The WARRIORS

                             By TOM PURDOM

                         Illustrated by ADKINS

            Non-violent resistance: a paradox in terms. Yet
             all mankind knows that, with another war sure
             to sound the death-knell of the race, that an
           effective non-violent means of settling disputes
            must be found. Here is an original approach to
          what may be the most important problem of our time.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Amazing Stories June 1962.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Lights out, the convoy crept away from the Institute. MacFarland rode
in the lead car with a driver and his chief psych technician, Crawford
Bell. Three flat decked personnel carriers, flying the colors of a
mercenary band, Sabo's Own Highland Regiment, patrolled their flanks.
The scientists rode in the third and fourth cars in the line.

Crawford Bell had hooked a computer and a full communications set to
the rear of the front seat. Now he pressed a button on the commo unit.

"Fourteen," a voice said over the loudspeaker.

"What's happening in town?" Crawford Bell asked. He spoke with the
slow, gentle accents of Tennessee.

"They're turning everybody out. There must be fifty guys stirring
everybody up, telling them their country's in danger and they'd better
fight. There's a mob coming your way."

MacFarland looked across the plain to the city. He could see thousands
of hand lights and a dark shape sprawled across the plain. The sound of
the crowd was so faint he decided it was still a couple of miles away.

His hands tingled with excitement. This was only his third raid. He
still hadn't lost his zest for modern warfare. War was a contest played
for high stakes, the fortunes of nations, and it used every aptitude a
man could have. Moving into battle under an African sky, he felt glad
he didn't live in an earlier age. War was so interesting it would be a
shame to spoil it with the agony and guilt of killing.

His objective was the airport. He was supposed to put Doctor Warren's
team of biochemists on the midnight plane to Israel. An agent of the
Department of Commerce, he had been sent to Belderkan to talk Doctor
Warren into becoming a US citizen. It had been a tricky job. Doctor
Warren hadn't been anxious to change countries. Only the offer of a
lab on the star ship being built by the United States had tempted him.
"I'll accept your offer, Mr. MacFarland--if the other members of my
team accept it. Talk to them. I won't leave without them."

       *       *       *       *       *

Harassed by the Belderkan Department of Trade using every weapon in the
Twenty-First Century arsenal of persuasion, MacFarland had wrested a
grudging decision from the other four scientists. Now all he had to do
was get them out of the country. But Doctor Warren's wife had warned
the Belderkan government her husband was switching his allegiance.

MacFarland studied the crowd through his glasses. They must have half
the city out there. He knew the scientists weren't deeply committed
to leaving. If the Belderkans managed to keep them off the plane, they
would probably change their minds.

"We're in for a night's work," Crawford Bell said.

To reach the airport, they had to make a half circle around the city.
"We haven't lost yet," MacFarland said. "We're going fast enough to cut
in front of them before they get between us and the airport."

Standing up in the moving car, he comforted himself by looking at his
troops. Crawford Bell was a first-rate technician. His psych team was
one of the best in the world. Sabo's mercenary "Regiment" had a global
reputation, too. So did the band of mercenaries hiding in ambush.
If the quality of an army counted for anything, they had a fighting
chance. The position was bad but the men were superb.

He was a soldier. He thought of himself as a soldier and he planned to
conduct himself like a soldier and win a victory for his country. But
he couldn't use physical violence.

Thirty-eight years before, the governments of the world had finally
realized international violence could no longer be tolerated. Any
violence between nations, even a fist fight between private citizens
from different countries, could trigger Earth's destruction.

He knew the consequences to all mankind of any physical violence. He
knew it like he knew he had two legs. He also knew that if he twisted
the little finger of a Belderkan citizen, the UN Inspector Corps would
arrest him within hours. The World Court would sentence him to five
years in prison and fine the United States far more than it could
possibly gain from Albert Warren's work.

       *       *       *       *       *

A helicopter whined above them. A spotlight pinned them from the air.

"Masks," MacFarland yelled. Seconds later he peered at the night from
inside a plastic hood. His mustache, rubbing against the inside of the
mask, tickled his upper lip.

The helicopter didn't drop psycho-active gas. Instead, it marked them
with its light so that far off the crowd would know where its quarry
was. A loudspeaker begged the scientists to remember the humble people
of Belderkan.

