As Max had said, as one of their alternatives to the fracas of the
West-world, the Sovs put on Telly such duels as were fought amongst
their supposedly honor-conscious officer caste. Evidently, the lower
caste of the Proletarian Paradise was well on the way to its own
version of bread and circuses. In fact, Joe had already wondered what
their version of trank was.
But though the Telly cameramen were highly evident, and for this
inordinary affair had six cameras in all, placed strategically so that
every phase of the fight could be recorded, they were not allowed to
be so close as by any chance to interfere with the duel itself. Spaced
well back from the action, they must needs depend upon zoom lenses.
Joe Mauser and Sandor Rakoczi stood stripped to the waist, both in
tight, non-restricting trousers, both wearing tennis shoes. General
Armstrong and Lieutenant Andersen, on one side, and Lieutenant colonel
Kossuth and Captain Petofi, on the other, stood at the sides of their
principals.
Kossuth was saying formally, "It has been agreed, then, that the
gentlemen participants shall be restricted to this ring measuring
twenty feet across. Seconds will remain withdrawn to twenty feet
beyond it. The conflict shall begin upon General Armstrong calling
_commence_, and shall end upon one or the other, or both, of the
gentlemen participants falling to the ground. Minor wounds shall not
halt the conflict. This is understood?"
"Yes," Joe said. He had been sizing up his enemy. The man stripped
well. He was almost a duplicate of Joe's build, perhaps slightly
lighter, slightly taller. Like Joe, he bore a dozen scars about his
upper torso. Sandor Rakoczi hadn't worked his way to the top in the
dueling world without taking his share of punishment.
Rakoczi said something curtly, obviously affirmative, in Hungarian.
Lieutenant Andersen, his open face drawn worriedly, tendered Joe his
Bowie knife. Captain Petofi proffered Rakoczi his. The two men stepped
into the arena, which had been floored with sand, its dimensions
marked with blue chalk. Though nothing had been said, it was obvious
that if a combatant stepped over this line he would have lost face.
They stood at opposite sides of the arena, both with arms loose at
their sides, both holding their fighting knives in their right hands.
General Armstrong said, his voice tight and worried, "Ready, Captain
Rakoczi?"
The Hungarian used his affirmative word again.
"Ready, Major Mauser?"
"Ready," Joe said. He felt like adding, _as ready as I'm ever going to
be_. He was feeling qualms now. He'd been too long in the game not to
recognize a superlative opponent when he saw one.
The four seconds drew back their twenty feet and joined the two
doctors and half dozen hospital assistants who were there. Further
back still, Joe knew, were emergency facilities. Two men by
contemporary usage were going to be allowed to butcher each other, but
moments after, all the facilities of modern medical science were going
to be at their disposal. Joe felt a wry twinge of humor at the
incongruity of it.