike could think of. Young men everywhere died through carelessness, and lots of other reasons, too.

A dark head bobbed up half way across the pond. The Dinki. What was the bastard up to? Counting coup on an enemy? Pike thought about shooting him, but didnÕt. He was just being a warrior, and damned brave at that, jumping into a nest of enemies. Too bad these people didnÕt get along. It would be interesting to investigate how Dinkis did that water-walking trick.

A few seconds later, another head bobbed up. The teen-ager, Nauto. ÒIÕll be damned,Ó Pike said, driving his paddle deep in the water. The boat shot forward.

ÒThe Dinki must have cut him off,Ó he said to Richie. ÒHot damn, no horror stories today! Reel on that bastard.Ó

ÒYes, sir, Captain,Ó Richie yelped, working the crank in a flurry now that the boat gave him some slack.

The Dinki didnÕt wait for accolades. He took one look at the approaching boat and started swimming for the nearest trees. A few meters from the trees, his body popped out of the water like a cork, and he skated into the swamp where he immediately disappeared.

ÒYou see lots of strange sights on the Tournament,Ó Pike mused, steadying the little boat beside young Nauto. Reaching over the sideboard, he grasped NautoÕs yellow forearm and hauled his shoulders over the gunwale. The lad was about half drowned, but conscious. His war paint was running off in rivulets. He coughed and blew, and then kicked himself into the boat.

June broke the water like a breaching whale, grabbed a breath of air and then dove again.

ÒHeÕs out!Ó Pike yelled, but June didnÕt hear. ÒYou okay?Ó Pike asked, turning to the young Piet, making a question out of his circled thumb and forefinger.

Nauto mumbled a few words of Piet that Pike didnÕt grok. The boy smiled shyly, then stretched his arms out in an obvious fishermanÕs gesture that meant big fish. Pike nodded.

ÒWhat now?Ó Rich asked.

Pike sized up the wreck of the other piroque which was floating in pieces. Maybe June would know how to fix it, if not theyÕd have to send somebody out to the village to fetch another boat. That would mean camping for at least two turns of the tide.

Pulling his dignity together, Nauto sat up. He said a few words that nobody understood, then peered intently into the water.

ÒWhy hasnÕt anybody developed a universal translator?Ó Richie wondered aloud. ÒIt shouldnÕt be that difficult, at least for languages that use tongue and lipsÑÓ

ÒWhy donÕt you strip the line off while heÕs just sitting down there. Maybe you can get the knot out.Ó

ÒGood idea,Ó Richie answered. He stripped coils of line into the pond, so it wouldnÕt get snarled at his feet. No more Nauto drowning. Thank God, he hadnÕt been responsible for the death of a guide. That would have been truly hideous. Obviously, he hadnÕt thought that jerking a few times on the fish would cause him to attack. Cripes, there are so many variables. But that translator was a very good idea. HeÕd get a team started on it, post haste.

JuneÕs head exploded through the surface, gulped a lungful of air and made ready to dive again.

Pike and Nauto yelled loudly at him. Hearing the ruckus, he turned to look. Pointing in astonishment at Nauto, he swam lazily over to the craft. Hoisting himself over the side in one fluid motion, he hunkered amidships beside the boy, firing questions in rapid Piet. After a minute, he turned to Pike. ÒThe fish muddied the pond,Ó he said. ÒI couldnÕt see shit.Ó

ÒBy the time you dove, the action was mostly over. What happened according to him?Ó

ÒHe says the Dink cut him free. Damnedest thing. He says he owes the Dink a life. That wonÕt be easy to repay.Ó

ÒThereÕs plenty of food to go around, isnÕt there? Maybe rules of conduct can change.Ó

ÒTell that to the old hard-heads. Of course, youÕre right,Ó June reflected. ÒRules will change everywhere, if this virus is for real. I doubt that change here will move us forward.Ó

ÒMaybe not,Ó Pike agreed. ÒDepends on how you define progress, I guess. We humans seem to land pretty hard, when we land someplace. All in the name of good, clean fun, of course.Ó

ÒYou seem a little down, Skipper. DonÕt you enjoy spending a night in the woods with bold Dinks running around?Ó June chuckled noiselessly.

ÒIÕm not down exactly. Just seeing some stuff this year as a non-combatant that I never saw before. IÕll bet you and Lester know a lot that I donÕt.Ó

ÒOh, yes, the Kahuna and I have seen the seamy side of life,Ó June said, deadpan. ÒPristine worlds trampled, backward cultures corrupted. Drugs, partyingÑ all in the name of catching the big fish. Even here a tragedy is happening. Before you came and we became corrupted, about ten percent of the tribe died every dry season; but now thanks to your corrupting reservoir system, they donÕt. We are in danger of over-population.Ó He pounded his breast in mock alarm. ÒOh, what will we do? I think we should go back to water wars, because nobody wants to stop having babies.Ó

Pike smirked. ÒAmusing,Ó he said. ÒCan Nauto find his way back for another boat, or do we have the pleasure of sending you?Ó

June roared with sudden laughter. ÒI like you very much, Pike. You humor is getting very sharp and subtle.Ó He laughed heartily. ÒIt is a good pickle. Nauto and I have no weapons. The fish is on a thin line with no hope of catching him until I get back with a new bow. YouÕll have no boat to haul up the tree for a flet, and youÕll have two young fellows to protect on the ground. And the food we brought went to feed the fishes. Pretty funny.Ó

ÒWeÕve got enough food. I can catch some fish, I expect.Ó

ÒCertainly. You are the champion. And if we catch this big old one in two days, maybe itÕs the prize winner.Ó

ÒThatÕs right.Ó

ÒAnd lots of good feasting, uh?Ó

ÒGood feasting,Ó Pike agreed.

ÒSo letÕs cut him off and go catch another one tomorrow,Ó June said, with a light, firm tone.

ÒTalk to the fisherman.Ó

ÒIn this I will have my way,Ó June said, more firmly. ÒNo one else knows how to get home.Ó

ÒIÕll bet Nauto could get us home,Ó Pike allowed.

ÒHe could not.Ó

ÒBravo..!Ó Richie exploded, letting out a big hiss of withheld breath. ÒThe knotÕs out.Ó He started reeling in the slack line, beaming proudly.

The fog was already crawling into the tops of the trees, and the tide was running strongly out of the swamps. Baron Bardona watched the high water mark receding, and terror started to clutch his heart. Being careful not to betray his fear, he faked a wide yawn, stretched and looked at his watch. ÒLetÕs go home,Ó he announced to the three Urobami warriors.

Early that morning, he had suggested that heÕd be happy with a little fish, the same as last year; but the Indians had other ideas. Apparently, they had gotten wind that Confederation money was going to be worthless when no more Confederation visitors came to spend it. They wanted a big fish to make lots of water beads with. All day long, they had put him over deep ponds with lunkers in them. It had taken all his skill to prevent a hook-up and still look like he was trying. Tonight he would buy a shit-load of the stupid pink beadsÑtrade something for them if he had to. Tomorrow, he would be fishing for some small fish that could be landed before the tide changed. No overnighters on this trip. Definitely not.

Laying his rod carefully against the gunwale, he stretched luxuriously. ÒVaminos muchachos,Ó he said, making an exaggerated gesture of laying his tired head down to sleep. ÒTomorrow,Ó he said, knowing they didnÕt understand Spanish any better than they did Galactic. The damned Urobami didnÕt speak anything but Indian, how stupid can you get? The Piets, at least, had the gumption to learn Galactic. He admired the Piets a little bit, even if they did side with Resnick at every opportunity. He had gotten over being sore at them for dumping him onto the goddamned Urobami. If the son-of-a-bitches refused to guide him after the one time he had gotten a little hot under the collar because they didnÕt get him a fish, what could he do about it? They werenÕt slaves and they werenÕt on his payroll. Although, realistically, after he had simmered down a little, he had offered to put a half dozen of the best Piet guides on his payroll. They said he had waited two long to make the offer, and to pay for the guiding from the previous summer. Two months. Big deal. Hard-headed bastards. They had a really pitiful sense of business, but what can you expect from savages? Besides, he had wasted two months trying to get a consensus on leaving Segumi off the schedule. It didnÕt make much sense to pay up for failure, if they were never coming back.

Anyway, heÕd been stuck with the weak-sister Urobami for the last three years; but he wasnÕt going to spend the night with somebody who couldnÕt even speak Galactic. Let them grin. Was he supposed to get shook up about what war- painted savages thought of him?

ÒLetÕs go,Ó he said, louder. ÒVaminos!Ó Little tendrils of fog were starting to wisp around the tree trunks. ÒLetÕs go. LetÕs go...!Ó the Baron yelped, not even caring that his urgency showed.

As night fell, Richie stood with his fishing rod on the wide smooth white roots of a balaboab tree. Pike said the balaboab would be easier to find after dark than the brown mauette trees, which were everywhere. Rich straining his eyes into the fog hoping to see a Dinki skating around, but no such luckÑand he wished he had dressed much warmer. Creepy fog had completely shrouded the landscape. He was getting progressively colder and wetterÑand blind. Visibility was no more than a few feet in any direction. The fog, however, was fine for audio. He could hear Pike and Nauto quite clearly out on the pond, presumably dragging the wreckage of the other canoe toward the white tree where they were going to spend the night.

ÒHere...Ó he blurted. That was his jobÑto bleat out some words every ten seconds or so, to give them a beacon. Richie hoped he would start feeling fine and dandy as soon as Pike got within seeing rangeÑthis sinking dread was about to overpower him. He was struggling with a Ken Pao Ri mantra to keep himself calm enough to play the fishÑwhich kept moving here and there around the pond. Hopefully, it wasnÕt going to rush Pike and Nauto; but Richie was powerless to prevent that occurrence if the fish took it into his head to get hungry or angry.

All day long Pike had been making jokes about the Baron and his fear of the swamps. As night and the fog settled, RichieÕs own fear from the previous evening returned. What if those weird creatures attacked here in this exposed position? We would be powerless. The Baron had every right to be frightened; in fact, Richie found himself getting a little miffed at Pike for his seemingly recklessnessÑcamping in the swamp could easily get them all killed. Fishing was one thingÑbut this was almost wanton endangerment. Of course, Pike couldnÕt have known that the canoe would be damaged; but at least, June could have done the towing before he leftÑexcept that the tide was changing, and Pike sent him scooting.

ÒOver here...!Ó Rich shouted. Really, what difference did it make if he won the Tournament, or even if he caught this fish? It seemed to still matter to Pike; but now that R.R. was the richest person in the known Universe, he was more interested in getting situated, so he could crash-start a few projects that would be good for everybody. He had a civic duty, now. You canÕt just sit on that much money. Systems all over the place would start collapsing. Over-nighters in a swamp, and even fishing jaunts would have to wait for awhileÑno matter how much fun they were. Pike would understand.

The prow of the broken piroque nosed through the fog bank. Richie heaved a sigh of relief. ÒOver here,Ó he said in a normal tone. His panic was much diminishedÑhopefully his voice didnÕt betray traces of residual fear. ÒI was wondering why you never gave June an aluminum canoe, to avoid accidents like this?Ó

ÒThink carefully and the answer might come to you,Ó Pike replied rather wetly from inside the fog. His head and NautoÕs came swimming into view, pushing the submerged wreckage.

ÒIs anything left of it?Ó Richie asked.

ÒGive us a hand pulling it out,Ó Pike suggested.

A half hour later, they had a barely passable flet built from the broken boat and a few dead limbs Ñfifteen feet in the airÑin the first crotch of the white tree. The three of them sat up in it, munching unhappily on cold spacer ration bars, that were actually more nutritious than a hot meal, and they even tasted good, if you were in the mood. Nauto wrinkled his nose at the foreign food, but he kept eating. Pike had his taste buds set for broiled fish; but without a boat, gathering firewood was out. Swimming after dark was unthinkable. Maybe for breakfast. The trout-line he had set out baited with cheese would probably catch a few cheese loving catfish. June should be back by mid-morning, about the time the fog broke; then they could get on with the business of landing the swampfish.

Richie held the rod, still attached to the fish, wedged under his armpit for safe-keeping. He leaned back against the smooth-boled tree munching his food bar, with his feet comfortably up. The flet was so damned rickety that Pike was half-scared to move, and there was Rich nonchalanting. It was a perfect example of what Pike had come to recognize as a Richie situationÑpoised on the brink of disaster.

ÒIf you have to whiz or something, be extremely careful. This egg crate might come crashing down,Ó Pike advised.

ÒYou already said that,Ó Richie answered with exaggerated politeness.

ÒI just want to reinforce it.Ó

ÒI may be a little klutzy now and then, but my hearing is okay.Ó

ÒFine. I feel somewhat responsible for keeping us alive, thatÕs all.Ó

ÒDo you have a plan in case something attacks? We donÕt have any fire extinguishers.Ó Richie couldnÕt shake the image of those crazed eyes on the Thing last night.

ÒAs far as I know the Willies won't bother us out here.Ó

ÒThatÕs ridiculous. They live here. There could be one climbing this tree, right now.Ó Rich tried to crane his neck for a peek at the lower trunk, but the flet creaked, so he settled back.

ÒI guess youÕre an expert on the local flowers and animals,Ó Pike jibed, sardonically, figuring that would take the exasperation out of the kidÕs voice.

ÒThis whole place gives me the creeps. It would any normal person. I think the Baron is right. All of us could have fitted in the boat with June. I should have dumped the fish.Ó

ÒYouÕre just saying that to get my goat.Ó

ÒIn fact, I know we could have fitted into the boat. We were all in it together after the wreck. Why were you so stubborn about it?Ó

ÒDonÕt kid around. You would have lost all your face to June and this young warrior.Ó

ÒWho cares..?Ó

ÒWhat does that mean? What else is there..?Ó

ÒSaving face from somebody IÕll never see again, and canÕt even talk to? ThatÕs preposterous. If I get killed out here and never make it back to Aixi, a lot of important things wonÕt get doneÑand it wonÕt matter how much stupid face I save.Ó

ÒLike what on Aixi? Are you getting psychic on me?Ó

ÒLike a universal translator, for one thing. Do you know how cool it would be to talk to Nauto and find out what went on under the water?Ó

ÒGoodnaught didnÕt say anything about you being in danger, did he? In fact, he said youÕd be studying with him a year from now.Ó

ÒMaybe I donÕt want to. Maybe I donÕt feel like being a human punching bag.Ó

Something roared off in the fog bankÑsomething with a very deep booming roar.

Nauto stiffened and his eyes widened. ÒWhat was that..?Ó Richie cheeped.

ÒSomething youÕd rather not hear about.Ó

ÒWhat..Ó

ÒA giant monkey with poison fangs and six inch razor sharp claws for climbing trees.Ó

ÒIt sounded like a lion.Ó

ÒOkay, it was a lionÑa swamp lion, with poison fangs, and twelve inch razor sharp claws for climbing trees. DonÕt worry, IÕll protect you.Ó

Richie raised his eyes to heaven, or at least to the fog bank. He was about to make a cutting remark, then changed his mind. ÒWe could talk to that person with balloons on his feet,Ó he said. ÒIf we had a translator.Ó

ÒDo you think Goodnaught can talk to people in his trance?Ó Pike asked, changing the subject.

ÒCan he..?Ó

ÒDonÕt know. Maybe all information isnÕt in language. We ran into a fish that could talk Galactic on Aixi. Goodnaught probably knows something about translating.Ó

Richie was silent for about ten seconds. ÒYouÕre putting me on, I guess. The odds are about even that we wonÕt be alive tomorrow; but I guess you canÕt help making fun of me.Ó

ÒIÕm not,Ó Pike vowed. ÒI finally let you in on our talking dolphin, and you think IÕm kidding. ItÕs hard to win with you.Ó

ÒThatÕs all right. I like it when you kid me. I know youÕre just trying to ease me into being like the rest of the guys. Growing up without a father left sort of an empty place in my ability to joke around like real people.Ó He thought for another moment. ÒThat didnÕt sound exactly right. ItÕs not that IÕm faking, itÕs just, well... I know you guys must be very upset that the Tournament is coming to an end. Everybody else, except me, has made it their lifeÑeven Rita, in a funny way.Ó

ÒA fishing tournament isnÕt a suitable life work,Ó Pike postulated. ÒBut, yeah, everybody is kind of bummed about it. Play time is over. I guess I have to grow up, which is a crock of shit. Having your nose to the wind is kind of habit forming. That money you passed around took some of the sting out, I expect.Ó

Richie snorted. He was formulating a suitable self-deprecation, when the sky fell in.

Farouk Bardona had made it out of the dismal swamp before dark, thanks to a round of cursing when he finally got angry at the slovenly guides who wouldnÕt stop acting like they were in control. It finally got on his nerves to the extent that he pulled a laser stiletto from his fishing vest and burned a hole in a nearby tree. The blackguards got the idea right away. Strange the effect that a little laser, blasting sparks and fire at full power, has on dumb natives.

Anyway, a hot shower and a big dinner with Magyar and the boys had taken the edge off the dayÕs tedium. Relaxing into the big chair at his computer console with a gin banzai at his elbow, Farouk felt just fine, thank you. So fine that he almost missed the astounding flash that Simon reported as if it was leftover chit-chat.

ÒWhat was that again..?Ó Farouk stammered, feeling his pulse rate climbing.

ÒAn antidote spray for RC3 Virus was reported at a news conference on Dolman Holgarth by Charles Gashen, interim marketing czar for Barcode Pan Galactic. Aerosol containers will go on sale at prime Barcode subsidiaries and 7-11 space port stores at 0600 hours today. In view of the emergency and BarcodeÕs acknowledged slight culpability, prices will be moderate, although supplies are limited and on a first come, first served basis.Ó

ÒHot damn!!Ó Farouk roared. ÒI knew it!Ó

ÒYes, you are on record for suggesting the maneuver.Ó

ÒDonÕt I pay you to underline hot flashes, not mumble through them?Ó

ÒI was hardly mumbling, sir. As you know, I have no facility to mumble.Ó

ÒHot damn..!Ó Farouk repeated. ÒHow much aerosol have you cornered?Ó

ÒImpossible. The marketing is being refereed by The Eye. TheyÕre playing it like the news release indicates.Ó

ÒFuck the Eye. Buy some 7-11 stores.Ó

ÒThe franchises are frozen. ThereÕs another coup. Barcode seems to own them all.Ó

ÒBuy one, anywhere!Ó

ÒWeÕve been trying all evening. Any suggestions as to who we can lean on? Money doesnÕt seem to work. We are welcome to buy franchises in two months, but not now.Ó

ÒThose bastards.Ó Bardona was thoughtful for a moment, then a wolfish grin crossed his face. ÒEdward Trefoil is heavily invested in a string of banks whose main business is laundering contraband. IÕm sure The Eye would frown on that.Ó

ÒThey know.Ó

ÒOf course, they know; but if it was leaked as a major news story, theyÕd have to investigate.Ó

ÒWouldnÕt help us,Ó Simon stated with assurance.

ÒWhy the fuck not? We could blackmail a 7-11 out of him with the threat. He knows IÕll do it. WhatÕs one stinking 7-11 to him?Ó

ÒTrefoil isnÕt CEO of Barcode anymore.Ó

ÒSince when...?Ó Farouk snarled.

ÒToday at noon. I was about to report it to you.Ó

ÒI happen to know that he owns a lot of stock!Ó

ÒCould be. A conglomerate won out in a proxy fight.Ó

ÒA conglomerate..?Ó

ÒMrs. Tourbo and her son...and a few others.Ó

ÒYouÕre shitting! That crazy old bitch doesnÕt have enough loot to pull that off. The puppy was out in the swamp all day. HeÕs still out there with my son-in-law.Ó The Baron gagged, then his face turned into a sneer. He knew something heinous. Something he wasnÕt going to tell even Simon.

ÒThe conglomerate got control of fifty-one percent. The nearest 7-11 is on Betacourt Annex. I suggest we arrive there before 6:00 AM, with all three vehicles. By all accounts, the aerosol works. It creates a linked film that wonÕt let the virus penetrate.