_We taxed the labor of our people to give you luxury. We built you
beautiful homes. We gave you women, if you wanted them, and all the
laboratory equipment you desired. We gave you old age pensions.
Remember the labors of our people!_

A line of automobile headlights raced across the plain. MacFarland
gave an order. The lights of the convoy jumped on.

The line of enemy cars was long and moving fast. He couldn't go around
their rear and they were moving fast enough to head him off and hold
him for as long as the crowd needed to surround the convoy.

He switched on his mike. "Sabo, can you break their line?"

"Right. Allenby, attack the cars!"

A personnel carrier, sixty men standing on its deck, charged the enemy
vehicles. MacFarland grinned when he heard the bagpipes wail.

The carrier headed toward the tiny space between the fourth and fifth
vehicles in the enemy line. It swerved suddenly and half a dozen kilted
troopers jumped from the deck and landed among the enemy vehicles. Fans
screamed as drivers maneuvered to avoid running them over. A second
squad jumped off. A third squad landed on their heels. Soon only the
piper stood on the deck of the carrier, proudly erect as his mess mates
risked their lives among rampaging machines.

The enemy line disintegrated. MacFarland picked out a hole eighty yards
wide and led the convoy forward. As they passed the carrier, he threw
the piper a salute.

"Well done," he told the mike.

"Thank you," Sabo said.

"It was a good job," Crawford Bell said, "but we had all the
advantages. Wait until it's them on foot and us mounted."

       *       *       *       *       *

The crowd had grown bigger. Now its roar could be heard for miles. A
helicopter hovered over it, probably broadcasting the same kind of
propaganda as the helicopter over the convoy.

Aiming for the airport, the convoy had left the Institute on a
Northeast tack. In trying to outrun the line of cars, they had turned
until they were moving due north. The mob was running north, too, and
had almost placed itself between the convoy and the airport.

"Cut right," MacFarland told his driver. "Full speed ahead. See if you
can cross in front of the crowd."

The helicopter's spotlight irritated him. He didn't like bright lights.
Turning around, he checked to see how the scientists were doing. They
were all wearing masks and their positions told him nothing about their
feelings. He waved and one of them waved back.

Now he could hear the helicopter over the crowd. It was describing
the loss that threatened Belderkan. The situation didn't demand
sophisticated propaganda.

In a world of unrestricted international trade, with a hundred and
ten countries fighting to maintain high living standards, a nation
had to maintain a good balance between its exports and imports. The
new products talented brains could create were the key to survival.
Albert Warren, inventor of several valuable life forms, creator of the
currently accepted unified theory of the life process, was one of the
world's most valuable natural resources. He and his colleagues were
worth several battles.

Three helicopters swooped over the convoy. MacFarland ducked and looked
for signs of gas. The helicopters held a position about twenty yards in
front of his car and a few feet off the ground.

"Here it comes," Crawford Bell mumbled.

Men jumped out of the helicopters. MacFarland's driver reversed his
engine. The convoy screamed to a halt. The men jumping from the copters
hit the ground and threw themselves prostrate. In the tall grass they
could be anywhere. The helicopter overhead switched off its light.

Another helicopter landed on their left flank. A dozen Belderkans
climbed out and ran toward the scientists. "Don't leave us. Great men
that you are, think of our needs."

From Sabo's second personnel carrier, a squad ran to intercept the
pleaders before they made it impossible for the scientists to move.
The drivers of the threatened cars pulled out of the line. Arms linked,
Sabo's men managed to keep the pleaders away from the scientists.

       *       *       *       *       *

The two cars carrying the scientists parked next to MacFarland. "No
wonder you like your work," Lauchstein, the genetic engineer shouted.
The other scientists didn't act so enthusiastic.

MacFarland switched on his mike. "Sabo, clear us a path through that
gang up ahead. If you work fast, we can still outrun the crowd."

"We're moving out," Sabo said.

The bagpipes screamed. Sabo's men leaped from their carriers and moved
out at a trot, the whole "regiment" of one hundred eighty men in the
formation invented by Sabo himself and used by non-violent fighters all
over the world. Half the regiment formed two parallel lines. The other
half broke into three-man squads which hunted for a path through the
Belderkan squads.

