Constable v. Construction Worker

The workmen work all day. What's left of the hideous shack are only those materials that could not be applied to the new: absurdly warped planks, rotted wood, rusted chicken wire, rusted metal sheets, and so on. An irregular rhomboid of dead grass outlines the spot where the old shack lay. In the middle of this unnatural clearing stands an incongruous two-foot red rock, once claimed by weeds encroached upon it from the well, but now bare and bright, casting a shadow in the noonday sun.

Nearby the workmen weatherproof the clapboard cabin with moss from the forest to the east.

As their work nears completion, the Constable arrives and, in no easy terms, requests housing. The workmen look to Pepple. Pepple twists his gaze. The Constable looks inside, through a doorway open to the west.

The cabin is ten feet long by ten feet wide, with an arched roof ten feet at its peak. The interior is clean and uncluttered. A single bed sits at one end, made with cloth stitched together from the best of those clothes belonging to previous duelists. Likewise, curtains for the three windows (north, east, and south) have been made from similar reclaimed cloth. A chair and desk sit facing south. The small franklin stove squats in the northeast corner, atop which lies a cast-iron pot. Beside the stove is a small table or cupboard stacked with unlabeled jars. Shelves line the cabin above the desk and above the bed, and the shelves are full with a variety of books, all old and many mouldering.

One workman - after a look from Pepple - pulls the Constable away.

The workmen are two. One is a Construction Worker and one is a Contractor. The Construction Worker is an apprentice to the Contractor. The Construction Worker pulls the Constable from the cabin. He pulls him hard. The Constable stumbles back, trips over a mound, and falls back with a thump on the hard, still-wet ground.

Oh buddy, coughs the Constable, staggering to his feat, that's right where you've gone wrong.

The Constable dusts off his uniform - navy blue shirt, open-collar, navy blue polyester slacks, flashlight, sans weapon - and lunges toward the Construction Worker. The two men scuffle. So close as to prove ineffective, half-punches are thrown, and poor wrestling moves. Finally the Contractor breaks up the fight. With both men apart, the Contractor asks them to reason out their differences. The Contractor, rebuffed and humiliated by the fall the Construction Worker caused him, doesn't listen. As the Contractor talks, he spits in the Construction Worker's eye.

The two have at it again.

Both are separated once more. Both men have a look of inconsolable hatred.

If I didn't have a duel to be at, says the Constable, I'd kill you.

And if I didn't have a duel to be at, says the Construction worker, I'd kill you.

Then they realize that, as luck would have it, the duel is theirs.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Congressman v. Constable

The Congressman stands by the side of the pit, head hung in a show of mourning, as Pepple shovels dirt and dry bone over the body of the Con Artist. After the burial, the Congressman shakes Pepple's hand.

I hope you don't think less of me for killing this man, says the Congressman.

Pepple shakes his head. He wipes the sweat from his forehead. It's a warm, humid day. Storm clouds form in the west. To the north, the workmen throw a weathered plank roof atop a layer of corrugated tin. As Pepple turns to face the clouds, his face in profile, the strangest notion dawns on the Congressman: that he's seen this man before. The circumstance of Pepple's existence bars him from believing this, however. His constituency may be nearby, but at no rally or public meeting has he met a man as paradoxical: a man of ravaged attire, largely unwashed, stinking of sweat and work, hair and beard matted; yet with eyes dark and silent and keen, back upright, stance assured.

Pepple returns to supervise the building of the new cabin, which is coming along at fast and steady pace.

If only I could place him, thinks the Congressman.

As the Congressmen stands pondering by the freshly covered grave, a marmot shuffles through the grass up the oak. At the base of the oak he stops, stands, and looks. When the Congressman turns, he sees the marmot pointing his paw toward the South Pointing Marmot, who points its paw south. The marmot and the Congressman lock eyes. The marmot lowers his paw, blinks, and shuffles back to the bulrushes along the creek to the southeast.

It rains and thunders. The Congressman opens an umbrella left leaning against the oak, and stands beneath it. The bottoms of his khakis wet.

