Demolitionist v. Dentist

After the duel the Demolitionist quietly begins pacing the length of the grounds. At last, along the creek that marks the southern border, just north of where the Astrophysicist drove his motorized wheelchair off the two foot-high bank, he sees a clay pipe half buried beneath pebbles and grit. The pipe's old and worn, with algae clinging to the downstream fringe, waving gently in the current.

Following the direction of the pipe, he notes that it aims to a spot just east of the great mound to the northwest of the grounds - not directly to the well. In the other direction, the pipe leads out past the marshland. He strains to see vines and foliage covering a sloped embankment far, far to the south, perpendicular to the direction of the valley.

When he makes to jump across the river to get a better view, an arrow cuts silently into the soft ground before him. He snaps his head to the direction from where it was shot: the forest, not forty paces away. The trees shake. He pulls the arrow from the ground and examines it: it's fletched from scratch, with crow feathers for stabilizers, and a polished, sharpened scrap metal spike for a tip.

When the Dentist arrives the following morning he takes her to where the pipe runs across the creek. He identifies it as an old insulation pipe, its interior coated with lead. Then he points south to the southern embankment.

And that's a private dam, he says. Concrete covered in creeper.

The Dentist strains to see.

Out of view a beaver hits its tail against the calm water.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Demolitionist v. Dental Assistant

Lacking much direction after the duel - and being the type of man in constant need for direction, or an outlet for his thoughts; being an extrovert, in other words - the Demolitionist saunters north to chat with Pepple, who sits in the shade of his shack, reading.

The only thing different about Pepple since the Curator's visit is the addition of a panama hat (previously the Curator's) that sits at a jaunty angle over his agreeably trimmed scalp. That and the number of books - now four - that lie in a neat stack beside his Adirondack chair. The books are hard-bound, aged, and worn. Their titles are difficult to read from the angle of the Demolitionist's view. The top seems clearly a volume on esoteric interpretation, the Tree of Life pressed in gilt on the leather cover.

Pepple interrupts his reading to chat for a few minutes. He reveals the nature of the aerial.

Just for curiosity's sake, asks the Demolitionist, where do you get the power for the radio?

He's right to be curious. No power lines run from the road. The roof's without solar panels. No generator fires.

Pepple dog-ears his book, stands, and leads the Demolitionist to the side of his cabin, from which a black cable runs. The cable's of an old make, easily decades old, from the dawn of the electrical age: a thick layer vulcanized rubber melted into coarse hemp insulates twined copper wire. The Demolitionists tugs the cable lightly. It lifts from the grass, leading in the direction of the nearby well.

It's from down there? he asks Pepple, turning.

Pepple nods and returns to his seat, finished with conversation. The Demolitionist looks back and forth between the cable and the well, then at Pepple. Puzzled, he leaves for the oak.

That evening, as the sky darkens, he sees the flicker of light from Pepple's cabin - then a dim luminescence from the south window. Inside, Pepple tilts his head, listening closely to the signal on the AM band. He scribbles phrases on a pad.

The next day the Dental Assistant arrives. She's a pretty young woman not yet in her thirties. A few seconds of conversation reveals her to be phlegmatic to the extreme. Her actions are marked, her reactions gauged. Her preparations are extensive, clinical. She's the first to question whether the heads of their bullet should be sanitized prior to the duel.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Demographer v. Demolitionist

While Pepple studies several open books laid about him in the shade of his cabin, the Demographer and the Demolitionist agree on the importance of keeping the correct person-to-building ratio.

Business is really booming, says the Demolitionist. That's an old Demolitionist joke - but it's true, especially given today's circumstances. Hell if I didn't demolish six destitute tenements earlier this week, and twice that many single-family homes. All on the fringes of the city. Sure I feel bad for the squatters --

But they're the responsibility of the Civil Servant, finishes the Demographer.

Exactly.

The Demographer asks the biggest thing the Demolitionist destroyed. Answer: a dam.

They're spotted all over this area on maps. Small private dams, beaver dams, larger public dams. I read an old map that indicated the presence of one near here. Very small, built ages ago. But you know they built those early dynamos to last. Could still be pumping power... to God knows what, but power nevertheless.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Deputy v. Demographer

Did you know, says the Demographer, that we haven't been able to get a solid census of this area for over six decades? the Demographer asks the Deputy. The towns are difficult, he continues, but the outland regions - locations like this, for example, are nearly impossible. All we can go by is rumor and speculation. That leads to poor data.

