As they considered the next case, they had misgivings. The thread of the Oriental man showed him to be age thirty, and a significant force within his culture. They could not simply cut his thread; that would lead to serious complications in the Tapestry, not as bad as those stemming from the stink bomb, but still well worth avoiding. They would have to talk him out of it—and Niobe was learning to read the threads well enough, now, to know that this would not be easy.
For one thing, there was a kink in the thread that indicated something of extreme significance had touched it. That was surely Satan, making his offer. If the man had accepted, how could they stop him without cutting his thread?
Clotho assumed the body. "I will try," she said simply. She pointed the distaff, extended the thread, and slid down it to the man's location. Again, it was morning, in the state of New Jersey, and he was at his place of business. This was a dojo, or martial arts establishment.
We should have guessed, Niobe thought. His name is Samurai.
"Which means Warrior," Clotho murmured. "A pretentious title!"
She opened the door and entered. There was a desk inside with a girl in a gi, or martial arts uniform. "You wish to join for the course?" she inquired politely.
"No," Clotho said. "I wish to speak to Samurai."
The girl smiled. "The Master does not sign up students. But in class he will give you the same attention he does all students, and if you have talent you may be able to enroll in an advanced class and receive special instruction." She eyed Clotho appraisingly. "Of course that is more expensive and requires special dedication."
"I don't wish to be a student," Clotho insisted. "I have more personal business with the man."
The girl studied her again. Suddenly Niobe was aware of the appearance of their youngest Aspect. She was well dressed—clothing in the Abode was of the highest quality, fashioned of genuine silk, and fitted with magical perfection—and was an extremely well-formed woman to begin with. She was a person to be noticed more than passingly. "I will inquire," the girl said and touched a button.
In a moment she received an answer. She glanced up. "Take the hall to the left, through the curtain. Oh—and remove your shoes before you enter the office. He's very fussy about that."
"Thank you." Clotho walked down the hall, then paused to remove her dainty shoes before pushing through the curtain of thin bamboo.
The office was like a Japanese garden, with decorative plants and Oriental statuary all around, and a broad mat covering the floor. At the far side, seated on a slightly elevated dais, was a handsome man in a resplendent gi, almost a robe.
Clotho stood bemused at the entrance. "Oh, it's beautiful!" she breathed. "I have never been to Japan, but—"
"Come forward," the man said. "Do not be afraid of the tatami."
She stepped with her stocking feet onto the mat, which was soft but firm. "Samurai, I want to talk to you about—"
"Wait," he said peremptorily, and she paused in place. "Turn about, woman."
Clotho hesitated, then turned around.
The man got up, seeming to flow effortlessly to his feet. He strode to a curtained closet in one wall, moving like a lithe panther. He brought out a folded kimono. "Don this."
"What?"
"I want you properly garbed," he said. "Go to the changing chamber there." He gestured at a door. "Put this on. Then we shall talk."
"Samurai, I don't know what you think I'm here for—"
"Not for classes," he said. "Not for business. So you mean to be a geisha."
"A geisha!" she exclaimed indignantly.
What's a geisha? Atropos asked.
A Japanese entertainment-girl, high-class, Niobe replied.
Oh, so that's what they call them, over there! We call them whores.
It's not the same—Niobe started, but then external events interrupted them.
"You had another intention?" Samurai was saying. Clotho switched to Japanese, spewing out a minor torrent of words. Neither Niobe nor Atropos understood that language, but they got the gist from her mind; she was calling him, in eloquent idiom, a male sexist pig.
Oopsy! Niobe thought.
That girl's got a temper! Atropos thought, half admiringly.
Samurai's face turned grim. He took a step toward Clotho. She spun about and ran for the curtained door. She plunged through, paused to pick up her shoes, and froze. A man was charging down the hall toward her.
She turned again and plunged back through the curtain. Samurai was there. She flung her shoes at him. He caught one and dodged the other; he had marvelous reflexes. She dodged to the side and ran across the room.
Samurai followed. Clotho reached out, grabbed a potted cactus, whirled, and hurled it at his head. This time she scored. The clay pot shattered between his eyes, the dirt spreading across his face.
I wish she hadn't done that! Niobe thought.
She's one hair-trigger gal! Atropos responded. Maybe we'd better just thread on out of here.
We can't; she's got the body.
You mean we can't take over if we need to?
Not until she lets us—and she's not paying attention to us at the moment.
Atropos mentally shook her head. Been forty years since the last time I got raped. Going to be about forty seconds till the next time!