Then it stops raining.

Then the Constable arrives and the Congressman welcomes the Constable. The Constable voted against the Congressman, and he tells him this within minutes of their meeting.

Soft on evil-doers, says the Constable. That's the reason you lost my vote.

The Congressman asks him to explain. The Constable regurgitates the defense of death by drowning which he'd heard from a Pundit, a guest on a television program, whose book Death By Water was widely cited though never read, or very seldom read, and very certainly not read by the Constable, who restates the argument poorly.

That book was satirical, says the Congressman. I don't think anyone would advocate death by drowning for all criminals, petty or otherwise, or the rioters in the cities, or the strikers. Of course the Pundit doesn't mean that.

Of course he means it, and I mean it, too, the Constable says stiffly. Why write a book on it if you don't mean it?

Someone thought the starving Irish should eat their own babies. Do you think he meant that?

Now that's just crazy, says the Constable. (Though secretly he thinks it might not be a bad idea, given the circumstances.)

Suddenly it hits the Congressman. Stetson! he shouts.

Pepple turns.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Con Artist v. Congressman

Having felt the wake of a live bullet against his cheek, having heard the dull whine of the bullet pass his ear, the Con Artist begins to grow concerned over the matter of his mortality. He asks himself whether he's led a good life.

It was as good as life as my character would allow, he concludes. To live off the means of a job one loves is noble and fortunate. If I can lure a man as smart as I into believing something he wouldn't otherwise believe, and benefit off his mistaken belief? Well, who wouldn't call that a talent? True, my talent runs against common morality. But think of the virtue shown in the face of this morality! I live well, I'm of pleasant demeanor - even to those that can't help me advance myself. Should I have cast my prowess aside just because, in the eyes of most, it fosters injustice? Does it foster injustice - or isn't there justice in the wittier man's gain? Not taken by force, mind you, but by guile! Is this wrong? Am I evil?

Am I evil? he asks Pepple.

Pepple drags the body of the Conductor (Symphony) to the crumbling pit of dry bone and skull, and throws him in, and piles the soil atop, until covered.

Am I evil? he asks the oak.

The oak waves its tall branches in the late spring breeze.

Am I evil? he asks the creek.

The creek burbles, water lapping in rhythmic pattern over the shore, the rocks, swirling in eddies, joining and rejoining.

Am I evil? he asks the road.

The road stretches forward and backward, connecting and reconnecting with a network of roads universal.

Am I evil? he asks the South Pointing Marmot.

The South Pointing Marmot points south.

Am I evil? he asks the shadowy marmot poking its head from tall rushes along the creek by the forest.

The marmot let's high-pitched whistle, then dashes away through the brush.

Am I evil? he asks the Congressman.

The Congressman uses his tie to wipe dust from the locking mechanism of the pistol he's chosen.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Con Artist v. Conductor (Symphony)

The workmen hammer away. Pepple sits in his adirondack chair, reading and smoking.

The Conductor (Symphony), or Conductor of Symphonies arrives.

This is a Dueling Clock, says the Con Artist.

Bull, says the Conductor of Symphonies.

Bull?

Bull.

The Con Artist scratches his chin. Bull, he repeats. Huh.

That's a non-magnetic compass, says the conductor. Shot by a bullet.

The Con Artist folds his arms.

Look at me, says the Conductor of Symphonies. Do you think this is my first duel? My second? My fifth? See my arm.

(He shows him his arm, scarred.)

I've been in nine duels, says the Conductor, from Pennsylvania to Prague, I've looked down the barrel of nine revolvers.

The Con Artist smiles. Well, he says happily, you can't expect a man not to try to get a bit of a leg up on the competition, can you?

The Conductor of Symphonies wipes his nose. He selects his pistol.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Con Artist v. Conductor (Train)

The workman, assiduous in the construction of the new caretaker's cabin from the old, hideous shack, reach a point where a stranger - in this case, the Conductor (Train), or Conductor of Trains - wouldn't be able to tell whether they were

a) building a contained, orderly cabin from the planks of an open, malformed shack,
b) building a ramshackle, malformed shack from the planks of a contained, orderly cabin, or
c) building two structures - one contained and orderly, the other ramshackle and malformed - to stand side-by-side.

