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 loudspeakers, 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 as 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 began to mount and eliminations cut into their
ranks, there was 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!" The 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 intruder 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 off-planet 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 this reservoir 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 that 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.