A mortal can't rape an Incarnation! Niobe protested.
You sure about that?
Niobe considered. No. I know no mortal can hurt us, but I'm not sure if rape counts as hurting. It may be just— just an interaction, no blood shed.
No blood for me, no blood for you—but what about her?
Again Niobe considered. She's as innocent as I was when I married, the first time. Still—
Well, if it happens, let's see if we can change to me in the middle. That'll sober him.
Niobe thought of that, and of the likely reaction of the man. She started to laugh, though she didn't want to; it really wasn't at all funny.
Clotho, meanwhile, was running down another passage. She plunged through the bamboo curtain at the far end and burst into the main work chamber. About twenty students in white gi's and white belts and yellow belts were practicing throws, supervised by a man in a brown belt. They paused at the sight of her, for Clotho's summer dress was a complete contrast to their uniforms. She was in somewhat frilly blue, with a pink sash and a pink rose on the front, and her hair was bound in a western ponytail by a pink ribbon. She was the very picture of lovely young innocence.
Then Samurai burst out after her, the very picture of masculine outrage. Earth stained his pretty robe and smudged his face, and blood dripped from his nose. The students gave way as he strode forward and caught Clotho by the arm. "Woman, you have no—"
Clotho froze for an instant, then tried to tear herself away, but his grip was like iron. She spewed more Japanese at him.
Hoo! Atropos thought, mentally pursing her lips. No girl that age should know concepts like that!
Niobe had to agree. Liberated women evidently learned things younger than did the conventional woman of prior generations, whatever the language.
Samurai's rage turned to something like awe, then to disgust. He snapped something back in Japanese. It seemed to translate to something like Atropos' concept of the geisha girl.
Clotho swung her hand at his head. He caught it and drew her in to him. He kissed her. She struggled, but could not escape. Slowly she relaxed.
That man sure can kiss! Atropos thought.
The taming of the shrew, Niobe agreed.
Then Clotho remembered herself. She bit Samurai on the lip. Then, at last, she remembered her powers. She flung out a thread and slid along it.
The man's arms were abruptly empty, for Fate was insubstantial when sliding. Astonished, he looked about.
There was Clotho, ten feet away. Samurai started toward her—and she slid through him to the other side. The watching students gaped. When he turned and started for her again, she slid to him, ducked down, and materialized at his legs, causing him to stumble over her. Then she slid another foot, passed through him, materialized again, and kicked him in the rear.
Samurai took a forward rolling break fall and came smoothly back to his feet. "Magic!" he cried. "My sword!"
The brown-belt hurried out, to return in a moment with a sheathed katana. Samurai took it and drew the gleaming blade. "I know how to deal with a witch!" Get out of here, girl! Atropos thought at Clotho. This time the girl heard. She sailed up a thread, out of the building.
Then, in air, she paused. "But this isn't accomplishing my mission!" she exclaimed.
"Welcome to reality, girl!" Atropos muttered, using the mouth now that they were alone. "If that man wasn't set to do Satan's business before, he sure is now!"
"But what can I do? I've cost him face!"
"What?"
"Face. I've embarrassed him in public, caused him to lose status."
"You mean he won't be reasonable now?" Atropos inquired dryly.
"He's not a bad man, just arrogant! I shouldn't have humiliated him!"
"Didn't he call you a whore?" Atropos asked, and Niobe realized that the wise old woman was leading the foolish young one to a reconsideration.
"He thought I was a geisha. That's—I'm sure he didn't intend it as an insult. It is an honored profession."
"Entertainer," Niobe put in. "Companion."
"Well, then, girl, go back and apologize!" Atropos snapped, sounding much the way she had when addressing the black teenager.
"It's not that simple," Clotho said, torn. "I'm a liberated woman. I don't hold with—with—"
"You'd rather tell him to go to Hell?" Atropos demanded.
"No! When it's a matter of face—I didn't mean to do that!"
"Didn't mean to jump to a conclusion and bawl him out in gutter-Japanese?" Atropos asked.
"I—the old ways—all my life I've opposed—"
"Girl, you think your new ways look any better?"
"No," Clotho whispered. "I—overreacted."
"Well, we'd better go back and try to explain," Niobe said, "or we'll have to cut his thread."
"No!" Clotho cried in anguish.
"She's not that liberated," Atropos said.
"Well, he is quite a man," Niobe said.
"Quite a man," Clotho echoed ruefully.
"Look, girl, you go on back there," Atropos directed Clotho. "But this time listen to us. We'll help you, same's you helped me with that homework. Ain't none of us knows it all, if you want it in my dialect. We'll get that man re-faced, somehow."
