oice 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.

General Armstrong called, "Commence!"

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.