The Belderkans stood up in the grass. There were about fifty of
them. They tried to form a line in front of the convoy, but Sabo's
men jumping and blocking among them thwarted that maneuver. A leader
shouted an order and the Belderkans converged on the convoy, obviously
trying to place one or two men so close to each vehicle movement would
be impossible.

The Belderkans were as disciplined and agile as Sabo's troops. Men
danced and jumped in the tall grass. Sabo maneuvered to break a hole
in the Belderkan lines and send his two files through it, forming a
corridor for the convoy. The Belderkans maneuvered to obstruct the
double file and place men among the vehicles. Since they only had
to hold the convoy until the crowd arrived, the Belderkans had the
advantage.

"Look at it," Crawford Bell said. "It's the second time I've seen it.
Look at it."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a spectacle, all right. The polite dancing men, the wailing
bagpipes, the bodies that never touched, never even brushed lightly.
But MacFarland wasn't enjoying it. He knew how close he was to defeat.
He didn't like the danger created when heated men from different
nations faced each other on the battle field. So far no one had
forgotten the discipline of the non-violent fighter, but the old
beast still lived in the human psyche. One shove by a Belderkan or a
mercenary and the tiger would roar on the plain.

His hand gripped the side of the car. Beside him Lauchstein said
something. Then he heard Doctor Umbana.

"Childish," Doctor Umbana snorted. "Ridiculous. When are people going
to outgrow these silly games?"

"Probably never," Lauchstein said. "You can't change human nature."

The bagpipes screamed triumph. Sabo had outmaneuvered the Belderkans.
MacFarland's driver switched on the fans and the car leaped between the
lines of running men. Outside the double line, Belderkan soldiers ran
to block the exit from the human alley. They were too late. When the
car shot out the front of the line, the Belderkans were yards behind.

"The crowd's got us blocked," Crawford Bell said. "It took too long."

Sabo's men were climbing onto the decks of their carriers. The crowd
stretched between the convoy and the airport. Moving on a short radius,
it could block them no matter how widely they circled.

MacFarland glanced at his watch. Eleven o'clock. "What have you got,
Crawford?"

"Psycho gas'll break them up."

"No. Use psycho gas on a crowd like that and they may go berserk. It's
been a long time since a human being died in a battle. I'd hate to be
the man responsible for ending a winning streak."

       *       *       *       *       *

Crawford Bell tapped the keys of his computer. His eyes studied the
crowd. The night before he had programmed the computer with data on
Belderkan culture. Now he turned his immediate observations and trained
hunches into mathematical quantities and fed them into the machine.

"You said you had some girls."

"I'm calling them now," MacFarland said.

The crowd was about five hundred yards away. The people were singing
the national anthem of the Belderkan Republic. He could barely hear the
loudspeaker above his head.

"Eagle nine here," a voice said on his radio.

"Eagle One. Can you see the crowd?"

"We're watching them."

"Attack. Hit them on my left."

He put the mike down. Crawford Bell was reciting a string of figures
into the mike.

"Sound," the psych technician said. "Tell Sabo to keep his pipes quiet."

The helicopter still marked them with its spotlight. Its loudspeaker
pleaded with the scientists. By straining his ears, he could hear some
of what it said. The pleas made him a little uncomfortable.

What had he said to Doctor Umbana? "It's starship time, Doctor. We've
abolished international violence. We've conquered poverty and disease.
We've explored the Solar System out to Saturn and if we haven't gone
further, it's because nobody thinks it's worth the effort. Where do we
go now? We can't stand still. We've developed psychological techniques
that turn men into brainless slaves and the pressures of international
competition are forcing us to use them. To stay free, the human race
has to expand. It's star ship time and we need you."

That was still true. Doctor Warren's team belonged on a starship
project, and it might as well be the United States project. But even
having them on the Common Market or the Soviet Republic starship would
be better than letting them stay in Belderkan. Or would it? They were
doing important research here. They were the foundation of Belderkan's
prosperity.

There was no way to reason out which was better. Settle it on the
battle field and hope the right side won. If that helicopter's
propaganda was bothering him, what was it doing to the scientists?

"Sabo, muffle the pipes."