Clotho laughed, somewhat hysterically. "It won't work! It doesn't work that way!"
"Let's try it anyway," Atropos said. "He's a man, and you're one good-looking young woman. He'll listen. What've we got to lose?"
Clotho shrugged fatalistically, then slid back down the thread.
The class was already back in session, but the brown-belt cried out the moment Clotho materialized. She walked by him and into the hall to the office.
Samurai was there, sponging off his face. He froze as he saw Clotho in the mirror.
Apologize, Atropos ordered.
"I—I came to apologize," Clotho said.
Samurai turned. "Only blood will make this right," he said grimly.
"I—I can't give you that."
"Who are you?"
Clotho hesitated. I don't think it would be smart to tell him our nature, Niobe thought. It would seem like a threat.
"I—I am a supernatural creature," Clotho said. "That is why I could not—"
"A witch!" he exclaimed.
"No. A woman. But not—like others."
Almost, he smiled. "Not like others," he agreed.
"Samurai, how can I make it right?" Clotho asked. "I did not mean to—you made me angry—"
"Because I thought you a geisha?"
"This is America! Women are independent, not the playthings of men!"
He nodded. "I mistook you for Japanese."
That stung. "I am Japanese—but liberated. I—I left my family because I—would not follow the medieval ways."
"Those ways are good ways!" he said.
"Will you accept my apology?"
"No. Only blood will scour that humiliation clean."
She spread her hands pleadingly. "Samurai, I am immortal. I cannot give you blood. But if we cannot work this out, I will have to take yours."
He touched his nose. "You have already done that."
"All yours," she said.
"Then take it!" he exclaimed. "Bring your champion to meet my katana! Then will the debt be settled."
Accept! Niobe thought.
"But—"
"Today," he said. "Here in my dojo. Before my students, where the insult occurred."
Accept! Niobe repeatedly urgently.
"All right," Clotho said faintly. "This—this afternoon."
Samurai seemed surprised. "You accept?"
Now tell him our business, Niobe thought.
"Yes. I will—bring my champion here. To meet you. Now may I tell you why I came here?"
Samurai inclined his head. "You do intrigue me, woman."
"Someone will come to offer you something, for a service—"
"He already has."
Clotho paused. We're closer to the deadline, Niobe thought.
"You must not do it!" Clotho said.
"Why not?"
"It is Satan making the offer. He means to bomb the United Nations—"
"What do I care about the United Nations?"
"This—if this happens, there will be discord among the nations, perhaps war—"
"What's wrong with war?"
Baffled, Clotho stared at him.
He's a martial artist, Niobe thought. A warrior. He likes combat.
Ask him if he wants his soul to go to Hell, Atropos suggested.
"If you do this, if you serve Satan, your soul will be his."
"How can you know this?" Samurai demanded.
"I—know."
"Why should I believe you?"
Better tell him, after all, Atropos thought, and Niobe agreed.
"Because I am Fate," Clotho said.
"Now you are insulting my intelligence!"
"What proof do you require?"
"No proof, woman! I will not be mocked!"
Ask him what Satan offered, Niobe thought.
"What did Satan offer you, to deliver that package?"
"You cannot imagine the value of—" He broke off. "It wasn't Satan."
"One of his agents. It doesn't matter who came to you; it is Satan's offer."
Samurai considered. "He offered the secret of the finger death."
"The what?"
"I have searched for it for years. A blow so light it may be struck with a single finger that causes death within the hour. It causes the autonomic system to malfunction progressively until the body cannot cope."
"You want to kill someone with one finger?"
"No. Merely to have the ability to do it."
"And for this you agreed to bomb the UN?"
"No. Just to carry a package there. And I haven't agreed; I will decide tomorrow."
"You must turn it down!"
"That is not for you to say. Who is your champion?"
Mars, Niobe thought. He will help if we ask him.
"Mars."
"Who?"
"The Incarnation of War."
"Still you mock me!" he exclaimed. "There are no such things as Incarnations of Fate and War! I will not tolerate mockery after injury!"
"But he will come here!" Clothe said.
"I will allow no stranger here today!"
We'll bring him anyway, Niobe thought. Samurai thinks he is being mocked, but he will believe when he sees Mars!
"We will be here," Clotho said. Then she extended a thread and slid away, barefooted.
