Rogue Moon

“A man should fight, Hawks,” Barker said, his eyes distant. “A man should show he is never afraid to die. He should go into the midst of his enemies, singing his death song, and he should kill or be killed; he must never be afraid to die; he must never be afraid to meet the tests of his manhood. A man who turns his back — who lurks at the edge of the battle, and pushes others in to face his enemies—” Barker looked suddenly and obviously at Hawks. “That’s not a man. That’s some kind of crawling, wriggling thing.”

Hawks got up, flexing his hands uncertainly, his arms awkward, his face lost in the shadows above the lamp’s level. His calves pressed back against the leather of the settee, thudding it lightly against the wall. “Is that what you wanted me here for? So no one could say you wouldn’t clasp the snake to your bosom?” He bent his head forward, peering down at Barker. “Is that it, warrior?” he asked inquisitively. “One more initiation rite? You’ve never been afraid to take your enemies in and give them shelter, have you? A truly. brave man wouldn’t hesitate to lodge assassins in his house, and offer them food and drink, would he? Let Co

“Are you a warrior?” he demanded. “Explain that part of it to me. What have you ever done to any of us? When have you ever lifted a finger to defend yourself? You see what we’re about, but you do nothing. You’re afraid to be thought a man who wouldn’t fight, but what do you fight? The only thing you’ve ever done to me is threatened to pick up your marbles and go home. No — sports cars and skislopes, boats and airplanes: that’s the kind of thing you strive against. Things and places where you control the situation — where you can say, as you die, that you know the quality of the man you have killed. Things and places where the fatal move can always be traced to the carelessness or miscalculation of Barker, the killer, who was finally succeeded in overcoming his peer, Barker the warrior. Even in the war, did you fight hand-to-hand, on open ground? You were only an assassin like the rest of us, striking from the dark, and if you were caught, it was your own fault. What worthy enemy, besides yourseIf, have you ever met?

“I think you are afraid, Barker — afraid that no one else who killed you would understand what a warrior you are. How can you trust strangers to know you for what you are? But a warrior is never afraid. Even within himself. Is that what explains it, do you think, Barker? Is that the trap you’re caught in? In the far reaches of your mind, do you suppose it’s all been reasoned out, and kept safe — that you must live among your enemies, to prove your bravery, but dare not meet them in combat for fear of dying unknown? Do you suppose that’s why a stranger has only to threaten you in order to become drawn into your life? And why you will let him nibble and rasp you to death, slowly, but will never turn and face him, and acknowledge that you are in a fight for your life? Because if you only let yourself be whittled at, the process may take years, and anything might happen to interrupt it, but if you fight, then it will be over immediately, and you might have lost, and died unsung?” Hawks looked quizzically at Barker. “I wonder,” he said in a bemused voice, “I wonder whether that might not explain it.”

Barker came quietly upward out of his chair. “Who are you to tell me these things, Hawks?” he said, calmly studying him. He reached behind his back without moving his eyes and set the bottle down on the small table beside the chair.

Hawks rubbed his palms over the cloth of his jacket. “Think about what happened to you today. You had thought the formation was something like an elaborate ski-slope, hadn’t you, Barker? Just another dangerous, inexorable place, like many places men have been before.

“But there were no rules to explain what had killed you, when you died. You had gone beyond the charts. You couldn’t say to yourself, as you died, that you had misinterpreted the rules, or failed to obey them, or tried to overcome them. There were no rules. No one had found them out yet. You died ignorant of what killed you. And there had been no crowd to applaud your skill or mourn your fate. A giant hand reached down and plucked you from the board — for what reason, no one knows. Suddenly, you knew that where you were was not a ski-slope at all, and all your skills were nothing. You saw, as clearly as anyone could ever see it, the undisguised face of the unknown universe. Men have put masks on it, Barker, and disarmed parts of it, and thought to themselves that they knew all of it. But they only know the parts they know. A man hurtling down a ski-slope has not learned the workings of gravity and friction. He has only learned how to deal with them in that particular situation, for all that he soars above them and lands safely. For all that the crowd sighs to watch a man overcome things that once killed men without mercy. All your jumping skill will not help you if you fall from an airplane without a parachute. All your past soaring and safe landing will not temper gravity then. The universe has resources of death which we have barely begun to pick at. And you found that out.

“Death is in the nature of the universe, Barker. Death is only the operation of a mechanism. All the universe has been ru

“Do you know why you’re still sane, Barker? I think I do. I think it’s because you have Claire, and Co

Barker was moving toward him, his hands half-raised.

Hawks said, “It’s no use, Barker. You can’t do anything to me. If you were to kill me, you would have proved you were afraid to deal with me.”

“That’s not true,” Barker said, high-voiced. “A warrior kills his enemies.”

Hawks watched Barker’s eyes. “You’re not a warrior, Al,” he said regretfully. “Not the kind of warrior you think you want to be. You’re a man, that’s all. You want to be a worthy man — a man who satisfies his own standards, a man whose stature is his own. That’s all. That’s enough.”

Barker’s arms began to tremble. His head tilted to one side, and he looked at Hawks crookedly, his eyes blinking. “You’re so smart!” he panted. “You know so damned much! You know more about me than I do. How is that, Hawks — who touched your brow with a golden wand?”