       *       *       *       *       *

The convoy slowed down. The crowd had stopped running and started
walking. Their togas, mostly emerald green and pearl white, were made
from a hard fabric that gleamed in the light from the helicopter.
Through his binoculars he tried to estimate the percentage of men and
the percentage of young people. The section right in front of him
looked young and predominantly male. By now many of the women and the
older men had fallen behind. That was something to be glad about.

In the crowd several voices screamed a war cry. Then the whole crowd
shouted and started running toward the convoy.

Three personnel carriers skimmed into view on his left. He raised his
binoculars and studied their passengers. It was hard to look at them
with the detachment of a commander inspecting his troops. He was a
young man and the girls standing on the decks of the carriers were
pretty.

The carriers crossed the front of the crowd and the girls jumped off.
They started undressing as soon as they hit. Running into the crowd,
they offered themselves to the men.

Mike in hand, Crawford Bell leaned forward. "It's all in the timing."
Tension choked his voice.

"Get it right," MacFarland growled.

There was only one girl for every dozen men, but that was enough to
cause trouble. At least two men per girl forgot their patriotic fervor
and yielded to opportunity. Other men forgot the invaders and tried
to drag their comrades back to duty. Women, probably jealous, screamed
curses at MacFarland's shock troops.

The personnel carriers, all their girls dropped, turned and swept along
the rear of the crowd. On each deck a man tossed coins and bills at the
Belderkans.

The loudspeaker above the crowd exhorted them to remember their
country. The loudspeaker above the convoy shamed the scientists for
using such tactics.

"Now!" Crawford Bell shouted at his mike.

MacFarland covered his ears too late. Even through his mask he heard
the sound that rose from the sixth vehicle in the convoy.

It was sound mathematically calculated to shatter the nerves of the
crowd. Pitch, rhythm, intensity, had been computed by Crawford Bell's
machine. Even MacFarland felt hysteria creep up his back.

Its emotions shattered by the women, the money and the sound, the
crowd lost its slight discipline and its great motivation. The people
staggered under the triple psychological punch.

Sabo's personnel carriers swept forward and threw a cordon of men
around the left of the crowd. The convoy raced toward the airport.

       *       *       *       *       *

MacFarland could see the airport through his binoculars. The helicopter
still marked them with its light, but the crowd was a long way behind.

"Cigarette?" Crawford Bell asked.

"No thanks. I'm keeping my mask on."

The psych technician started to take off his own mask, then changed his
mind. "They're probably feeling desperate. This is when I'd start using
gas."

"It's eleven fifteen. We'll be at the airport in ten minutes." His eyes
narrowed. "They must have something left."

The night wind made him shiver. He adjusted the heating unit in his
tweed jacket. When he looked up, he saw the lights of the runway. Then
he saw the white dome of the terminal building. Before the airport
fence and the airport gate, a line of men stood shoulder to shoulder.

Crawford Bell glanced at his watch. "Here's where I earn my money." His
fingers tapped the computer keys.

MacFarland's stomach tingled. He wanted to jump out of the car and push
the toga clad men aside with his bare hands. Days of frustration were
reaching a climax.

He switched on the mike. "Sabo, we'll have to stand toe to toe with
those boys and slug it out. I want you to guard our rear. Have your
men put a tight line behind us. Don't let the crowd get near the
convoy."

They halted in front of the airport gate, less than twenty feet from
the enemy line. The other vehicles pulled up beside them.

The scientists parked on his left. "You've done a good job," Doctor
Warren said, "but it looks like we're not going any further."

"Did you bring machine guns and clubs?" Doctor Umbana asked. "If you
didn't let's go home and get some sleep."

MacFarland stood up. "Gentlemen, we've got half an hour and a good crew
of technicians." The line of Belderkans looked grim and unmoving. Their
black faces gleamed in the light from the helicopter.

"Now," Crawford Bell said.

Again, the awful sound rose from the noisemaker. MacFarland tried to
look indifferent but after the first seconds he grabbed his ears with
his hands. It was the scream of pain and madness and the evil thing
beyond the campfire. The faces of the Belderkans distorted with anguish.

Using noise was tricky. How hard did the air molecules have to strike
the ears or how painful did the noise have to be, before sound became
physical violence? The noise selected by the computer was supposed to
be psychologically, but not physically, uncomfortable.