Back in the Abode, they reviewed what had happened. They agreed that Samurai had not intended to insult Clotho by his reference to geisha; he had honestly mistaken her purpose in approaching him. Probably he encountered a number of young women who wished to have a personal or sexual relationship with a master martial artist. So Clotho's angry reaction had been unwarranted. They also agreed that Samurai was basically a decent man whose thread should not be prematurely cut, and that his loss efface had to be compensated for. But not by blood!
Clotho promised to consult with the other Aspects before she exploded like that again. She had been ready to commit suicide after being cast out other family, and that militancy of reaction remained. She tended to go too far. "After all," she conceded, "some male sexist pigs may be decent sorts, when allowance is made."
And here was a delicate aspect, "If you could get Samurai to turn Satan down, by being what Samurai took you for," Niobe asked, "would you do it?"
Clotho suffered a siege of sheer rage. Then she calmed, realizing that she was about to react exactly as she had promised not to. "I don't know," she whispered.
As it had been with Chronos, Niobe thought. When she herself had been Clotho. The role of Fate required its sacrifices, not so much of conscience as of image. The current Clotho thought of herself as liberated, but she was bound.
"Now we must recruit Mars," Niobe said. "I know him of old; he will help. But I do not know this particular office-holder, and it is better that he not know my past; that is one secret we must keep from all until we deal with Satan. So Clotho should approach him her way, and put the matter into his hands."
Clotho sighed. "This office and Aspect have many burdens!"
Niobe laughed. "What else is new? Would you trade it?"
"No."
Atropos smiled. "I think we're getting it together." Clotho rode the thread to Mars. He was near the Iran - Iraq border, supervising a locally savage skirmish. "These folk of Babylon and Persia are really dedicated to my purpose," he remarked with satisfaction as Clotho approached. Then he took a second look at her. "Well, Clotho, you have changed! Did that sweet Hungarian girl get tired?"
"She fell in love," Clotho said, as if Lisa had died. Mars laughed. "That's a liability of your type! You're all right until you get mushy about a man, then you sag into—"
Clotho's temper flared again. She spoke a few sharp words in Japanese.
Mars smiled. "And you are the mother of a sickly dog," he responded in the same language. Niobe and Atropos picked up the meaning from Clotho's mind.
Clotho was aghast. "You understood!"
"Sweet stuff, War knows every language of mankind! If you wish to quarrel, you have come to the right party."
Now she was embarrassed. "I came here to ask your help."
"And right prettily you asked for it. Flower of the Orient! What can I do for you?"
Clotho explained how all three Aspects were new in their roles, so were having trouble handling Satan's machinations. "Now I have insulted this martial artist called Samurai, and must give him satisfaction before I can persuade him to—"
"Samurai! I know of him! He's a fine warrior, though perhaps not the match of those whose reputation he borrows. A man of the old school, with that old-fashioned pride. So he took you for a geisha!"
"Yes," Clotho agreed, embarrassed.
"And you kicked him in the butt before his class."
"Yes," she agreed faintly.
"You will have to give him blood."
"No! No killing!"
Mars made a gesture with his sword, and the fighting in the region ceased. The guns fell silent, and even the moans of the wounded faded out. "Woman, you have cost him face. You know what that means?"
"Yes," she said grimly.
"He is inflexible on matters of honor. Few like him exist today; he is steel in an age of rust and plastic—a genuine man. I can satisfy him on the martial level, but only you can abate his inner pain, and until you do, he will not do as you request. Nor should he. Death before dishonor, according to the great tradition."
"But we're trying to avoid death, to prevent war—" She faltered, staring at him.
"And I am War," Mars finished. "Woman, your dainty foot has a predilection for your mouth. But I understand. I am an Incarnation, and you are another. I will do what I can for you today, and some other time you will do what you can for me."
Clotho sighed. "So all males want only one thing!"
"You will adjust your threads to simplify my situation, when I get in a bind," Mars clarified. "This is the manner Incarnations cooperate."
"Oh." Clotho was flushing as well as she was able.
"The reason women suppose that men want only one thing," Mars continued blithely, "is that that is all women are capable of perceiving in men. Women do not properly comprehend matters like, for example, honor."
"That's not true!" Clotho exclaimed.
"Ah, so? Then let's discuss honor. You have impaired Samurai's honor; if you want to deal with him, you must yield him yours. You are of course a virgin—"
"How can you know that?" she demanded.
"It is one of the things we male sexists relate to," Mars said. "Now do you understand the blood you must offer to Samurai?"
Clotho hesitated, appalled.
He's right, Niobe thought.
It's the way men are, Atropos agreed.
"You like him, don't you?" Mars inquired cruelly.
