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Chapter 15

Slowly Grimes strode down the ramp, keeping step to the throb and rattle of the not-now-distant drums. The mad skirling of the approaching pipes was painful. He forced himself to ignore it. Sonya marched beside him, and Mayhew kept step a little to the rear. Behind them came Dalzell and his Marines, six of them, all big men. The drabness of their uniforms was obscured by the glitter of their accoutrements—the highly burnished brass, the medals with their rainbows of colored ribbons.

When he had rough, solid ground under his feet the Commodore halted. Sonya stood at his right hand, Mayhew at his left. Behind them stood Dalzell and his line of space soldiers. At the sight of these beings emerging from the ship the procession halted; the drums missed a beat or two, the pipers paused their shrill squealing. But the two big men in the van came steadily on, one holding his gleaming sword aloft, the other with his club carried casually over his shoulder. After their initial hesitation the others followed, but without the apparent arrogant confidence of their leaders.

Grimes stood his ground. He hoped that the Marines had their stun-guns ready.

No more than six feet from the spacemen the armored man came to a halt. The giant made another step and then shuffled clumsily backward to stand beside the other. The drums and (mercifully) the pipes fell silent. The spearmen and the gift-bearing women grouped themselves behind the others.

The Commodore stared impassively at the armored man—wearing, Sonya told him later, his best Admiral-Hornblower-on-the-quarterdeck expression. The native stared impassively at the Commodore. And is it up to me, Grimes asked himself, to say, "Take me to your leader?" But he is the leader. Obviously. The crude armor could not hide the superb proportions of his body. The bronze helmet and the bronze sword were conspicuous badges of rank.

And then the chief's sword hand moved. Sonya uttered a faint gasp. Dalzell snapped an order to his men. "Hold it!" whispered Mayhew urgently. "Hold it, Major!" And to Grimes, "It's all right, sir . . ."

The right hand, holding the sword, moved—but only to transfer the weapon to the left hand, which let it drop, holding it with the point down. The right hand, empty, was raised, palm out, in salute. Grimes responded, bringing the edge of his own right hand smartly to the peak of his cap. And what now? he wondered. I suppose I graciously accept the gifts.

"Not yet, sir," said Mayhew.

"Do they want to see first what we are going to give them?"

"No. It's rather more complicated. We have to prove our superiority."

"That shouldn't be hard," said Grimes, conscious of the towering bulk of his ship behind him, of the might of her weaponry. "In fact it should be obvious."

"I'm not so sure . . ." murmured Sonya. "I'm not so sure . . ." She was looking at the handsome figure of the chief with something like admiration. And then Grimes realized that it was not the chief at whom she was so looking; it was at the uncouth, shambling giant beside him.

"Mphm," grunted the Commodore dubiously.

The native leader said something in his own language. His voice was deep and musical, the words had a rhythm to them.

Mayhew murmured, "This is not an exact translation, but I'm picking up his thoughts as he speaks. Our champion will have to fight their champion."

Grimes looked at that big, bronze sword. Even now, held negligently in its owner's left hand, it appeared nastily lethal. He asked, "Can I use whatever weapon I wish? Do I have the choice of weapons?"

Mayhew replied, "It is not the king whom you have to fight, sir. He is not the champion on an occasion such as this. Herak, the man with the club, is the champion." He added, "And I think that it's supposed to be a fight with no weapons—or, to be exact, only with nature's weapons."

Relief dawned in the Commodore's mind. The king had his champion to do his fighting for him. What was good enough for a king was good enough for the captain of a ship. But . . . But could he order anybody to take on that hirsute hunk of overdeveloped muscle? The king of a savage community wields powers that, over the centuries, have been lost by mere shipmasters . . .

Dalzell stepped forward to talk with his superior. He said, "I think I get the drift of it, sir. You'll want a champion to beat the hell out of this Herak, or whatever he calls himself. Unless, of course, you'd sooner do it yourself . . ."

"I'm not an all-in wrestler, Major."

"I thought not, sir. But all of my men are well trained in unarmed combat. I could call for a volunteer . . ."

"Do that, Major."

* * *

The volunteer was Private Titanov—and he was a genuine volunteer. He stripped rapidly to his skimpy underpants. Divested of his uniform he could almost have been the twin of Herak. Herak grinned ferociously at him and he grinned back. It was as much a snarl as a grin. Herak handed his club to one of the spearmen, dropped the animal skin that was his only garment to the short grass, kicked it aside with a broad foot. It was picked up by a girl, who clasped it almost reverently to her full breasts. The giant flexed his muscles; they crawled under the hairy skin like thick snakes. He drummed on his barrel chest with his great fists, threw his head back and howled like a wolf.

Meanwhile, the king was giving orders in an authoritative voice. His people formed a rough ring, about ten meters in diameter, in the center of which the champion took his place. Herak grinned again and lifted his right arm; it was as thick as the thigh of a normal man. His fist was clenched. He did not need his heavy club. This was weapon enough.

The king looked towards Grimes. He said nothing, but the expression on his handsome, bearded face was easy enough to read. Are you ready? Is your man ready? "Yes," said the Commodore. "Yes." He hoped that the other would, somehow, understand him.

The king transferred his gleaming sword to his right hand, raised it, brought it down with a slashing motion. The drummers rattled briefly and noisily. The pipers emitted a short, strident squeal.

"Go, Titanov, go!" ordered Dalzell.

"Go, go, go!" chanted the other Marines.

Titanov went. He advanced slowly, crouching, massive shoulders hunched. He reached the perimeter of the ring. A man and a woman moved apart to allow him ingress. The woman detained him briefly, putting out her hand to finger, curiously, the material of his shorts. At least that is what Grimes, who had his prudish moments, hoped that she was doing. Titanov broke away, kept on coming. In spite of his bulk, his motion was like that of a great cat. His arms were hanging loosely at his sides, his fists were clenched. Not that this meant anything; a karate chop is deadlier than a punch. Then he was within range of Herak's right fist—which, suddenly, swept down like a steam hammer. Had it connected, the Marine's brains would have been spattered over the grass.

But it did not connect. Titanov skipped backwards with surprisingly delicate grace, like a ballet dancer—and he kicked, high, with deadly precision. Herak screamed, dreadfully and shrilly. He fell face forward on to the turf, clutching his genitals. His shoulders heaved as he noisily vomited.

Grimes heard Dalzell barking orders, realized that the Major feared that the foul fighting of his man might well precipitate hostile action on the part of the villagers. He grasped Sonya's arm, intending to spin her around and shove her towards the ramp at the first sign of trouble.

Mayhew laughed softly. "Don't worry, John. It was a fair fight as far as they are concerned. They accept the decision."

"More than I'd do in their shoes . . ."

"They're not wearing any."

The women had crowded around Titanov, embracing him, almost mobbing him. One of them had produced a wreath of green leaves from somewhere and had crowned him with it. Evidently the felled champion was not popular.

"Titanov!" snapped Dalzell. Then, in a louder voice, "Titanov!"

"Sir?" replied the Marine at last.

"Come back here and get dressed. At once!"

"Sir."

Titanov managed to extricate himself from his female admirers. They let him go reluctantly. He walked slowly back towards the ship. He had lost his underpants, but did not seem to be at all embarrassed.

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Framed