marlinspikes in the sand where they stood, then turned their backs to each other, took the agreed-upon ten long paces and stuck their knives in the sand to mark it. Miss Loral looked at the principals. “Are you satisfied?”
“Aye.” Manrape nodded.
Ricky had to swallow hard to find his voice. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then take your positions.”
Ricky and Manrape walked to the marlinspikes. Ricky was grateful that Manrape didn’t say anything. The bronze titan seemed to glow from within. The high drama was clearly to his taste.
“Turn!” Miss Loral ordered. Ricky and Manrape turned their backs to each other. Ricky raised his blaster to point skyward.
“Seconds, take your positions!” The seconds walked out to the ship’s knives of their respective principals and then stepped back the agreed six paces. “Bos’n Manrape, Ricky, are you ready?”
“Aye,” Manrape answered.
Ricky found his voice. “Ready.”
“Advance!”
Sand crunched as Ricky took the long walk to J.B.’s knife. He stopped beside it and stared at the worn wooden hilt, but it had no last epiphany for him. Neither did the sand, sky or sea. All Ricky could feel was nausea, a suddenly overwhelming urge to vomit again and naked terror.
“Turn!” Miss Loral ordered.
Ricky turned and stood side on to present as little of a target as possible as Doc had instructed. Manrape presented himself square on. Ricky flinched as the bos’n’s leer returned. Miss Loral held up a red bandanna. It fluttered for a moment in the breeze and then she released it to fall to the sand. “Blast at will!”
Ricky put the gold bead of his sight on Manrape’s massive chest. Manrape smiled uncaringly and kept his weapon skyward at the shoulder arms position. He tilted his head in invitation. “Blast away, Ricky catamite.”
Miss Loral had explained the rules to all parties the night before, and now that both men had paced and turned, neither man could take a step, but there was apparently no rule these days about catcalling, head-faking, twisting sideways or, in Manrape’s case, the very real and sickening possibility he would grin and limbo beneath Ricky’s shot.
J.B. had given Ricky a plan. To take Manrape, J.B. believed Ricky’s best chance was to pull the trigger and then snap his wrist downward at the same time. With luck the bullet would take Manrape through the guts or groin. The blaster Ricky held fired a ball that weighed three-quarters of an ounce. Manrape might survive it, and even gut shot manage to get off a shot in return, but the matter would be satisfied either way, and Ricky had already decided he would rather die with his head blown off than be raped repeatedly until Manrape tired of him or the companions managed to escape.
“Squirt your hot lead, Ricky,” Manrape cooed.
“If you please, Mr. Ricky,” Miss Loral directed. “You called this duel, and Mr. Manrape has in the eyes of all assembled freely given you first shot. You must give fire or beg to withdraw.”
Ricky gazed over the gleaming gold bead of the front sight where it hovered over Manrape’s heart.
Manrape whispered like a lover. “Do it.”
Ricky took a deep breath and let half of it out. He deliberately raised his aim high into the trees, picked his target and squeezed the trigger. The blaster bucked like a mule in Ricky’s hand. A cluster of coconuts hanging ten feet over Manrape exploded, and coconut meat, milk and shredded shell showered down on Manrape’s head and shoulders. Ricky lowered his smoking blaster, cocked his left fist on his hip and rotated on the balls of his feet to present himself broadside to Manrape’s return shot.
J.B. was not the only companion Ricky had consulted.
This was Doc’s plan.
Ricky spoke with far more calm than he felt. “The Glory can survive quite well without me, but Mr. Manrape’s services are absolutely required. I will not deprive her or her crew of their bosun in time of need.”
The assembled crew made
“Aye.” Manrape nodded.
Ricky had to swallow hard to find his voice. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then take your positions.”
Ricky and Manrape walked to the marlinspikes. Ricky was grateful that Manrape didn’t say anything. The bronze titan seemed to glow from within. The high drama was clearly to his taste.
“Turn!” Miss Loral ordered. Ricky and Manrape turned their backs to each other. Ricky raised his blaster to point skyward.
“Seconds, take your positions!” The seconds walked out to the ship’s knives of their respective principals and then stepped back the agreed six paces. “Bos’n Manrape, Ricky, are you ready?”
“Aye,” Manrape answered.
Ricky found his voice. “Ready.”
“Advance!”
Sand crunched as Ricky took the long walk to J.B.’s knife. He stopped beside it and stared at the worn wooden hilt, but it had no last epiphany for him. Neither did the sand, sky or sea. All Ricky could feel was nausea, a suddenly overwhelming urge to vomit again and naked terror.
“Turn!” Miss Loral ordered.
Ricky turned and stood side on to present as little of a target as possible as Doc had instructed. Manrape presented himself square on. Ricky flinched as the bos’n’s leer returned. Miss Loral held up a red bandanna. It fluttered for a moment in the breeze and then she released it to fall to the sand. “Blast at will!”
Ricky put the gold bead of his sight on Manrape’s massive chest. Manrape smiled uncaringly and kept his weapon skyward at the shoulder arms position. He tilted his head in invitation. “Blast away, Ricky catamite.”
Miss Loral had explained the rules to all parties the night before, and now that both men had paced and turned, neither man could take a step, but there was apparently no rule these days about catcalling, head-faking, twisting sideways or, in Manrape’s case, the very real and sickening possibility he would grin and limbo beneath Ricky’s shot.
J.B. had given Ricky a plan. To take Manrape, J.B. believed Ricky’s best chance was to pull the trigger and then snap his wrist downward at the same time. With luck the bullet would take Manrape through the guts or groin. The blaster Ricky held fired a ball that weighed three-quarters of an ounce. Manrape might survive it, and even gut shot manage to get off a shot in return, but the matter would be satisfied either way, and Ricky had already decided he would rather die with his head blown off than be raped repeatedly until Manrape tired of him or the companions managed to escape.
“Squirt your hot lead, Ricky,” Manrape cooed.
“If you please, Mr. Ricky,” Miss Loral directed. “You called this duel, and Mr. Manrape has in the eyes of all assembled freely given you first shot. You must give fire or beg to withdraw.”
Ricky gazed over the gleaming gold bead of the front sight where it hovered over Manrape’s heart.
Manrape whispered like a lover. “Do it.”
Ricky took a deep breath and let half of it out. He deliberately raised his aim high into the trees, picked his target and squeezed the trigger. The blaster bucked like a mule in Ricky’s hand. A cluster of coconuts hanging ten feet over Manrape exploded, and coconut meat, milk and shredded shell showered down on Manrape’s head and shoulders. Ricky lowered his smoking blaster, cocked his left fist on his hip and rotated on the balls of his feet to present himself broadside to Manrape’s return shot.
J.B. was not the only companion Ricky had consulted.
This was Doc’s plan.
Ricky spoke with far more calm than he felt. “The Glory can survive quite well without me, but Mr. Manrape’s services are absolutely required. I will not deprive her or her crew of their bosun in time of need.”
The assembled crew made
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