The Deputy, who skipped out of the last census taking, grunts.

We think there are about a thousand in the woodland areas to the east. Again, it's impossible to tell for sure. Between the hunters and trappers, hermits and recluses, let alone the primitives? It's anyone's guess.

But, he claps his hands, its the way it goes, huh?

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Cyberathlete v. Deputy

It's early morning when the Cyberathlete wakes to the sound of a diesel engine sputter to life in the distance. He looks up from the grass and locates the direction of the sound. It comes from the north, just past the caretaker's cabin. When he stands he looks but the corn - now three feet high - prevents him from seeing the machine. Pepple stands nearby the well, watching.

Several minutes later Pepple turns it off the motor. Then, after a careful turn at the base of the well, he disappears. The Cyberathlete walks onto the mound to the northwest of the field, curious to see if Pepple's merely stooping. Atop the mound he sees the top of the engine - connected to a pump, or similar mechanism - but no caretaker. He returns to the oak.

The Deputy arrives in uniform. The topic of conversation quickly turns to the riots in the streets of the city.

If I were Mayor I'd let the militia fire right into the crowd, says the Deputy.

They do that already.

And they should all the time. Its only until they see blood in the streets, you take my word, right like a river down the storm drains what'll make wise to rights. There's a thing as called public order. It needs to be put back square in place.

They arrested over a hundred just the other day, recalls the Cyberathlete, in the slums.

A hundred from a crowd's not much. Just like a ritual they do that always every mass lawbreaking.

It's not long before the Cyberathlete discovers the Deputy to be the wholly irrepressible fool he is. The Cyberathlete turns. The Deputy continues talking.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Cyberathlete v. Dancer

Clouds drift unceremoniously across the swollen sky. The Cyberathlete, sitting in the sun just out of the oak's shadow, watches them with unfathomable boredom. He's a young man, very young, whose contest winnings have over the course of several years put him into a higher tax bracket than his father. He wears a t-shirt with the picture of a highly pixilated penguin on the front and the word GUN!!! printed underneath. He's never understood the charm of nature. Given that he's not the type to explore the potential for life outside an air-conditioned enclosure, he probably never will.

At night he falls asleep under the oak. He wakes to rain that only lasts a few minutes. He sits leans against the oak and falls back to sleep.

The next day the Dancer arrives. She seems dressed for the beach.

Wait, says the Cyberathlete, weren't you on Dance Dance Dance Party Dance Off?

The Dancer was. She came in third.

When the Cyberathlete begins discussing his profession - very earnestly - the Dancer grows bored and distracted. When it's clear that she wants nothing to do with him, he suggests they begin preparing for the duel.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Customs Officer v. Cyberathlete

Exposure to the country brings about a change in the Customs Officer.

Her home is the city port, a labyrinthine tangle of alleys and catwalks, between warehouses and stock exchanges, all leading to and from the long planked piers of the waterfront. Her home is in the garret of the customs house, where she lives with her husband (Fishmonger) and child (feckless). She's a necessarily hardened woman. But take her from under the overhang of the customs wharf and out to the sweet-smelling idyl of the grounds she now inhabits and a change comes over her: whereas before she was an officious, stubborn bureaucrat, she's now a slightly less officious, stubborn bureaucrat -- and an enthusiastic proponent of all things natural.

This new-found love acts as hard work does: keeping her from thinking of the one regret in her life.

The Cyberathlete arrives. They talk briefly. Something about the weather and the setting turns the Customs Officer reflective and confessional. She airs her secret:

Though I'm about as honest an officer as you'd ever come across, my one regret is a slip that happened a few years ago. There was a strange young man who came in off a tramp freighter with a crate of tribal objects. Now I don't need to tell you that I was ready to stamp the whole thing as immoral and potentially riotous - that's my job when I come across foreign objects that don't belong here except under the careful supervision of a university or museum. But the man gave me something and that something was enough to move my family into the garret we live in now, just above the customs office.

The Cyberathlete asks what she was given.

An ingot of gold, she whispers with a guilty voice, in a mold shaped like a young woman's finger.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.