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  A MATTER OF PROPORTION

  _In order to make a man stop, you must convince him that it's impossible to go on. Some people, though, just can't be convinced._

  BY ANNE WALKER

  Illustrated by Bernklau

  In the dark, our glider chutes zeroed neatly on target--only ArtBenjamin missed the edge of the gorge. When we were sure Invader hadn'theard the crashing of bushes, I climbed down after him. The climb, andwhat I found, left me shaken. A Special Corps squad leader is notexpendable--by order. Clyde Esterbrook, my second and ICEG mate, wouldhave to mine the viaduct while my nerve and glycogen stabilized.

  We timed the patrols. Clyde said, "Have to wait till a train's coming.No time otherwise." Well, it was his show. When the next pair ofburly-coated men came over at a trot, he breathed, "Now!" and ghostedout almost before they were clear.

  I switched on the ICEG--inter-cortical encephalograph--planted in mytemporal bone. My own senses could hear young Ferd breathing, feel andsmell the mat of pine needles under me. Through Clyde's, I could hearthe blind whuffle of wind in the girders, feel the crude wood of tiesand the iron-cold molding of rails in the star-dark. I could feel, too,an odd, lilting elation in his mind, as if this savage universe were agood thing to take on--spray guns, cold, and all.

  We wanted to set the mine so the wreckage would clobber a trail below,one like they'd built in Burma and Japan, where you wouldn't think amonkey could go; but it probably carried more supplies than the viaductitself. So Clyde made adjustments precisely, just as we'd figured itwith the model back at base. It was a tricky, slow job in the bitterdark.

  I began to figure: If he armed it for this train, and ran, she'd go offwhile we were on location and we'd be drenched in searchlights and sprayguns. Already, through his fingers, I felt the hum in the rails thatevery tank-town-reared kid knows. I turned up my ICEG. "All right,Clyde, get back. Arm it when she's gone past, for the next one."

  I felt him grin, felt his lips form words: "I'll do better than that,Willie. Look, Daddy-o, no hands!" He slid over the edge and restedelbows and ribs on the raw tie ends.

  We're all acrobats in the Corps. But I didn't like this act one littlebit. Even if he could hang by his hands, the heavy train would jolt himoff. But I swallowed my thoughts.

  He groped with his foot, contacted a sloping beam, and brought his otherfoot in. I felt a dull, scraping slither under his moccasin soles."Frost," he thought calmly, rubbed a clear patch with the edge of hisfoot, put his weight on it, and transferred his hands to the beam with atwist we hadn't learned in Corps school. My heart did a double-take; oneslip and he'd be off into the gorge, and the frost stung, melting underhis bare fingers. He lay in the trough of the massive H-beam, slid downabout twenty feet to where it made an angle with an upright, and wedgedhimself there. It took all of twenty seconds, really. But I let out abreath as if I'd been holding it for minutes.

  As he settled, searchlights began skimming the bridge. If he'd beenrunning, he'd have been shot to a sieve. As it was, they'd never see himin the mingled glare and black.

  His heart hadn't even speeded up beyond what was required by exertion.The train roared around a shoulder and onto the viaduct, shaking it likean angry hand. But as the boxcars thunder-clattered above his head, hewas peering into the gulf at a string of feeble lights threading thebottom. "There's the flywalk, Willie. They know their stuff. But we'llget it." Then, as the caboose careened over and the searchlights cutoff, "Well, that gives us ten minutes before the patrol comes back."

  * * * * *

  He levered onto his side, a joint at a time, and began to climb thebeam. Never again for me, even by proxy! You just _couldn't_ climb thatthing nohow! The slope was too steep. The beam was too massive toshinny, yet too narrow to lie inside and elbow up. The metal was toosmooth, and scummed with frost. His fingers were beginning to numb.And--he _was_ climbing!

  In each fin of the beam, every foot or so, was a round hole. He'd getone finger into a hole and pull, inching his body against the beam. Hetimed himself to some striding music I didn't know, not fast but nowaste motion, even the pauses rhythmic.

