His wounds were clean, straight slashes not overly deep and which
should heal readily enough. In his time, Joe Mauser had copped many a
more serious one. However, after bandaging, Nadine relegated him to
the small embassy hospital. The West-world diplomats would not even
trust the Sov-world medical care, preferring to import their own
Category Medicine personnel.
He was, so Max informed him, the lion of the West-world colony in
Budapest. And the Neut-world too, for that matter. It was quite a
scandal that a diplomatic representative had been challenged to a duel
by a known killer of Rakoczi's reputation. Informal protests were
lodged. Joe, cynically, could imagine just how effective they would
be, particularly at this late date.
A lion he might be, but Nadine was not allowing him visitors this
first day of his recuperation. Max, to attend him, but no others. At
least, so it was throughout the morning and early afternoon. Then, so
obvious was it that his hurts were not of paramount importance, she
relented to the extent of allowing General Armstrong to enter.
The general scowled down at him, as though to read just how badly Joe
was feeling. He grumbled, finally, "Dash it, you looked nothing so
much as an overgrown hamburger steak there for a while, Mauser."
Joe grinned wryly, "It's how I felt," he said. "I've never seen anyone
move so fast."
Armstrong said curiously, "If you wanted to use throwing knives, why
didn't you challenge him to a duel with throwing knives?"
Joe shifted his shoulders. "I figured my only chance with him was to
use a weapon with which he wasn't familiar. The Bowie knife was it. It
didn't occur to him that a knife build in that shape and as big as
that, was a precisely constructed throwing knife as well as one to use
hand to hand." Joe twisted his mouth. "Besides, if the Sovs think all
the Machiavellians are on their side, they're wrong. Poor Captain
Rakoczi got sucked in. _I_ had a throwing knife, but he didn't."
Armstrong looked at him blankly.
Joe explained. "The knife designed by Jim Bowie was made by a smith
named James Black, of Washington, Arkansas. Bowie made himself so
notorious with it that the blade became world famous and Black made
quite a few exact copies. Various other outfits tried to duplicate his
work, but actually none succeeded in producing the perfect balance in
such a large knife that made it practical for throwing. It turns over
once in thirty feet, exactly. All I had to do was to get Rakoczi
fifteen feet away from me, and he'd had it. And his own knife, when he
tried to reciprocate, was off balance."