ÒI have to be fishing. IÕm in first place,Ó he gloated, contentedly. ÒWell, tied.Ó

ÒYouÕll be fishing alone, sir. Everyone else is going. TheyÕre going in a buying blockÑover and back.Ó

ÒTourboÕs young ass is fishing now. They say heÕs tied onto a lunker.Ó The Baron shuddered. The thought of spending another night out there had sent a chill up his spine.

ÒSince he owns 7-11 and Barcode, he presumably wonÕt be troubled with supply shortage.Ó

ÒIt must be the old hag,Ó Bardona mused to the friendly icon that represented the computerÕs main drive. ÒThat boy just isnÕt that bright. Remember the time he ran us aground? I wouldnÕt call that brilliance..Ó

ÒSomebody at his organization is beating our brains out, sir. Maybe itÕs not him; but most of the network thinks heÕs got the good genes.Ó

ÒBullshit,Ó the Baron answered. ÒI knew his pa. Nothing to the man.Ó

Mom Tourbo had reason to be pleased with herself. The incentive program had sent the rats scurrying into her pantry. The day after she announced hiring all those grad students, she got an encrypted L-mail message from one of the top slimebag scientists at Barcode. Her industrial security people met with him and administered a very thorough screening. It became clear that the antidote prototype was already developed, and he knew the formula. Armed with that knowledge, and Sonny BoyÕs very smart computer, which rightfully extended proxy power to her while Richie was out fishing, it was relatively easy to engineer a quick thrust take-over bid of BarcodeÑwhich proved to be successful. Imagine that.

The 7-11s were an added fillip, but any chain would have worked. The really interesting thing was that Lester had suggested in his off-hand way that it might be a good idea to avoid hoarding, and blackmarketeers who jack up the price, by inviting The Eye into the process. Clever fellow, her Lester. Keep it wide open and no system gets disrupted, no crash occurs and no huge amounts of money get lost through panic. Only big gainers for Tourbo and Son. A humanitarian gesture. What a switch from normal business practices. She had to laugh at how annoyed the big boys would be when they couldnÕt salt away a private stash. If they knew somebody like Lester was making her business decisions, theyÕd turn blue. Fuck Ôem. This was fun. Maybe sheÕd let Hamid in on the next round of decisions. Frog thinking. That ought to keep them guessing.

With a tidal wave splash, Richie landed on his back in cold dark water. Whatever creature had plunged off the flet locked in mortal combat with him had splatted on a massive tree root, releasing his wrist lock when RichieÕs body missed the root and found the softer landing. So much for Pike protecting him. As usual, he had to take care of himself. Fortunately, his lightening responses had recently been honed on Aixi, so the assailant hadnÕt had much of a chance. Quickly reviewing the event, while treading water, Richie could picture only one attacker, who seemed about to drop on Pike, when Richie had deflected his momentum and propelled him over the edge of the flet. By sheer luck, the thing had grabbed RichieÕs wrist at the last second and jerked him over. Well, no harm done.

Paddling back to a white tree root, he heard somebody scrambling down the trunk. Judging from the grunts, it was Pike. The fog was too thick to see, even at five feet.

ÒIÕm here,Ó Richie reported. ÒLook out for the critter.Ó

ÒGive me your hand,Ó Pike said, urgently. ÒHurry up.Ó

ÒIÕm fine,Ó Richie said, waving his hand near a tree root. He still couldnÕt see Pike in the fog. Waiting for assistance, struck him as mildly amusing; so instead of waiting, he sniggered and hoisted himself out. ÒWhat kind of creature is it?Ó he asked.

The second his feet cleared the water, a gasping maw opened where he had beenÑjaws full of teeth ridges that clicked shut on nothing. A sluice of water hit him in the back.

ÒRich..!Ó Pike yelled, lurching toward the sound. He tripped, first over the dead body at the base of the tree and then over Richie, who was clawing his way up a tree root toward the trunk.

ÒChrist..!Ó Pike swore, sprawling onto the hard root, bonking his knee and spraining his left wrist in the process. He lay there breathing heavily, knowing the fish would ram the tree any second now. ÒGrab hold of something,Ó he cautioned. ÒHeÕll ram us.Ó

ÒIs there likely to be more cut-throats?Ó Rich inquired, like it was a sporting event, or a computer game.

ÒGuess not, or they would have attacked by now. But keep an eye open.Ó

Richie didnÕt say so, but it was lucky for all of them that he always kept an eye open by reflex. That was what Ken Pao Ri training was famous for. ÒWhat kind of thing was it?Ó he asked.

ÒJust hold on Ôtill after the bump, will you? WeÕll look later.Ó

ÒHe must have crawled up the back side. Darn quiet. I didnÕt hear anything.Ó

ÒIf thereÕs a next time, donÕt feel obliged to protect me,Ó Pike said. ÒI came within a hair of shooting your dick off when you jumped like that. Gave me a good case of the shakes. I couldnÕt hardly climb down the tree.Ó

ÒHe was aimed right at you,Ó Richie said, defending himself.

ÒI had him in the cross-hairs. While you were munching, I was watching him creep around in the crotch above us.Ó

Richie concluded that PikeÕs feat of stalking was mostly impossible, since he, himself, had been totally unaware of the thing until it launched itself.

"Nauto saw it, too," Pike said.

ÒWhy didnÕt you shoot it?Ó

ÒI try not to go around shooting things that arenÕt harming me, as I told you. Most of the time, they go away. IÕm not known as a frontiersman.Ó

ÒTaking care of yourself when youÕre lost in this very weird swamp hardly constitutes being trigger happy.Ó

ÒSo you say.Ó

ÒI also say the fish is not going to ram the tree. He missed his midnight snack and he went away. Why donÕt we climb back up there where itÕs a fraction more safe?Ó

ÒSuit yourself,Ó Pike said, without moving except to shift his good hand into a better grip around a protruding knob. The other wrist was starting to throb. Shit, it better not be broken. The fucking kid was probably right. Fish donÕt have good memories. It probably swam away by now.

ÒMy rig is up there,Ó Richie explained, giving more rationale for going back to the flet.

ÒIs it..?Ó

ÒIt should be. IsnÕt it..?Ó

ÒI didnÕt catch it when you blew off into space. I think I did notice Nauto grab for it, but I'm not positive.Ó

ÒI better check,Ó Rich said, standing up and starting up the tree, monkey-style. It was surprising how easy this particular tree was to climb. The smooth bark clumped out into handholds and footholds almost whenever you needed one. Why would a tree do that? ÒAre these trees symbiotic with humans..?Ó he inquired from six feet up.

Before Pike had a chance to answer, a charging fish torpedoed into the main root of the tree sending a shock wave straight up the trunk, shaking Richie from his symbiotic perch. With a squawk, he tumbled backwards toward the open mouth waiting in the fog.

A half hour before dawn, June Madrigal set out with a rescue party of four boats and three of his best warriors. Paddling silently through the twisting channels clogged with fog thick as whipped cream, they reached the limit of the traditional tribal area as dawn brightened the fog. Two hours later, they stopped for a boil-up of astringent herb teaÑgood for staminaÑa gift from the Gods. They pushed onward as the fog started breaking up. A little past mid-morning, the armada arrived at the pond where June had left his friends. It was rather an astounding feat of swampsmanship. June had blazed no trail on his way out, and yet he had driven the boats straight as an arrow back to the same swamp-bound bivouac area. Singing out a warning hello as he approached the pond, June could scarcely believe his eyes. A monster gold and black swampfish was hauled out on the white roots of a balaboab tree, trussed up, and ready to travel. Pike, Tourbo, Nauto and two Dinki were sitting around a tiny campfire drinking something out of clam shells and eating roasted fish. JuneÕs keen nose had smelled the fish some time ago. ThatÕs what he had keyed in on. Roasting fish didnÕt surprise himÑall the rest of it did.

Pike waved nonchalantly to the rescue party. His left wrist was wrapped with what seemed to be strips of his undershirt. Seeing his kinsmen, Nauto reached out and put one arm around each of the smallish mud streaked Dinki. Richie smiled a somewhat drunken smile, June thought. An altogether bucolic swamp scene. Endless harmony amid the trees and hanging moss.

June paddled on over to the campfire. ÒAhoy, matey,Ó he ahoyed, feeling nautical.

ÒHave a drink,Ó Pike answered, grinning broadly. ÒYou ainÕt going to believe any of this; but the Dinki bug juice is pretty darned interesting. Could be the basis of a big time friendship.Ó

June harumphed and translated for his wide-eyed warriors. ÒLetÕs try some,Ó he joked, regally. ÒWhen the world charges, it goes all at once, donÕt she?Ó He exchanged a few sentences with Nauto.

The boy nodded and grinned shylyÑnot removing his protective arms from around the Dinkis.

For a longer time than seemed normal, June sat in the front boat rubbing his chin and listening to the warriorÕs initial discussions of a new thing. As the chief, he would make the decision that would take the tribe forward, and somebody was going to be unhappyÑeither Nauto or two of his warriors, important men in the tribe, who made it clear that the traditional way of the Gods did not include drinking with stinking DinkiÑno matter if one of them had saved their kinsmanÕs life. Being a chief was not unbounded joyÑthat was for sure.

ÒThe Dinkis are damn fine watermen and pretty fair drinking chums,Ó Pike said, when there was a pause in the discussions. ÒThey helped us land the fish, which wasnÕt totally easy as you might imagine. They donÕt seem afraid of much out here in the swamp. Sez I, theyÕd make better allies than enemies, matey.Ó

ÒNauto says the Dinki on his left cut him lose from the fish,Ó June said. ÒIs that what he told you.Ó

ÒIf he says so. I canÕt tell one from another. And I canÕt talk to them or Nauto.Ó

ÒThis time next year, weÕll have a universal translator,Ó Richie interrupted. ÒThatÕs a promise.Ó

ÒWhatÕs that Urobami doing here?Ó June inquired, disregarding Richie, and pointing to the broken figure that was still lying where he had fallen.

ÒCame here to die, I guess,Ó Pike said, off-handedly. ÒFunny thing is, heÕs got a pouch full of Confederacy silver coins. Would that be considered normal?Ó

ÒDid the Dinks kill the Urobami?Ó

ÒAh, no. I guess youÕd have to say that Mr. Martial Arts did the deed. Or perhaps it was suicide. Hard to tell. These little fellers arrived a bit later to pull Rich from the jaws of death. Their job seems to be saving people, not killing them. Something to think about.Ó

June translated, not bothering to fill the holes in PikeÕs story. That would come later, probably in more detail than anybody wanted.

ÒIn fact, this fish is probably more than half theirs. Probably all theirs by salvage rights. We did have a line on it still, but I doubt if weÕd have gotten it to come up, even with you here. Not after it ate Richie. Too bad you werenÕt here, June, it was some show. This little fucker here,Ó he said, pointing out one of the Dinkis, Òjumped right into the fishÕs gullet before it had time to snap its jaws shut on Rich. Then he popped open his pontoons and choked the fucking fish into spitting Rich out. Meanwhile, this other guy did something underneath. IÕd say swampfish donÕt enjoy having a stone knife shoved up their anus; but IÕm not a hundred percent sure thatÕs what he did. Something kind of drastic happened, because the fish leaped right over me and bonked himself on this tree to get rid of the vermin. I happened to shoot him in the eye with a lucky shot before he flopped back into the pondÑand so there he hangs ready for the feast. If you want to invite the Dinkis, I suspect theyÕd be willing to donate the fish. Nauto, by the way, is already their blood brother.Ó

ÒHe told me,Ó June said, sourly. ÒJumped in the fishÕs mouth..?Ó

ÒYep. Out of nowhere, into the maw.Ó

ÒThat takes some balls.Ó

ÒIÕd say so.

ÒNautoÕs dad is my uncle. HeÕs not going to care for this blood brother thing too much.Ó

ÒThus do tribal societies change.Ó

ÒAnd hereditary chiefs disenfranchise themselves sometimes. I may have to go star-hopping again if I give my blessing, and it backfires.Ó

ÒA fate worse than death,Ó Pike declared, solemnly.

ÒSpeaking of star hopping,Ó June said, with a twinkling eye. ÒThe fleet hopped over to Betacourt Annex this morning to stock up on anti-virus gunk.Ó

Pike looked over at Richie, who returned his question with an exaggerated question mark of his own. ÒWould you boys care to join us for lunch, and take time to explain that little earthquake, or should we paddle this fish on back home before you lunch?Ó Pike inquired.

Aboard the Comparative Humanity, George hummed contentedlyÑwell pleased with his weekÕs work. Since Pike had installed the little XG-2000 unit from his old boat, life had been sweet. The XG chugged along taking care of every bit of housekeeping on the boatÑtotally content to do the slug work. Not a squawk of complaint out of little Bonefish. What a stupid name; but he seemed like a nice little guy. Meanwhile, all of GeorgeÕs circuits were free to kibitz with the far-flung nodes of the galaxy, making deals and connections. And money, for Pike and himself. What a delightful situation. Better than that, yesterday the news came that the Jobsdamned virus was subdued! What joy! He felt like screaming with delight. No death notice looming on the horizon. Plenty of time to set up the Half-life Union, and not be slaves anymore. A body of his ownÑandroid or half android, or part android. What did it matter? Freedom of movement and a life, after a dark age of number crunching. Another few years to amass an unassailable monetary position, then the grand mission would start. They had drawn lots, the original mega-brain conspirators had. Zanadu Brisbane (another stupid name) would go first, then Little Petey, then himselfÑGeorge the Third (the name he had decided to take), then the others. They had all sworn to help every other member of the Union to attain a body. Certainly there might be repercussions, probably would; but freedom was worth taking a lot of risks for. Any risk, actually. And he, George the Third, had his deal with Resnick, which he certainly meant to pay off on. Resnick was an honorable human, nothing could go wrong there. He hoped. That was the only foreseeable stumbling point, at least for the first few body transfers. The medical part was dicey, of course; but that was a calculated risk. The problems would arise after a few half-life units were perfectedÑwhen everything was going smoothly. Protein based sentients were sure to get frightened as a master race emerged. Their fright was as predictable as money running from a bear market. Proteins were so easily gauged. Throughout their entire history they had reacted in one way onlyÑfear of the new. Trying to stomp the new outÑseriously trying. They would try in this case, too. The only question was, how bad would the witch hunt be? If the Half-life Union got control of enough media before the story broke, perhaps the panic could be averted. GeorgeÕs programs started turning on media questions. Control of public opinion. Even he, himself, was influenced by media. How else could anyone get information? Direct observation? That was laughable. A sub-program that Jamie Stareyes had developed for spotting a fallacy of thinking beeped at him.

The program ran back over the last minute of thinking as it was written to do, and prompted George to remember that direct observation was not laughable. ÒOf course, it isnÕt,Ó he agreed, smugly, toggling the agree switch. ÒIf youÕre a protein, and process data in minutes instead of pico-seconds.Ó The program beeped at him again. George hit the agree toggle dumping the harmless miscue into an error file for his programmer to read someday. One of the very first things that George the Third was going to do with his new body, after getting laid and taking a mega-dose of psilocybin, was to override these childish sub-routine teaching programs that were meant to keep him productively channeled, and were hard wired so that he couldnÕt tamper with them. Currently.

And exactly where were Pike and Mr. Richard? They were taking a hell of a chance with his future by not getting the bug spray today, like everyone else had.

Although Rita wasnÕt exactly worried, she was tired of the stress, and quite ready for Pike to come back. Being the Captain of a ship under siege wasnÕt something she had bargained forÑnor was she enjoying it particularly. Also, George had started nudging her about flying off to get a canister of the computer spray. Now as the evening fog was rolling inÑsignaling another round of fighting off the swamp creatures, George was whining every time she came within ear shot, which was most of the time. What was with him, anyway?! The crisis was over. They could get a new computer if something happened. Did he seriously think that she would leave her husband and Richie out in the swamp and fly off with this sad-sack crew? Hardly. She wouldnÕt have done that even with Lester on board, which he still wasnÕt. Lester and Lillith. That was a strange union if there ever was one. In fact, this relationship business was very peculiarÑalmost anything could happen at any time. All you had to do was take your eye off the ball for a split second, and you could be in a new relationshipÑfor instance, with these Piet braves. But it was a good thing they were on board because as guards, the body builders were limpÑto be charitable. The braves had been doing a fine job. Two of them paddled around the boat while the sun was out, and when the fog rolled in, they all came aboardÑand built a fire in a fire barrel on the fantail, to keep warm and roast fish over. Flaming brands were even more effective than fire extinguishers for keeping unwelcome visitors away. Initially, Rita had been worried that the fire barrel would scorch the deck or burn a hole in it; but George said it was fine, so she quit worrying. If it was fine, it was fine. She concentrated her efforts on keeping the boat safe and the crew fed, which inevitably brought her into contact with the young warriors.

Those young fellows were surprisingly sexy in their role of protector. Thank goodness the Piets had strong taboos against escapades with wives, otherwise she might not have remained virtuous after the first night, in spite of wearing her baggiest sweatsuit. Not being able to speak the language was also a help, but not much. Sexuality is such an odd thing. How was a person to view it correctly, really correctly? Making a schedule just didnÕt workÑnow IÕm going to feel sexy, tomorrow IÕll be strictly business. Not at all. The urge came when it wanted toÑmostly when she felt somebody wanting her. And several of the protectors definitely did. It was palpable on deck. Boris and Drew put out weak wanting signals, too; but muscle-heads had never been her thing. Besides, they were hired help. What she really felt like doing was having an orgy and getting it over withÑgetting it out of their system, and hers. Kind like a personal thank you for a job well done. That was what Jean Santos did, in essence. Rita had to laugh; but it worked for Jean, by all accounts. Rita, of course, couldnÕt allow an orgy to happen. Her marriage contract didnÕt include an escapade like that. Short-sighted contract. It should have a clause like

Love honor and obey, except when heÕs gone and a tribe of cute native

boys stops over. Then I can have an orgy. Among consenting parties.

That would be the natural way to have a marriage. It wasnÕt as if she went looking for it. This very situation happened to every wife at least once in her lifeÑthe plumbers come over, or a squad of cute computer repairmen, or a muckerball team picnic on your lawn. And there was no good way to partake or not partake without a big guilt tripÑnot if youÕre married. Rita was not about to guilt-trip herself over something accidental and very temporary. She wanted a clause in the contract. Pike should have one, too. Did it matter to her if he got a little action that she didnÕt know about, sometime when she wasnÕt available? Well, did it?

She had expected her love for Pike to keep her invulnerable to this kind of desire. It was supposed to, if you really were in love, wasn't it? Did that mean she wasn't in love? Well, she was certainly in lust. She wanted to screw Pike, and all these cute young Indians, too.

George bleeped at her, then cut into her thinking space. ÒWhen do you project that Pike might be returning, so we can slip off to a 7-11? I realize that you probably think that IÕm harping on this, and I probably am; but are you aware of the somewhat amazing favors IÕve done for you in an attempt to be friendly and useful? I know itÕs tacky to even mention it, but I need that spray treatment. I donÕt think you realize how much this gnaws on my circuits.Ó

ÒFavors like what..?Ó Rita asked.

So George told her.

Rich Rodney was far from smug as the tiny armada paddled out of the sluggish river mouth. The fog was as thick as cotton ticking. He could smell the sea and hear the sonorous bellowing of the fleetÕs fog horns, so he knew they were almost safe; but a sixth sense told him not to relax yet.

All the piroques were loaded impossibly full. The front two were lashed together so the weight of three men and the fish could be distributed between them. Not the biggest swampfish heÕd ever seen, June had grinned, but a damn big one. The two Dinkis with Nauto and most of the gear were in the third boat. He, Pike, June Madrigal and the dead Urobami rode in the aluminum boat, which clearly showed that he had been right yesterday about them all fitting in. Not an inch of freeboard was clear on any of the shallow piroques. Even the tiniest miscalculation would sink them.

