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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction September,October, November 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidencethat the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Page numbersjump between issues since they reflect the original magazine pages ascan be seen in the detailed notes at the end of this text. Minortypographic errors have been corrected.
SENSE OF OBLIGATION
By HARRY HARRISON
_It took a very special type of man for the job--and the job was onerous, dangerous, and the only really probable reward was disaster. But when a man who says he knows it's going to kill him asks you to join...._
Illustrated by von Dongen
I
_A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation."_
Stephen Crane
Sweat covered Brion's body, trickling into the tight loincloth that wasthe only garment he wore. The light fencing foil in his hand felt asheavy as a bar of lead to his exhausted muscles, worn out by a month ofcontinual exercise. These things were of no importance. The cut on hischest, still dripping blood, the ache of his overstrained eyes--even thesoaring arena around him with the thousands of spectators--weretrivialities not worth thinking about. There was only one thing in hisuniverse: the button-tipped length of shining steel that hovered beforehim, engaging his own weapon. He felt the quiver and scrape of its life,knew when it moved and moved himself to counteract it. And when heattacked, it was always there to beat him aside.
A sudden motion. He reacted--but his blade just met air. His instant ofpanic was followed by a small sharp blow high on his chest.
"_Touch!_" A world-shaking voice bellowed the word to a million waitingloud-speakers, and the applause of the audience echoed back in a wave ofsound.
"One minute," a voice said, and the time buzzer sounded.
Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself. A minute is nota very large measure of time and his body needed every fraction of it.The buzzer's whirr triggered his muscles into complete relaxation. Onlyhis heart and lungs worked on at a strong, measured rate. His eyesclosed and he was only distantly aware of his handlers catching him ashe fell, carrying him to his bench. While they massaged his limp bodyand cleansed the wound, all of his attention was turned inward. He wasin reverie, sliding along the borders of consciousness. The naggingmemory of the previous night loomed up then, and he turned it over andover in his mind, examining it from all sides.
It was the very unexpectedness of the event that had been so unusual.The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest, thereforenights in the dormitories were quiet as death. During the first fewdays, of course, the rule wasn't observed too closely. The menthemselves were too keyed up and excited to rest easily. But as soon asthe scores begin to mount and eliminations cut into their ranks, thereis complete silence after dark. Particularly so on this last night, whenonly two of the little cubicles were occupied, the thousands of othersstanding with dark, empty doors.
Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The wordswere whispered but clear, two voices, just outside the thin metal of hisdoor. Someone spoke his name.
"... Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making abig mistake and there is going to be trouble--"
"Don't talk like an idiot!" This other voice snapped with a harshurgency, clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is ofutmost importance, and Brandd is the one I must see. Now stand aside!"
"The Twenties--"
"I don't give a damn about your games, hearty cheers and physicalexercises. This is _important_ or I wouldn't be here!"
The other didn't speak--he was surely one of the officials--and Brioncould sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun, because theother man said quickly, "Put that away. You're being a fool!"
"Out!" was the single snarled word of the response. There was silencethen and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.
* * * * *
"Ten seconds."
The voice chopped away Brion's memories and he let awareness seep backinto his body. He was unhappily conscious of his total exhaustion. Themonth of continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll. Itwould be hard to stay on his feet, much less summon the strength andskill to fight and win a touch.
"How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his achingmuscles.
"Four ... four. All you need is a touch to win!"
"That's all he needs, too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look atthe wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No one whohad reached the finals in the Twenties could possibly be a weakopponent, but this one, Irolg, was the pick of the lot. A red-haired,mountain of a man, with an apparently inexhaustible store of energy.That was really all that counted now. There could be little art in thislast and final round of fencing. Just thrust and parry, and victory tothe stronger.
Brion closed his eyes again and knew the moment he had been hoping toavoid had arrived.
Every man who entered the Twenties had his own training tricks. Brionhad a few individual ones that had helped him so far. He was amoderately strong chess player, but he had moved to quick victory in thechess rounds by playing incredibly unorthodox games. This was noaccident, but the result of years of work. He had a standing order withoffplanet agents for archaic chess books, the older the better. He hadmemorized thousands of these ancient games and openings. This wasallowed. Anything was allowed that didn't involve drugs or machines.Self-hypnosis was an accepted tool.
It had taken Brion over two years to find a way to tap the sources ofhysterical strength. Common as the phenomenon seemed to be in thetextbooks, it proved impossible to duplicate. There appeared to be animmediate association with the death-trauma, as if the two wereinextricably linked into one. Berserkers and juramentados continue tofight and kill though carved by scores of mortal wounds. Men withbullets in the heart or brain fight on, though already clinically dead.Death seemed an inescapable part of this kind of strength. But there wasanother type that could easily be brought about in any deeptrance--hypnotic rigidity. The strength that enables someone in a tranceto hold his body stiff and unsupported except at two points, the headand heels. This is physically impossible when conscious. Working withthis as a clue, Brion had developed a self-hypnotic technique thatallowed him to tap these reservoirs of unknown strength. The source of"second wind," the survival strength that made the difference betweenlife and death.
It could also kill. Exhaust the body beyond hope of recovery,particularly when in a weakened condition as his was now. But thatwasn't important. Others had died before during the Twenties, and deathduring the last round was in some ways easier than defeat.
* * * * *
Breathing deeply, Brion softly spoke the auto-hypnotic phrases thattriggered the process. Fatigue fell softly from him, as did allsensations of heat, cold and pain. He could feel with acute sensitivity,hear, and see clearly when he opened his eyes.
With each passing second the power drew at the basic reserves of life,draining it from his body.
When the buzzer sounded he pulled his foil from his second's startledgrasp, and ran forward. Irolg had barely time to grab up his own weaponand parry Brion's first thrust. The force of his rush was so great thatthe guards on their weapons locked, and their bodies crashed toget
her.Irolg looked amazed at the sudden fury of the attack--then smiled. Hethought it was a last burst of energy, he knew how close they both wereto exhaustion. This must be the end for Brion.
They disengaged and Irolg put up a solid defense. He didn't attempt toattack, just let Brion wear himself out against the firm shield of hisdefense.
Brion saw something close to panic on his opponent's face when the manfinally recognized his error. Brion wasn't tiring. If anything he waspressing the attack. A wave of despair rolled out from Irolg--Brionsensed it and knew the fifth point was his.
Thrust--thrust--and each time the parrying sword a little slower toreturn. Then the powerful twist that thrust it aside. In and under theguard. The slap of the button on flesh and the arc of steel that reachedout and ended on Irolg's chest over his heart.
Waves of sound--cheering and screaming--lapped against Brion's privateworld, but he was only remotely aware of their existence. Irolg droppedhis foil, and tried to shake Brion's hand, but his legs suddenly gaveway. Brion had an arm around him, holding him up, walking towards therushing handlers. Then Irolg was gone and he waved off his own men,walking slowly by himself.
Except something was wrong and it was like walking through warm glue.Walking on his knees. No, not walking, falling. At last. He was able tolet go and fall.