THERE were no teams of leaders at Seville Trace to encourage performance by stimulating competition. That arrangement had now served its purpose of awakening self-esteem and bringing some functional cohesion to an initially totally disparate intake of individuals of all types and backgrounds, and it was properly left behind with Phase One, The rooms were not asked to designate a spokesperson or senior member, and neither was one appointed. However, each floor had assigned to it two foil-time staff members known as coaches. With an upper and lower floor in each of the two wings, twelve rooms to a floor, this meant there were eight coaches. Four of them took names after the seasons of the year, and the others after the four playing-card suits. Their job was to work individually with the people in the six rooms under their charge, helping them to plan a work schedule that was right for them and to assess their progress.
The coach for Rooms 207 to 212 was Mr. Summer. Remedial tuition was available for those needing to catch up on basics, and one of the first things he felt necessary in Linc's case was to put him in one of the math groups. Linc's restlessness with classroom subjects was apparent in his report from Coulie, and to balance things they worked out a schedule that included time in the basic metalworking and machine shops.
Linc found himself taking to it almost as naturally as he had to climbing. Shaping, cutting, and finishing a piece of metal to perform a precisely designed function intrigued him. All his life he had been surrounded by things formed and crafted out of what had started as raw rock, from the cutlery he ate with and the watch bracelet on his wrist to the parts making up the satellite he had watched crossing the night sky over the Sierra. Yet never once had it crossed his mind to wonder where these things came from or how they were made and put together. The few workshop sessions he had taken at Coulie had provided a first glimpse into the subject, and it interested him. Mr. Summer thought it would be a good idea to let that discovery develop further. It didn't follow, necessarily, that Linc's calling in life was to be a tool-and-die fitter or instrument maker—precision skills that took years to acquire; but the experience could be a first step to opening up large areas of applied science and engineering to be explored more fully, should it turn out that Linc had talent in that direction.
In addition to these things, there was still Linc's penchant for physical action and the need he had demonstrated for pitting himself against exacting challenges. To take this into account, Mr. Summer recommended the martial arts class being run by two black belts, a Mr. Throw and Ms. Punch. Linc assented readily—thinking inwardly, though he didn't say so, that he might even have a few tricks of his own to contribute. As had proved true of climbing and of working creatively with his hands, he found that martial arts were something he took to instinctively.
And that was where he next ran into Arvin.
"Okay, people, that was good," Mr. Throw called to the class of a dozen paired off around the mat. The agenda so far had been the basics of judo, "Everybody change opponents, and we'll have free sparring for the rest of the time."
Linc separated from Hash, with whom for the past fifteen minutes he had been taking turns going through the movements of a sweeping hip throw—in which the thrower pivots to make the throw over his back on one leg, using the other to sweep the opponent's legs away in a backward reaping motion. They made the customary quick bow from the waist, and before Linc had a chance to look around for a different partner, Arvin came over and seized the lapel and sleeve of his judogi in the normal stance to begin combat. Although not the first class for either of them, this was the first they had attended together. Until now, Linc had tried to ignore Arvin's presence and stay out of his way. As far as Linc was concerned, the earlier business between them was over.
They moved around the mat, sizing up each other's style and watching for openings. Normal practice was to keep the hold on one's opponent light, using touch as a sensory device to read his movements and avoid the telegraphing of one's own intentions that too rigid a grasp would entail. But Arvin twisted his fists solidly into the material of Linc's jacket and proceeded to direct their course around the mat, first advancing while delivering a series of provocative shoves, then falling back and tugging, causing the collar to saw painfully against Linc's neck. Linc felt like a rat being shaken by a dog. He tried turning and closing to attack as they had been shown, but Arvin's arms held him off like iron bars. All the time, Arvin was hacking at Linc's shins and ankles first with one foot, then the other. Properly timed, an ankle throw delivered with the sole caught an opponent's foot just as it left the floor or was about to make contact with it, and could sweep the opponent's feet up over his head. However, Arvin was kicking out at Linc's feet when they had weight on them and were pinned. He wanted to hurt, not throw.
Then Arvin turned and came in low to try a shoulder throw; but it was mistimed, and Linc evaded it. Arvin tried two more moves, using his strength to pull Linc into him rather than letting Linc's own movements draw him on. Linc could only break away by meeting force with force, which was inelegant and not in keeping with what they were supposed to be learning—but he stayed on his feet. Then, abandoning all pretense of abiding by the spirit of things, Arvin practically lifted Linc off the ground with his hands and heaved him over a hip, straightening his arms as Linc went down to propel him harder at the floor. The impact was too fast for Linc to fully apply the break-fall technique that they had been shown, and his breath was knocked out of him as he thudded into the mat.
