had, it would never have
occurred to him to be bound by that arbiter of fisticuffs. In fact, he
had no intention even of being restricted to the use of his hands as
fists. The Japanese, long centuries before, had proven the fist less
than the most effective manner in which to pursue hand-to-hand combat.

Joe Mauser, working coolly, fast and ruthlessly, now, a trained combat
man exercising his profession, moved in for the kill, his shoulders
hunched slightly forward, his hands forward and to the sides, choppers
rather than sledges.

Joe stepped closer, as quick as a jungle cat. His left hand leapt
forward to the other's neck, hacked, came back into another blurring
swing, hacked again. His opponent grunted agony.

But a man does not become heavyweight champion without being able to
take as well as give punishment. Joe's attacker tucked his chin into
his shoulder, fighter style, and moved in throwing off the effects of
the karate blows. Somehow, he seemed considerably less drunk or
over-tranked than he had short moments before, and there was rage in
his face, rather than glaze.

One of the blows caught Joe on a shoulder and sent him reeling back.
At the same time, behind the other, Joe could see the maitre d'hotel
flanked by three waiters, hurrying up. He was going to have to do
something, and do it quickly, or be branded a boorish Middle who had
intruded into a domain of the Uppers only to participate in a brawl
and have to be expelled by the establishment's servants.

The former champ, his eyes narrowed in confidence of victory, came
boring in, on his toes, quick for all of his bulk. Joe turned
sideways, his movements lithe. He lashed out with his right foot, at
this angle getting double the leverage he would have otherwise, and
caught the other on the kneecap. The pugilist bent forward in agony,
his mouth opening as though in protest.

Joe stepped forward, quickly, efficiently. His hands were now knitted
together in a huge double fist. He brought them upward, crushingly,
into his opponent's face, with all the force he could achieve, and
felt bone and cartilage crush. Before even waiting for the other to
fall, he turned, righted his chair, and resumed his seat facing
Nadine, his breath coming only inconsiderably faster than before.

Her eyes were wide, but she hadn't organized herself as yet to the
point of either protest or praise.

The maitre d' was at their table. "Sir----" he began.

Joe said curtly, "Thi