Clotho launched herself at him, clawing at his face.
There goes that temper again, Niobe thought.
Girl's got spunk, Atropos agreed.
Mars caught her effortlessly. "I can see we're going to get along just fine," he said. "I love to have pretty girls leap into my arms. Well, I'll be there, and I'll set it up for you. But at the finish, it must be you and Samurai. You'll just have to decide how bad you want to square things. He's one fine man." He set her down and turned away, and the battle resumed.
Clotho stood, angry tears on her face, unable to counter Mars' insolence.
Let's get out of here, girl, Atropos thought. Numbly, Clotho extended a thread and slid back up toward Purgatory. Niobe sympathized with her. The girl had fought all her life for independence and equality, and now she was being thrust into the old sexist role. She was not the same person Niobe had been in her youth, yet she was close enough so that Niobe knew better than to interfere.
They had lunch and adjusted a few threads, preoccupied. Then Clotho donned slacks, low-heeled shoes, and a businesslike shirt, and rode a thread back down to the dojo.
Mars appeared as she landed before it. He was garbed in a white gi. Niobe had never been certain how Mars traveled, but it seemed to be related to his sword. Each Incarnation had a symbol of office that was imbued with much of the magic, and the red sword was obviously Mars' symbol.
"Follow me," Mars said, handing her his sword.
Clotho looked at it. The thing was unsheathed—a massive instrument, with a handle almost too big for her small hand to hold, and a gleaming double-edged blade that glowed red from some deep layer. The whole thing had a magical aura of menace; it made her nervous. She held it awkwardly by two hands, the blade pointing straight down.
Even Niobe was astonished. What's he up to? He never sets aside his red sword!
We'll find out soon enough, Atropos thought.
The girl at the desk recognized Clotho. "Please leave," she said. "You are not welcome here."
Mars leaned over the desk. "I am her champion. Signal your hirelings."
Two men appeared at the inner doorway. Both were in gis and wore black belts. "The lady has asked you to leave, mister," one said, stepping forward.
I think we're going to see some man-style foolishness, Atropos thought with a certain relish. When they don't have sex on their minds, they do like to fight.
"I have an appointment," Mars said. He stepped into the man, caught his outstretched arm, spun about, and sent him rolling across the floor.
The other man turned—and Mars' leg shot out and swept the other man's foot from under him, so that he landed on the floor with a resounding slap.
"Now go in and announce me," Mars said. "I expect a full turnout, and the courtesy of the dojo." Without further word, the two men hurried away. "But you could have hurt them!" Clotho protested. Mars walked back to Clotho and proffered his arm. "Not with a simple hand throw and a foot-sweep; they know how to take falls. I merely showed them a hint of my competence."
She held his sword out to him, but he demurred. "I shall not be using that here, but cannot trust it to the hand of a mortal. Hold it until we are done."
Clotho managed to hold the dread sword by one hand, and took his arm with the other. She walked with him through the bamboo curtain and down the hall toward the main chamber of the dojo. "Are you planning to fight all of them?"
"Certainly," Mars replied. "But—"
"I will run the line. Then it will be your turn."
"But—"
"Do not be concerned, cutes. It will be all right."
I hope so, Clotho thought nervously.
He knows what he's doing, Niobe thought reassuringly. The three of us may not know what he's doing, but he knows.
They reached the second curtain. "Take off your shoes," Mars told her. He was already barefoot. She took them off. They stepped through. About forty students were lined along the far wall, standing barefooted on the edge of the big mat. They seemed to be arranged roughly in order of rank, with the white-belts at one end and the black-belts at the other. There were, she noted, several women among them.
In the center of the mat stood Samurai. He turned to face them.
Mars stretched out his right arm. A red cloth appeared in his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he wound this belt about his middle and tied it in place with the odd knot that martial artists used. There was a murmur of amazement from the line of students. It was as if they had never seen a red belt before.
Is something significant happening? Niobe thought.
Mars stepped up to the mat, and halted, and bent forward at the waist. He's bowing to the mat! Atropos thought, finding it funny.
But Clotho had heard of this. "It's the ritual," she murmured. "Always bow when joining or leaving the tatami, the mat, for it breaks your fall and spares your bones. Always step on it barefooted."
Now Mars stepped onto the mat. "You assume the belt of a Master Dan," Samurai said, as if in challenge.
"You are observant," Mars replied.
Samurai turned and walked to the black end of the line of students. He dropped into a cross-legged seated position.
Mars faced the class, and bowed to the line. The line bowed back.
