Sweat covered Brion's body, trickling into the tight loincloth that was
the only garment he wore. The light fencing foil in his hand felt as
heavy as a bar of lead to his exhausted muscles, worn out by a month of
continual exercise. These things were of no importance. The cut on his
chest, still dripping blood, the ache of his overstrained eyes--even the
soaring arena around him with the thousands of spectators--were
trivialities not worth thinking about. There was only one thing in his
universe: the button-tipped length of shining steel that hovered before
him, 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 he
attacked, it was always there to beat him aside.
A sudden motion. He reacted--but his blade just met air. His instant of
panic was followed by a small sharp blow high on his chest.
"_Touch!_" A world-shaking voice bellowed the word to a million waiting
loud-speakers, and the applause of the audience echoed back in a wave of
sound.
"One minute," a voice said, and the time buzzer sounded.
Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself. A minute is not
a very large measure of time and his body needed every fraction of it.
The buzzer's whirr triggered his muscles into complete relaxation. Only
his heart and lungs worked on at a strong, measured rate. His eyes
closed and he was only distantly aware of his handlers catching him as
he fell, carrying him to his bench. While they massaged his limp body
and cleansed the wound, all of his attention was turned inward. He was
in reverie, sliding along the borders of consciousness. The nagging
memory of the previous night loomed up then, and he turned it over and
over 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, therefore
nights in the dormitories were quiet as death. During the first few
days, of course, the rule wasn't observed too closely. The men
themselves were too keyed up and excited to rest easily. But as soon as
the scores begin to mount and eliminations cut into their ranks, there
is complete silence after dark. Particularly so on this last night, when
only two of the little cubicles were occupied, the thousands of others
standing with dark, empty doors.
Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The words
were whispered but clear, two voices, just outside the thin metal of his
door. Someone spoke his name.
"... Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making a
big mistake and there is going to be trouble--"
"Don't talk like an idiot!" This other voice snapped with a harsh
urgency, clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is of
utmost 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 physical
exercises. This is _important_ or I wouldn't be here!"
The other didn't speak--he was surely one of the officials--and Brion
could sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun, because the
other man said quickly, "Put that away. You're being a fool!"
"Out!" was the single snarled word of the response. There was silence
then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.
* * * * *
"Ten seconds."
The voice chopped away Brion's memories and he let awareness seep back
into his body. He was unhappily conscious of his total exhaustion. The
month of continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll. It
would be hard to stay on his feet, much less summon the strength and
skill to fight and win a touch.
"How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching
muscles.
"Four ... four. All you need is a touch to win!"
"That's all he needs, too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look at
the wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No one who
had reached the finals in the Twenties could possibly be a weak
opponent, 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 this
last and final round of fencing. Just thrust and parry, and victory to
the stronger.
Brion closed his eyes again and knew the moment he had been hoping to
avoid had arrived.
Every man who entered the Twenties had his own training tricks. Brion
had a few individual ones that had helped him so far. He was a
moderately strong chess player, but he had moved to quick victory in the
chess rounds by playing incredibly unorthodox games. This was no
accident, but the result of years of work. He had a standing order with
offplanet agents for archaic chess books, the older the better. He had
memorized thousands of these ancient games and openings. This was
allowed. 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 of
hysterical strength. Common as the phenomenon seemed to be in the
textbooks, it proved impossible to duplicate. There appeared to be an
immediate association with the death-trauma, as if the two were
inextricably linked into one. Berserkers and juramentados continue to
fight and kill though carved by scores of mortal wounds. Men with
bullets in the heart or brain fight on, though already clinically dead.
Death seemed an inescapable part of this kind of strength. But there was
another type that could easily be brought about in any deep
trance--hypnotic rigidity. The strength that enables someone in a trance
to hold his body stiff and unsupported except at two points, the head
and heels. This is physically impossible when conscious. Working with
this as a clue, Brion had developed a self-hypnotic technique that
allowed him to tap these reservoirs of unknown strength. The source of
"second wind," the survival strength that made the difference between
life and death.
It could also kill. Exhaust the body beyond hope of recovery,
particularly when in a weakened condition as his was now. But that
wasn't important. Others had died before during the Twenties, and death
during the last round was in some ways easier than defeat.
* * * * *
Breathing deeply, Brion softly spoke the auto-hypnotic phrases that
triggered the process. Fatigue fell softly from him, as did all
sensations 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 startled
grasp, and ran forward. Irolg had barely time to grab up his own weapon
and parry Brion's first thrust. The force of his rush was so great that
the guards on their weapons locked, and their bodies crashed together.
Irolg looked amazed at the sudden fury of the attack--then smiled. He
thought it was a last burst of energy, he knew how close they both were
to exhaustion. This must be the end for Brion.
They disengaged and Irolg put up a solid defense. He didn't attempt to
attack, just let Brion wear himself out against the firm shield of his
defense.
Brion saw something close to panic on his opponent's face when the man
finally recognized his error. Brion wasn't tiring. If anything he was
pressing the attack. A wave of despair rolled out from Irolg--Brion
sensed it and knew the fifth point was his.
Thrust--thrust--and each time the parrying sword a little slower to
return. Then the powerful twist that thrust it aside. In and under the
guard. The slap of the button on flesh and the arc of steel that reached
out and ended on Irolg's chest over his heart.
Waves of sound--cheering and screaming--lapped against Brion's private
world, but he was only remotely aware of their existence. Irolg dropped
his foil, and tried to shake Brion's hand, but his legs suddenly gave
way. Brion had an arm around him, holding him up, walking towards the
rushing 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 to
let go and fall.