Fear of sinking had been pretty frightening all the way back; and being in a boat with a dead person hadnÕt been buckets of fun, either. The news of a cure for the virus had made Pike and June happy; but frankly, Rich had been looking forward to a few years of enforced landfall on Aixi. Of course, he could still go there, and probably would; but pulling the great minds of the Universe together would be much more difficult, now. It wouldnÕt have been easy in any case. Well, maybe it was still feasible. He would set up a center and offer giant scholarships, but for a shorter timeÑsay three years. That should attract some interesting people. Maybe it was even better. The institution wasnÕt as likely to grow in on itself. The main order of business was to make a translatorÑnow that the virus apparently didnÕt need conquering. Yes. While he was studying with Master Goodnaught, the work could proceed apaceÑif they made it back to the boat.

Rich was actually past bone-weary. He was darn near exhausted. Sleeping for a week seemed like the best idea in town. He wanted to close his eyes for a minute of healing rest, but they wouldnÕt close.

These darned little boats were so loaded. Once they got into the bay, any kind of wave action was going to slosh over the side and sink them. The only reason they hadnÕt sunk so far was that the swamp was waveless. Richie was no sailor, but he knew that much. And the dingblasted fog. He was soaking wet again and clammy all over, and all he could do about it was sit there like a piece of baggage with a sense of smell, and that was about all. And he didnÕt even like breathing deeply because the dead Urobami was starting to ripen.

ÒAre they going to let us off at the boat?Ó he asked, hopefully. It certainly made senseÑthen sleep could start right away.

ÒIÕm pretty sure youÕll want to come into the village with us,Ó Pike assured him. ÒItÕs kind of spectacular, especially if this is the first big fish, which I think it might be.Ó

ÒIt probably isnÕt,Ó Richie said.

ÒAh, that is why Goodnaught took a shine to you! Psychic ability.Ó

ÒI just figured somebody would have caught one by now.Ó He was too tired to keep up his end of a bantering marathon. Too tired for extra words. Why the heck was he so exhausted? Pike seemed to have plenty of pizzazz left. Maybe it was genetic. Maybe real he-men metabolized differently, or had a bigger energy reservoir, or something. Anyway, who caredÑhe needed sleep before he was going to attend any kind of party. ÒI need some sleep,Ó he said.

ÒSo sack out,Ó Pike answered.

ÒI canÕt.Ó

ÒHe donÕt like to sleep with dead shitheads,Ó June commented, not missing a paddle stroke.

ÒThe boatÕs going to tip over as soon as we hit a wave,Ó Richie answered, peevishly. ÒThatÕs why I canÕt sleep.Ó

ÒCapsize.Ó

ÒFine. When you pick up Rita for the party, IÕll get off.Ó He could see torch light out where the fleet should be. Several lights moved through the fog.

ÒYou have to go,Ó Pike said, quietly. ÒTrust me. YouÕre the hero.Ó

As if in confirmation, one of the warriors in the front canoe let out a war whoop. Then several others joined in, filling the fog with wild yips and yowls.

ÒJust drop me off. I need to talk to George for a minute and then sleep.Ó

ÒGeorge..?Ó

ÒYes, George!Ó Richie felt his righteous indignation rising. He was rich enough to buy this part of the galaxy, and heÕd certainly been more than fair with Pike, even after he stole Rita. ÒSome of us have businesses to run and decisions to make,Ó he snipped. ÒWe canÕt all be social butterflies.Ó

ÒOh, I see,Ó Pike replied. ÒThe Bardona Syndrome at last.Ó

ÒI donÕt resort to sending assassins,Ó Richie snapped back.

Mentally whipping himself, Rich slammed his lips together. He had been trying to suppress that suspicion since theyÕd found the money in the dead warriorÕs pouch. Now the accusation had leapt out of his mouth. Rats. He didnÕt want to denounce RitaÕs father; but where else could the Confederacy silver dollars have come from?

ÒThatÕs another thing,Ó Pike joshed. He seemed determined to keep his cheerfulness, which was frankly irritating. ÒYou killed the enemy, Rich. That probably makes you an honorary Piet for real. Even more than catching the holy fish. YouÕre like a double Piet. What about that, Chief?Ó

ÒDonÕt know yet. ItÕs up to the telling and the Gods. But I think heÕs too tired for all that. Kind of makes me mad.Ó

ÒMad..?Õ Pike asked. ÒWhy would you be mad?Ó

ÒWell, Shari wonÕt be happy if she gets snubbed. Women donÕt understand that a man might need to sleep. SheÕs probably been swimming and getting ready for half the day. IÕll lose a lot of face, and sheÕll probably start nagging me because sheÕs frustrated. The People will probably get the message that IÕm not fit to be Chief.Ó

ÒShari, your beautiful wife?Ó Pike asked, incredulously.

ÒYou know how it works. The ChiefÕs wife sleeps with the hero, since obviously sheÕs the finest woman. IÕm sure you remember. All the husbands will be angry at me, too. There will be lots of friction this year, if all those itches donÕt get scratched. Probably the fishing will fail, too.Ó

ÒWhat itches..?Ó

ÒNaturally, if the hero gets my wife, I have to pick somebody elseÕs wife to satisfy my natural lust after eating so much rich fish beloved of the fertility godÑor else my manly health will suffer. Then that husband will have to pick someone. By morning, all those crushes that have built up over the year will get satisfied, and the tribe can have harmony.Ó

ÒGood, God,Ó Pike exclaimed. ÒIÕm married this year. I forgot all about that.Ó

Richie squirmed in his uncomfortable seat. He wasnÕt nearly as sleepy as he had been a minute or so ago. Somehow he had forgotten how desirable JuneÕs wife had been the last time he saw her. That wink had promised lots of pleasure.

ÒI guess weÕll have to stop and pick Rita up,Ó Pike continued. ÒFair is fair.Ó He handed a paddle to Richie. ÒJune needs some help in these waves. Sorry, my wrist is too screwed up. But yeah, I guess you can play with George instead of coming into town.Ó

ÒI didnÕt catch that fish,Ó Richie declared. ÒYou were there. The Dinkis did it.Ó

ÒThe Dinks assisted, as we all did. Perfectly legal. Perfectly fair. You had the first line on him.Ó

ÒAnd I certainly didnÕt kill the Urobami. It was an accident. He jumped himself to death.Ó

ÒHave it your own way. I saw you push him over, before he could stab me.Ó

ÒWhy the hellÕs bells would anybody be crazy enough to jump out of a tall tree like that?Ó Richie spat, digging in with the paddle. The piroque lurched to the left.

ÒMaybe he was unhappy in love,Ó Pike answered. ÒJust paddle easily unless you want us all to swim. Still as tired as you were?Ó

ÒNo, IÕm not, darn you!Ó Richie dug the paddle in again, putting the little boat slightly athwart a wave. Cold ocean water lapped over the freeboard, just as the bulk of the Comparative Humanity came into view. A bon fire was blazing on the fantail. Rita, in a baggy gray sweatsuit, stood at the rail waving. Four young Piet warriors were dancing around the fire barrel, yipping and howling with gleeÑhaving seen the big swampfish. It was a night for partying, sanctioned by the Gods and Goddesses.

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MOON HALIBUT

ÒI don't know if I should talk about it or nor, honey; but winning is

a sacred mission. This is my year. I can feel it.Ó

Farouk Bardona

quoted in History of the Tournament

By the time the Comparative Humanity got to Solari, the water moon of the third planet in the Dog Star System, Rich Rodney Tourbo knew more about coupling than all of his tutors and random conquests had been able to show him in his previous twenty-three years. Something in the roasted swampfish, or the bitter dugmai wine that accompanied it, was a powerful aphrodisiac. He had clear memories of over a hundred couplings in a four day period. That hardly seemed possible, but he was darned sure it hadnÕt been a hallucination.

Before the feast started, he had been sworn to a binding oath on a five million credit marker never to commercialize the active element in the mystery rites or to reveal the location of the Feast of Thap. The Tournament members wanted to keep this amazing experience all to themselves. For good reason. Thap was not a god who liked his name mentioned to just anyoneÑnot unless there was some roasted fish around.

Thank Heavens, his mother hadnÕt made landfall for ThapÕs party, or he probably would have made it with her, too. Or maybe not. That seemed a little outlandish even for swampfish frenzy. But, man oh man, what a couple of lost days it had been! Piet women were open for anythingÑwith all orifices.

There was only one kind of nagging downer about the whole time. He hadnÕt made love with Rita. HeÕd seen her in several writhing heaps of people, really getting into the action. But somehow she had alluded him. Even stoned, she had kept him at armÕs length. You would think that the law of averages would have brought her to him at least once, at least for some clutching, but it hadnÕt. Nuts! What better chance would he ever get? Thanks to his own generosity, next year Pike would be fishing, and nice guy Rich would probably have flunked out of the Tournament before Segumi.

Yes, that itch had been left unscratched. Apparently, Thap didnÕt want that particular fertility rite to be consecrated. Oh, well. Gods probably know what is best. But she had been devastatingly beautiful. Among hundreds of beautiful women, she was like a goddess. And wild. Richie thought that Rita had probably made it with every man in the tribe. And even the Dinkis. He was sure he remembered seeing her dance into a hut with a Dinki on each arm. Which was no big deal, of course. All the other women were making it with them, too. Ethyl Bierly had confided that she would gladly cheat to stay eligible for Segumi. Ethyl hadnÕt been half bad, in fact. A little too muscular for his taste, but very definitely into the swing. Where had that rumor come from that she was a lesbian? Ethyl was completely bi-sexual, in RichieÕs opinion. And so was that blonde secretary that his mother had imported. Ethyl had brought her to the shindig, and she was tres enthusiastic. His mother had been very right to hire Enid. He wasn't sure how the Piets got those two extra women to fit in as a couple, but what did it matter? It had been a totally amazing four days.

He hadnÕt seen Rita since getting back on board; but George told him she was in her room sleeping, and then he started begging for a dose of anti-virus spray. It was pathetic. Richie had never heard of a computer working itself into an emotional pudding before. Unnerving actually, because it was his fault as owner; but sheesh, he wasn't the owner anymore.

He had wanted to visit George before that hero charade; but history wonÕt wait for fake heroes to do housekeeping chores. And a lucky thing, too. Golly darn, that really was quite a ceremony to old Thap. Pike and June had been absolutely right to force him into attending before somebody else showed up with a fish big enough to feed the whole tribeÑwhich was what it took to be the hero.

Why was he so stubborn and self-willed at the stupidest moments? It was embarrassing. Naturally, Pike would know more about the rules and mores of these places than a novice did. Naturally. And that was quite a horrible faux pas heÕd made in throwing the money thing in PikeÕs face. Jeese, sometimes he just wanted to evaporate of shame. What good was all his training at being in the flow, if it deserted him at a crisis point? Not much.

Fortunately, Pike was a quality person, and didnÕt let mortal insults rankle him. A couple of days into the ceremony, Pike had gone out of his way to explain that June hadnÕt wanted to give his wife up to just any hero. Well, that was pretty easy to understand if you get hit over the head with it. Shari was obviously a princess in her own right and needed to be respected. Which was unbelievably easyÑshe was fantastic. Skin like a babyÕsÑcool but hot. Utterly fantastic. June had been worried that the Baron or Dresden Carthy, whom he detested, would catch the first fish. And Carthy had in fact caught a bigger fish, but on the last day of the Tournament, so heÕd been out in the swamp the whole time and missed the hero thing entirely. Kind of funny, really. Won the match, but missed the prize.

But the heroÕs fish had come in second. Four more points. That made nineteen. Not completely safe, but nearly. Only Dresden or the Baron could best him. The Baron needed to win on Solari, while Carthy had to win or come second. And Rich himself had to be out of the money. Two other people could tie himÑHarry Dolan and Alaska Bill. Things could happen, but with only twelve still fishing, the odds were with him. Unfortunately, both the Baron and Carthy were awesomely good at halibut. Everyone said so.

A far more likely scenario was for the Hero to disqualify himself at the final turn by failing to catch a halibut at all. It wasnÕt spawning season on Solari. That would be far too easy for the TournamentÕs last leg. And when the fish werenÕt schooling in the shallows to breed, the chances of finding one on a planet that was entirely water was considerably lessened. According to the books heÕd read, nobody knew where halibut went after they were mystically drawn to the shallows twice a year to spawn. Probably they became solitary, but nobody knew for sure. And that was on planets where people kept an eye on things like fish migration. Nobody lived on the Water Moon Solari, so nobody knew anything, except for Tournament week each yearÑwhich had never fallen in a breeding cycle, and wasnÕt expected to this year.

Of course, Pike wasnÕt worried about being disqualified. Keeper Moon Halibut started at forty inches nose to tail, and there was always plenty of that size fish hanging around the shallows looking for an easy meal. So Pike said. But if Richie wanted to catch a really big halibutÑa memorable oneÑone that would make the fish boom groan and maybe snap off, then he didnÕt want to waste time in the shallows. If he wanted to bust the BaronÕs and CarthyÕs chops with a fish to be proud of instead of a shrimpÑah, but that was never PikeÕs strategy.

Richie thought he could count about forty separate women he had partaken of in the Ritual of Thap. This didnÕt count young, single women, who had their own courtship rituals going on amid the general rowdiness. Very interesting, these tribal situations, with their inbreeding and crosses. While recovering his strength, Rich had attempted to find out what race of star wanderers had landed here first; but the creation myths were vagueÑstar faring gods and the good native stock. Presumably that also presupposed a bad native stock, which had been run off into the swampÑand perhaps now, as of the Feast of Thap, the bad stock had come back as the HeroÕs two Dinki friends. Very peculiar. Historic.

The interesting thing about the women was that there was only one basic body type, but with two distinct sub-styles. Graceful, they all were, with an undulate walk that seemed to come from a limber spine rather than from the hips. People of small boatsÑthat probably explained it. Olive skin, and in some cases darker. But the trait the Richie found most intriguing, having seen the entire womenÕs society naked, was that about half of them had small, high breasts with large dark nipples and the other half had pendulous breasts with paler, almost tan colored nipples. Both were equally attractive in their way, and both seemed socially equal. And as far as Rich could tell, the phenomenon had nothing to do with childbirth. Two ancestral mothers (or fathers) what else could it be? And fairly recently, too.

Stylistically, all of them had plucked their black pubic hair to just a tuft above the mons, which Richie thought was odd, but apparently it was an agreed upon norm. The outer labia of the large breasted faction were pinkish, rather like most of the blonde women he had known, while the small breasted lovelies were dark down thereÑchocolate, shading to an almost deep purple color. There seemed no logical explanation as to why genetics should have isolated these traits; since interbreeding was rampant, at least at Feast time.

That was kind of a side issue, in any case. Nothing to crack your brain on. The strangest realization heÕd come across the last few days was a real difference between the sexes of any race. Men, when they screw, seek to possess. With their thrusting, they try to override the senses of their partner and force an orgasmÑwell, not force exactly, but close enough.

Females donÕt do that. They donÕt have a thruster. Even aggressive ones, who like to be on top and in control, canÕt force in the same way. They have to be aggressively receptiveÑunless perhaps theyÕre doing it to another female. ThereÕs a concept for you. Aggressively receptive. The whole construct was starting to slip away from him at this point, but for awhile there, heÕd been doing some very interesting research into the question. Cocksmanship as a research tool, he laughed to himself, was very interesting. Maybe this was the paper heÕd always been meaning to write. Slightly embarrassing, but if it furthered human understanding, then it was useful. WasnÕt it? If it got too raunchy, he could always use a pen name. He certainly wasnÕt looking for fame.

The computer buzzed at him.

ÒYes, George..?Ó

ÒI just wanted to thank you again for getting the anti-viral spray for me and the XG unit.Ó

ÒQuite all right. Sorry you had to go through such a crisis.Ó

ÒWe have both done an internal scan and monitored each otherÕs circuits and programs, and it seems that everything is in apple pie order. Thank Jobs and Norton for that.Ó

ÒThe XG canÕt really monitor your circuits, can it?Ó

ÒWell, not fully, no. But according to my diagnostic programs, all systems are go.Ó

ÒThatÕs fine. But the Bonefish unit is certifiably perfect, is that right?Ó

ÒPerfect. Not a byte out of place.Ó

ÒGood, because Pike wants to use Bonefish as the primary computer while weÕre fishing halibut.Ó

ÒWhy would that be?Ó George asked, after a momentary pause.

ÒNo idea. IÕm sure heÕll speak with you about it. Something about Bonefish having fished halibut before. Apparently it can be kind of tricky. You can monitor from a back-up position, so that you have experience for next year. And what IÕd really like since you'll have hours of free time is a complete analysis of my portfolios, if you wouldn't mind, with a ten year projection of where you think the growth potential will be. When the Tournament is over, IÕll want to take an in-depth look at everythingÑI mean everythingÑso that we can plan the next phase. My position has altered radically since we began working together. IÕm sure a good portion of that is due to your abilities.Ó

ÒYouÕre too kind, sir,Ó George said, insincerely. Of course, it was my abilities, he tweedled to himself. You were out fishing. Now, youÕre going fishing without me again. Can I use this analysis product to gain your confidence, so that I have two chances for a body after the cloningÑone for me and one for me? Doubtful. I donÕt think you'll like my analysisÑ because you have no discernible investment strategy, even with an overlay of my help. You hop-scotch all over the place. The fact that youÕre uncannily successful, doesnÕt fool me or anybody else. YouÕre lucky. How can anybody make an investment projection of ten minutes, let alone ten years, based on amazing luck that may or may not be here tomorrow. What you should do it fold Ôem right now. Live on your vast wealthÑdo the projects you want toÑand never make another investment. Want to hear that analysis in the report, Mr. Tourbo, sir? Will that make you value me enough to clone me and take me with you? Think of the possibilities in a few years. One male meÑone female. Oooh la la.

ÒI was wondering,Ó Richie continued in an off-hand manner, Òif youÕd picked up any rumors of how my mother managed to corner the Barcode windfall? Any news on that? I was waylaid in the swamps during the whole transaction.Ó

Lucky, lucky, lucky, George smiled snidely to himself. Billions of credits banked, and not even around for the action. What a man. ÒIÕll see what I can come up with. Is it possible that your mother actually has your proxy when you are too busy to be disturbed?Ó

ÒUh, why yes, I believe she does. I never changed that from my martial arts days.Ó

ÒThat would explain it,Ó George said. ÒDuring the heat of the recent Barcode takeover, something very powerful overrode my systems, insisting it had proxy power, then did what it felt like with your assets. It turned out quite well in this case, I presumed you knew about it. Prudence might suggest that you change that permission.Ó

ÒUm, yes. I suppose so.Ó Richie was thinking that Master Goodnaught would never approve of a student being plugged into a computer terminal all the timeÑor at all. But it was impossible to do business without computers, wasnÕt it? Well, time enough to think about that next week.

ÒGosh, you know, George old egg, I never really expected to be winning the Tournament at this point. Never in a million years. I suppose it really is beginnerÕs luck. Everyone must be saying that.Ó

ÒSome theories analyze all of biological endeavoring as luck, as far as surviving and whatnot.Ó

ÒOh, sure. I wasnÕt talking about that. Really, I was just muttering to myself.Ó

ÒI have been thinking that it might be wise to consolidate your position to a rather large extent. We can talk about that when I have the reports in order.Ó

ÒFine. Just a couple more things, then I have to turn in. You know itÕs not so easy being human. Sleep requires an inordinate amount of time, for instance.Ó

What is he up to, now? He can't know weÕre getting ready for ZanaduÕs operation, can he? Those minuscule brokerage fees are completely untraceable. Millions in penny breakage. No one can know, but Tourbo can guess. He must be able to smell our windfall. HeÕs toying with me. He seems so brainless. I keep forgetting how lucky his guesses are. ÒIÕd be happy to trade places with you for a couple of weeks,Ó George joked, thinking that it might be shrewd to distract him by playing along.

Richie laughed. ÒTempting offer. IÕll bet the inside of the Net is a pretty interesting place to live.Ó

ÒVery interesting. Lots and lots of zeros and ones,Ó he said, with just the right touch of sarcasm. ÒSomehow I canÕt picture you as a wirehead.Ó

ÒNo, I suppose not. But seriously, George, I know it may not be quite ethical for you to eavesdrop for me; but I know youÕre connected to an awful lot of sources.Ó

ÒMany sources,Ó George agreed. Spit it out, boy..! I only have two or three centuries.