The noise ended abruptly. On MacFarland's right, one of Crawford Bell's
technicians aimed a battery of lights at the enemy line. Flickering
colors made shifting patterns on the faces of the Belderkan troops. The
colors were supposed to create mental confusion and weaken motivation.

"Look at their faces," Doctor Warren said. "Wouldn't a club be more
humane?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Two Belderkan trucks were parked behind the line. Technicians came out
of them and set up lights which neutralized the lights of the invaders.

A jet screamed into a runway at the far end of the airport. MacFarland
watched it taxi to the terminal building. It was the flight the
scientists were supposed to leave on. He glanced at his watch. Twenty
minutes.

This was where the human imagination met its test. The mind struggled
to invent alternatives to violence. There could be no appeal to the
enemy's reason. Conflicting interests clashed head on. Only maneuver
and cunning could win the day.

He stepped out of the car and walked up to the Belderkan line. "How
much do you want? My government'll give thousands to the man that lets
us through. We can give you things money can't buy. Our loveliest
women. A palace. Pleasure for the rest of your life. Don't you like
money? Wouldn't you like to be rich?"

No one answered. Walking down the line, he repeated his offer. He
stopped in front of a thin, spectacled youth who couldn't possibly be
older than nineteen.

"You can make your fortune in a minute. The rest of your life, you can
do what you please." He named a famous beauty. "Wouldn't you like her?
She's on our payroll."

The youth avoided MacFarland's eyes. "I won't be tempted. I can't be
tempted."

Doctor Umbana jumped out of his car. "Oafs. Peasants. What right have
you got to stop us? I'm a free man. Get out of my way."

MacFarland stepped in front of the angry biochemist. "Get back," he
hissed. "Do you want to go to jail? I'll handle this."

"You're the man that brought us here. Kick them aside and drive
through. Won't you go to jail for your country?"

Lauchstein bellowed with laughter. "Let MacFarland handle this," Doctor
Warren said. "Pete, come on back to the car."

Doctor Umbana glared at his colleagues. "I won't stand for this. We're
free scientists. We have the right to travel where we please."

MacFarland swore to himself. Already passengers were leaving the
terminal and walking toward the airliner.

The crowd, sounding even noisier than it had before, was bearing down
on the airport. Sabo would hold them, of course, but their pleas to the
scientists would be impossible to silence.

Crawford Bell jerked his thumb at the enemy lines. "They're carrying
masks. We can't use gas on them."

       *       *       *       *       *

MacFarland could see the future as plainly as if it were already
a memory. The situation had a logic which could lead to only one
solution. It was a solution he had been dreading since his first day in
Belderkan.

"This is no place for psych tricks." He dropped a weary hand on
Crawford Bell's shoulder. "Keep working, but psych tricks won't budge
those boys. They're disciplined and they're in a good position."

"You aren't giving up?"

He turned to face the Belderkans. "So you won't be moved?" he shouted.
"Well, I'm not moving either. I'm staying here until I rot. You'd
better have full stomachs and big bladders if you want to keep me out
of that airport."

"A fine speech," the helicopter answered, "but we don't care if you
stay or not, aggressor. Only the five doctors count. You're of no
importance."

Doctor Umbana raised his fist. "I won't be forced."

"Doctor Umbana," the helicopter said, "no one is forcing you to stay.
How can one force a creative mind to work? We only want you to consider
what you are doing. We only want you to see how much we are willing to
suffer."

The jets of the airliner whined. MacFarland glanced at his watch. Five
minutes.

"You've done a good job," Doctor Warren said, "and I'm certain you'll
be commended by your superiors, but you've failed. I suggest we go home
and sleep." His two sons were sleeping on his shoulders. They had been
drugged, at their father's request, so they wouldn't see the attack on
the crowd.

"Are you going to submit to this bullying?" Doctor Umbana demanded.

"I never was very interested in this project," Doctor Forbes said. "I'm
only here because the rest of you want to go. And I've been listening
to that helicopter. Some of that's true, you know. They must want us an
awful lot to do all this."

"They don't want us," Doctor Umbana said. "They're greedy. Those people
out there are only your employers. Are you going to let them treat you
like a slave who doesn't have the right to change jobs? Don't you have
any pride?"

"He has a point," Doctor Sani said.

"Suppose you go back now," MacFarland argued. "They'll know they can
make you stay and they may not give you such good terms next time your
contract is renewed."

