They'll simply send another killer afteryou. They're out to get you, Joe Mauser. Don't you see you can't winagainst the whole Sov-world? Next time, possibly they won't be quiteso formal. Possibly a few footpads in the streets. Do you think theyhaven't the resources to kill a single man?"
The side of his mouth twitched. "I'm sure they have. But it will giveme a few days before they come up with something else. It'd be tooconspicuous if I fought their top duelist one day, and then was cutdown on the streets the next."
She spun, in a fury, and all but ran from the room and from hisapartment.
Joe looked after her ruefully. He growled in sour humor, "Every timematters pickle for me, my gal goes into a tissy and runs off."
XX
As Max had said, as one of their alternatives to the fracas of theWest-world, the Sovs put on Telly such duels as were fought amongsttheir supposedly honor-conscious officer caste. Evidently, the lowercaste of the Proletarian Paradise was well on the way to its ownversion of bread and circuses. In fact, Joe had already wondered whattheir version of trank was.
But though the Telly cameramen were highly evident, and for thisinordinary affair had six cameras in all, placed strategically so thatevery phase of the fight could be recorded, they were not allowed tobe so close as by any chance to interfere with the duel itself. Spacedwell back from the action, they must needs depend upon zoom lenses.
Joe Mauser and Sandor Rakoczi stood stripped to the waist, both intight, non-restricting trousers, both wearing tennis shoes. GeneralArmstrong and Lieutenant Andersen, on one side, and Lieutenant colonelKossuth and Captain Petofi, on the other, stood at the sides of theirprincipals.
Kossuth was saying formally, "It has been agreed, then, that thegentlemen participants shall be restricted to this ring measuringtwenty feet across. Seconds will remain withdrawn to twenty feetbeyond it. The conflict shall begin upon General Armstrong calling_commence_, and shall end upon one or the other, or both, of thegentlemen participants falling to the ground. Minor wounds shall nothalt the conflict. This is understood?"
"Yes," Joe said. He had been sizing up his enemy. The man strippedwell. He was almost a duplicate of Joe's build, perhaps slightlylighter, slightly taller. Like Joe, he bore a dozen scars about hisupper torso. Sandor Rakoczi hadn't worked his way to the top in thedueling world without taking his share of punishment.
Rakoczi said something curtly, obviously affirmative, in Hungarian.
Lieutenant Andersen, his open face drawn worriedly, tendered Joe hisBowie knife. Captain Petofi proffered Rakoczi his. The two men steppedinto the arena, which had been floored with sand, its dimensionsmarked with blue chalk. Though nothing had been said, it was obviousthat if a combatant stepped over this line he would have lost face.
They stood at opposite sides of the arena, both with arms loose attheir sides, both holding their fighting knives in their right hands.
General Armstrong said, his voice tight and worried, "Ready, CaptainRakoczi?"
The Hungarian used his affirmative word again.
"Ready, Major Mauser?"
"Ready," Joe said. He felt like adding, _as ready as I'm ever going tobe_. He was feeling qualms now. He'd been too long in the game not torecognize a superlative opponent when he saw one.
The four seconds drew back their twenty feet and joined the twodoctors and half dozen hospital assistants who were there. Furtherback still, Joe knew, were emergency facilities. Two men bycontemporary usage were going to be allowed to butcher each other, butmoments after, all the facilities of modern medical science were goingto be at their disposal. Joe felt a wry twinge of humor at theincongruity of it.
General Armstrong called, "Commence!"
Joe spread his legs, grasped the knife so that his thumb was along theside of the blade and held approximately waist high. He shuffledforward, slowly, feeling the consistency of the sand. There must be noslipping.
The Sov officer had assumed the stance of a swordsman. His smile wasfoxlike. For the first time, Joe noticed the scar along the other'scheek. It was white now, which brought it into prominence. Yes, SandorRakoczi, in his time, had copped one more than once. At least the manwasn't infallible.
As they came cautiously toward each other, the Hungarian grinned,fox-fashion, and said in his heavily accented Anglo-American, "Ah, ourbad man from the West, you thought to choose a weapon unknown toRakoczi, eh? But perhaps you have never heard of the Italian shortsword, eh? Do you think this clumsy weapon is so different from theItalian short sword, eh?"