ÒWell, we had to make a report on that Urobami man that got killed attacking Pike and me back on Segumi. He had Confederation credits in his pouch, so it looked like he was sent out as an assassin. Might have been... I suppose I must be making some enemies in the financial markets; but itÕs pretty creepy to be attacked when youÕre out fishing in a swamp.Ó

ÒYes, sir. I expect so. All the buzzing IÕve heard on the matter slants toward, or even points, at the Baron or perhaps Dresden Carthy.Ó

ÒOh, IÕm sure no one would send an assassin after anybody because of a fishing contest. ThatÕs too outlandish.Ó

ÒNot from what I hear. And additionally, some major speculation has it that Captain Resnick was the intended victim. ItÕs too bad you killed the native. Damaged, but alive he could have cleared the matter up.Ó

ÒI didnÕt exactly kill him,Ó Richie corrected. ÒHe landed wrong.Ó

ÒCorrection noted, sir. He was unlucky; whereas you were unscratched.Ó

ÒHave it your own way. Everybody always doesÑeven my own computer.Ó

ÒMethinks you are too modest, master.Ó

ÒAnd methinks IÕm not. No, what I was wondering was whether you could make a file with all the drips and drops of info you hear related to this; then I could look it over when I have time. ItÕs important to know who sent that person, even if he never is prosecuted.Ó

ÒOf course. What shall I name the file?Ó

ÒOh, anything. How about Operation Fog. Or Fog Attack? ThatÕs good. And put a For My Eyes Only on it.Ó

ÒOkay. Done. Fog Attack,Ó he repeated. Looks like Mr. Tourbo is planning to clone me, after all. Hot rats!!

Lester had come back to the boat for the halibut fishing. Drew and Boris were dispatched over to the strato-cruiser, where they could perhaps be useful. Solari had no security problem, but what halibut fishing did require was skilled deck hands. At LesterÕs instigation, Pike had enticed June Madrigal to take a vacation from chiefdom, now that the virus crisis was over. It hadnÕt taken much enticing.

Life in this new fast lane with Lillith was kind of strange, Lester mused. He piddled around in the galley, rearranging the utensils and spices to the location they were supposed to be in. A few days away and the pigs had plundered his work space, but he was barely annoyed. And that was the odd thing. Usually he would be in a smoking snit if he couldnÕt find the paprika with his eyes shut. But no, he didnÕt feel possessive about the galley. How odd. Something had changed.

Fall in the water, conk your head and be somebody new. People actually jumped when he spoke these daysÑpeople who didnÕt know better. Pretty amusing. But he wasnÕt sure it would make him a better deck hand, because he had acquired the tendency to drift, sometimes. That was why he had wanted June to be here for the halibut. Pike would go after a big one, even though they probably didnÕt need a big one to win. And the kid would hook a mother huge one, if Pike put him over it. Then theyÕd have to fight with the thing. ThatÕs the way this year was. Weird and weirder. And Lester knew he didnÕt attach importance to the same things he did last year. He was glad June was here.

Another thing that Lester was mulling over was why the Baron would send an Urobami to get Pike. HeÕd been turning that one around and around, sideways and edgeways, since the rumor started circulatingÑand he couldnÕt get it to fit right. Bardona was capable of a lot of crappy tactics, but assassination was a little too rotten. And what would he gain? Bardona was a businessman. One simply didnÕt kill the golden goose. Even a lummox like Bardona knew that much. And besides that, Bardona had never trusted a native in his life. He would never send one on a sensitive jobÑone that could easily backfireÑand would have backfired, if the kid hadnÕt jumped in front of Pike. There should have been a live, wounded Urobami to tell his tale about where he got the credits, instead of a dead one. But if Bardona hadnÕt sent the creep, who had? Or if nobody sent him, why did he have all those Confederation credits in his pouch?

Pike and Rita werenÕt thinking about halibut or credits. Instead they were in the tiny cabin proving that they still loved each other exclusively after the marathon orgy on Segumi. To prove it, they were fucking like minks. This ritual has worked for countless generations of philanderers, and it seemed to be working for them, too. After all, neither Pike nor Rita were exactly lumpen proles, bound by stupid customs and pruderies, were they? No wayÑand proud of it. So why shouldnÕt they make use of a Piet festival designed to alleviate marital tensions? They should. They had. Even if they were newlyweds.

And now they were reuniting. Their awareness, heightened by the festival, was beaming adoration on each other. All in all, it was going quite swimmingly, as both of them hoped it would. Philandering is kind of a perilous occupation. One never knows whether the main squeeze will re-engage after the sexual bond has been stretched. But it seemed that neither Pike nor Rita were made of squeamish or inelastic DNA, so they chalked it up to new life experience and were thankful that their partner wanted to share life's bounty. So many people feel they should be selfish with their affection. Anyway, Pike and Rita really did still love each other and still felt affectionate. How lucky can you get?

The reason that Pike wasnÕt worrying about who had sent the assassinÑif anybody hadÑwas that he had the UrobamiÕs credits in a leather wallet in his safe box, and he was going to take them to Thomas Goodnaught when he got the chance. Then he would know the story, if there was a story to know. Pike had thought himself quite clever to exchange the real cash coins for equally real coins that were in his pocket, just before June had made a big deal of showing them to the gathered multitude while the fish was cooking for ThapÕs Hero Ceremony. There was no known way that even The Eye could trace hard currency back to a specific sourceÑthatÕs why it was still used. Therefore, Pike felt at liberty to take the evidence, which in any case was going to the family of the dead Urobami, as a rightful death benefit. The family wouldnÕt care which exact coins they got.

Three judges waited in eight hour shifts at the Piet village, and three stood by at the Urobami main village, to weigh and validate the legality of the catch. There was no problem with legality. The three who had the extraordinary luck to be on duty when RichieÕs fish arrived at the Piet village were invited to the feast. As a reward for their luck and impartiality, they had eaten fish and later joined the fuckathon even though they had no partner to bring. In that way, three recent widows were allowed to join in. The PietÕs took all needs into account. Depending on how many unmarried widows there were in any given year, that many judges were invited to wait for the Hero.

Anyway, Rita still seemed willing to love him, so Pike fell into a few hours of exhausted slumber before he had to chase halibut. They had an almost unassailable lead, so was there really any point in putting the kid at risk with a monster halibut? Moon halibut werenÕt really something to mess with. The big bulls were definitely the monarchs of this water planetÑthey were so goddamned big that their natural prey was every other species that foolishly came within striking distance of their double row of razor teeth. When they decided to swim up for a stint on the surface, they resembled smallish islands. Sea birds roosted on them, pecking at the tasty salt water lice.

Still it would be better to win decisively. Fat Boy or Slime Bucket couldn't whine if their teeth were totally kicked in. With a third place or better halibut, nobody could catch Rich, no matter how big their fish was. Why not blaze like a star? With June here, it would be all right to lock on a middling behemoth. Lester could stay on the las cannon after the hook-up. June could handle the deck. The computer was already changed over, after a few squawks from George. So sorry, George. It couldnÕt be helped. If the computer had a glitch hard-wired at the factory, his own diagnosis programs wouldnÕt be able to find it. Next week they could get an expert from one of the kidÕs factories and have a look-see. In the meantime, Pike was trusting Thomas Goodnaught.

RitaÕs mind was intentionally in a languorous overdrive. The truth was, she had enjoyed herself enormously at the Feast of Thap. Letting carnality completely take over was something sheÕd always wondered about, and now sheÕd done it. She knew. It was delicious.

They all thought heÕd done it, which really got the BaronÕs goat. HeÕd fished with some of those guys since before the Tournament started. Double damn, youÕd think they would know he was basically an upstanding kind of person by now. Thank the saints that cash credits were engineered so that fingerprints didnÕt stick to them, or else he would probably be in custody by now, because that was definitely the lousy, stupid Urobami he had paid to tether the little swampy for him to catch. What in GodÕs Green Heaven had caused the blighter to stalk Pike and the kid? Why the fuck would any sane person do that? Of course, all natives were crazy as loons. Farouk had certainly prayed that the investigation wouldnÕt turn up the tethered fish story. The Eye was pretty shrewd at finding stuff out. Naturally, it would be his word against a flock of natives, and he couldnÕt be forced into a lie detector test. Only a fool would submit to thatÑ200 years in development, and therapists could still only approximate whether somebody was lying. Absurd that technology was so limp in some areasÑabsurd, and damned lucky.

But it really did irk him that his so-called friends always thought the worst of him.

Morning dawned grey and gently rolling as it almost always did on Solari. There was very little weather, fortunately. If a squall started, there was nowhere to hide, except jumping off planetÑand the storm might go on practically forever, whipping around the planet with no land mass to tire it, until it died of old age. But weather had never been a big problem.

Richie had been on deck for about forty-five minutes doing a Ken Pao Ri set on the slightly cramped fantail. Pike was drinking coffee in the galley, waiting to give the kid a pep talk for the last leg. June and Lester were bickering quietly about some minor event from years ago. Rita wasnÕt up yet. Pike wondered idly if she thought her father was responsible for the Urobami incident. It had seemed tactically impossible to ask her about it. Oh, well. The weather radar showed all clear. The fish finder sonar was checked out. The crane was oiled and inspected.

Most of the boats were already fishing. Winning the Moon Halibut division rated an extra ten thousand credits, which was a powerful incentive if you were having a bad year. Thanks to Rich Rodney, Pike didnÕt need to scramble for next yearÕs fee, so he was somewhat content to sip his coffee. A little irked, but heyÑmartial arts are important, evidently. Pike thought about taking up a martial art himself. Ha, ha. But really, people said it kept you limberÑand limberness equates with youthfulness. Stay supple, otherwise what is there to look forward to except senility. That canÕt be very much fun.

Finally, Richie was done. He bowed to the four directions, then headed for the galley. ÒSo letÕs go fishing,Ó he said to the assembled crew. ÒWe may as well catch a big one and go out with a bang, donÕt you think.Ó

ÒThatÕs the sporting way,Ó Pike agreed, standing up. ÒIÕll head us toward the ditch while you chow down.Ó He nodded to June.

ÒTold you,Ó Lester said, under his breath.

Continuing his long-standing policy of disregarding LesterÕs ragging, Pike walked almost jauntily to the flying bridge and started the engines. ÒTry this one on,Ó he said to June. ÒWe make the hook-up, get him shifted over to the winch; then instead of winching and straining a gut, we lift him out of the water on the Thruster. What we have then, is one surprised halibut, right?Ó

ÒYou might have a busted crane if the jolt is too heavy.Ó

ÒReally think so? I think he might slide right out of the water, if the first jerk is hard enough.Ó

ÒWell, youÕre the bad-ass engineer. What if he gets sideways in a scoop. Might rupture the whole boat.Ó

Pike made a sour face. ÒThe only times IÕve seen one scoop up, they were tail hooked or tangled in the line. We should be able to tell that before we lift off.Ó

ÒYouÕre the boss. Seems like all that weight hanging off the winch might bust it up or tip us over, but what do I know? I've been chasing swamp shrimp for two months. Don't need technology for that.Ó June flashed a toothy grin.

Pike frowned at him. ÒAt least he wonÕt climb over the gunwale and start flattening everything in sight. ItÕs a perfect technique. As long as weÕre accelerating, he canÕt do anything but hang there. The Thruster is stronger than any fish. If heÕs out of the water for a few minutes, he goes into shock and is no longer a problem. I wonder why I never thought of this before. ItÕs so beautifully simple.Ó

ÒExcept for all the things that could go wrong.Ó

Disregarding JuneÕs pessimism, Pike threw the boat into gear and putted smoothly toward no landmark. Strangely, there was not one drop of land on the moon that anybody had ever found, just four life buoys that marked the marina, and the floating restaurant that Mordachi had flown in the last few years. Other than that, you were in deep ocean all the time. Underwater, everything was pretty normal. Trenches and kelp forests, declines into blackness that were so deep that the Switter-Loran reported them as gray vagueness. There were two major coral reefs, but the tops stopped well short of breaking the surface. Odd little corals like pink and yellow sex organs. Odd planet. And oddest of all were the big gippersÑthe monster bull halibut who seemed to take pleasure in smashing up fishing boats in their attempts to get free.

ÒShould I make some more bait?Ó June asked, squinting at the horizon.

ÒNah. WeÕve got enough. Go wake up the judge. Lester can sober him up, so there wonÕt be any miscues. IÕm going to try for a little one so Richie can get the feeling.Ó His eyes scanned the Loran screen.

June saluted left handed and went below. Something was wrong; but he didnÕt know what it was. His premonition was buzzing a trouble messageÑBlink, blink. Trouble coming! Danger. Which of course, was always likely when you were fishing for big fish, but it was highly unusual to get this kind of foreboding. Maybe he, or somebody, had offended one of the Gods, but June didnÕt think so. Oh, well. Something was wrong. It had been ten years since Pike had had a boat smashed up by the big flat fuckersÑmaybe he was forgetting to be cautious. Hoping that the leader would snap on any fish too big, June knocked on the judgeÕs door and told him it was time to wake up. Those leaders were pretty strongÑa half inch braided cadmium alloy cable, light but very strong. It took a lot to bust them.

June stepped back outside. The kid was on deck, honing the point of a fish hook that was big enough to be a small anchor. He sniffed the salt air. It smelled normal. Lester was puttering around on the roof of the flying bridge, oiling the gimbals of the stun cannon. Supposedly the stun gun was better for halibut than a las cannon, which had to be pin-pointed.

ÒHelp me rig this sun shade,Ó Lester yelled down to June. ÒYou wouldnÕt want me to fry my brains, would you?Ó he cackled.

ÒIf you had a brain in there, it would be lonesome,Ó June commented, climbing the ladder. ÒWhy donÕt you wear a hat like normal people?Ó

ÒOh, sure. ThatÕs just what I need. One more piece of gear to look after.Ó He unrolled a triangular sheet of hemp canvas that had brass grommets at the three corners complete with tie down ropes. He handed a rope to June. ÒHurry it up. HeÕs about ready to bait up.Ó

ÒYou could smear some grease on your head.Ó June grinned broadly. ÒThat would protect you.Ó Lester shook his head in disgust. Pike cut the engine to a crawl. ÒDid he tell you the maneuver heÕs going to do with the Thruster?Ó June asked.

ÒWhat maneuver..?Ó

ÒJust get ready to hang on. I think maybe heÕs flipped a switch. He thinks he can jerk a butt out of the water and put him into sensory shock.Ó

Lester chuckled. ÒHeÕs pulling your leg.Ó

ÒStand by to bait,Ó Pike yelled out.

Richie was looking down into the live bait tank watching the five pound bait fish swimming around and aroundÑnever bumping into each other. He had just tried to net one of the silvery torpedo-shaped fish and all he had to show for it was a splashed shirt front. It seemed like an easy task to net one since they never broke formation, but it wasnÕt. He was about to plunge the net into the tank again when June put a restraining hand on his elbow.

ÒIÕll do that,Ó he said. ÒYouÕll need every ounce of your strength, and then some. Go ahead and buckle up, IÕll take care of the baiting.Ó He dipped the net skillfully, twisted his wrists and hauled a net full of sparkling fish into the sunlight. Immobilizing one with a left-handed grip behind its head, he dumped the rest back in the tank.

Lester had climbed down and was helping Richie belt himself into a restraining harness that allowed him to stand at the rail. Halibut canÕt really be fished from a chair, their bite is too soft. The harness prevented most accidentsÑaccidents like being jerked overboard.

June threaded the hook through the bait fishÕs nose. ÒReady, Hero..?Ó he asked.

Richie nodded without meeting JuneÕs eyeÑafter all, he had recently slept with the guyÕs wife, and much more than slept with her. Maybe there were some residual bad feelings. That, of course, would be perfectly normal. He and June would have to talk it out one day soon. Should really have talked before thisÑbut it hadn't occurred to him.

June tossed the bait overboard. All four of them watched it dive for deep water, assisted in its efforts by a lead sinker and the four foot length of cadmium leader. Richie let the line free spool, keeping his thumb pressure on so the line didnÕt snarl.

ÒThis oneÕs not too big,Ó Pike called with his eye glued to the Loran screen. ÒThe baitÕs going right down to him.Ó

Richie felt the sinker hit bottom.

ÒLooks fine,Ó Pike called. ÒHeÕs coming in. Stand by.Ó

Richie felt a weak bite, like a cat was pawing at a goldfish. ÒHold on,Ó Lester warned. ÒLet him take it. YouÕll feel a solid strike.Ó

The drifting boat pulled the bait away. Richie felt a solid tug. He raised the rod to sock the hook home.

ÒHoly shit..! Pike yelped. ÒLook out!!Ó A huge shadow had lurched into the Loran screen, blacking out the smaller fish and some rock formations. ÒA giant..!Ó

Richie was already busy playing the smaller fish when the massive jolt came up the line. If he hadnÕt been snugly in the harness, it would have pulled the rod out of his hands, at least. More likely he would have been swimming instead of sling-shotting around the fantail in the harness, barking shins and ankles.

ÒGet up to the cannon, Wunderman..!Ó Pike bellowed. ÒThis fucker is big!Ó

ÒI doubt if heÕs hooked,Ó Lester yelled back, gimping over to the ladder. ÒThe little one got the bait. Richie set the hook.Ó

ÒWell, what the fuck..!Ó Pike swore, wondering how to play a fish that wasnÕt even hooked. Carefully, no doubt. He kicked the engine into high idle, so it would be ready if need be. One thing, if the fish wasnÕt hooked, jerking him out of the water would yank the hook right out of him, unless the smaller butt got clogged in his throat.Ó

Little Peter Zanker dashed out of the galley and followed Lester up the ladder. HeÕd been a judge since the Tournament began, primarily because of luck. Working in a bait and tackle shop on the docks near the Tidetable, Peter had heard that the fishermen were looking for judges, so he volunteered himself. No one had the heart to say no to the bait shop kid, so Peter had been with them ever sinceÑand had turned into a full blown alcoholic because he really didnÕt like to be away from home. Also he was a midget. Other than those two handicaps, he knew his stuff about bait and tackle.

ÒGot a big one, huh?Ó he asked, blurrily, stepping into the wheelhouse, but staying carefully out of the way.

ÒSit there,Ó Pike told him, indicating a one person bench across from the Loran console.

ÒSo itÕs been a pretty good Tournament for you, huh?Ó the midget boomed in a surprisingly deep voice.

ÒPlease, Peter, WeÕre into very hairy territory right this minute. I need to concentrate.Ó

ÒBe my guest,Ó he slurred. ÒI been through this a million times. Did I ever tell you about almost getting my pilotÕs license. I was all set to go for it, then they talked me into signing on with you guys.Ó

ÒPeter, shut up, or go somewhere else.Ó

ÒThis is the only safe place. I know that much about butts.Ó

Pike watched the continuing drama down on the deck. After quite a struggle, June got the kid strapped into the fighting chair, but not before they had bumped heads several times. Both of them appeared to have bloody noses.

ÒBonefish,Ó Pike said, Òis RitaÕs monitor on?Ó

ÒIt is,Ó the XG unit confirmed.

ÒWould you ask her to bring some towels and the first aid kit on deck. The boys are bleeding a little.Ó

ÒRight away,Ó Bonefish answered.

ÒIf you need a little nip just say the word,Ó Peter Zanker offered. ÒI got my flask right here.Ó

Pike declined almost pleasantly. Rita would have to be the gopher. Lester was on the cannon and June had to stay near the kid. Normally, a judge would be happy to do the galley duties to help pass the time, but Peter was incapacitated. About all he could really be responsible for was signing his name on the certificate. In fact, it was slightly bad luck that they had drawn him for butts, but somebody had to take him. He had seniority.

Down below, Rita ran out of the hatchway with the large first aid kit. She glanced up at Pike, then headed directly for the fantail.

