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behind him. "Ration card?"
    "Army," I said. I didn't bother with the ID.
    "Figured." He rummaged. "You know they got a law I got to let the fuckin' Endies in the store? They never buy anything."
    "Why should they?" I said. "World's going up in smoke tomorrow, maybe the next day."
    "Right. Meanwhile they steal y' blind. All I got's cans."
    "Whatever." I was starting to shake a little. Between the Ender and this trigger-happy clerk I'd probably come closer to dying than I ever would in Portobello.
    He put the six-pack in front of me. "You don't want to sell that knife?"
    "No, I need it all the time. Open fan mail with it."
    That was the wrong thing to say. "Got to say I don't recognize you. I follow the Fourth and Sixteenth, mainly."
    "I'm Ninth. Not nearly as exciting."
    "Interdiction," he said, nodding. The Fourth and Sixteenth are hunter-killer platoons, so they have a considerable following. Warboys, we call their fans.
    He was a little excited, even though I was just Interdiction. And Psychops. "You didn't catch the Fourth last Wednesday, did you?"
    "Hey, I don't even follow my own outfit. I was in the cage then, anyhow."
    He stopped for a moment with my card in his hand, struck dumb by the concept that a person could live nine days in a row inside a soldierboy and then not jump straight to the cube and follow the war.
    Some do, of course. I met Scoville when he was out of the cage once, here in Houston for a warboy "assembly." There's one every week somewhere in Texas— they haul in enough booze and bum and squeak to keep them cross-eyed for a long weekend, and pay a couple of mechanics to come in and tell them what it's really really like. To be locked inside a cage and watch yourself murder people by remote control. They replay tapes of great battles and argue over fine points of strategy.
    The only one I've ever gone to had a "warrior day," where all of the attendees—all except us outsiders— dressed up as warriors from the past. That was kind of scary. I assumed the tommy guns and flintlocks didn't function; even criminals were reluctant to risk that. But the swords and spears and bows looked real enough, and they were in the hands of people who had amply demonstrated, to me at least, that they shouldn't be trusted with a sharp stick.
    "You were going to kill that guy?" the clerk said conversationally.
    "No reason to. They always back off." As if I knew.
    "But suppose he didn't."
    "It wouldn't be a problem," I heard myself saying. "Take his knife hand off at the wrist. Call 9-1-1. Maybe they'd glue it back on upside down." Actually, they'd probably take their time responding. Give him a chance to beat the Rapture by bleeding to death.
    He nodded. "We had two guys last month outside the store, they did the handkerchief thing, some girl." That was where two men bite down on opposite corners of a handkerchief, and have at each other with knives or razors. The one who lets go of the handkerchief loses. "One guy was dead before they got here. The other lost an ear; they didn't bother to look for it." He gestured. "I kept it in the freezer for awhile."
    "You're the one who called the cops?"
    "Oh yeah," he said. "Soon as it was over." Good citizen.
    I strapped the beer onto the rear carrier and pedaled back toward the gate.
    Things are getting worse. I hate to sound like my old man. But things really were better when I was a boy. There weren't Enders on every corner. People didn't duel. People didn't stand around and watch other people duel. And then police picked up the ears afterward.
     
    NOT ALL ENDERS HAD ponytails and obvious attitudes. There were two in Julian's physics department, a secretary and Mac Roman himself.
    People wondered how such a mediocre scientist had come out of nowhere and brown-nosed his way into a position of academic power. What they didn't appreciate was the intellectual effort it took to successfully pretend to believe in the ordered, agnostic view of the universe that physics mandated. It was