(Though, in fact, as the reader knows, the answer is a).)

Flashback to previous day, post-duel:

Directly after the bullet ricocheted off the cuttlefish-adorned facade of the brass panel of the Compasssmith's South Pointing Marmot, affixed to the Con Artist's chest for means of protection against bullets, two noises were heard.

Noise heard upon ricochet:

PING!

Second noise: death groan of Concierge:

Aauuaghhghhhhhhh.....

A bit later, in an attempt to replace the panel, the Con Artist finds that it doesn't snap back into place as it did so easily the previous day. Instead, because of the large dent in the cuttlefish's head, one side of the panel sticks out noticeably.

Return to the moment of the entry of the Conductor of Trains:

What in hot hell is this? the Conductor of Trains asks. He looks down at the South Pointing Marmot.

The Con Artist plays amazement. You haven't heard of the Dueling Clock? he cries.

The Conductor of Trains mumbles.

Oh, says the Con Artist, surely you have. No self-respecting, high-class duelist would ever duel without one.

The Dueling Clock?

The Dueling Clock!

The Conductor of Train nods slightly. Hm, yes, he murmurs, I think I have read about this....

Of course you've read about it, reassures the Con Artist. It's the device that ended the fashion of seconds. Why have seconds - why have a judge - when you have the Dueling Clock? When the bell rings once, the marmot turns, and when the marmot turns twice - a bell at each twelve - on the second twelve - pop! Both pistols off.

The Dueling Clock.

The Dueling Clock!

Huh, says the Conductor of Trains. I never thought it'd be this small, I suppose.

Small but priceless. Even if it is slightly damaged.

The Conductor of Trains looks at the hole in the side. He shakes his head in pity. Well, he says, I suppose it's bound to happen every so often.

You've got that right, smiles the Con Artist. He waves his hands over the pistols. Shall we? he asks.

They raise their guns. The Conductor (Trains) keeps his eyes welded to the Dueling Clock. A gun goes off.

Con Artist v. Concierge

You seem like a pretty shrewd guy, says the Con Artist, his hand resting on the Compasssmaker’s South Pointing Marmot. How much do you think we could get for this?

Pepple shrugs. He grabs the Compasssmith’s corpse under its arms and drags it off to the grave up north.

When he walks back the Con Artist, using a pen knife, pops open the thick south panel of the box beneath the bronze marmot. The two men look inside. They see a labyrinth of gears, locked together in seemingly chaotic fashion, but somehow combined, serving purpose—and alive. Any motion, even the natural tremor of the Con Artist’s hands, causes the gears to flutter and breathe. From deep within they hear (just behind the drone of crickets) the hum of tiny gyroscopes. A swift motion causes a flurry of spinning and wheeling. And yet, apart from the hum of the gyroscopes, the gears make no sound. The Con Artist replaces the panel. It locks into place.

Listen, says the Con Artist, I read that contract up there. I know that while this might not be mine, it sure isn’t yours. But we both know how it could be yours.

Pepple doesn’t take his eyes off the marmot. The Con Artist rubs his nose.

You want it, the Con Artist says, don’t you?

Pepple does want it. He frowns.

Tell you what, he smiles, how about we cut a small deal wherein you help me, and I help you bring home this little jewel? Easy as cake.

Pepple frowns.

Just be a matter of making my way out of here. Getting someone to take my place. Or maybe just walking, I don’t know. I heard what the Compasssmith said, how many duels he fought, and who fought before him. So let’s just cut the shit and start dealing.

Pepple considers.

From the edge of the forest, not far, the two men hear a high-pitched whistle. They turn. Nothing.

Pepple look the Con Artist in the eye. He walks off.

Gone, the Con Artist pops out the solid-brass south panel of the box and inserts it inside his shirt, over his heart.

