The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

Barbour viewed the village with interest and less apparent irritation than Margulies felt. From what Barbour said during the ride to Silva Blanca, he’d been purely a staff officer before transferring to the survey service. Probably hadn’t seen as many mud/stick/straw hovels as she had in the field police.

At least the intelligence officer was loosening up a little. Margulies had been a bit worried about him during training. Couldn’t complain about his competence, but a six-man team was too small for somebody whose eyes always seemed focused on his memories inside.

Margulies pulled out a handkerchief and lifted her helmet to wipe her brow. She wasn’t going to turn straight around and return to Potosi. She was too stubborn for that, and anyway she didn’t relish an immediate fifteen klicks in the jitney.

But she was getting ready to kick a gate open, and kick down the door of the house beyond if it came to that.

An argument erupted from the house in the next courtyard over. At least three people shouted simultaneously. Each voice seesawed higher, building on the volume of its competitors. It was obvious that none of the speakers was listening to the other two.

The door opened fiercely enough to slam against the front wall of the house. A young man surged out, twisting his arm free of the older woman and man who had tried to hold him back.

“Sure, I’ll stay here!” the young man shouted. “Stay here and starve, that’s a fine idea! Why should I go to Potosi and live like a human being, hey?”

“Live like a filthy killer!” the woman shrieked. “My son, a killer like the killers who take everything we grow! Will you come back and rob us yourself, Emilio?”

She tore the front of her dress open. Her breasts sagged like banana skins. “Why don’t you just shoot me now? Wouldn’t that be easier than breaking my heart?”

Margulies motioned Barbour with her toward the gate into the adjacent courtyard. The low fence permitted them a full view of the events.

“Look, I’ll be able to send money back to you, Mother,” the boy said. He glanced at the woman, then jerked his eyes away in horror at her histrionic self-degradation. “Look, we’re all starving here!”

“Blood money!” the woman shrieked. “Blood money! I’d rather die!”

She flung herself on the ground. It wasn’t an effective ploy, because it freed the boy’s arm from her gripping hands. He half-ran, half-skipped toward the gate. His father followed, bawling, “Emilio!”

The door of the headman’s house opened a crack. When those within realized the strangers were going next door, a little man scurried out. He wore red pantaloons, a loose shirt of unbleached cotton, and a red headband.

“You there!” the headman shrilled. “Strangers! You don’t belong here! I’ve called for help, you know. You can’t just come in here with your guns and order us around!”

The only thing Margulies had said since arrival was “Hello?” Barbour hadn’t said that much. The whole business was informative about the social structure of Cantilucca, all right.

As Emilio reached for the gate-latch, he noticed the Frisians for the first time. He recoiled abruptly. The boy’s father grabbed his arm from reflex, but both of them stared over the fence at the strangers instead of carrying on their quarrel.

“You there!” the headman called. “Strangers! Come away from there at once!”

Margulies made a quick decision and turned toward the headman’s compound. “We’re here to see a friend of mine,” she said. “Angel Tijuca. Can you tell me where he lives?”

Emilio snatched the gate convulsively open and darted into the street. His father gestured toward him, but the near presence of the Frisians kept him from following the boy. Emilio carried a short staff and slung his possessions from it. The bindle was so slight that its presence was better proof of poverty than nothing at all would have been.

“Blood money!” his mother cried. The boy bent forward, as though he were hiking toward Potosi against a sleet storm.

“We don’t have any Tijucas here,” the headman said. “You should go away now, before the guards arrive.”

The fellow was short to begin with. He splayed his legs deliberately so that his eyes barely glinted over the fence. Margulies had the impression of a turtle peeping from a shell of palings.

“There’s a vehicle with four driven wheels on the way, Mary,” Barbour said. He looked doubtfully at the sub-machine gun she’d insisted he carry. His expression wasn’t so much frightened as confused, that of a bachelor confronted with a squalling baby.

Margulies wasn’t sure how Barbour had gathered the data—so far as she knew, the intelligence officer wore a commo helmet just like hers, with only the standard sensors. She’d have been willing to take Barbour’s word for the situation, even without the headman’s confirmation.