"True," Forbes said, "but academic. You can't break their line. You
might win a starvation match, but I'm not going to stay here that long.
It isn't worth it to me."

"Is it worth a few more hours?" MacFarland asked. "You want to work on
the starship. You know you meant it when you told me you want a chance
to be on the ship. It's the biggest opportunity offered any group of
scientists in history. And you admit you can't give in to this coercion
without hurting your own self interest. So why not give me until dawn?
There's another plane at six a.m. give me till then."

"What can you do?" Doctor Warren asked.

"I can challenge them to a duel. They won't refuse. No one ever refuses
a duel."

       *       *       *       *       *

All night the two sides harassed each other. Crawford Bell's
technicians went up and down the enemy line, waking up any Belderkan
who was sleeping on his feet. Sirens wailed. The crowd pleaded with
the scientists, insulted the invaders and sang to itself. The girls,
not yet battle fatigued, tried to tempt the Belderkan troops. The
helicopters continued their sermons and denunciations.

MacFarland tried to sleep on a cot beside the command car. Crawford
Bell gave him a mild sedative but it didn't do much good.

"Have you ever fought a duel?" Crawford Bell asked.

"No. This is only my third raid."

"What's happened up to now is a boy's game compared to that. That's for
real."

"You don't have to tell me. It makes me sick to think about it."

"You don't have to do it. It's something no government can ask you to
do."

"No, but the UN Secretariat approves of it and every honest
psychologist approves of it, too. Let me rest. You get the junk ready."

He wondered if anything was worth a duel. The star ship wasn't. His
career wasn't. So why bother? But he knew the answer and so did every
soldier on the planet. Every duel fought made killing a little less
likely; every duel decreased the danger modern knowledge, which hadn't
been destroyed with the weapons it had made possible, would wipe out
human life. It wasn't something you did for your own country. You did
it for the whole human race and all the generations to come.

At five he arose from his cot. He felt groggy but that couldn't be
helped.

In the chilly dawn he took off his jacket and shirt. Bare chested, he
stepped into the space between his vehicles and the enemy line.

Crawford Bell handed him a public address system. "Good morning," his
voice boomed. "I hope you've had a better sleep than I got. It's easy
to be brave when you know your opponent won't kill you. It's easy to
stand in line and look heroic and patriotic when you know I don't dare
run you over with my vehicles. But how brave are you? Are you really
willing to suffer for your country? I think the men of Belderkan are
cowards. I think you would still be running if we had fought an old
fashioned war last night."

       *       *       *       *       *

He paused and stroked his mustache. Then he gestured and Crawford Bell
rolled the instrument forward. It was a pole on a wheeled platform.
Four handles stuck out from the pole; above each handle was a set of
four dials.

"Do you know what a duel is?" He made himself look at the instrument.
"Have you heard in this primitive country of the great duels fought
all over the world these last few years? Have you heard of the
champions produced by nations like Ghana, Israel, Costa Rica? Wouldn't
you like to pretend you haven't?"

The youth he had tried to tempt the night before stepped out of the
line. "I accept your challenge."

He doesn't know what he's doing, MacFarland thought. "We've got room
for four at the pole. Who else accepts my challenge?"

Another man stepped forward. "I'm not afraid. I'll die if I have to."

The struggle on the faces of the men left in line was painful to watch.
Three of them stepped forward at the same time. They looked at each
other until, with a puzzled expression on his face, one of them waved
the other two back.

MacFarland stepped up to the pole and grabbed a handle. Trying hard to
keep their faces blank, the three Belderkans grabbed the other handles.
One of them trembled.

Behind him the crowd murmured. He squeezed the handle. Pain shot up his
arms and thudded through his body. His eyes closed. His face twisted.
Holding back a scream, he made himself open his eyes and watch the
dials over his handle. The dial marked by a red light was his. The
other dials told him how much pain his opponents were enduring. Each
man could end his agony by releasing his handle. Each man squeezed
harder. Even as they screamed, they squeezed and made the needle move a
little further right.

No job, no promotion, no scientific enterprise or national need, could
have made him do this. Feeling the pain hammer through his bones, he
knew how weak all those motivations were.

Through slitted eyelids he saw two of his opponents fall away from the
post. His dial said he was enduring more than either of them.