The Concierge arrives, fresh and well-groomed. He approaches the oak, slicks his hair to the right, gently smoothes his waistcoat, and extends his hand to the Con Artist. Very little time passes before he, with a slight Toulousian accent, informs the Con Artist of a murderer who has, since last week, been on the loose.

I saw him, sir, with these very two eyes, from the upper window of a local hotel, says the Concierge. A tall man, provincial, with a beard, together with a tiny little fat man—like the character of Sancho Panza, but with a face of a goat. The tall man shot another man in white, and—before anything else, I called the police.

The Con Artist tells him he was wise to do so.

The Chief of Police picked up the phone. He told me, Sir, right away will I investigate. Perhaps he has made the arrest already.

Perhaps, says the Con Artist. But the two of us have a duel to attend.

As the Concierge takes the field, the Con Artist turns and lightly adjust the brass panel beneath his shirt.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Compasssmith v. Con Artist

The Compasssmith walks across the field and watches the workmen. They seem to disappear within their work as the Compasssmith approaches, either behind quickly erected walls or within rust-spotted toolboxes. In this way, by happenstance, their faces are continuously kept from view.

Pepple sits in his adorondack chair, smoking and reading. Though the Compasssmith's presence is obvious, neither he nor the workmen acknowledge it. They continue working, and reading. Finally, after several minutes of silence, the Compasssmith asks the title of Pepple's book.

Pepple's silent for a moment as he finishes the paragraph, then gently inserts a slender yarrow stick between the pages, closes the book, and turns to the Compasssmith. The Approach to Al-Mu'tasim, he says plainly.

Overview of The Approach to Al-Mu'tasim and its creation, by Allen B. Ruch:

Written by a lawyer from Bombay, this is an unusual novel that combines Islamic mysticism and allegory with a strange sort of detective story. Originally a cheaply published book in Bombay, the popularity of the work brought almost immediate fame to its author. In essence, it is the story of a law student in Bombay who surprisingly commits a murder, and is subsequently drawn into the lower strata of Indian society. There he becomes obsessed with finding a "perfect man," Al-Mu'tasim, by analyzing the imprint he leaves in others. This book -- the original version -- is extremely rare, and has never been reprinted beyond the original 4,000 copies.

So a who-dunnit, then, nods the Compasssmith.

Pepple gives a perfunctory smile. He returns to the book.

The Compasssmith rocks on the soles of his feet, hands in his pockets. He watches the workers work. He feels the cool breeze against his back. Then, though feeling awful over the deaths he's caused and wanting nothing more than to talk - not of the deaths, but of anything but the deaths, to take his mind from the guilt - he makes to leave. I'm taking off to wait by the oak, he tells everyone. No one responds. He returns to the oak.

That's the point, buddy, says the Con Artist later, at the oak. - that's the point. If you want something in life, you've got to either take it or make it. Now this thing here - this beautiful piece of machinery - I think the others were leading you wrong. This has gotta be original. Did you ever read about anything like this?

The Compasssmith admits he hasn't.

Neither have I, says the Con Artist. And my friend let me tell you right upfront: I'm a very well-read man. If I haven't read it, chances are it's new.

The Con Artists looks again at the South Pointing Marmot.

Pfft, he laughs. Just look at it. Brilliant!

The Compasssmith isn't quiet convinced, but he's certainly flattered.

You know the only way to know for sure? asks the Con Artist. You've got to ask that weird caretaker. You said he's a big reader, too, right? Maybe he has an encyclopedia in that shack, who knows?

The Compasssmith regards the idea. He thinks its pretty good one. So the Con Artist tells him to march over to the cabin and ask Pepple.

I think I will, says the Compasssmith.

Great! says the Con Artist.

When the Compasssmith is gone, the Con Artist puts six blank shell casings in one pistol. The Compasssmith returns. He seems resigned.

He said that the idea's been around since the Yellow Emperor Huang Di.

And he showed you that in writing, asks the Con Artist.

Encyclopedia Brittanica Eleventh Edition.

Well, says the Con Artist, handing him the pistol loaded with blanks, I hope you have better luck in the duel.

They raise their guns, one gun goes off.