I think. The food."
Oliver gave him a disbelieving stare. "You sure this isn't just a scam to get yourself a free meal?"
"True, I am getting hungry . . ." Miles backed off from the joke as Oliver remained icily unimpressed. "But so are a lot of other people. By tomorrow, we can have them all eating out of our hands."
"When would you want these twenty guys?"
"By the next chow call." Good, he'd startled the man.
"That soon?"
"You understand, Oliver, the belief that you have all the time in the world is an illusion this place fosters on purpose. Resist it."
"You're sure in a hurry."
"So, you got a dental appointment? I think not. Besides, I'm only half your mass. I gotta move twice as fast just to keep up the momentum. Twenty, plus. By next chow call."
"What the hell do you think you're gonna be able to do with twenty guys?"
"We're going to take the food pile."
Oliver's lips tightened in disgust. "Not with twenty guys, you're not. No go. Besides, it's been done. I told you we'd made real war in here. It'd be a quick massacre."
"—and then, after we've taken it—we re-distribute it. Fair and square, one rat bar per customer, all controlled and quartermasterly. To sinners and all. By the next chow call everybody who's ever been shorted will be coming over to us. And then we'll be in a position to deal with the hard cases."
"You're nuts. You can't do it. Not with twenty guys."
"Did I say we were only going to have twenty guys? Suegar, did I say that?"
Suegar, listening in rapt fascination, shook his head.
"Well, I ain't sticking my neck out to get pounded unless you can produce some visible means of support," said Oliver. "This could get us killed."
"Can do," Miles promised recklessly. One had to start lifting somewhere; his imaginary bootstraps would do well enough. "I will deliver 500 troops to the sacred cause by chow call."
"You do that, and I'll walk the perimeter of this camp naked on my hands," retorted Oliver.
Miles grinned. "I may hold you to that, Sergeant. Twenty plus. By chow call." Miles stood. "Come on, Suegar."
Oliver waved them off irritably. They retreated in good order. When Miles looked back over his shoulder, Oliver had arisen, and was walking toward a group of occupied mats tangential to his own, waving down an apparent acquaintance.
* * *
"So where do we get 500 troops before next chow call?" Suegar asked. "I better warn you, Oliver was the best thing I had. The next is bound to be tougher."
"What," said Miles, "is your faith wavering so soon?"
"I believe," said Suegar, "I just don't see. Maybe that makes me blessed, I dunno."
"I'm surprised. I thought it was pretty obvious. There." Miles pointed across the camp toward the unmarked border of the women's group.
"Oh." Suegar stopped short. "Oh, oh. I don't think so, Miles."
"Yes. Let's go."
"You won't get in there without a change-of-sex operation."
"What, as God-driven as you are, haven't you tried to preach your scripture to them?"
"I tried. Got pounded. Tried elsewhere after that."
Miles paused, and pursed his lips, studying Suegar. "It wasn't defeat, or you wouldn't have hung on long enough to meet me. Was it—ah, shame, that drained your usual resolve? You got something to work off in that quarter?"
Suegar shook his head. "Not personally. Except maybe, sins of omission. I just didn't have the heart to harass 'em any more."
"This whole place is suffering from sins of omission." A relief, that Suegar wasn't some sort of self-confessed rapist. Miles's eyes swept the scene, teasing out the pattern from the limited cues of position, grouping, activity. "Yes . . . predator pressure produces herd behavior. Social—fragmentation here being what it is, the pressure must be pretty high, to hold a group of that size together. But I hadn't noticed any incidents since I got here. . . ."
"It comes and goes," said Suegar. "Phases of the moon or something."
Phases of the moon, right. Miles sent up a prayer of thanks in his heart
Oliver gave him a disbelieving stare. "You sure this isn't just a scam to get yourself a free meal?"
"True, I am getting hungry . . ." Miles backed off from the joke as Oliver remained icily unimpressed. "But so are a lot of other people. By tomorrow, we can have them all eating out of our hands."
"When would you want these twenty guys?"
"By the next chow call." Good, he'd startled the man.
"That soon?"
"You understand, Oliver, the belief that you have all the time in the world is an illusion this place fosters on purpose. Resist it."
"You're sure in a hurry."
"So, you got a dental appointment? I think not. Besides, I'm only half your mass. I gotta move twice as fast just to keep up the momentum. Twenty, plus. By next chow call."
"What the hell do you think you're gonna be able to do with twenty guys?"
"We're going to take the food pile."
Oliver's lips tightened in disgust. "Not with twenty guys, you're not. No go. Besides, it's been done. I told you we'd made real war in here. It'd be a quick massacre."
"—and then, after we've taken it—we re-distribute it. Fair and square, one rat bar per customer, all controlled and quartermasterly. To sinners and all. By the next chow call everybody who's ever been shorted will be coming over to us. And then we'll be in a position to deal with the hard cases."
"You're nuts. You can't do it. Not with twenty guys."
"Did I say we were only going to have twenty guys? Suegar, did I say that?"
Suegar, listening in rapt fascination, shook his head.
"Well, I ain't sticking my neck out to get pounded unless you can produce some visible means of support," said Oliver. "This could get us killed."
"Can do," Miles promised recklessly. One had to start lifting somewhere; his imaginary bootstraps would do well enough. "I will deliver 500 troops to the sacred cause by chow call."
"You do that, and I'll walk the perimeter of this camp naked on my hands," retorted Oliver.
Miles grinned. "I may hold you to that, Sergeant. Twenty plus. By chow call." Miles stood. "Come on, Suegar."
Oliver waved them off irritably. They retreated in good order. When Miles looked back over his shoulder, Oliver had arisen, and was walking toward a group of occupied mats tangential to his own, waving down an apparent acquaintance.
* * *
"So where do we get 500 troops before next chow call?" Suegar asked. "I better warn you, Oliver was the best thing I had. The next is bound to be tougher."
"What," said Miles, "is your faith wavering so soon?"
"I believe," said Suegar, "I just don't see. Maybe that makes me blessed, I dunno."
"I'm surprised. I thought it was pretty obvious. There." Miles pointed across the camp toward the unmarked border of the women's group.
"Oh." Suegar stopped short. "Oh, oh. I don't think so, Miles."
"Yes. Let's go."
"You won't get in there without a change-of-sex operation."
"What, as God-driven as you are, haven't you tried to preach your scripture to them?"
"I tried. Got pounded. Tried elsewhere after that."
Miles paused, and pursed his lips, studying Suegar. "It wasn't defeat, or you wouldn't have hung on long enough to meet me. Was it—ah, shame, that drained your usual resolve? You got something to work off in that quarter?"
Suegar shook his head. "Not personally. Except maybe, sins of omission. I just didn't have the heart to harass 'em any more."
"This whole place is suffering from sins of omission." A relief, that Suegar wasn't some sort of self-confessed rapist. Miles's eyes swept the scene, teasing out the pattern from the limited cues of position, grouping, activity. "Yes . . . predator pressure produces herd behavior. Social—fragmentation here being what it is, the pressure must be pretty high, to hold a group of that size together. But I hadn't noticed any incidents since I got here. . . ."
"It comes and goes," said Suegar. "Phases of the moon or something."
Phases of the moon, right. Miles sent up a prayer of thanks in his heart
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