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Chapter 17




REVEILLE WAS A VASTLY over-amplified trumpet call.

The gladiators—Grimes estimated their number to be about two hundred—were given time to make their morning toilet before another trumpet call announced breakfast. Ablutions facilities were adequate, there being more than one minor cavern for this purpose. Breakfast was stew again—but this time of fish, not meat. It was savoury enough.

“What happens now?” Grimes asked O’Brien.

“We just wait.”

“Don’t we get any time to practice with our weapons?”

“The only practice we get is in the arena. But when there’s anybody new in a team—such as you—there are usually a few sort of breaking-in bouts against animals before you’re pitted against fellow humans. Too, usually just one death is enough to satisfy the audience—although that depends a great deal on the supply of new gladiators.” He laughed. “Most times it’s a new member of a team who gets himself killed.”

Cheerful bastard, thought Grimes.

“We’ll look after you,” said Shirl (or Darleen).

Grimes wished that he had pipe and tobacco to soothe his nerves. He looked around the cave. Nobody was smoking—and certainly there must be others like himself, craving the solace of nicotine. Perhaps this was part of the technique—a gladiator deprived of pipe, cigarettes or whatever must be a bad-tempered one. He said as much.

O’Brien laughed. “You should know by this time that smoking shortens the wind and all sorts of other horrid things. A non-smoking gladiator is a fit gladiator.”

“Fit for what?” demanded Grimes.

“You want to survive, don’t you?”

“I’d want to even more if I knew that there was some chance of getting out of here.”

Again there was a deafening trumpet call, followed by a harsh voice. “Denton’s team and Smith’s team report to the armory! Denton’s team and Smith’s team report to the armory!”

Not far from O’Brien’s pad a huge man got to his feet, followed by another smaller and more agile, followed by four slight women. Their faces were expressionless. They divested themselves of what little they were wearing, left the rags scattered on their mattress.

“Denton’s a boxer,” volunteered O’Brien. “He wears a horrid spiked affair on his arm called a cestus. The other fellow, Mallory, plays around with a net and trident. Two of the girls use lariats, the other two throw javelins. A nasty combination. I hope that we never come up against them . . .” Denton, followed by his people, was walking slowly to the far end of the cave. His back was almost as hairy as the front of him. He slouched like some ungainly ape.

“And Smith?” asked Grimes, indicating the other team some distance away.

“Rapier, and his sidekick fancies himself with the sabre. The two medium range men use long spears and the two girls are archers. But not crossbows.”

“And how long will the fight take?”

“We shall know when the survivors come back—unless they’ve all been taken to hospital. That happens quite often. Then we just have to wait for the next announcement.”

“But why couldn’t you—we—just refuse to go out and kill or be killed?”

“That’s been tried,” said O’Brien. “But it’s not recommended. After just one warning the cave is flooded with a particularly nasty gas. It makes you vomit your guts up and feel as though you’re being flayed alive. Needless to say the sit-down strikers aren’t at all popular with the others . . .”

They sat on their big mattress and waited. All through the cave people were sitting on mattresses and waiting. Which team had drawn first blood? Was the crowd in a merciful mood? How many survivors would there be?

“I hope you’re good with the arbalest,” said O’Brien after a long silence.

“I’ve used one recently,” said Grimes.

“At one of those fancy hunting camps, I suppose. Did you hit anything?”

“It wasn’t at a hunting camp—but I did hit the target.”

“What was it?”

“A Shaara blimp.”

“A bloody big target,” commented O’Brien glumly. “Anybody could hit anything that big as long as it was within range . . .” Then, “A Shaara blimp! You must have been fighting them. There’ll be Shaara in the audience, you know. If any of us get injured it’ll be thumbs down for sure.”

“Do you want me to resign from your team?” asked Grimes.

“It’s too late now. They had you under full observation from the moment you entered the barracks. They know who was mug enough to take you under his wing.”

“And he’s an Australian,” put in either Darleen or Shirl. “We want him with us.”

“And shall I stand to attention while you all sing Waltzing Matilda?” asked O’Brien.

There was another long silence.

At last voices were heard from the far end of the cave. Grimes, with the others, turned to look. Denton had come back. He was limping badly. A deep slash on his face gleamed redly under the newly applied syntheskin. There was another gash on his right thigh. Two of his women followed him. They, too, had been wounded but not seriously enough to put them in hospital. And the other three team members?

“Dead . . .” Grimes heard Denton growl in answer to a question. “But we did for Smith and his bastards. All of them.”

The trumpet brayed.

Then— “O’Brien’s team to the armory! O’Brien’s team to the armory!”

“So it’s only animals for us,” muttered O’Brien. “I hope that they’re nice, little, tame ones!”

“So do I,” said Grimes.

“But they won’t be,” O’Brien told him.







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Framed