Joe had never heard of the Italian short sword, though now it cameback to him that some of the phony-fracas films he had seen back homehad depicted medieval duelists fighting with two swords, one long, oneshort. Obviously, his Sov opponent was thoroughly familiar with theusage. Joe swore inwardly.
They circled, warily, watching for an opening, sizing up the other.Each knew that once action was joined, events would most likelyprogress quickly. The Bowie knife was not built for finesse.
Like a flash, Sandor Rakoczi darted in, his blade flicked, he leaptback, instantly on guard again. There was a streak of red down Joe'sarm.
Joe blinked. Somebody, General Armstrong, or was it Max? had saidthere was something freakish about this Hungarian. His reflexes wereunbelievably fast. Now, Joe could believe it.
He attempted a slashing blow himself, and the other danced away soquickly that Joe had not come within feet of his opponent.
Rakoczi laughed insinuatingly. "Oaf," he said. "Is that the word?Clumsy, awkward, stumbling ... oaf. It is well to rid the world ofsuch, eh?"
He was a talker. Joe had met the type before, especially inhand-to-hand combat. They talked, usually insultingly, sometimesbringing up such matters as your legitimacy, or the virtue of yourwife or sister, or your own supposed perversions. They talked, and byso doing hoped to enrage you, provoke you into foolish attack. Joe wasuntouched by such tactics. He circled again, his mind moving quickly.
He had, he realized, no advantages on his side. He was neitherstronger nor faster than the other, and he had no reason to believethat he had greater stamina. If anything, it might be the other way.
* * * * *
Rakoczi was in again, through Joe's guard, darting his blade as thoughit were a foil. A cut opening magically on Joe's chest from the leftnipple to navel, and bled profusely.
The Sov duelist was back a good six feet, and laughing openly. Joe hadhad insufficient time even to move one foot in retreat at the other'soffensive.
Joe Mauser wet his lips. The tic at the side of his mouth was in fullevidence.
Rakoczi jeered, "Ah, my bad man from the West who throws wine in theface of gentlemen. You grow afraid, eh? Your mouth twitches. You feelin your stomach the fear of death, eh? No longer do you worry aboutlocating the Sov-world underground and helping to overthrow the Party,eh? Now you worry about death."
Joe tried rushing him, plowing through the sand. But the Hungariandanced back, still jeering. He obviously knew the feel of sand beneathfoot, as Joe did not. Joe had no time to wonder over Armstrong andAndersen agreeing to a sand deep arena. They had messed up on thatone. For Joe, it was like trying to operate on a sandy beach, butRakoczi seemed in his element.
Even as Joe's attack slowed in frustration, the other darted in,slashed once, twice, scoring on Joe's left arm, once, twice.
He has beginning to resemble a bloody mess. None of the wounds wereoverly deep, but combined they were costing him blood. He got thefeeling that the Hungarian could finish him off at will. That Rakoczihad his number. That it was no longer a matter of the other beingcareful not to underestimate the foe. Joe had been correctly estimatedand found wanting. He realized that only by sinking to the sand couldhe throw the fight. The duel ended upon one combatant or the otherfalling to the sand.
And then he could see the other's expression. There was to be nothrowing in of the towel for Joe Mauser. At the first sign of such amove, the other would dart in, cobra-quick, and deal the finishingblow. The death blow
. Rakoczi was fully capable of such speed. The manwas a phenomenon, metabolically speaking.
Joe, his heels almost to the chalk line of the arena boundary, dashingsuddenly forward again. His opponent, jeering, as before, dartedbackward with such speed, even through the sand, as to beunbelievable.
Joe Mauser grinned wolfishly. He tossed the Bowie knife suddenly intothe air. It turned in a spin to come down blade in his hand.
He stepped forward with his left foot, threw with full might. TheBowie knife, balanced to turn once completely in thirty feet, blurredthrough the air and buried itself in the Hungarian's abdomen, up tothe hilt.
The Sov officer grunted in agony, stared down at the protruding hiltunbelievingly. His eyes come up in hate, glaring at Joe who stoodthere across from him, hands now extended forward in the stance of akarate fighter.
Joe could follow the other's agonized thoughts in his