Then Mars strode forward and took hold of the student at the white end of the line. This was a young woman, so small and light that her bare feet left the mat when he brought her forward. He can't attack her! Niobe thought with horror.
Yet no one else protested, or even seemed dismayed. They merely watched.
Mars brought her to the center of the mat and held her by the right lapel and left sleeve other gi. "Try a throw," he told her.
The girl turned and hauled on his jacket. She got nowhere. Then Mars stepped back, drawing her along with him so that she had to step quickly forward to avoid losing her balance. At the moment her right foot touched the mat, his left foot swept against it. Her foot went up and she fell backward. She landed on the mat, her left arm outstretched, slapping the mat resoundingly, her right arm captive to his grip.
"De-ashi harai," Mars said. "The Advanced-Foot Sweep. Remember it." Then he let her go, and she scrambled up, bowed hastily, and returned to the line.
Mars nodded to the next student, a boy in white belt. The boy came out, took hold, and tried a throw of his own. It also got nowhere.
Mars drew him forward, as before, but this time set his left foot against the boy's kneecap and hauled him into a tumble on the mat. "Hiza-guruma," Mars said. "The Knee-Wheel. Practice your falls, son, or you'll get hurt."
"Yessir!" the boy exclaimed, scrambling up, bowing, and running back to his place in the line.
Mars nodded to the third student, another woman in a white belt. Again he gave her the chance to try to throw him, and she failed; then he threw her spinning to the mat with a hand-and-foot motion that seemed to be in between that of the prior two throws. "Sasae-tsurikomi-ashi," he said. "The Propping-Drawing-Ankle Throw."
There was a murmur along the line. "He's doing the First Course of Instruction!" someone said behind Clotho. She turned to look. A brown-belt had come in behind her, off the mat. It was the instructor of the morning beginners' class; evidently he had returned too late to join this one, so was watching from the side.
"Is that significant?" Clotho asked.
Now he recognized her. "You're the—"
"The same," she agreed. "I brought my champion to meet Samurai."
"In a red belt!" he murmured, amazed. "That's ninth or tenth Dan!"
"Is that good?"
"Oh—you don't know judo?"
"Nothing," she confessed. "I just came to talk to Samurai, and then things went wrong."
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Just so," he said after a moment. "Very well, I'll be glad to explain. The master grades of judo are the Dan, as opposed to the student grades, the kyu. The Dan are black belt. But the very highest grades may wear the red belt. Normally such grades are only achieved as honors for service to the art, by masters who no longer compete. A competitor with a red belt should be the finest judoka in the world."
"Oh, that explains why the class was so surprised."
"It certainly does. As far as I know, there is no living, competing red belt today. So this man is bound to be an impostor."
"He is Mars, the Incarnation of War."
"Oh? Then maybe he—" The brown-belt shrugged. He returned to her prior question. "There's nothing wrong with the First Course," he explained. "They're all good throws. But once people catch on to the order, they'll know exactly which throw he's going to do next. That makes it much harder. It doesn't matter for the white-belts, but he'd have trouble throwing me with a throw I expected, and it would probably be impossible with a black-belt."
Mars threw the next student over his right hip. "There's the fourth—Uki-goshi, the Floating Hip Throw," the brown-belt said. "I've never seen it done better. But I wonder where he could have gotten his training?"
Mars threw the next backward. "O-soto-gari," the brown-belt murmured. "He certainly knows the basics."
The next student fell. "And O-goshi," the brown-belt said.
"Didn't he just do that one?"
"No, that was Uki-goshi, a different throw. It looks similar and the footwork is similar, but the feel is quite different. Uke takes a much harder fall."
"But I thought Uki was the throw, not the faller."
The brown-belt smiled. "You really don't know, do you? The one who does the throwing is always called Tori, the taker, and the one who gets thrown is Uke, the receiver. Anyway, the Uki-goshi is done stiff-kneed, while O-goshi flexes the knees, and—oh, there's O-uchi-gari, the Major Inner Reaping! Beautiful!"
Clotho—and Niobe—were having trouble distinguishing the throws. They were ready to take the brown-belt's word that they were being properly done. Clotho took advantage of his presence to ask another question. "What is this—this running the line?"
"Well, a challenger shows his superiority by defeating a number of others in rapid order," the brown-belt said. "For example, a black-belt should be able to run a line of five brown-belts and throw them all, because his skill is greater. When the line is mixed, they do the lowest grades first, the Kyus, and work up to the Dans. Of course, by the time someone has thrown twenty or thirty people, he's apt to be getting tired, so it gets harder both ways. No one has ever run our full line victoriously; if your friend makes it, he will have proved his rank. Some of ours are Sandans, and one's a Yodan, and of course Samurai is Rokudan, the sixth level, and the champion of the eastern states. He'll be world champion one day, if he decides to go for it."