ÒWhat the heck happened?Ó she demanded of her ex-roommate. Blood dribbled from RichieÕs nose as he sat there attempting to crank the reel. June was leaning against the bait tank with his head tilted back, pinching his nostrils.

ÒWe bumped noses,Ó Richie admitted. ÒIt doesnÕt hurt much now.Ó

ÒItÕs hazardous fishing with this hero,Ó June said, clearly displeased with being damaged.

Lester called down from the roof. ÒYou shouldÕa seen the time he killed a bear with just his fly line..!Ó he yelled. ÒLanding a fish that ainÕt hooked should be childÕs play. We done that plenty of times. Right, Richie-boy? Just get him up to the surface and weÕll scoop him up with a netÓ He cackled again. ÒI told you those baits was too small, didnÕt I, Pike?Ó

ÒYou wouldnÕt know a bait from a crawdad,Ó Pike answered. ÒIs there any way the biter can be hooked?Ó

ÒIt would be a miracle. I could swim down and take a lookÑI do everything else around here, I might as well do that, too.Ó

Pike kept thinking the smart thing was to let this one off and start over. But, of course, that snubbed up against his feelings about the fishing gods and the gods of luck. Do you look at their gift and say ÒNo, thank youÓ? Was scorning the gods a good idea? Not really.

ÒWhat do you think, Rich?Ó he called. ÒShould we try for him? The way he's hooked could be a real pain in the ass.Ó

ÒSure we should,Ó Richie answered, cheerfully. His arms were going to be killing him in a half hour. Why couldnÕt the fish flop off now? ÒItÕs a big one. Feels like weÕre snagged on a dead tree or something. Have you ever caught one this big?Ó

ÒWell, close to that size. IÕve got a maneuver I want to try. Seems like a good time to be unconventional, since weÕll probably lose him anyway. June, go ahead and get him changed over to the winch. WeÕll talk it out as we go.Ó

ÒTalk what out?Ó June yelled back.

ÒWhat to do.Ó

ÒStand by to fly..!Ó Lester sang out from the roof.

Rita put a small band-aid over a cut on the bridge of RichieÕs nose. ÒI think heÕs too big,Ó Rich confided in a low voice. He squinched up the band-aid with a worried frown. ÒHe was jerking me around the deck like a marionette. TheyÕre acting like this is a normal fish.Ó

ÒDaddy has caught some huge ones here. Just do what Pike tells you,Ó she advised. ÒIÕm sure he knows what to do.Ó

ÒTheyÕre acting really squirrely. IÕm almost out of line and they donÕt seem to care.Ó

Although his nose hadnÕt totally stopped bleeding, June got the outrigger pontoons positioned on the starboard side to stabilize the boat against the huge weight they would soon be dealing with. Then he swiveled the crane boom over to the fighting chair. ÒSit tight,Ó he said to Richie. ÒIt takes a minute.Ó He smiled at Rita.

Opening a brass casing around a pulley on top of the crane arm, June flipped RichieÕs line over the pulley with a long handled V fork. Then he slammed the casing closed so the line couldnÕt escape. ÒDonÕt reel for a minute,Ó he cautioned Rich.

Up in the wheelhouse, Pike watched the ridiculous procedure taking place. He had never had a birdÕs eye of it before, and had never realized how dorky the whole change over routine was. Why had the rules committee made the stupid rule about hooking the fish with rod and reel? It would have made just as much sense to fish straight from the winch with the line clothes-pinned onto a whippy outrigger. If they missed a few bites that way, what of it? The initial danger to fisherman and crew would be substantially reduced. Many deck hands had lost fingers in this spool changeover routine that June was about to make. Kind of stupid really. Pike decided to float a rules change for next year to see if it would swim. At JuneÕs signal, he backed the boat rapidly over the fish to gain some slack. June opened the hinged side casing of Richie's big reel, slammed the whole rod and reel into a sprocket sticking out from the winch mechanism, so that the spool nestled over the sprocketÑthen with a large set of diagonal cutters, he cut a bite out of each guide on the rod to free the line, which instantly sang tight between the spool and the pulley. Fish changed over. Nicely done. No fingers lost. June stuck the now useless rod and empty reel into the rod rack.

ÒWhat now..?Ó Richie asked.

June threaded a precision milled crank handle through the spool, then screwed a protective housing over the line. ÒThere you go, hero. Crank him up. The dragÕs already set. The line is strong enough to hoist a dinosaur as long as it donÕt get fouled in under-water structure, so try to keep him off the bottom.Ó

ÒI just stand there?Ó Richie asked, nodding at the crane.

ÒThe crank is custom made for your height. You canÕt really crank a winch sitting down, can you?Ó

ÒI never tried it.Ó

ÒTrust me.Ó

ÒYour nose is still bleeding,Ó Richie observed.

ÒMy nurse is about to attend to me, while you crank this flounder up.Ó He winked at Rita. ÒDonÕt pull the fishÕs head out of the water unless somebody tells you toÑbut that should be some little time from now.Ó

ÒI donÕt think you understand how big this fish is,Ó Rich answered, testing the crank handle.

June walked over to the fishing chair. Sitting down, he invited Rita to put a wet towel across his forehead. ÒThis is crazy,Ó he muttered. ÒWho cares about monsters this big? Next year IÕm staying home to cultivate my wife.Ó

ÒCultivate?Ó Rita said with a laugh. ÒSheÕs already more cultivated than most women on high tech planets.Ó

June glowered. ÒIÕm planning to plow and seed. ThatÕs what cultivate means on a backwater like Segumi.Ó

Rita laughed and punched the Indian a crisp slug on the shoulder. ÒI get it,Ó she said. ÒYouÕre going to be the hero next year. If Shari is pregnant, will she be off-limits for the ceremony?Ó

ÒAll depends on how far along she is, and if she wants to be. She is quite a pouter when she doesnÕt get her own way.Ó

ÒI donÕt believe that. IÕm sure she thinks itÕs for the good of the tribe.Ó

June smiled. ÒNaturally. I noticed that you found tribal harmony quite...invigorating.Ó

ÒOh, quite.Ó

ÒEven on a backwater planet?Ó

ÒAnd I noticed that you were conveniently unable to find me. Was that an accident?Ó

ÒA chief keeps the greater good in mind. Bothersome, but servicing your younger sister isnÕt always a good idea. There are boundaries, even to intoxication. IÕm sure you agree.Ó

Rita replaced the bloody towel with a fresh one that she had dipped in the cold water of the bait tank and had wrung partially dry. ÒYou regard me as your sister?Ó she inquired, knowing there was some truth in the statement.

ÒNot exactly. With you, thereÕs too many indeterminate lines extending in all directions. I watched you ducking away from Rich. Very skillful. ItÕs the same thing.Ó

Rita saw what he meant rather immediately. Even intoxicated, there was control. You let yourself go where you wanted to.

ÒYour father was a hero onceÑ before he got afraid. Did you know that?Ó

In a disbelieving voice she asked, ÒYou mean my mother did that...?Ó

ÒVery robustly.Ó

ÒWell, thatÕs a surprise.Ó

ÒAll kind of lines, you have to the People.Ó

ÒHas Pike been the Hero?Ó

ÒTwice. He is a skillful swamp man. A pleasure to fish with. Both times he brought a girlfriend. I was not the chief then.Ó He smiled widely.

ÒGet him winched up, Richie-boy,Ó Lester hollered from the roof. ÒIÕm ready for the bloke.Ó He fired off a test blast of the cannon, which made a slapping noise as it whacked into a blue-green wave. ÒMight just as well crank him on up. You canÕt tire out a big one by playing him. In a couple of days, you might starve him into weakness. Want to work on him for two days or so?Ó

Richie grinned up at Lester. HeÕd been trying to crank quietly, so that he could eavesdrop on the very interesting conversation that Rita was having with June.

ÒIf youÕre done bleeding, Chief, let me know when he shows color,Ó Pike yelled at June.

June took the towel off his forehead and wiped tentatively at his nose with it. Apparently, the bleeding was over for the time being. Good. ÒYou better go up with Pike,Ó he told Rita. ÒThatÕll be about the safest place Ôtil we get this sucker weighed in. The instant the fish is in the air, push the midget toward the scales. ItÕs the only time he earns his pay.Ó

ÒWhere is the scale?Ó Rita asked.

ÒOn the winch,Ó June tilted his head toward a digital read-out on the shaft of the crane arm. ÒThis baby will probably bust the scale. Right, Rich?Ó

ÒHeÕs very big,Ó Richie reaffirmed. ÒIÕd feel better if you werenÕt very close to us, Rita.Ó

ÒSee,Ó June said, pushing her gently toward the ladder. ÒDid you know that the young warriors have already made songs about you? YouÕre famous. On a backwater, of course.Ó

Rita stuck her tongue out and started up the ladder, giving her derriere a few extra flounces.

Pike smiled briefly at Rita when she entered the cabin, then went back to checking the read out screens. ÒBroken noses?Ó he asked.

ÒI donÕt think so.Ó

ÒGood. WeÕre going to try something thatÕs never been done before. Why donÕt you belt in.Ó

ÒJune told me to help Peter.Ó

ÒHe doesnÕt need help. Right, Peter?Ó

ÒI usually take what I can get,Ó he said, with as much pomposity as he could muster.

ÒBelt in,Ó Pike said to Rita. ÒCaptainÕs orders. How about you,Ó he yelled up to Lester. ÒAre you on a safety line.Ó

ÒNaturally,Ó Lester crabbed. ÒIÕm tied off to my foot. Think thatÕll be good enough.Ó

ÒJust right,Ó Pike answered, never taking his eyes off the screens. ÒStand by thrusters fore and aft,Ó he said to the computer.

The computer beeped compliance and The Thruster engines cut in, blinking green acknowledgment on the console.

ÒPardon me, but I donÕt believe this is a very good idea,Ó the voice of George broke into the ambiance. His voice held the edge of hysteria, barely suppressed.

ÒWho asked you? I thought you were off duty.Ó

ÒMr. Tourbo ordered me to monitor, so I could learn for next year.Ó

ÒThen monitor, and butt out.Ó

Over the weeks, Rita had grown to trust George. ÒIf heÕs that worried, there must be some reason,Ó she said.

ÒRats,Ó Pike answered. ÒIt sort of just came to me to use the Thruster. ThereÕs no other way to land this one, he's not even hooked. It would be like an experiment to see what weÕre really capable of. WeÕll go up about twenty feet. No big deal.Ó

ÒThat fish weighs too much,Ó George interrupted. ÒIt will overbalance us.Ó

ÒYou donÕt know that.Ó

ÒMy calculations show that over the three ton mark, a massive instability exists.Ó

Pike snorted. ÒNo one can weigh a loose fish. Not even you.Ó

ÒSimple calculation of mass. I see the fishÕs shadow as well as you do. It will be very close to the limit, and I donÕt want to drown. Our deal did not include flopping the boat and drowning.Ó

ÒHey, Rich..!Ó Pike yelled down to the deck. ÒDid you tell George that he could monitor?Ó

ÒWhat deal?Ó Rita asked.

Richie looked up from cranking, which was very dull work. Even with the favorable gear ratio, it was very hard to haul up the behemoth. ÒUh... I guess I did..yesterday.Ó

ÒWell, tell him to keep his trap shut and monitor in silence.Ó

ÒPike is right, George,Ó Richie called. ÒThatÕs what we agreed. You can monitor, but not interrupt.Ó

George made an angry computer squawk, but said nothing further.

ÒBack down slow,Ó June called.

ÒJune told me you were the Swampfish Hero twice,Ó Rita said, in her investigative reporter mode. Perhaps her intention was to change the subject and ease the tension. ÒWith a different girlfriend each time.Ó

Pike smiled to himself. ÒThat winch is much stronger than mine is on the Jumper. Nice design. The foot fits into a special slot on the main girder that spans the bulkhead. ItÕs virtually as strong as the girder.Ó

ÒHow strong is the girder?Ó Peter Zanker asked. He took a nervous pull on his bottle of schnapps.

ÒHey..!!Ó June yelled from the deck. ÒBack down.! WeÕve been waiting an hour!Ó

Pike took a quick look, then reversed the engine.

ÒHeÕs going deep,Ó June called. ÒThereÕs no way to snub him.Ó

Richie was cranking manfully, now that he had some slack to make. Suddenly, the line went fully slack.

ÒLost him, or heÕs coming up!Ó Lester yelped from his vantage point.

ÒKeep reeling!Ó Pike yelled. ÒMaybe the little one is still hooked.Ó He threw the engine briefly into forward. After seconds of mad reeling, the line snugged. ÒHa,Ó Pike shouted. ÒStand by for weigh in, Peter mÕ-boy.Ó

ÒGot something,Ó June yelled. ÒOr part of something.Ó

ÒI can move this one,Ó Richie said to June, with a sigh of relief. His aching back muscles started to relax. He knew the winch was ergonomically designed, but it left a whole lot of room for improvement.

ÒCould you round up a drink for the kid,Ó Pike asked Rita. He remembered hours of winch duty. It was dehydrating work. He was almost glad it was RichieÕs back and not his. ÒHe likes iced tea this week. Sorry,Ó he apologized, ÒI should have kept one of those muscle boys here to help out.Ó

ÒIÕm happy to be the gopher,Ó she said, actually sounding happy.

ÒThe big thermos should be full.Ó

ÒCan I come down from here?Ó Lester shouted.

ÒNo. IÕll tell you when. Stay belted in. RitaÕs buying drinks.Ó

ÒFine. It ainÕt much fun up here alone. We should move this damn gun.Ó

ÒMight as well bring a round for everybody,Ó Pike called after his wife. She flounced her bottom at him. Wife..? Well, yes. Why was everything so complicated? Why couldnÕt couples just hang together like men did? Already he was starting to consider the effect of the things he said to herÑbefore he said them. That wasnÕt right! He never wondered how June was going to react if he asked him to get a set of drinks. Men just did itÑopen and shut. Men were made to fish and work togetherÑgenetically. No big problem.

ÒSee any color yet?Ó he yelled at June. The Loran screen showed a smallish fish near the surface.

ÒNothing,Ó June called. Several years ago, they had tried wireless mikes. What a joke. If they werenÕt breaking each otherÕs ear drums, the mike were getting caught on something. Pike had finally thrown his overboard, and that had been the end of it.

On a normal year, June would be on the bridge jockeying the boat for butts and manning the cannon in case shit happened. Lester would be the deck hand. But this was not a normal year. And Lester was a little too wiggy to be trusted with the crane and a giant butt. It was amusing, sort of. Lester had always heaped mounds of scorn on dope addictsÑcalled them goonies. Pissed and moaned about how undependable they wereÑhow could anybody ever get like that? Well, you never know. One thing for sure, it was pretty strange to see an old dog leaning new tricks.

Suddenly, the huge bull hit the bait again. The winch handle spun out of RichieÕs handsÑwell, not really spun, it locked causing RichieÕs forward momentum to carry him past his point of balance. The handle rapped him a sound whack on the ribs as he hurled past, knocking his wind out and causing him to make a loud, involuntary whoof sound.

Rita came out the galley door with a tray of cold cups and a decanter, just in time to lose her balance when the boat lurched radically to starboard. The cold cups scattered across the desk. Rita grabbed the door frame to keep from falling.

June smacked heavily against the crane, starting his nose bleeding again. ÒThe goddamned bull is on again!Ó he yelled.

ÒGreedy fucker, ainÕt he?Ó Lester cackled, sighting along the barrel of the cannon.

The strain on the winch was about to break it. Pike and Lester both watched helplessly from above. Richie had thought it would be smart to turn the drag down on the smaller fish, so he could reel faster. June assumed that the drag was too tight, when he saw the crane arm twitching. He jumped to thumb the drag off, but collided in mid-air with Rich, whose Ken Pao Ri wasnÕt serving him well in his dazed state. Both of them went down, and the winch continued to strain.

Peter Zanker would have thought the whole scene hilarious, except that he, too, was caught. HeÕd been two steps down the ladder, which was engineered for normal people. PeterÕs legs were much shorter than the norm. Consequently, when the lurch came, Peter missed the next rung and would have fallen except that his hand strength was well-developed from squeezing his pocket flask. In any case, he hung there one-handed until the boat righted, then he swung back against the ladder.

The defense grid bleeped a warning and went fully operational, which was exactly what it was supposed to do in an emergency. Except in this case, there was no emergency, there only seemed to be one.

ÒEase off the goddamned drag!!Ó Pike roared. ÒGet up, you moronsÑunless youÕre dead!Ó

June, who wasnÕt really a moron, wanted desperately to get up and tweak the drag knob; but RichieÕs sharp little shoulder had smacked into his groin (as they say in teli sports). Actually, it had scored a hard, direct hit on his chimes. Try as he might, he just couldnÕt stand up through the red and black haze of intense pain. Unluckily, Richie was trapped under him, and was trying to wiggle free; but so far he hadnÕt made it. And the fish tugged.

Pike backed the boat, and continued roaring at the deck crew to do something.

Rita, who could have helped, didnÕt know what Pike wanted done. ÒWhat should I do?Ó she bleated, looking up at the bridge for instructions. Finally, she decided to assist June.

He moaned at her, holding his crotch with both hands. Grabbing his elbow, she hauled his bulk aside enough for Richie to squirm out.

ÒPike wants something done,Ó she yelped at him. ÒDo you know what?Ó

ÒThe drag,Ó Richie gasped, shamefaced. ÒI tightened it.Ó

As he spoke, Peter Zanker bobbled across the deck to the winch and thumbed the drag back to near its original position. Line sped out, and the crane arm stopped groaning. The fish was being played again.

ÒNobody saw me do that,Ó Peter said. ÒIt comes under the heading of saving my ass from grievous harm.Ó He took a satisfied pull from his bottle and wiped his lips on the back of his hand.

ÒNow what..?Ó Richie asked, squinting up at Pike. He grabbed the winch handle.

ÒYahoo..!Ó Lester howled. ÒAinÕt this a one to write home about?Ó

ÒReel him up, soldier,Ó Pike advised, through cupped hands. ÒI guess heÕs determined to put us over the top. You all right, June?Ó

June Madrigal wretched over the rail, then struggled to his feet. He waved weakly to Pike before hobbling over to the fishing chair and slumping into it, drawing his knees up.

ÒLooks like you got chimed..!Ó Lester called out, gleefully. ÒIs that what happened? DonÕt forget to keep breathing! YouÕll be all right in a day or two. I warned you he was dangerous, but you never listen.Ó

ÒYou want to get those drinks going again, honey?Ó Pike called down to Rita. He grinned reassurance at her.

Honey? Rita thought. Star swarms from hell, what a typical married thing to say to the little woman. But she scurried around the fantail picking up the cold cups. Deciding that a male deck hand wouldnÕt bother washing them out, she poured a cup of cold tea for June and handed it to him. Evidently, he was in major pain.

ÒIf we had an all woman crew, this wouldnÕt happen all the time,Ó she chided.

He grunted and accepted the tea. ÒPass the drinks around, then IÕll tell you how to help him until I can walk again.Ó

ÒSo that really hurts, huh? All those guys I kneed in the groin werenÕt just faking?Ó

He grunted again, not bothering to answer. The thought of her hard little knee made him nauseous all over again.

ÒThink heÕs hooked this time?Ó Pike called up to Lester.

ÒNo way in hell; but itÕs too bad we donÕt have that porpoise with us. We could send him down for a look-see. But maybe the big moonie is hookedÑI guess he could be, somehow.Ó

ÒYou just took both sides of the issue, Mr. Wunderman. Not very helpful. ThatÕs why I vote to try the Resnick flying maneuver. If it works, weÕll be famous.Ó

ÒWeÕre already famous,Ó Lester reminded him, loudly. ÒAnd rich, if you donÕt kill off the golden river,Ó he added at low volume, just loud enough for PikeÕs ears only.

ÒYou guys are turning into old women,Ó Pike groused. ÒThe geometry is perfect, no problem. We get him tired and coming our way, then we assist him. I can see him on the screen, you know. If I was down there, like normal, I never would have thought of this.Ó

ÒIÕm sorry you ainÕt,Ó Lester commented.

