Chapter TEN
"Hey, everybody, quiet." Scarf's spit-and-phlegm bellow tamped the bar-room noise. It ground down.
Pointing at the solitary figure seated at the wall table, Scarf smirked and barked, "Give us the magic words, Drummer."
The crowd's eyes went from Scarf to Drummer and back. No one spoke.
"Drummer knows," Scarf added sarcasm to his tone, raising his finger to tap his temple. "The future is open to him."
Drummer sat, transfixed, staring at Scarf. His free hand closed into a tense fist, then opened to cap his knee.
"C'mon, Drummer," Scarf went on, derisively, "tell us what you're going to do to make things right for all of us, and how we'll all be prosperous after Slingshot cuts away."
His voice became harsher, gibing.
"You've been sittin' on that Plutonian Council for years, Drummer, pushing your pet ideas to loosen up controls here and give more civil liberties there. You call yourself a Progressive, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. To me, you're a revolutionist, undermining Narval's government, and trying to cram your politics down our throats."
Scarf moved away from the bar, drink in hand.
Taking a long noisy swallow, he fixed his eyes on
Drummer from above the rim.
Lowering his drink, he belched again and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Placing the tumbler on a nearby table he took another step toward Drummer.
"Being on the Council saves your neck for now, Drummer," he said with venom. "Soon as Narval gets wise to you, and kicks your tail off, I'll be coming after you."
He reached Drummer's table.
"On second thought, why wait that long," his voice changed to a snarl. "Now's as good a time as any."
He grasped the front of Drummer's cloak and jerked him to his feet.
"Tell me, old man, what can you do that Narval can't?"
The onlookers' silence hung heavily. The stale incense rose in eddies and diffused the shadows cast by the glowing wall sconces.
"Show's over, Scarf," said Drummer in a low voice, trying to twist away. "I've got to be on my way."
He placed his hand over Scarf's huge paw to loosen its grip.
They were of equal height, but Scarf, more than twice Drummer's mass and build, would have none of it.
"The hell you do," he growled, tightening his hold.
Scarf began to shake Drummer, at first slowly, then with growing violence. Drummer, unable to maintain balance, slipped to his knees. Scarf jerked upward, raising Drummer on unsteady feet. Ramming his face close, he cursed in a loud, coarse monotone, swinging Drummer in one direction, then another. Unable to disengage, Drummer was confused. His cloak tore, his hair fluttered about his face, and specks of spittle flew from his lips.
Brad and Hodak watched the action from where they sat. Scarf's sudden outburst was of more than passing interest. He had called his victim "Drummer," a name familiar to Brad through the many intelligence briefings he had been given during indoctrination; also, "Scarf" was a name used in the immigration clerk's call from the landing site.
Other than military, who and what was Scarf, and why was he tormenting Drummer? More important, could this bar-room brawl be exploited to the Sentinels' advantage? They desperately needed contacts within Narval's regime. Their mission did not allow the luxury of time. An opportunity had just fallen into his lap. Brad leaned toward Hodak.
"The bruiser," he said. "Take him down, but easy."
Hodak shot a quick glance at Brad, rose and shambled between the tables until he was behind the sledgehammer.
Tapping Scarf on the shoulder, he said quietly, "Hey, c'mon, let the old geezer alone. He was just minding his…"
Scarf reacted with incredible speed for his size.
Shoving Drummer away, he whirled, arm extended.
Powered by the force of his pivot, the edge of his
rigid hand aimed directly at Hodak's throat.
Hodak stepped back and to the side, gripped Scarf's thick wrist in his muscle-corded hands. Using his attacker's momentum, Hodak twisted and bent. The Major's huge body catapulted through the air and crashed on to a table and its several chairs, sending the occupants spinning.
A hand appeared from nowhere and pulled Scarf's pistol from its holster. In seconds, Brad was back at his table. The bar-room went deathly silent.
Scarf bounded up, spitting saliva, floor dust and curses. He reached for his weapon and gaped when he felt emptiness.
Recovering, hunched forward, he charged Hodak, murder in his eyes.
Freed, Drummer stepped back to the wall, shaken, not understanding what was happening. He searched for a safe place.
Focusing on the struggle he recognized Hodak as one of the escaped prisoners he had been speculating about. Taking a chance, he moved toward the table from where Brad watched the action and the crowd.
Hodak, waiting for Scarf's charge, stood balanced until the last fraction of a second, then stepped aside. Scarf passed like a juggernaut and smashed into the bar.
Leaning heavily over the bar, breathing in convulsive gasps, Scarf turned his head to glare at Hodak. Running his hand down his thigh he felt again for his weapon. Eyes narrowed to slits, he searched along the filth-strewn floor. Scanning, his eyes passed the table where Brad sat, stopped, and snapped back.
The weapon, distinctive by its red and black grip, lay there. He saw Brad watching, and Drummer nearby, back to the wall.
Scarf lunged at Hodak, arms grappling. Hodak danced back and away. As Scarf passed, Hodak grasped his wrist and elbow, twisted, and curved Scarf's arm back and up between his shoulder blades.
Hodak was gentle. With his free hand he probed and manipulated nerve centers in Scarf's neck and shoulders. Scarf dropped to his knees, then slipped back on to his rump, legs spread, arms slack, face perplexed. It was enough.
He sat there, shaking his head to clear it. Looking up, he saw Hodak standing a short distance away, and beyond, a ring of faces, several grinning, others frightened and wary. Shifting his eyes to where his weapon lay, Scarf glared at Brad and Drummer.
The silence was broken by the shuffle of Scarf groping upright, using a nearby table for support. He lurched to the bar and leaned over it for several seconds. Straightening, he grasped his helmet with one hand, wrapped the other around the flagon of Firehouse Red, and stalked out of the Charnel Pit.