"Ease up over there, Arvin," Mr. Throw's voice barked from across the floor.
"Yes, sir," Arvin acknowledged. Yet he was smirking as Linc picked himself up. "Not so great without your buddies around, eh?" he muttered as they closed and took their holds once again.
They circled, feinting and lunging. Arvin tried the same move twice again, but Linc was ready now and both times pulled himself clear. Then Arvin opened up and took a long step in for a trip, offering the ideal lead into the throw that Linc had just been practicing. Moving instinctively more than under conscious direction—the way he had when he climbed the slab—Linc spun inside the arc of Arvin's chest and shoulder, using his momentum to carry both of them together into the turn. Everything connected perfectly. Linc's sweeping leg took Arvin off the ground to wind him around Linc's arched back, catapulting him on and over with barely a sensation of any weight at all touching Linc's body. Arvin crashed heavily, and Linc heard the distinct crack of his teeth coming together.
"Good point, Linc!" Mr. Throw called over. "Don't forget to breakfall, Arvin. Strike down hard. Use that arm."
It had been mostly a fluke, but Linc didn't let that spoil anything. Arvin was still gasping when he stood up. His face was mean as he grabbed again for Linc's jacket—both lapels this time. Just for a moment, Linc didn't register the altered grip. Mr. Throw turned away to demonstrate something to another of the pairs; another pair moved in between . . . . And suddenly all Linc knew was a flash of colors and pain blotting out everything else.
The next he was conscious of was that figures were gathered around him. He was still standing, aware in a detached kind of way of blood pouring down over his jacket, Arvin in the background, his hands raised high, proclaiming innocence. "An accident . . . . Sorry, guy."
Mr. Throw was peering at Linc, tweaking his nose. Another surge of pain. "Well, it doesn't seem to be broken, at least."
They took him to the showers and swabbed him with a wet towel while others disappeared back out with a bucket to sponge the blood off the mat. Mr. Throw put a call out for Ms. Medic, who arrived shortly after and taped a dressing across Linc's nose when the bleeding had stopped. By the time Linc had cleaned up and dressed, the rest of the class had been dismissed.
"Feeling okay?" Mr. Throw asked as he bundled the bloodstained towels and clothing into the laundry bin.
"Oh . . . still kind of dizzy. A little bit sick."
"That's to be expected." Mr. Throw studied him silently for a few seconds. "Want to tell me about it?" he invited.
"What's there to tell? We bumped heads. It was an accident."
Mr. Throw shook his head. "That wasn't any accident. I saw the way you two were going at it before it happened. You're both from Coulie, right? Is it to do with something that happened there?"
Linc looked away, his face betraying nothing. "It's okay. It'll take care of itself," he said.
Mr. Throw gave him a moment or two longer to consider, then nodded. "Just don't go doing anything to get yourself RPO'd over," he said. "It's not worth it."
Flash stopped by later that afternoon, when Linc was in the machine shop. He had been put in Room 105, which was on the floor below Linc in the same block, and was taking a lot of classes involving computers. He had fair curly hair and a big nose, and his general manner had brightened since the early days at Coulie. He and Linc had worked well together as things turned out, and Linc was happy he had made a good decision back at Coulie in choosing Flash as his second.
"I heard you'd collected a mask," Flash said, sauntering up to the lathe at which Linc was working. "What happened?"
"I bumped into our friend again—literally."
"Arvin?"
"Uh-huh."
"Uh-oh." Flash shook his head. "How?" Linc told him the story while he worked on. "That's bad news," Flash said when Linc was through. "If he's got it in for you, he won't quit."
"Even if it gets him thrown out?" Linc found it impossible to believe. "Didn't Green back at Coulie say that staying in was important to him? You think he'd risk it?"
"No," Flash said, shaking his head. "He'd find another way."
After Flash had left, Linc made the last, fine-finishing cut on the piece he had been turning, then parted it from the metal stock that it had been cut from in the lathe chuck, and examined it. He felt a strange wonder at the thought of making something like this with his own hands. In a way it was like creating a sculpture—releasing the shape that had been imprisoned in the metal. The luster and smoothness of the gleaming piece intrigued him. He began to understand the compulsion that throughout history had driven some men to crave the possession of gold.
His gaze traveled over the precisely fitted parts of the vernier, micrometer, and other tools he had been using; at the lathe itself, with its lead screws, tool turrets, and gear trains.
One day he wanted to be an artist who could create such forms out of metal, forms exact enough to come to life when they worked together. On their own, as separate parts, they could do nothing. But fitted together in the right way, each contributing its own particular function, they could do anything. It was very much the same, he thought to himself, with people.