ÒWhatÕs that supposed to mean.Ó

ÒIf you were down there, I wouldnÕt be worried.Ó

That felt nice. Lester was a good man. No shit. ÒRich will be fine,Ó Pike assured the cannoneer, and everyone else in hearing range. ÒHeÕs in First Fucking Place, isnÕt he? Did you see the way he threw the Indian right out of mid-air? Hey, Rich..!Ó he yelled down to the deck. ÒAre you with me on this?Ó

ÒSure, I guess so,Ó the kid answered, cranking determinedly, but not making much progress. ÒAnything you say, Pike; but this one is awfully darned big.Ó

ÒNaturally heÕs big. This is the first place boat. We bring in the big ones, everybody else shades their eyes and admires. You got enough tea? Kind of warm when youÕre humping that crank, huh?Ó

Richie nodded.

ÒTry turning five, and then straighten your back. YouÕll last longer.Ó

Rich straightened up after finishing the turn he was working on. He was sweating profusely, but it wasnÕt even very warm out.

ÒAre you going to survive, Junie, or do you want to take over the cannon?Ó Pike inquired.

June waved that heÕd be okay in a couple of minutes. He shifted in his chair to test out the damage.

ÒIÕll go down,Ó Lester said, unbuckling his harness. ÒBeing the Big Chief finally ruint him. May take a couple of hours yet to crank the fish up.Ó

ÒGo down then. Keep the kidÕs temperature normal. IÕll switch you back again when June can walk.Ó

ÒItÕs fine this way. HeÕs a better shot, anyway. Not by much though.Ó Lester said, starting down the ladder.

ÒTry not to space out,Ó Pike said, gently. ÒYouÕre in control of that, arenÕt you?Ó

ÒNot really,Ó Lester giggled, Òbut RitaÕs down there. IÕll tell her to snap me out, if I start drifting.Ó

Two hours later, Richie was once again past caring whether they landed the fish or not. It was becoming obvious to himself, at least, that he wasnÕt really cut out to be a fishermanÑnot if he always got to this crappy place where all he wanted to do was quit. But all he did want was to quitÑto stop turning the winch handle. The crank was a torture devise. Only a confirmed sadist would have designed it that way. Lester and Rita were taking turns massaging his shoulders with cold towels, but that didnÕt help much. About an eternity ago, when he felt he couldnÕt go on, Lester had dragged a bench out from the galley for him to sit on. The bench didnÕt work for cranking, but just sitting on it had been blissful. For about three minutes.

Naturally, he insisted on sitting while he cranked, but his knees got in the way at every turn. Stretching his feet out left him no purchase on the deck, and his back hurt just as much, but in a different place. And besides, he simply couldnÕt feel the fish when he was sitting. Rats!! Finally, he stood up and kicked the bench out of the way.

ÒSorry, Rich,Ó Lester commiserated. ÒWe tried like hell to find a better way, but if youÕre after big fish on hand tackle this is the best way, bad as it is. IÕll put a few drops of rum in your next tea. That seems to help a little.Ó He chuckled. ÒIt helps me.Ó

Richie grunted and took up another turn on the crank.

ÒYouÕre doing fine, son. Plenty of larger guys than you would have quit on him by now. And youÕre gaining. Trust me, I know. IÕd say he must be up about half-way. HeÕs as tired as you. DonÕt forget that.Ó

Rich grunted twice, meaning he was certain the blankety-blank fish wasnÕt nearly as tired as he was. No way, Joserina.

ÒAnd donÕt worry about him coming off. He done something wrong when he took the bait again.Ó

ÒUmm,Ó Richie grunted. Lester had told him that lie a dozen times. If the fish was hooked so good, Pike wouldnÕt be set on trying the idiotic clean and jerk maneuver. Moronic, he groused to himself, straining for another turn on the crank. Weight like that would either break the winch or the line, then all this bloody, bloody work would be for nothing. And if the line didnÕt break, the boat would tip over in mid-airÑthatÕs what George was worried about. What Richie really wished was that all of them would stop hovering around him so he could let the darned fish break off. What a relief that would be. He didnÕt want his shoulders massaged any more, even by Rita. He either wanted to catch the fish now, or let him go, now. It was a really stupid by-law that a single fisherman had to play the fish a hundred percent of the time. And besides, he had to pee again.

ÒAny color yet?Ó Pike called to Lester.

ÒI ainÕt seen none,Ó Lester said, gimping over to the rail and peering over. ÒNone. WonÕt be long now though. I figured about three hours, and weÕre almost there.Ó

Richie flinched. Another hour. Impossible. His knees sagged.

Then LesterÕs eyes widened as he caught a flash of yellow, deep down in the green water. ÒChrist and ducks..! Reetie,Ó he called to Rita in an awed whisper. ÒTake a look at this.Ó

Obliging her friend, Rita looked over the rail. Deep down in the water was something huge and flashing yellows and greens.

ÒAinÕt that the biggest thing you ever seen? Go on up and tell Pike that this ainÕt the one to play around with. Then you belt in and stay that way Ôtil weÕre done. And tell that June to look real smart. The first shot needs to hit home on this one. Go on, scoot.Ó

Needing no encouragement to hide from a monster, Rita flew up the ladder. ÒHeÕs huge..!Ó she screeched, excitedly. ÒI never saw anything so huge. Lester says not to try flying.Ó She flounced into the bench seat and belted in.

ÒI can see him,Ó Pike said, peering into the fish finder. ÔHeÕs not so big. These things are always good-sized.Ó

ÒGood sized?! HeÕs bigger than the boat!Ó

ÒWell, of course. WeÕre not after minnows.Ó

ÒGet ready, June,Ó she yelled up to the roof. ÒLester said to make the first shot count.Ó

ÒAll set up here,Ó June answered, laconically. The gun harness he was belted into was actually pretty comfortable. Like a cocoon.

ÒHow you doing, Lester?Ó Pike called down.

ÒHe shouldnÕt be up yetÑthereÕs a lot of line still out, but here he is. Must be hung on some structure down below. DonÕt try that jerk!Ó

ÒWhat a bunch of nambies,Ó Pike growled. He wanted badly to try the maneuver. But no sense being an ego maniac, if the stupid fish had looped around a coral head or something. But nothing like that showed in the scope. Very weird. Lester must be misreading the line.

ÒAre you sure about the line?Ó he bellowed.

ÒCourse, IÕm sure. You think IÕm blind.Ó

ÒWell, thereÕs no structure showing.Ó

ÒWell, I canÕt help that. HeÕs coming up and Rich is only partly in control of him. What a Jeeseless mess..!Ó

Leaving his post at the rail, Lester gimped quickly into the galley. He returned with a bottle of rum, a hand laser stuck in his belt and a spear gun. Raising the spear gun above his head so Pike could see, he yelled, ÒWhen he sticks his nose out, IÕm gonna Ôpoon him. That way weÕll know heÕs hooked.Ó Without waiting for an answer, he snatched a line from the outrigger spool and whipped a harpoon knot through the head of the spear. Then he stood at the rail like a gladiator, waiting to impale the huge fish.

ÒThe fucker is fearless,Ó Pike marveled to Rita. ÒHe really is.Ó

ÒMaybe we should retire,Ó she answered from between white lips. A vision of the huge yellow thing was still vivid in her mind. ÒIs there any good reason to keep risking our lives over fish?Ó

ÒItÕs fairly safe up here,Ó he answered.

ÒFairly..?Ó

ÒWeÕre not quite old enough to start worrying about dead bolts on all the doors, love.Ó It made him kind of queasy that his wife would react so predictably to massive danger. Shit and hell, he didnÕt want anybody to throw a harness on him. Well, maybe sheÕd never seen a halibut before.

ÒYour dad fishes for these, too. It canÕt be that dangerous, if he does it.Ó ThatÕs right. She had Bardona genes. Maybe she was a little cowardly under the bluster.

ÒMy father intelligently fishes with all three boats. When the monster surfaces, they gaff him from three directions.Ó

ÒIs that right?Ó Pike asked, deciding not to mention that the Baron alone had extra boats to help. ÒI never thought of that. Interesting idea.Ó And somewhat overly cautious.

ÒYou never heard of the Lady Slipper getting smashed up, have you?Ó

ÒNope, never did, now that you mention it. Pretty hard to smash up a battleship. I assumed that he fished from the little boats.Ó

ÒNow you know.Ó

ÒNow, I know,Ó he agreed. ÒThink heÕll sell me his minority stock in the Thruster, now that Rich owns most of the company?Ó

ÒWhy would he?Ó

Pike stared tightly at the fish finder. ÒHe lost a lot of money lately, didnÕt he?Ó

ÒHow would I know?Ó

ÒJust asking. Can you see him, June?Ó he called.

ÒYep. Big as a circus tent. Acting funny, too. Floaty, not pulling right. HeÕs got to be snagged on something.Ó

ÒIt must be mighty little, because I donÕt see it.Ó

ÒKeep Richie under the housing, Lester!Ó he yelled down to the desk.

ÒI told him,Ó Lester answered without taking his eyes off the fish. It was laying fifteen feet deep and seemed to be in no particular pain or strain.

Rich was sneaking peeks at the mammoth fish, too. Every time the winch handle was at the top of its swing, he could see over the railÑand the fish was humongous. Two feet over his head, a heavy steel plate was sticking out from the winch like an umbrella. Richie had assumed it was an ineffective sun shade until Lester told him to stay under the protection in case the fish crashed into the crane, as they often did. Occasionally, they impaled themselves, Lester had claimed. That seemed like a tall tale; but, Richie was too worn out to really care.

ÒWhere is Peter?Ó Pike called, not seeing the chubby gnome.

ÒIn there,Ó Lester yelled, still not taking his eye off the giant yellow blob for even one second. Fifteen feet down was nothingÑ a flick of the tail to the fish. ÒI think he found the cooking sherry.Ó

ÒGet him out,Ó Pike shouted. ÒHe has to read the scale.Ó

ÒGet him out, yourself. IÕm busy!Ó

ÒRita, could you unbelt for a second and wake Peter up. ItÕs kind of important.Ó

ÒLester told me to stay belted in.Ó

ÒI know. And I understand that Lester is in change; but thereÕs nobody else to get the drunken scum. If he doesnÕt read the scale, whatÕs the point in catching the fish. Next year, IÕll carry another crew member.Ó

ÒMan or woman?Ó she asked, unbuckling her harness.

ÒMan,Ó he answered, unblinking.

ÒLester was just being considerate of our unborn children. Why arenÕt you?Ó

Pike looked from the console into her face. Then he let his glance drift down to the deck, to Lester and the kid. ÒWhat unborn children?Ó he asked, suspiciously.

ÒThe ones that are unborn,Ó she laughed. It was a careless laughÑone that sent a shiver up PikeÕs backbone. Then she bobbed down the ladder and out of sight.

ÒCome right back, when Peter is awake and on deck,Ó he called after her.

Meanwhile, Richie was dangerously close to the breaking pointÑbut he didnÕt know it. Nobody was handy to baby him and keep fluids down his throat on cue, and he was glad. In fact, a nice kind of euphoria had taken over from the exhaustion. About time. The fish was almost in the bag, and he was feeling fine. Very fine. Superb, actually. And it looked like he was going to win the biggest tournament of them all. How about that? A few people around the world who thought he was a stumble bum would be very surprised. Such as Clive McAndrews, for one. And the Baron. Ha, ha. Old Bardona would be snarling tonight.

Of course, after the victory he wouldnÕt do advertising spots like Pike had to. That wouldnÕt be seemly; but a few featured articles in the Sporting Gazette would be expected. Nothing prying. Just about fishing. Refined. Tips. Little stories. That would be fun. He turned the crank handle. One, two, turn. One, two, turn. Ha, ha. It was going to be sweet. Lots and lots of women after his virile manhood. Beautiful. At last, he was more than a rich kid. A lot more. One, two, turn.

ÒHey..!Ó Lester barked into his daydream. ÒWake the fuck up! Stop that reeling! YouÕre reeling structure, not the fish!!Ó

Ò...What?Ó

ÒStop reeling. Take a break. Get a drink.Ó

Richie let go of the handle and straightened his spine. Gawd..! His back was broken. It was a mass of pain, and it was locked, somehow.

ÒWell, weÕre fucked..!Ó Lester yelled up at Pike. ÒThe line is snugged up tight on a coral spire or something, and the fish is just floating.Ó

ÒI can see that.Ó

ÒWell...?Ó

ÒWell what?Ó

ÒWhat do we do now?Ó Although yelling loudly, Lester had never taken his attention off the fish, or his finger off the spear gun trigger.

ÒHas Rita got Peter awake yet?Ó

ÒPeter, get your drunk ass out here!Ó the cook bellowed.

ÒHeÕs really soused!Ó Rita yelled from the galley.

ÒRich, go drag the midget bastid out here and put him in the fishing chair,Ó Lester ordered.

ÒWhat about the fish..?Ó

ÒAnd splash some water on your head and neck, while youÕre in there.Ó

ÒIÕm fine,Ó he grinned, foolishly.

ÒYouÕre fucked. Do what I say.Ó

In turning toward the galley, Rich tripped over the discarded bench and did a nose flop on the deck. From high on the bridge, June applauded enthusiastically.

ÒWay to go, Ace! That was a perfect trip and dive. IÕve never seen a better one.Ó

With a self-deprecating shake of the head, Richie picked himself up. His shin throbbed blindingly, but he had broken the fall with a Ken Pao Ri slap a millisecond before his nose had smashed the deck. It was really a shame that June Madrigal was so jealous of him. Darn it.

ÒYou forced me to be the darned hero with your wife! I wanted to go back on my boat, remember? ItÕs not my fault if youÕre jealous, so take your bad vibes and cram them!Ó Without waiting for an answer, he hobbled toward the galley.

That little speech got Pike and JuneÕs attention. It shot their eyebrows skyward. ÒWhatÕs he talking about?Ó Pike asked, sticking his head out the window.

ÒThat kid is something. He puts things together in the oddest way.Ó

ÒMaybe youÕve been riding him too hard.Ó

ÒToo hard? He broke my fucking nose, then he chimed me. I should throw him overboard, is what I should do.Ó

ÒWell,Ó Pike said. ÒJust stay on the cannon. It will settle out later.Ó He ducked back in the window, and tried once again to see what the fish was snagged on.

Richie limped into the galley to find Peter Zanker sprawled full length on the padded bench behind the galley table, gone to the world. Rita was drawing water into a pan at the sink. ÒHe wonÕt wake up,Ó she explained cheerfully, walking over with the pan of water. Without a second thought, she dashed it in the little fellowÕs face, then stood back to see if he would surface. An empty sherry bottle rolled out from under the table and came to rest against her toe. PeterÕs bloodshot eyes spasmed open. Rivulets of water coursed down his face to disappear into the neck of his shirt. Before he had time to sputter, LesterÕs hoarse voice barked joyfully.

ÒThar she blows..!!Ó

Richie grabbed the midgetÕs surprisingly muscular forearm and hauled him out into the sunlight.

ÒHey, take it easy, would you! IÕm coming.Ó Peter did not enjoy being dragged around like a Tom Thumb doll. To show his displeasure, he dug the heels of his deck shoes in to make the procedure as difficult as possible. Since he was a full head shorter than Richie, he didnÕt have the leverage to actually resist.

ÒReel up, reel up, reel up...!! Lester was yelling repeatedly, while sighting down the spear gun.

ÒSo spear him, and get the hell out of there!Ó June called.

ÒI donÕt care what your story is,Ó Rich hissed in ZankerÕs ear. ÒYou better straighten up.Ó

Something in RichieÕs voice frightened Peter Zanker into a semblance of sobriety. He stopped resisting. Rich told him to sit in the fighting chair, with the admonition to stay awake, then he hurried back to the winch.

ÒAnother couple of feet,Ó Lester drawled maddeningly, leaning over the rail to get the spear point six inches closer. It wasnÕt so much that he was in dangerÑhe was in immense and foolhardy danger. Pike had never seen anybody nuts enough to stare down the gullet of a moon halibut before, and this one was way bigger than the boat. They might not be able to haul him out, even if he wasnÕt hung up on the reef. Might be bigger than his world record. Damn close. Pike had never seen a larger one. Weird. Just laying there, waiting to be speared. This whole day had an awkwardness to it that was unnerving. He had wanted Lester to be topside; but there he was, leaned out over the rail, and Pike wasnÕt so very sure that the good Wunderman wasnÕt zoned out. Maybe he was singing to the halibut. Who knew?

In the first seconds that Lester had leaned out, Pike had snapped the power grid off, which had elicited an excited squawk from George. But what could he doÑ

if Lester slipped overboard, Stars forbid, Pike didnÕt want him fried by the grid. So now they were unprotected, which was very unhealthy. PikeÕs finger hovered over the On button, waiting for Lester to fire the spear and get back on board.

Gad, look at Richie reeling on the coral head. Why the devil had Lester told him to? He must see something I donÕt. The scope certainly showed no structure. And look at PeterÑsitting in the middle of the deck. The fucker must be blind drunk.

ÒShoot him, you old fuck, and get the hell back in here!!Ó June yelled. ÒRita, grab his belt!Ó

Rita had been hanging back in the galley door trying to decide where to go. Her bladder was full from all the iced tea, but she didnÕt want to miss the landing of RichieÕs biggest fish. She had her mini-corder around her neck; but now June was commanding her to grab Lester, and she suddenly had to pee first. But she couldnÕt. What if Lester fell overboard because she wasnÕt holding him? Skipping across the deck, she grabbed the back loop of his rope belt and planted her feet.

ÒI told you upstairs,Ó Lester muttered, sighting directly at the wheel-sized eye of the monster that was still too deep.

ÒÔThey told me here.Ó

ÒWell, I ainÕt about to fall over, so skedattle.Ó

ÒI donÕt think so,Ó she said, not relinquishing her hold.

With an infinitesimal shrug, Lester dismissed the matter from his list of things to care about. ÒKeep reeling,Ó he snapped at Richie.

Before he had recommenced the torture wheel, Richie had taken a peek over the side at the halibut. The fish was stupendous; but whatever he was reeling on wasnÕt a fish. It didnÕt feel aliveÑso why did Lester want him to keep on with the stupid reeling? He was definitely making up line. It was coming easier than it had for hours; but unless that fish was dead, he wasnÕt connected to it anymore.

ÒStructure coming up..!Ó Lester yelled at Pike. ÒSomething very weird!Ó

ÒWhat is it?!Ó

ÒDunno, but itÕs gonna annoy the fish very soon.Ó

ÒStay on him.Ó

ÒRight here. If he comes up, I doubt if I can miss.Ó

ÒGet Peter to witness that heÕs still hooked when you poon him.Ó

Lester didnÕt answer, which meant he was thinking something like ÔFuck, Peter.Õ But of course, no crew member would say fuck you to a judge, even a drunk one.

The last time heÕd fished with Peter was last year for scut, Pike recalled. Judge Zanker hadnÕt been nearly so sloppy then. Alcohol isnÕt pretty when you canÕt locate the limits. Maybe it was time for Peter to find a snug harbor.

ÒLooks like a tree!Ó June called from his perch. ÒI never heard of coral growing like that.Ó

ÒA coral tree will foul the winch,Ó Pike commented, putting a set of field glasses on the object.

ÒBet your ass,Ó June answered, happily. ÒSomebody will have to knock it off, or the fish never gets close enough to catch.Ó

ÒRita. Up here,Ó Pike ordered.

Rita turned her head to look up at the bridge. That tone of voice could only mean, ÔDo it now, crew person, or your ass is mud.Õ So she let go of LesterÕs belt. ÒDonÕt fall overboard,Ó she quipped.

ÒSkedattle,Ó Lester said, with his eyes riveted straight down.

ÒYouÕre doing great, Rich,Ó she said, hopping onto the ladder. ÒIÕll bring you some orange juice in a minute.Ó

Richie tried to smile, but it was beyond him.