"He might not go for it?"
"Well, he's getting old for competition, and judo is only part of his interest. He's a master in karate, too, and aikido, and his specialty is the sword; no one can touch him there. He's been searching for this mythical finger-strike, too— Say! Look at that Tsuri-komi-goshi! I've never seen a prettier throw! Did you see how he got full extension? I've never been able to do that on an Uke my own weight!"
The throw had looked just like all the others to Clotho and the other Aspects, but evidently there was a difference.
"But now he's into the yellow-belts, and when he hits the green-belts he'll have to work a little for it. Oh, nice Okuri-ashi-harai! That's not as easy as it looks."
Clotho was willing to take his word for it.
"God, I wish I was in that line!" the brown-belt said after the next throw. "It's a privilege to be thrown by a master like that! Is he really the Incarnation of War?"
"Yes, he—"
"Oh, there's the Uchi-mata! Samurai himself couldn't have done it better!"
They watched while Mars moved into the green-belts. They were trying to throw him and failing as dismally as the white-belts had, and had no better success in resisting the return throws.
"That's amazing!" the brown-belt commented. "I've never seen someone give them a chance like that; usually they put them away as fast as they can. He's got a lot of confidence."
"He should," Clotho said, though she was amazed herself.
Then she saw Mars drop down. Someone had thrown him! But immediately the brown-belt opponent fell too. Both of them were lying on the mat.
"Yoko-otoshi! The Side Drop!" the brown-belt exclaimed. "Beautiful!"
"You mean it's supposed to look like that?" Clotho asked.
"Of course. It's a sacrifice throw."
"Oh."
They watched several more standing throws. Then Mars went down again. He had his foot in the other's belly, and lifted him over so that he did a roll and landed on his back. "Tomoe-nage, the Stomach Throw," the brown-belt said.
The throws continued as Mars progressed three-quarters of the way down the line. There seemed to be no end to them. But obviously the class was highly impressed.
"Soto-makikomi," the brown-belt remarked as both men went down again. "I hate to take falls on that one! Of course it's a power-throw; there's not much stopping it once it starts. If he can do the next one, the Ukiotoshi—"
It seemed to Niobe that the brown-belt who was Uke at the moment simply threw himself on the mat, but the one beside her whistled softly. "Perfect!"
A black-belt came out of the line. Mars waited while the man tried a foot-sweep without success, then said, "Try another." There was a chuckle along the line.
"What's so funny?" Clotho asked.
"The situation. He's up to the thirty-seventh throw in the Basic Forty. That's Ushiro-goshi, the Rear Loin. It's a counter-throw following an attempted hip-throw. Clyde didn't try a hip-throw."
Clyde tried a sacrifice throw, without effect; it was as if Mars were an immovable wall. There was another chuckle.
Then, moving like lightning, Clyde tried a hip-throw— and Mars picked him up and threw him to the mat. Clyde had gambled and lost. He got up, bowed, and smiled; he didn't mind losing to an artist of that skill. "And he did it left-side," the brown-belt murmured in awe. "Clyde tried to fool him, left-side, and he was ready."
"Left-side is different?"
"And how! I really sweat on them!"
The last man in the line approached and took hold, but declined to try a throw. "Randori," he said.
"What does that mean?" Clotho asked.
"That's our Yodan,"' the brown-belt said. "He's a top competitor; he doesn't like to do stationary throws. He prefers to counter, or to seize his opportunity. He knows your man will try the Yoko-gake, the Side Body Drop; he wants to make him do it in a moving situation."
"Interesting," Clotho said, unenlightened.
The two men moved about the mat, almost as if dancing together. Suddenly the black-belt screamed piercingly, his foot moving like lightning. But Mars' foot moved too, just as fast—and they both fell to the mat.
The brown-belt shook his head. "Beautiful! He did it!"
"But how do you know who threw whom? And why the scream?"
The brown-belt smiled. "The scream was a kiai yell, to facilitate the throw. Didn't work, this time. And sometimes it can be hard to tell, on a throw. I saw a match once where the award was given to the wrong judoka, before the judges corrected it. But this one was a perfect Yoko-gake, no question."
Indeed, the class seemed to know it. Mars returned to the center of the mat, and exchanged bows with the class. It seemed he had successfully run the line.
