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 no