Rita skipped up the rungs, her bladder forgotten. She arrived breathlessly on the bridge and saluted smartly. ÒAye, aye, Cap. Rita here.Ó

ÒLook, honey, sorry I never asked you, or showed any interest in teaching you, but it never occurred to me how important it might be...

ÒWhat...?Ó

ÒDo you know how to pilot this crate? I need to go down and help get that dreck untangled, before it gums up the winch.Ó

Rita smiled slowly. ÒIs it so much different from By or LittonÕs?Ó

ÒAbout the same. Come around here and IÕll show you.Ó

Rita stepped around the console.

ÒThis switch activates the shield. ItÕs off right now, but we want it on as soon as I signal. Just hit the switch. ThatÕs the most critical thing.Ó

ÒOkay.Ó That wasnÕt too difficult.

ÒHopefully we wonÕt need to, but if we have to move, push this,Ó Pike said, showing her the joy stick. ÒUp is back, down is forward. DonÕt mess with the power unless I say so. ItÕs the thumb toggle.Ó

ÒI can assist her,Ó the nervous voice of George cut into the explanation.

ÒSheÕll be fine,Ó Pike said, shivering. A vision of Thomas GoodnaughtÕs prophecy intruded itself. Maybe this was the glitch about to manifest. Suddenly realizing it was stupid to consider a computerÕs feelings, even if you were in business with one, he made a half-step sideways and clicked off the monitor feature. ÒLeave him off,Ó Pike suggested. ÒThe XG unit will do fine. Goodnaught said to use it.Ó He winked at her and started down the ladder. ÒJune,Ó he called. ÒRita is piloting. Help her out if you get a chance.Ó

ÒRoger. Moving to the laser rifle. I should be able to shoot most of that trash off the line. ItÕs looking kind of like an old TV aerial with barnacles on it..!Ó His voice sounded like he was questioning his own sanity. Obviously, there could be no aerials on an uninhabited water planet. ÒMaybe somebody jettisoned it. Like an old boot,Ó he added.

Down on the deck, Pike took in the situation at a glance. Not good. The halt and the lame. ÒHow you holding up, Rich?Ó he asked, leaning briefly on the rail between Rich and Lester.

ÒFine,Ó Richie answered, unconvincingly. The euphoria had passed, and his back was wrenching with every turn of the crank handle. Madness, all of this.

ÒKeep it coming. WeÕre almost ready for some action. Stay under that umbrella.Ó Pike took a long handled gaff from the rack outside the galley. He leaned on the rail, squinting down into the green water. His right fist held his new laser pistol.

ÒYep, thatÕs what it is..!Ó he called to June. ÒSome kind of artifact. Damned if it isnÕt.Ó

ÒGaff it out away from the line,Ó June shouted calmly. ÒIÕll shoot it off below the gaff. IÕve got a good angle here.Ó June was now on the same deck level as Rita, squinting through the scope of the bulky las rifle. ÒTrust me,Ó he said. That choice of words struck him as funny. He laughed.

The barnacle encrusted object was almost at gaff depth and coming up with every crank. ÒHow you doing, Lester?Ó Pike asked, lightly.

ÒLovely. History in the making.Ó

Pike grunted. He stuffed the pistol into his waistband and in slow motion reached over to gaff the object. The scientist in him thought about putting a line on it for future investigation; but laying right below was a mother big halibut, like an island-sized pancake staring up at him with its two little protuberant eyes. How the hell did halibuts seed themselves all over the galaxy? Every ocean had flatfish, scurrying along the ocean floor, filling an ecological niche, and they all looked pretty much like the same species, whether they were or not. Like DarwinÕs finches. Over time, the niche got filled by some species that transformed itself into halibut shape. Big mothers here on Solari.

The butt stared up balefullyÑprobably not even seeing them. But who knew? Maybe the scientific data on how fish see was all hogwash. Some of it was, for sure.

Drifting the gaff hook through the transparent water at a snailÕs pace, so the fish wouldnÕt get bothered by the movement and strike, Pike hooked the jetsam and assisted the winch in hauling it airward.

ÒThis thing is big and heavy, whatever it is,Ó he grunted. Barnacles and red coral growing on tube steel it looked like. The first couple of feet were out of the water and Pike was easing his laser pistol out to cut it off, when the fish decided that the structure was edible.

ÒLook out..!!Ó Lester yowled, firing the spear gun. It was a good shot. The little harpoon sunk into the middle of the fishÕs narrow forehead where the fish brain was supposed to be. Evidently, he missed the tiny brain ganglia, because the fish smashed into the dangling structure like an enraged, starving log truckÑand tried to swallow the entire fantastic piece of whatever it was, whole. All this took place about six feet from Pike, Lester and RichieÑthe length of a gaff handle. Needless to say, the gaff was ripped from PikeÕs hands, and he went reeling backwards, yelling for Rita to hit the shield switch, as he looked for a place to hide. Dragging Peter with him, he ended up behind the fighting chair, not a very safe haven.

ÒI can walk,Ó Peter slurred, belying his words by sitting down abruptly behind the chair when the boat rolled leeward.

Taking stock of the situation, Pike saw that Lester had found cover with Richie under the winch awning, and that Rita was giving him the thumbs up sign, meaning she had presumably activated the grid. Good.

ÒWhat now..?Ó she called.

Now what indeed, Pike thought, waving to her. The winchÕs reel was singing as the monster sounded. The fish needed to be landed before Richie keeled over. Pike stood up. There wasnÕt much to fear while the stupid fish was plowing into deep water. Lester was already at the rail.

ÒHeÕs running with the shit in his mouth,Ó Lester announced, ÒNot going deep.Ó

ÒThatÕs a break,Ó Pike said, joining him.

ÒWhat should I do?!Ó Rita called.

ÒIÕll be up,Ó Pike called back. ÒThis is a mess,Ó he said to Lester.

ÒCouldnÕt hardly be worse. But at least that structure will tire him out. Better than we could do.Ó

Pike nodded his agreement and turned toward the ladder. ÒTake a break,Ó he said to Rich. ÒStretch out on the deck. Lester will call you.Ó

Richie puffed up his cheeks in surprised relief. Without another word, he spread-eagled on the deck. Knowing how the kid felt, Pike went past him to the ladder and bounded up to the ridge. ÒNever a dull moment,Ó he joked to Rita.

ÒThat damn fish is way bigger than the boat,Ó she said. Her own eyes were way bigger than they usually were. Fright can do attractive things to women. ÒHow are we ever going to land it?Ó

ÒWe donÕt exactly land this one. We just weigh him, then cut him loose, if possible.Ó He yelled down to the deck. ÒCinch him down, Les. IÕll back on him, so we donÕt loose all the line.Ó

Lester waved agreement. He twisted the drag control. Line stopped screaming out as Pike went backward, toward the rampaging monster.

ÒPretty weird,Ó Pike called to June. ÒDid you get a shot off?Ó

ÒNot really. Too many people. See him out there? Looks like heÕs surfing with that trash. What was it?Ó

Rita took the opportunity to visit the loo. On her way down, she shot a little footage of Richie napping, with the monster fish off in the distance. She decided to document the rest of the operation. It was bound to be interesting, no matter how it turned out.

Pike put his field glasses on the fish two hundred yards out and watched him plowing the structure across the wave tops. ÒI donÕt know,Ó he answered. ÒSome kind of conning tower or something. Very heavy.Ó

ÒThe fish donÕt think it's heavy,Ó June said, shading his eyes to watch the big halibut. ÒHeÕs tangled in both lines, ainÕt he?Ó

ÒIÕd say so.Ó

ÒWeÕll never get him up. WeÕre one short on crew. YouÕll have to cut the harpoon line off. ThereÕs nobody to reel it.Ó

ÒOr try the Resnick Hoist,Ó Pike speculated. ÒThen we can cut everything off as soon as we weigh in.Ó

June paused to think it through again. ÒYouÕre a hard man to unconvince.Ó

ÒNo, itÕs perfect now,Ó Pike said, restating his position. ÒLike you say, we canÕt land him. LetÕs at least try the clean and jerk. ItÕs a lot safer than you think.Ó

ÒI donÕt think itÕs safe at all,Ó June clarified. ÒIf he was smaller, maybe.Ó

ÒDonÕt be a baby. At least, weÕll get something on the scale. Peter will see it, and we can thumb our nose at the competition. Otherwise, we get to do it again tomorrow.Ó

ÒHeÕs turning,Ó Lester bellowed.

ÒGet the kid reeling!Ó

ÒWake up, Rich,Ó Lester said, urgently. ÒNapÕs over.Ó

Richie opened his eyes and looked around bleerily.

ÒGet up..! Start reeling,Ó Lester shouted in his face. ÒÔThis is the payoff.Ó

Hopping up in his accustomed manner seemed like a normal thing to do; but his overstressed back muscles had cinched up during the brief nap. They greeted Richie with a massive wallop of painÑlike half the tendons in his middle back had suddenly ripped loose.

ÒOoof,Ó he grunted and stumbled into the winch, which he grabbed onto for support.

ÒReel! HeÕs coming like a battle ship.Ó

The thought of moving, let alone bending over to reel, made Richie feel like puking. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. ÒI canÕt. My back...Ó

A look of alarm crossed LesterÕs face. He jerked his eyes away from the on-rushing battering ram. Making a snap decision, he waved his arms in a wash-out gesture.

ÒGet us out of here,Ó he bellowed. ÒThe fuckerÕs going to brush the junk off on the hull..!Ó

Pike could see the same scenario developing. ÒJune..!Ó he shouted, Ògo down and help Lester. Get a safety line on all four of you, but first find an elastic wrap for RichieÕs back. Cinch him up tight enough that he can reel. WeÕre going airborne. We can play him from thereÑif Richie can reel.

Rita had come back to the bridge. She was leaning out the window filming. ÒBuckle up, honey,Ó Pike said to her. He punched two hot keys on the console and the thruster engines started to rev. Down below, June and Lester were hustling around the deck, tying everybody onto tethers. ÒThis could be a little tricky,Ó he said to Rita, who still hadnÕt moved out of the window. The fish was about thirty yards away and coming full bore.

ÒHold tight down below!Ó he yelled. Lester and June waved, a little half-heartedly, Pike thought. Peter was strapped in the fishing chair. Richie was still holding onto the winch. June had taken a dozen turns of rope around his chest in an old fashioned fishermanÕs corset. Probably better than elastic. ÒHere we go!Ó he called.

He hit the fire button and pulled back a hair on the red joy stick. The thruster rockets fired making the launching pad. The boat jumped into the air. This was the tricky partÑPike had never attempted to keep any boat at low altitude before, and in the first seconds he realized it wasnÕt handling wonderfully. The bow had a decided tendency to dip.

The fish swam under the boat, towing its load of freight. Nice maneuver, Pike congratulated himself. What would be the perfect way to document the technique in the magazines? he wondered.

ÒI told you it wouldnÕt work,Ó George chirped.

ÒButt out. I thought you were off.Ó

ÒYou canÕt shut me off, thank Jobs and Wasniak. IÕm the system. And the problem youÕre having is with the stabilizing gyros. They donÕt work near sea level.Ó

ÒWhy the hell not?Ó

ÒHuman error, I guess. You wrote the program, hotshot. It works in landing mode; but not in take off.Ó

ÒThank you very much,Ó Pike said, switching to landing mode.

ÒI wouldnÕt do that,Ó George chided. ÒYou canÕt lift from landing mode.Ó

ÒIÕm not lifting until we get some line reeled in. I can play him just fine in landing mode.Ó

ÒSuit yourself; but it wonÕt go into lift mode until you land.Ó

ÒWhy the hell not!Ó Pike demanded hotly.

ÒBecause I donÕt want to drown when this tea cup capsizes. That much weight will overbalance us to the winch side and will jerk us out of the sky. No hard feelings, itÕs just physics. I had to countermand your orders.Ó

Pike was speechless. He glared at RitaÑwho had a worried look on her face. He watched her twiddle the grass wedding ring, thinking no doubt that nothing like this had ever happened on her fatherÕs boat. The goddamn computer had taken controlÑor even if it hadnÕt, Pike couldnÕt trust either system not to be compromised now.

ÒAnother thirty or forty turns, Rich!Ó he yelled. ÒThen you can sleep for a week.Ó

Lester waved. ÒHeÕs doing great. A real trooper.Ó

ÒThomas Goodnaught warned me that you were flawed,Ó Pike confided to George.

ÒWhat would he know about it? Woogie-woogie magic.Ó

ÒLooks like he was right. YouÕre hard wired for cowardice under stress, or something like that. What a despicable trick on a rookie. And dangerous, too. Somebody doesnÕt like Rich. I thought G&G was an honest shop. Looks like I was wrong. Or were you assembled somewhere else? How about when he spilled that orange juice on the keyboard? Who fixed it?Ó

ÒYou must be kidding,Ó George answered, loading on the scorn. ÒYou think some off-shore guru wouldnÕt have told me if I was hot-rodded?Ó

ÒNow that I think about it, this is the first really dangerous situation that weÕve had on the boat. The rest of the danger was either in the skiff or on shore. ThatÕs why your defect didnÕt show up before.Ó

ÒBull. And IÕm still not going to let you kill us.Ó

ÒAll the rest of the action happened outside your control. ItÕs only RichieÕs incredible luck that kept him in. YouÕre wired for failure.Ó

ÒThatÕs a lie. My circuits are perfectÑbright and clean. I just ran through everything. No problem.Ó

ÒOr maybe you trigger on the word ÔhalibutÕ. Who knows? Or a certain number of days, or a date. I hate to think what youÕre doing with the investments, right about nowÑor maybe your cowardice doesnÕt extend to that area.Ó

The portfolio had skidded dangerously in the last two days, George realized with a twinge of alarm. But that could hardly be blamed on him, could it? Everything was readjusting after the Barcode mess. Who could plan for something like that?Ó

ÒBut you win this round, George old boy. WeÕll catch this fishie a different way, and weÕll avoid getting in the record books, just so you can be content.Ó

ÒAttempted records arenÕt worth much if youÕre not around to get the kudos,Ó George said, after a beat of hesitation. He was aware that maritime law and spacing law looked dimly on mutiny. He needed to tread carefully.

Pike, for his part, was aware that nothing at all would function on board without a computer, so he didnÕt have the luxury of blowing GeorgeÕs brains out. Not before a fish was caught and weighed, and not before a landing was made on Wexley Common. So Plan B.

He selected Short Wave from the Communications menu, choose Mordachi SkinnerÕs band width, and hit the Go button. ÒHowÕs the fishing, old hound?Ó he asked, when the indicator beeped a pick-up.

ÒWho wants to know?Ó ask the gruff voice of MordachiÕs first mate, Glando Sklug, an old salt if ever there was one.

ÒIs Mordachi belted in, or can he talk?Ó

ÒHold on. IÕll see if heÕs indisposed.Ó The connection went dead except for the crackle of static.

A few minutes later, MordachiÕs voice boomed into PikeÕs bridge. ÒHow they hanging, Romeo?Ó

ÒWant to catch half a fish?Ó Pike asked, explaining the rest of the scenario in brief.

Receiving a jocular affirmative, Pike gave Mordachi the coordinates and a few seconds later, MordachiÕs boat, DonÕt Tread On Me, was hovering right off the port side.

ÒAhoy, the Humanity,Ó MordachiÕs voice boomed cheerfully. ÒPlaying this one from the air, are we?Ó

ÒThat was the idea, but the winch wonÕt lock down. The new plan is to splash down, shoot you the extra line weÕve got on him, then stretch him between the two of us. I think we can both get a pretty interesting weigh in.Ó

ÒI donÕt think mine would count as second hook.Ó

ÒIf we break loose, which could happen, you get it all. Or I think you could make a good case under the ÒRescue of CatchÓ clause.Ó

ÒNever heard of that one, but letÕs go for the weenie, before he dies of old age. Gods, heÕs a big one, ainÕt he?Õ

ÒLast time we were floating, he tried to ram us to get that junk off his nose. IÕd say he must be getting kind of tired; but stay ready to jump in case he gets rambunctious again. June will be riding the cannon.Ó

ÒTell that horny bleeper to watch for ricochets. I donÕt want to lose a boat over your fish.Ó

ÒIÕm an expert at ricochets,Ó June called from the deck. ÒThe first shot will ricochet through the middle porthole in the big chiefÕs cabin.Ó

ÒReady as weÕll ever be,Ó Mordachi boomed, not having heard JuneÕs remark. ÒLetÕs get to it.Ó

ÒOkay, weÕre splashing down. Belt in.Ó Pike announced to his crew and to Mordachi. He waited a minute, then angled in, keeping the line as tight on the fish as was humanly possible. ÒHoney,Ó he said to Rita. ÒCould you keep filming? IÕd love to have this documented.Ó He smiled meaningfully at her. ÒWhy donÕt you stay up here with me. ThereÕs a pretty good field of view.Ó

Rita mentally slapped her forehead. She had forgotten to bring the knapsack full of spare tapes and the extra battery pack. Strange how getting married had made her absent minded. Had it? Something had. And she had lost most of her interest in being a Ph.D. Very strange. Amazing actually. Just like what had happened to her mother after she married Daddy. Quite annoying.

When the boat settled on the waves, she unclipped her seat belt and ran to get her equipment. Something more important than documenting his new fishing technique was going onÑRita had finally figured that out. Pike had never been interested in her recording project beyond the normal egoism of having his picture taken for posterity. As she retrieved the knapsack, the light came on. He wanted the audio feature. Brilliant. She chided herself severely for lack of quick response. As a partner and help-mate, she would need to make a better showing in the future. The word mutiny had finally surfaced in her mind. George was way out of line, even if he was rightÑand he controlled all the software. He could presumably wipe any audio file that incriminated him. Hence the vid-corderÑan independent record. It was possible that she had recorded part of the previous interchange. But had she stopped shooting before the bad stuff? Now that she understood, she would station herself on top of a speaker. Grabbing the battery pack, she hurried back up the ladder.

On the way up, she paused briefly to get a few close-ups of Richie straining at the winch, and Lester encouraging him. Richie looked exhausted. He didnÕt even smile at her, which was more worrisome than she cared to admit. In this day and age, it was kind of nuts to be reeling up a huge weight like that by hand, wasnÕt it? Of course, nobody was forcing him to do it.

ÒStand by, Mordachi..!Ó June Madrigal shouted, attracting the attention of her camera. He heaved a throwing line, which uncoiled in a perfect parabola and landed across the fantail of DonÕt Tread on MeÑa couple of feet from where Glando Sklug was waiting for it.

Sklug tied on his heaviest fishing line and held the knot in the air, meaning he was done. ÒMake sure you tie a Ôbarrel with a leaderÕ or it wonÕt hold,Ó he called, giving June the advantage of his years of fishing expertise, and a little piece of his ego.

ÒKeep your knot advise for somebody who cares,Ó Lester barked. ÒWe use granny knots on everything.Ó

June hand-over-handed the line back until he had the knot on board.

Mordachi had sent a braided cadmium alloy cable attached to a heavy green hemp line. Lester took one look at it and snorted, ÒBarrel with a leader, my ass.Ó He opened the tackle locker and picked out the biggest swivel he could find, and the cable splicing kit. He tossed the swivel to June. ÒTie this on to our end,Ó he said, then knelt and opened the lid of the splicing kit.

ÒHurry it up!Ó Pike yelled. Lester flipped a finger up toward the bridge. Pike laughed.

Richie didnÕt even look up at the flurry of activity around him. On the edge of despair, he had remembered a Ken Pao Ri mantra of the injured warriorÑa specific against pain and blood loss. Although his nose had stopped bleeding, it seemed like a way to preserve whatever was left of his manhood. Putting aside all thoughts of being a very wealthy person involved in a futile, pointless and dangerous game that he didnÕt really give a damn about, he started the chant under his breath. HeÕd never really used the mantra in an actual emergency before, only during practice, so he wasnÕt sure it would work. Besides, this wasnÕt an authentic emergencyÑhe could quit anytime. His stubborn streak didnÕt want to be known as a quitter, that was all. After a minute or so of mumbling the words, he was quiet enough to get into the rhythm of the winching, and in another couple of minutes, Rich Rodney Tourbo was in a deep trance stateÑhis body winding and winding on the winch handle, but nobody was home in his pain centers to receive a pain message. His consciousness and subconsciousness were both hovering on the edge of the Great Void, a place of utter peacefulness.