"And he's not even tired!" the brown-belt murmured.
Then Mars walked to the edge of the mat, stepped off, turned about, and bowed to it. "All right, girl," he said gruffly. "He has to meet you now."
"He what?"
"As your champion I conquered his class. I did not challenge Samurai himself. It is you who must meet him." He took her by the elbow, urging her forward. "Honor the tatami."
Bemused, Clotho bowed and stepped onto the mat. "But I've still got your sword!"
"Precisely. It's an outrage. Get out there." Like a zombie, Clotho walked across the mat. The class watched, unmoving.
Is he crazy? Atropos thought. This girl doesn't know anything about swords, and she doesn't want to shed blood.
It's probably an insult to the dojo to carry a weapon onto the mat, too, Niobe thought. But Mars must have a reason.
Samurai bounded to his feet. In a moment his own sword was in his hand. "For this you must die!" he cried, striding forward.
Are you sure we're immortal? Atropos thought nervously.
Well... Niobe thought, abruptly uncertain. When she had been Clotho, she had never faced a test like this.
But abruptly the red sword lifted in Clotho's hand. It was a heavy monster, but now it was featherlight. It assumed a guard position.
"Get out of here!" Samurai cried, making a threatening gesture.
The red sword moved to intercept his weapon. Metal clanged on metal.
The enchanted sword has made us expert, Niobe thought, amazed.
Goaded beyond reason by that gesture of defiance, Samurai attacked in earnest. He's as hot-tempered as she is! Atropos thought.
Two of a kind, Niobe agreed.
The red sword moved rapidly to counter the strike against it. Samurai struck again, and again the red sword blocked. He could not get through that guard.
"But this is not what I want!" Clotho whispered. "This will never bring him to reason!"
Indeed, the longer it continued, the more plain it was becoming that Samurai, for all his dazzling skill, could not penetrate the guard of Mars' sword. Samurai would very shortly look like a colossal fool.
You've got two choices, girl, Atropos thought. Either attack, which means you'll probably kill him at one stroke, or—
"No!" Clotho cried. She flung away the red sword and sank to her knees before Samurai. "Take my blood!"
If he strikes, Niobe thought, alarmed, either we'll be dead, or he'll be ultimately humiliated.
Samurai paused, as surprised as anyone. "You yield?"
"Everything!" Clotho cried, the tears streaming down her face.
Samurai paused. His fighting rage drained out of him almost visibly. Indeed, Clotho was a piteous figure of a woman.
He held his sword to the side. A student hastily came to take it away. "Then I am satisfied," Samurai said, extending his hand.
Clotho took it in both her own and kissed it.
The harder they fall... Atropos thought wryly.
"That isn't necessary," Samurai said, embarrassed. "Do not humiliate yourself more than is required." He drew her back to her feet, then turned and nodded to the class. Immediately they filed out of the room, each bowing as he or she stepped off the mat.
Clotho found a hanky and dabbed at her face. "I'm sorry I—"
"Accepted," Samurai said gently.
"I wanted to be liberated, but—"
"Liberation has its appeal, when understood," he said. "This is, after all, America. I would not have you other than you are. Will you join me for dinner this evening?"
She smiled. "I will."
They walked to the edge of the mat, bowed as they stepped off, and smiled at each other.
Samurai glanced at the brown-belt, who remained in the room, standing beside Mars. "Convey his sword to the Incarnation of War," Samurai said. "It is a remarkable weapon."
The brown-belt bowed himself onto the mat and hurried to pick up the fallen sword. But he was unable to; the thing seemed anchored in place. He strained to lift it, and could not.
"Permit me," Mars murmured. He raised his right hand—and the red sword floated up and across the mat, dipped momentarily at its edge as if bowing, and moved to his hand. Mars gravely sheathed it.
"And a remarkable man," Samurai said, exchanging bows with Mars. Then Mars turned and walked out of the dojo.
Samurai turned to Clotho. "I regret that I mistook you. Yet is it acceptable for Fate to—"
Clotho touched his lips with a finger. "I am just a woman—now."
He nodded. "Tonight, then."
"Tonight."
Clotho walked out of the dojo. Outside, she extended a thread and ascended.
"But we never got his commitment on the bomb," Atropos remembered.
"We shall have it—tonight," Niobe replied. "And, unless I mistake Mars, he will give Samurai the secret of the finger-strike. As a token of esteem, not as a bribe."
"I've got a lot to learn," Clotho said.
And it was so—on all counts.
