rm over the butt of a tie, his chin, his
other arm, and hung a moment. He didn't throw a knee up, just rolled and
lay between the rails. Even as he relaxed, he glanced at his watch:
three minutes to spare. Leisurely, he armed the mine and jogged back to
me and Ferd.

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

"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 in
these mountains. He smiled. "I guess you get used to calculated risks.
Except for imagination, you're as safe walking a ledge twenty stories
up, 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 an
acrobat?"

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

Ferd was onto that boner like an infielder. To get into SC you have to
be not only championship fit, but have no history of injury that could
crop up to haywire you in a pinch. So, "Hospital? You sure don't show it
now."

Clyde was certainly below par. To cover his slip he backed into a
bigger, if l