Glory Road by Robert A. Heinlein Read Free Book Online Page A

any Girl Scout or witch can make fire without matches. I could myself, given several hours and plenty of luck, just by rubbing two dry clichés together. But I noticed that the two short biers were gone. Well, I hadn’t ordered them. I squatted down and took over cleaning the trout.
    Star came back shortly with fruits that were applelike but deep purple in color and with quantities of button mushrooms. She was carrying the plunder on a broad leaf, like canna or ti, only bigger. More like banana leaves.
    My mouth started to water. “If only we had salt!”
    “I’ll fetch it. It will be rather gritty. I’m afraid.”
    Star broiled the fish two ways, over the fire on a forked green stick, and on hot flat limestone where the fire had been—she kept brushing the fire along as she fed it and placed fish and mushrooms sizing where it had been. That way was best, I thought. Little fine grasses turned out to be chives, local style, and tiny clover tasted and looked like sheep sorrel. That, with the salt (which was gritty and coarse and may have been licked by animals before we got it—not that I cared) made the trout the best I’ve ever tasted. Well, weather and scenery and company had much to do with it, too, especially the company.
    I was trying to think of a really poetic way of saying, “How about you and me shacking up right here for the next ten thousand years? Either legal or informal—are you married?” when we were interrupted. Which was a shame, for I had thought up some pretty language, all new, for the oldest and most practical suggestion in the world.
    Old baldy, the gnome with the oversized six-shooter, was standing behind me and cursing.
    I was sure it was cursing although the language was new to me. Star turned her head, spoke in quiet reproval in the same language, made room for him and offered him a trout. He took it and ate quite a bit of it before he said, in English, “Next time I won’t pay him anything. You’ll see.”
    “You shouldn’t try to cheat him, Rufo. Have some mushrooms. Where’s the baggage? I want to get dressed.”
    “Over there.” He went back to wolfing fish. Rufo was proof that some people should wear clothes. He was pink all over and somewhat potbellied. However, he was amazingly well muscled, which I had never suspected, else I would have been more cautious about taking that cannon away from him. I decided that if he wanted to Indian-wrestle, I would cheat.
    He glanced at me past a pound and a half of trout and said, “Is it your wish to be outfitted now, my lord?”
    “Huh? Finish your breakfast. And what’s this ‘my lord’ routine? Last time I saw you you were waving a gun in my face.”
    “I’m sorry, my lord. But She said to do it…and what She says must be done. You understand.”
    “That suits me perfectly. Somebody has to drive. But call me ‘Oscar.’”
    Rufo glanced at Star, she nodded. He grinned. “Okay, Oscar. No hard feelings?”
    “Not a bit.”
    He put down the fish, wiped his hand on his thigh, and stuck it out. “Swell! You knock ’em down, I’ll stomp on ’em.”
    We shook hands and each of us tried for the knuckle-cracking grip. I think I got a little the better of it, but I decided he might have been a blacksmith at some time.
    Star looked very pleased and showed dimples again She had been lounging by the fire; looking line a hamadryad on her coffee break; now she suddenly reached out and placed her strong, slender hand over our clasped fists. “My stout friends,” she said earnestly. “My good boys. Rufo, it will be well.”
    “You have a Sight?” he said eagerly.
    “No, just a feeling. But I am no longer worried.”
    “We can’t do a thing,” Rufo said moodily, “until we deal with Igli.”
    “Oscar will dicker with Igli.” Then she was on her feet in one smooth motion. “Stuff that fish in your face and unpack. I need clothes.” She suddenly looked very eager.
    Star was more different women than a platoon of WACs—which