  I tell you. I was sweating under my leathers. Maybe I should haveswitched the ICEG off, for my own sake if not to avoid distractingClyde. But I was hypnotized, climbing.

  In the old days, when you were risking your neck, you were supposed tothink great solemn thoughts. Recently, you're supposed to think aboutsomething silly like a singing commercial. Clyde's mind was neitherposturing in front of his mental mirror nor running in some feverishlittle circle. He faced terror as big as the darkness from gorge bottomto stars, and he was just simply as big as it was--sheer life exultingin defying the dark, the frost and wind and the zombie grip of Invader.I envied him.

  Then his rhythm checked. Five feet from the top, he reached confidentlyfor a finger hole ... No hole.

  He had already reached as high as he could without shifting his purchaseand risking a skid--and even his wrestler's muscles wouldn't make theclimb again. My stomach quaked: Never see sunlight in the trees anymore, just cling till dawn picked you out like a crow's nest in a deadtree; or drop ...

  Not Clyde. His flame of life crouched in anger. Not only the malice ofnature and the rage of enemies, but human shiftlessness against him too?Good! He'd take it on.

  Shoulder, thigh, knee, foot scraped off frost. He jammed his jaw againstthe wet iron. His right hand never let go, but it crawled up the fin ofthe strut like a blind animal, while the load on his points of purchasemounted--watchmaker co-ordination where you'd normally think inboilermaker terms. The flame sank to a spark as he focused, but it neverblinked out. This was not the anticipated, warded danger, but the trickpunch from nowhere. This was It. A sneak squall buffeted him. I cursedthinly. But he sensed an extra purchase from its pressure, and reachedthe last four inches with a swift glide. The next hole was there.

  He waited five heartbeats, and pulled. He began at the musculardisadvantage of aligned joints. He had to make it the first time; if youcan't do it with a dollar, you won't do it with the change. But as elbowand shoulder bent, the flame soared again: Score one more for life!

  A minute later, he hooked his arm over the butt of a tie, his chin, hisother arm, and hung a moment. He didn't throw a knee up, just rolled andlay between the rails. Even as he relaxed, he glanced at his watch:three minutes to spare. Leisurely, he armed the mine and jogged back tome and Ferd.

  As I broke ICEG contact, his flame had sunk to an ember glow ofanticipation.

  * * * * *

  We had almost reached the cave pricked on our map, when we heard theslam of the mine, wee and far-off. We were lying doggo looking out atthe snow peaks incandescent in dawn when the first Invader patrolstrailed by below. Our equipment was a miracle of hot food and basicmedication. Not pastimes, though; and by the second day of hiding, I wasthinking too much. There was Clyde, an Inca chief with a thread of blackmustache and incongruous hazel eyes, my friend and ICEG mate--what madehim tick? Where did he get his delight in the bright eyes of danger? Howdid he gear his daredevil valor, not to the icy iron and obligatorykilling, but to the big music and stars over the gorge? But in theCorps, we don't ask questions and, above all, never eavesdrop on ICEG.

  Young Ferd wasn't so inhibited. Benjamin's death had shaken him--losingyour ICEG mate is like losing an eye. He began fly-fishing Clyde: Howhad Clyde figured that stunt, in the dark, with the few minutes he'dhad?

  "There's always a way, Ferd, if you're fighting for what you reallywant."

  "Well, I want to throw out Invader, all right, but--"


  "That's the start, of course, but beyond that--" He changed the subject:perhaps only I knew of his dream about a stronghold for rebels far inthese mountains. He smiled. "I guess you get used to calculated risks.Except for imagination, you're as safe walking a ledge twenty storiesup, as down on the sidewalk."

  "Not if you trip."

  "That's the calculated risk. If you climb, you get used to it."

  "Well, how did you _get_ used to it? Were you a mountaineer or anacrobat?"

  "In a way, both." Clyde smiled again, a trifle bitterly and switched thetopic. "Anyway, I've been in action for the duration except some time inhospital."

  Ferd was onto that boner like an infielder. To get into SC you have tobe not only championship fit, but