"Bruce!" he called softly.

McGowan opened his eyes. "Huh?"

"Isn't Art working his plant today?"

"Could be," Bruce admitted.

"Well?"

"'Well' what? I've had a week and it's not my dish. Get somebody else."

Bruce wore his knife, as did each of them; a colonist was more likely to be caught naked than without his knife. It was the all-purpose tool, for cutting leather, preparing food, eating, whittling, building, basketmaking, and as make-do for a thousand other tools; their wealth came from knives, arrows were now used to hunt- but knives shaped the bows and arrows.

But a knife had not been used by one colonist against another since that disastrous day when Bruce's brother had defied Rod. Over the same issue, Rod recalled; the wheel had turned full circle. But today he would have immediate backing if Bruce reached for his knife.

But he knew that this must not be settled by five against one; he alone must make this dog come to heel, or his days as leader were numbered.

It did not occur to Rod to challenge Bruce to settle it with bare hands. Rod had read many a historical romance in which the hero invited someone to settle it man to man, in a stylized imitation fighting called "boxing." Rod had enjoyed such stories but did not apply them to himself any more than he considered personally the sword play of The Three Musketeers; nevertheless, he knew what "boxing" meant- they folded their hands and struck certain restricted blows with fists. Usually no one was hurt.

The fighting that Rod was trained in was not simply strenuous athletics. It did not matter whether they were armed; if he and Bruce fought bare hands or otherwise, someone would be killed or badly hurt. The only dangerous weapon was man himself.

Bruce stared sullenly. "Bruce," Rod said, striving to keep his voice steady, "a long time ago I told you that people worked around here or got out. You and your brother didn't believe me so we had to chuck you out. Then you crawled back with a tale about how Jock had been killed and could you please join up? You were a sorry sight. Remember?"

McGowan scowled. "You promised to be a little angel," Rod went on. "People thought I was foolish- and I was. But I thought you might behave."

Bruce pulled a blade of grass, bit it. "Bub, you remind me of Jock. He was always throwing his weight around, too.

"Bruce, get up and get out of town! I don't care where, but if you are smart, you will shag over and tell Art you've made a mistake- then start pumping that bellows. I'll stop by later. If sweat isn't pouring off you when I arrive... then you'll never come back. You'll be banished for life."

McGowan looked uncertain. He glanced past Rod, and Rod wondered what expressions the others wore. But Rod kept his eyes on Bruce. "Get moving. Get to work, or don't come back."

Bruce got a sly look. "You can't order me kicked out. It takes a majority vote."

Jimmy spoke up. "Aw, quit taking his guff, Rod. Kick him out now.

Rod shook his head. "No. Bruce, if that is your answer, I'll call them together and we'll put you in exile before lunch- and I'll bet my best knife that you won't get three votes to let you stay. Want to bet?"

Bruce sat up and looked at the others, sizing his chances. He looked back at Rod. "Runt," he said slowly, you aren't worth a hoot without stooges... or a couple of girls to do your fighting."

Jimmy whispered, "Watch it, Rod!" Rod licked dry lips, knowing that it was too late for reason, too late for talk. He would have to try to take him... he was not sure he could.

"I'll fight you," he said hoarsely. "Right now!" Cliff said urgently, "Don't, Rod. We'll manage him." "No. Come on, McGowan." Rod added one unforgivable word.

McGowan did not move. "Get rid of that joe sticker"

Rod said, "Hold my spear, Cliff."

Cliff snapped, "Now wait! I'm not going to stand by and watch this. He might get lucky and kill you, Rod."

"Get out of the way, Cliff."

"No." Cliff hesitated, then added, "Bruce, throw your knife away. Go ahead- or so help me I'll poke a joe- sticker in your belly myself. Give me your knife, Rod."

Rod looked at Bruce, then drew Colonel Bowie and handed it to Cliff. Bruce straightened up and flipped his knife at Cliff's feet. Cliff rasped, "I still say not to, Rod. Say the word and we'll take him apart."

"Back off. Give us room.

"Well- no bone breakers. You hear me, Bruce? Make a mistake and you'll never make another."

"'No bone breakers,'" Rod repeated, and knew dismally that the rule would work against him; Bruce had him on height and reach and weight.

"Okay," McGowan agreed. "Just cat clawing. I am going to show this rube that one McGowan is worth two of him."

Cliff sighed. "Back off, everybody. Okay- get going!" Crouched, they sashayed around, not touching. Only the preliminaries could use up much time; the textbook used in most high schools and colleges listed twenty-seven ways to destroy or disable a man hand to hand; none of the methods took as long as three seconds once contact was made. They chopped at each other, feinting with their hands, too wary to close.

Rod was confused by the injunction not to let the fight go to conclusion. Bruce grinned at him. "What's the matter? Scared? I've been waiting for this, you loudmouthed pimple- now you're going to get it!" He rushed him.

Rod gave back, ready to turn Bruce's rush into his undoing. But Bruce did not carry it through; it had been a feint and Rod had reacted too strongly. Bruce laughed. "Scared silly, huh? You had better be."

Rod realized that he was scared, more scared than he had ever been. The conviction flooded over him that Bruce intended to kill him... the agreement about bonebreakers meant nothing; this ape meant to finish him.

He backed away, more confused than ever... knowing that he must forget rules if he was to live through it... but knowing, too, that he had to abide by the silly restriction even if it meant the end of him. Panic shook him; he wanted to run.

He did not quite do so. From despair itself he got a cold feeling of nothing to lose and decided to finish it. He exposed his groin to a savate attack.

He saw Bruce's foot come up in the expected kick; with fierce joy he reached in the proper shinobi counter. He showed the merest of hesitation, knowing that a full twist would break Bruce's ankle.

Then he was flying through air; his hands had never touched Bruce. He had time for sick realization that Bruce had seen the gambit, countered with another- when he struck ground and Bruce was on him.

"Can you move your arm, Rod?"

He tried to focus his eyes, and saw Bob Baxter's face floating over him. "I licked him?"

Baxter did not answer. An angry voice answered, "Cripes, no! He almost chewed you to pieces."

Rod stirred and said thickly, "Where is he? I've got to whip him."

Baxter said sharply, "Lie still!" Cliff added, "Don't worry, Rod. We fixed him." Baxter insisted, "Shut up. See if you can move your left arm."

Rod moved the arm, felt pain shoot through it, jerked and felt pain everywhere. "It's not broken," Baxter decided. "Maybe a green-stick break. We'll put it in sling. Can you sit up? I'll help."

"I want to stand." He made it with help, stood swaying. Most of the villagers seemed to be there; they moved jerkily. It made him dizzy and he blinked.

"Take it easy, boy," he heard Jimmy say. "Bruce pretty near ruined you. You were crazy to give him the chance."

"I'm all right," Rod answered and winced. "Where is he?"

"Behind you. Don't worry, we fixed him."

"Yes," agreed Cliff. "We worked him over. Who does he think he is? Trying to shove the Mayor around!" He spat angrily.

Bruce was face down, features hidden in one arm; he was sobbing. "How bad is he hurt?" Rod asked.