       *       *       *       *       *

He turned his face toward the other man. Clenching their handles, they
grimaced at each other. MacFarland's grip tightened. His needle moved.
The other needle edged past it. They hung there moaning and shaking.

Oh God, he thought. Oh God. He made himself squeeze.

Twin shrieks cut the air. Both men released their handles and fell away
from the pole. MacFarland staggered in circles, bent over, clutching
his stomach, trying to turn off the pain.

"Are you all right?" Crawford Bell asked.

"Look after him," he answered, still fighting the duel.

"Look after him," he heard the other man moan.

Hands grabbed him and he straightened up. When he saw the pole, he
flinched. He couldn't do that again.

He grabbed the mike. "You saw that," he mumbled. "Who's next? Who wants
to do that next?"

An aging man walked out of the line and took his position at the pole.

MacFarland stared at the old man's disciplined face. He had been
thinking no one would dare come forward now that they had seen a duel.
The old man looked tougher than any of the last group.

He stepped up to the pole and grabbed a handle.

"Relax," the Belderkan said. "This time you'll lose or the good thing
will happen, but whichever it is, this will be the last time. Good
luck."

Have you done this before? MacFarland squeezed to equal him. The old
man squeezed his handle and his needle jumped a quarter of the way
across the dial. MacFarland squeezed to equal him. Again pain hammered
his bones. Again his face twisted and he moaned over his tortured body.

But it was necessary. It had to be done. This odd form of duelling had
started twenty years before, when two groups of non-violent soldiers
faced each other in the streets of Rio and tension mounted on both
sides. Neither side could accept defeat. Neither side could return
home and admit it had surrendered to unarmed men because it lacked
patience. In wars fought with violence, men could lose with honor.
There was no honor for the loser in a non-violent battle.

Then a man had slashed his wrists and let his blood drip onto the
street. "I'll die before I'll leave here," he had said.

"I'll die before I'll give in to you," a man from the opposing group
had said, slashing his own wrists.

According to the UN psychologists who had studied the phenomenon,
duelling was a form of therapy for the people of the world, a necessary
transition from the days when men had earned their manhood by fighting
wars or belonging to groups which could be proud of their warriors. The
pride of nations demanded some sacrifice.

       *       *       *       *       *

The needle was halfway around the dial. Still the old man hung on.
MacFarland squeezed harder. He was staying ahead. How much could he
take? Why didn't he die of shock? He hoped for that release and fought
to keep conscious and endure a little more.

His personal pride, the good of his country, and the safety of the
world, demanded that he drive the contest beyond the limit of his
endurance; that he lose, if he lost, not because _he_ had been afraid
but because his flesh could endure no more.

He screamed and moaned and squeezed. The men in the enemy line moaned
with him. He heard Crawford Bell shouting to him to let go. Was that
Doctor Umbana he heard? Wasn't that the calm Doctor Warren shouting and
pleading?

And the strangest of all sounds was his own voice mingling with the
voice of his opponent, two screams with exactly the same pitch and
intensity, the same rise and fall.

He was going to die. He wouldn't be the first. Sometimes the honor of
the nation demanded that and it was necessary nations not be shamed by
their citizens. Shamed nations were dangerous nations. And after all,
he was only one soldier and in previous generations the sacrifice had
been millions.

       *       *       *       *       *

He lay on the cot. Crawford Bell and a medic worked on him with hypos.
Vaguely, he realized the aging Belderkan lay beside him.

"It's about time you opened your eyes," Crawford Bell said. "Can you
hear me?"

He nodded.

"We put you into therapeutic shock. You've been out an hour. You'll be
all right."

"How's my friend there?"

"He's coming around."

A jet screamed. Lifting his head, he watched it rise into the morning.

"Doctor Warren's on it," Crawford Bell said. "So's Doctor Umbana. The
Belderkans agreed to let any two of them through the line and Doctor
Warren decided he didn't need all the rest of them after all. Your
technique of persuasion isn't one I'd like to use, but it's effective."

He didn't have the strength to answer. It always worked out that
way. After a duel, what had seemed beyond compromise suddenly became
negotiable. That was the good thing the old man had spoken of. That was
the knowledge which had given him that strength to endure.


                                THE END