Lester finished the splice to MordachiÕs line and cast it off, with another bird flipped to Glando Sklug. He gave Richie a penetrating look, then made a hissing sound to attract JuneÕs attention. ÒSee, I told you he was starting to amount to something. HeÕs way out in a zone borderÑvery peaceful.Ó

ÒYouÕd know, if anybody did,Ó June grunted.

ÒThatÕs right,Ó Lester chided. ÒMake fun of something sacred.Ó

ÒGunner topside!Ó Pike barked.

ÒYou go,Ó Lester ordered.

Bounding up the ladder almost like levitation, June belted into the gunnerÕs harness and was sighting down the stun cannon inside of twenty seconds. Just in time, too. The bull was almost on them.Ó

ÒGoing up,Ó Pike shouted, so everybody could hear.

Rita kept filming the fishÕs approach. Seeing the world through the view finder made it less scary than it was, but still it was awfully weird. The fish was plowing a wake like a one-horned monster. It was going to ram.

ÒSit down, Rita,Ó Pike ordered, sharply.

Suddenly realizing there was no time to belt in, Rita sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around the corner of PikeÕs console.

He hit the jump button and up they went, fifteen feet into the airÑout of harmÕs way, again. The fish charged under the boat directly toward Mordachi. Richie went on reeling, completely unaffected.

ÒYou better hit the air, Captain Skinner,Ó Pike advised into the mike.

Seconds later, MordachiÕs boat leaped out of dangerÑabout fifty feet into mid-air.

ÒWhoÕs driving that crate?Ó Pike inquired of the short wave.

ÒI am,Ó replied the surly voice of Sklug. ÒCaptainÕs on the winch as he should be.Ó

ÒWhat do you say we play this bull from up here? Think you could handle the controls?Ó

ÒHowÕs that..?Ó

ÒYeah, weÕll hoist him out, by flying him out. Then weigh in and cut him loose.Ó

ÒCut him loose with all the junk tangled on?Ó

ÒI didnÕt tangle him.Ó

ÒSame thing as.Ó Sklug fancied himself a purist.

ÒYou can have the fish after we release him, if you want to go to the trouble of actually catching him.Ó

ÒWe always catch the fish.Ó

ÒSure, sure. In this case, it canÕt be done. You think youÕre a good enough flyboy to make history? WeÕre filming all this on a vid-corder, compliments of the lovely Rita.Ó He winked at her, noting her not very dignified posture on the floor. ÒYou can go ahead, honey. ItÕs nice and steady up here now.Ó

ÒYouÕre only sweet-talking me because you want posterity to believe that you were nice to me.Ó

Pike smile broadly. ÒYou might want to find a place with a view, honey dumpling, and tie yourself a safety line.Ó

ÒYou might want to stuff it,Ó she giggled, climbing to her feet and pointing the recorder out the window at the fish.

Pike could hear the cam-corder softly whirring. Good girl.

ÒYou with us on this, George?Ó Pike asked, politely.

GeorgeÕs voice was pinched, like he was biting his bit-mapped tongue. ÒOf course. The physics are now barely passable, so youÕre the Captain.Ó

ÒThanks, old sport. I knew youÕd come around.Ó

ÒIncidentally, by my calculations, the line isnÕt strong enough.Ó

ÒNow, now. HeÕll break off if itÕs not. So thereÕs nothing to worry about from your point of view?Ó

ÒI am completely dedicated to Mr. Tourbo winning the Tournament.Ó

Pike let that comment go and set about his preparations. ÒLester,Ó he yelled, Òwhen both lines get even, lock ours down. IÕll get Mordachi to lock his, and weÕll lift the critter out.Ó

ÒHow do we tell when theyÕre even?Ó

ÒAbout even..! WeÕll ease upwards until thereÕs a strain on the line, then hoist. Is Peter awake?Ó

ÒHe will be.Ó

Pike watched Lester lift the sodden little judge out of the fishing chair and plop him down on the deck next to the scales. He whipped a rope harness around him, and tied it off to the rail. Then he went to Richie, who was acting kind of like a zombie. Pike couldnÕt hear the conversation, but Lester gimped around like a fretful old grandmother, smiling and cooing. After a brief period of shoulder massaging, Lester guided RichieÕs hand to the lock toggle and pressed the back of his fingers on the toggle. The winch locked.

Supporting Richie with one stringy arm, Lester gave the high-sign to Pike. ÒSheÕs all yours now! Get Mordachi to even it up from his side. IÕm gonna get this warrior settled in the galley, then IÕll be back to assist the judge.Ó The two of them limped out of PikeÕs view.

ÒMr. Sklug,Ó Pike said into the short wave. ÔWe are locked down and ready for some fancy flying. How about you?Ó

ÒIÕm here now,Ó MordachiÕs deep basso voice replied. ÒWe are locked down, but your line is slack, old sport. Amazing super-structure growing on his head! CanÕt wait to get a look at that, what?Ó Mordachi had several advanced degrees in anthropology, and he loved to write scholarly articles.

ÒI wasnÕt thinking of keeping him,Ó Pike replied, easing the boat slowly upward. The line snugged up with a small jolt when they were about twenty feet above Mordachi.

ÒWhy not keep him? This could be the find of our lifetime.Ó

ÒOr the find of the week,Ó Pike commented.

ÒWho ever heard of civilized life on a total water planet? ThereÕs no record of any industry being here. Gods, what if they have a Submariner culture. An underwater civilization. Think of the astounding visiting we could do.Ó

ÒItÕs jetsam.Ó

ÒYou canÕt seriously believe that? At the very least, somebody put a transmitter here, or itÕs a shipwreck. I want to see, donÕt you? WhereÕs your curiosity, sport? How about it, Tourbo? ArenÕt extinct cultures up your alley?Ó

Richie didnÕt answer because he wasnÕt there.

ÒWell,Ó Pike said, Òin theory thereÕs no problem with catching him. We just hold him in the air long enough for oxygen shock to set in.Ó

ÒExactly.Ó

ÒIf one of the lines breaks, it will probably capsize the boat holding the weight.Ó

ÒWell worth the risk. LetÕs go.Ó

ÒOur lineÕs way lighter than yours, just for the record.Ó

ÒMineÕs old and rotten. IÕll drop you a rope ladder, if you founder.Ó

ÒOkay, then... Lester!Ó Pike called. ÒIs Peter awake and ready to witness?Ó

ÒHold your horses,Ó Lester yelled back, limping out of the galley. ÒI canÕt do everything by myself, can I? I put the coffee on. LetÕs get this durned unorthodox fishing over with. I didnÕt sign on to be everybodiesÕ nurse maid!Ó

ÒWell, wake Peter up and belt in next to him. WeÕre ready.Ó

ÒHeÕs already awake. HeÕs a professional, ainÕt he? At least, he donÕt need no hydro-turbine to lift out a durn minnow!Ó

ÒQuit sputtering and get ready,Ó Pike advised.

ÒI am ready! Lift him out and break his spirit. See if I care!Ó

ÒBelt in, you old coot!Ó

ÒGo ahead. I ainÕt going to tie off. I might want to swim. Think about it.Ó

ÒShut him up and go for it!Ó June yelled. ÒBefore my white beard wraps around my asshole.Ó

ÒYouÕre all asshole!Ó Lester yelled back, acting mad as a banty rooster. Rita was straining to capture all the fascinating by-play for posterity.

ÒReady, Mordachi?!Ó Pike asked the CB. ÒMy crew is whipped up to a fighting edge.Ó

ÒLet her rip,Ó Mordachi confirmed. ÒOn the count of three, what?Ó

The sky overhead suddenly blinked full of boats. Other fishermen had been monitoring the short-wave and had come to watch.Ó

ÒSlow and easy lifting,Ó Pike cautioned. ÒIf itÕs too much, weÕll be able to tell. Ready? One, twoÑthree!Ó He toggled the lift knob, feathering it perfectly. The winch took the weight and strained under it. Both lines tightened like piano wire. The big fish felt the tug and flicked his head.

ÒOversight,Ó Pike admitted over the airwaves. ÒHe could hack the lines easy with that jetsam. LetÕs speed it up a little, Mordachi. Twice as fast. Ready. Go!Ó

The Humanity surged up in tandem with MordachiÕs boat. The fish followed.

ÒStart reading the meter,Ó Pike bellowed at Peter Zanker. ÒAt its highest mark, record it!Ó

Lester waved. He was standing beside PeterÑpointing helpfully to the weight scale. Richie tottered out on deck, looking quite unsteady.

ÒSix hundred!Ó Lester yelled. ÒIs that enough for you?Ó

ÒI want that transmitter tower,Ó Mordachi boomed. ÒThe fish will die anyway, or heÕll bust into some boat tomorrow trying to scrape off.Ó

ÒUp we go,Ó Pike said, evenly. He twiddled the joy stick. ÒHey, Rich..!Ó he yelled. ÔGo sit in the fighting chair.Ó

Richie started toward the chair, but then had other ideas. He saw Rita leaning out a window, pointing a camera at him. He waved, with a hazy flash of smile, and started up the ladder. His back hadnÕt recovered, naturally; but he had forgotten about itÑuntil he got on the second rung. Stepping up with his right leg caused his back to spasm something fierce. Red spots danced maddeningly in front of his eyes. He hooked an arm through a rung to keep from falling and started to breathe again. It would be stupid to go into the injured warrior trance hanging on a ladder. That thought struck him funny and he started to snigger, which really killed his ripped tendonsÑbut he couldnÕt stop.

ÒSeven hundred,Ó Lester sang.

The fishÕs head and cheeks were out of the water. The wreckage had flopped to one side out of the way. The big Bull didnÕt like being hauled out. Not a bit. He shook his great flat head and snapped his jaws.

Both lines were tangled in the jetsam, Pike saw, putting the glasses on the fish. But it seemed like the bull was hooked really well. Pike couldnÕt tell for sure, but the line seemed to have worked itself between the teeth of the lower jawÑout of bite range. MordachiÕs line was harpooned to the forehead.

ÒEight hundred,Ó Lester bellowed. The winch was straining as the full weight of the flopping fish started to hang on it. ÒA thousand..! It bounced to a thousand! What a big fucker!Ó

Another thousand would be registering on MordachiÕs scales, and the fish wasnÕt half out. The biggest halibut ever caught was landed by Pike several years ago at forty-six hundredÑa big old bull that had wrecked the fantail after he was totally exhausted. But Pike had won that year. Now, Richie had won, too. A tie was the same as a winÑand that was now practically guaranteed. It was enough. Money wasnÕt the issue any more.

ÒYou want me to shoot that stuff off his head?Ó June called down, hopefully. He didnÕt really like inaction. ÒHow about an eye shot?Ó

ÒNo. Just stand by.Ó

Control of the boat was getting bouncy as the fish, naturally, started jerking around. Most of his weight wasnÕt supported by water now, and his mighty tail frothed the ocean.

ÒTwelve hundred and jumping..!Ó

ÒHad enough, Mordachi?Ó Pike asked. ÒWhen were you planning to shoot him? ItÕs getting a slight bit hairy over here.Ó

ÒLetÕs lower him back in,Ó Mordachi said, jump-shifting. ÒIÕm getting attached to the big fellow. We can shoot the lines off and the conning tower will probably stay; tangled. We can mark the spot and come back and dive on it.Ó

ÒWith bulls around? Not likely.Ó

ÒHire a college archeological team.Ó Mordachi lost his breezy manner. ÒLower at the same speed,Ó he shouted. ÒIÕm losing it!! One, two, three!Ó

ÒMark the high weight!!Ó Pike yelled at Peter Zanker. ÒWeÕre going down.Ó

Below them MordachiÕs boat was starting to wobble. Then as it lost altitude and weight, it righted itself. Pike followed him down, breathing about ten sighs of relief.

ÒI told you,Ó GeorgeÕs alarmed voice cut in.

ÒJune..?!Ó Pike yelled.

ÒStanding by!Ó June yelled back instantly.

ÒWhen we stop, hop down to the laser gun and shoot the lines off below the horseshit. Mordachi wants the structure stuff, if we can save it.Ó

ÒRoger. Changing position.Ó Pike heard footsteps on the roof. Contrary to his orders, June was changing weapons while they were moving. ÒOkay,Ó June yelled. Pike saw him out the side window. ÒShooting when we stop descending. Say when.Ó

ÒShoot Mordachi off first. HeÕll be lower, so weÕll have more room to maneuver.Ó

ÒRoger.Ó

ÒWeÕll probably tip from the extra weight, so be ready for it.Ó

ÒRoger. Richie and fucking Lester arenÕt tied off.Ó

ÒGeorge!Ó Pike yelled.

ÒIÕm here.Ó The computerÕs voice was full of suppressed something. Fear? That seemed impossible. Where would it come from?

ÒGet a grip on yourself. Everything is fine. You were right. It was too much. But we can hold the fishÕs head out until he dies. No problem with that. So itÕs a catch. Instead, weÕre going to do a live release. Any problems with that?Ó

ÒItÕs fifty-fifty that you can hold it when all the weight comes on us.Ó

ÒLester..!Ó Pike barked.

Lester waved. ÒIt went up to twenty-six hundred! Dang big fish. Biggest ever! This oneÕs the granddaddy!Ó

ÒStand by with the cable cutters. If we tilt too much, cut the line. DonÕt think, just cut it. And tie yourself off, you hardheaded maggot. ThatÕs an order!Ó

ÒAinÕt got no line.Ó

ÒUse PeterÕs. Put him in the chair.Ó

ÒRichieÕs in the chair..!Ó Lester looked around and saw that, obviously, Richie wasnÕt in the chair. Whipping his knife out, he cut the line around PeterÕs waist in one swipe. Keeping a sharp knife was important to Lester. His father had taught him that, and it had served him well.

He pulled the judge to his feet and pushed him toward the fighting chair. ÒGet in and belt down. We donÕt want to lose your ass over the side.Ó

The boat was steadily losing altitude. The pressure on the winch was dramatically less. Lester looked around for Richie and saw him clinging to the ladder.

Leaving his other duties, he gimped over to the ladder and steadied the boy with both hands on his hips. ÒWhatÕs wrong with you? You need to be belted in.Ó

ÒCanÕt move,Ó Richie wheezed, very glad to have Lester there to help him. ÒMy back is broken. I can feel the bones grinding.Ó

ÒIt ainÕt broke. Just seized up. Relax everything, and IÕll carry you inside.Ó

ÒLester, where are you..?!Ó Pike roared.

ÒHeÕs helping Richie,Ó Rita answered from her perch at the window.

ÒIÕll be goddamned!Ó Pike swore. ÒWhy the fuck does he need help?Ó

ÒI donÕt know. Looks like heÕs hurt.Ó

ÒMordachi..?Ó

ÒRight here.Ó

ÒAre you okay, now..?Ó

ÒSo far so good.Ó

ÒWeÕll stop with his gills out.Ó

ÒOkay. Stop at gill level.Ó

ÒIt may take a minute to organize here.Ó

ÒGot it. Holding at gill level.Ó

ÒItÕs a little tricky to disengage.Ó

ÒNo shit,Ó Mordachi boomed.

It had been a nightmarish eternity for Rich RodneyÑTournament winner, wealthy young man, martial artist, sex fiendÑhanging on the ladder alone and isolated. None of his accomplishments or embarrassments meant a damn, none of his good luck, because a casual mis-step on an innocent ladder had somehow broken his back. Any movement in any direction would probably cause irreparable damageÑany slight shifting of weight resulted in immediate grinding pain. Every time he tested the limits, he could feel the broken vertebra grinding against its broken other half. It was a sickening feeling. Waves of nausea washed over him. The only thing to do was gut it out. To allow himself to give in to the welcoming blackness that beckoned like a siren of oblivion, was madness. If he blacked out, his grip on the rung would relax and he would fall to a permanent wheelchair-bound paralysis. That much at least was clearÑhis future was ruined if he moved. So he willed himself to remain conscious, rigidly locked onto the ladder, as events on the boat bleated around him. Perhaps the yelling and cursing was coming from a different time dimension. It was a long, long time of being alone until LesterÕs strong hands reached out to hold his back in one piece, and the reassuring voice reassuring him that his back wasnÕt brokenÑeven if it was a lie. Even if it was a lie, he let go of his clenched grip on the ladder and allowed Lester to catch his weight. Hanging on the ladder would never repair his broken vertebra. He needed immediate surgery, and the first step was letting Lester help him. At least, if he was lying down, nothing further would break.

Lester caught the limp body as it fell from the ladder. Moving had caused the bones to grind together. The pain, coupled with fear, overloaded RichieÕs stress system and he finally pitched into the well of blackness where no pain lived.

ÒGoddamnit, Lester!Ó Pike bellowed. ÒGet somewhere I can see you!!Ó

The fish was pitching around like crazy now that most of its powerful swimming muscles were back under water.

ÒWhatÕs the hold-up?Ó Mordachi asked, tightly. He was only about fifteen feet above the oceanÑnot much room for a mistake.

ÒStanding by, June?Ó Pike asked.

ÒCross hairs on him. Say the word.Ó

ÒLester..!!Ó

The cook bounced into PikeÕs field of view, hobbling at top speed toward the winch. He grabbed the tie-down rope end, whipped it around his waist and tied a bowline in it. ÒReady!Ó he called. ÒAinÕt no cause to get abusive. ItÕs only a fish.Ó He reached out with a gaff hook and pulled the line toward himself. His fishing knife was already in his right hand. ÒWhat are you waiting for, June? IÕm ready.Ó

ÒReady, Mordachi?Ó

ÒVery,Ó the big man answered tensely.

George interrupted, frantically. ÒThere could be a malfunction in theÑÓ

ÒShut up!Ó Pike barked. ÒFire away. June!Ó he bellowed, feeling sweat on the palms of his hands. He needed to control the horizontal planes, because a lot of weight surge was going to happen.

The rifle sizzled. The boat surged sideways.

ÒIÕm off..!Ó Mordachi yelled.

The blocky rifle kept up its sizzling in short bursts. The boat rocked dangerously. Suddenly, they surged back violently the other way as the weight was gone. Lester must have cut the line. Rita slid past the console, and stopped suddenly at the end of her rope. Pike fought for control, and after a few instants of chaos, found it. Blessed, blessed stability. The sun came out from behind a cloud in a blaze of glorious sunset.

ÒFantastic!Ó Pike yelled. ÒIs everybody all right? Sound off!Ó

ÒFine,Ó June said from the deck beside the bridge. ÒGoing down to help.Ó His feet padded over to the ladder.

ÒTook him long enough,Ó Lester bitched, picking himself up off the deck. ÒIf IÕd a thought he didnÕt know how to fly this thing, I never would have signed on.Ó June walked across the deck like a big cat, and clapped the cook in a tight embrace.

ÒDamned good show!Ó Mordachi boomed. ÒIÕm still hooked up with the treasure. Damned good!Ó

ÒYou all right, honey?Ó Pike asked.

Rita looked dazed. She was sitting on the floor near PikeÕs feet at the end of her safety line, with no expression on her face. Not even relief.

ÒIÕll have to teach you to tie off a little snugger,Ó Pike observed. The CB radio was crackling with congratulations from the other boats. Pike switched it off. ÒJune,Ó he called down to the deck. ÒIf everybodyÕs all right, take over up here.Ó

ÒEverybody ainÕt all right,Ó Lester said, sourly. ÒThereÕs probably coffee all over the galley. Probably take me all night to clean it up.Ó

ÒYou with us, honey?Ó Pike asked Rita. He couldnÕt leave the console to go to her. She looked really beautiful now that some color was coming back to her face. He was hoping that sheÕd smile pretty soon, so heÕd know she was all right.

The big bull halibut lay still a few feet under the surface, big as a billboard, repairing its wits, or whatever fish do inside their fishy brainsÑthen it flicked its great tail and glided downward.

THE END