Joe spread his legs, grasped the knife so that his thumb was along the
side of the blade and held approximately waist high. He shuffled
forward, slowly, feeling the consistency of the sand. There must be no
slipping.
The Sov officer had assumed the stance of a swordsman. His smile was
foxlike. For the first time, Joe noticed the scar along the other's
cheek. It was white now, which brought it into prominence. Yes, Sandor
Rakoczi, in his time, had copped one more than once. At least the man
wasn't infallible.
As they came cautiously toward each other, the Hungarian grinned,
fox-fashion, and said in his heavily accented Anglo-American, "Ah, our
bad man from the West, you thought to choose a weapon unknown to
Rakoczi, eh? But perhaps you have never heard of the Italian short
sword, eh? Do you think this clumsy weapon is so different from the
Italian short sword, eh?"
Joe had never heard of the Italian short sword, though now it came
back to him that some of the phony-fracas films he had seen back home
had depicted medieval duelists fighting with two swords, one long, one
short. Obviously, his Sov opponent was thoroughly familiar with the
usage. Joe swore inwardly.
They circled, warily, watching for an opening, sizing up the other.
Each knew that once action was joined, events would most likely
progress quickly. The Bowie knife was not built for finesse.
Like a flash, Sandor Rakoczi darted in, his blade flicked, he leapt
back, instantly on guard again. There was a streak of red down Joe's
arm.
Joe blinked. Somebody, General Armstrong, or was it Max? had said
there was something freakish about this Hungarian. His reflexes were
unbelievably fast. Now, Joe could believe it.
He attempted a slashing blow himself, and the other danced away so
quickly 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 of
such, eh?"
He was a talker. Joe had met the type before, especially in
hand-to-hand combat. They talked, usually insultingly, sometimes
bringing up such matters as your legitimacy, or the virtue of your
wife or sister, or your own supposed perversions. They talked, and by
so doing hoped to enrage you, provoke you into foolish attack. Joe was
untouched by such tactics. He circled again, his mind moving quickly.
He had, he realized, no advantages on his side. He was neither
stronger nor faster than the other, and he had no reason to believe
that he had greater stamina. If anything, it might be the other way.
* * * * *
Rakoczi was in again, through Joe's guard, darting his blade as though
it were a foil. A cut opening magically on Joe's chest from the left
nipple to navel, and bled profusely.
The Sov duelist was back a good six feet, and laughing openly. Joe had
had insufficient time even to move one foot in retreat at the other's
offensive.
Joe Mauser wet his lips. The tic at the side of his mouth was in full
evidence.
Rakoczi jeered, "Ah, my bad man from the West who throws wine in the
face of gentlemen. You grow afraid, eh? Your mouth twitches. You feel
in your stomach the fear of death, eh? No longer do you worry about
locating 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 Hungarian
danced back, still jeering. He obviously knew the feel of sand beneath
foot, as Joe did not. Joe had no time to wonder over Armstrong and
Andersen agreeing to a sand deep arena. They had messed up on that
one. For Joe, it was like trying to operate on a sandy beach, but
Rakoczi 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 were
overly deep, but combined they were costing him blood. He got the
feeling that the Hungarian could finish him off at will. That Rakoczi
had his number. That it was no longer a matter of the other being
careful not to underestimate the foe. Joe had been correctly estimated
and found wanting. He realized that only by sinking to the sand could
he throw the fight. The duel ended upon one combatant or the other
falling to the sand.
And then he could see the other's expression. There was to be no
throwing in of the towel for Joe Mauser. At the first sign of such a
move, the other would dart in, cobra-quick, and deal the finishing
blow. The death blow. Rakoczi was fully capable of such speed. The man
was a phenomenon, metabolically speaking.
Joe, his heels almost to the chalk line of the arena boundary, dashing
suddenly forward again. His opponent, jeering, as before, darted
backward with such speed, even through the sand, as to be
unbelievable.
Joe Mauser grinned wolfishly. He tossed the Bowie knife suddenly into
the air. It turned in a spin to come down blade in his hand.
He stepped forward with his left foot, threw with full might. The
Bowie knife, balanced to turn once completely in thirty feet, blurred
through the air and buried itself in the Hungarian's abdomen, up to
the hilt.
The Sov officer grunted in agony, stared down at the protruding hilt
unbelievingly. His eyes come up in hate, glaring at Joe who stood
there across from him, hands now extended forward in the stance of a
karate fighter.
Joe could follow the other's agonized thoughts in his expression.
There were medics available and though the wound was a decisive one,
it need not be fatal, not in this day of surgery and antibiotics. No,
not fatal, the Sov Officer decided. He glared at Joe again, his teeth
grinding in his pain and shock. To move across the ring at the
American would be disastrous, stirring the heavy Bowie knife in his
intestines.
Rakoczi knew he had only split seconds, then he must sink to the sand
so that aid might come. But perhaps split seconds were sufficient. He
reversed his own knife in hand, preparatory to throwing.
Joe watched him. The other's face was a mask of pure agony, but he was
no quitter. He was going to make his own throw.
It came, blurringly fast, too fast to avoid. The heavy frontier knife
turned over half in the air and struck Joe along the side, glancing
off, ineffectively. Sandor Rakoczi fell to the sand and the medics
came on the run, both toward him and to Joe.
And then the fog began to roll in on Joe Mauser, and he noted, as
though distantly, that the medical assistance that General Armstrong
had provided from the West-world Embassy was headed by Dr. Nadine
Haer, who seemed to be crying, which was uncalled for in a doctor with
a patient, after all.