by Ben Bova
They stood over him for a malevolent, gloating second. Then six strong arms flashed down, again and again, mercilessly. Pain and blood, screaming agony, punctuated by the awful thudding of solid clubs hitting fragile flesh and bone, over and over again, endlessly, endlessly...
Everything went blank.
Leoh opened his eyes and saw Hector bending over him.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I... I think so.”
“The controls hit the danger mark all at once. You were... well, you were screaming.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Leoh said.
They walked, with Leoh leaning on Hector’s arm, from the dueling machine to the office.
“That was... an experience,” Leoh said, easing himself onto the couch.
“What happened? What did Odal do? What made Dulaq go into shock? How does...”
The old man silenced Hector with a wave of his hand. “One question at a time, please.”
Leoh leaned back on the deep couch and told Hector every detail of both parts of the duel.
“Six Odals,” Hector muttered soberly, leaning against the doorframe. “Six against one.”
“That’s what he did. It’s easy to see how a man expecting a polite, formal duel can be completely shattered by the viciousness of such an attack. And the machine amplifies every impulse, every sensation.” Leoh shuddered.
“But how does he do it?” Hector’s voice was suddenly demanding.
“I’ve been asking myself the same question. We’ve checked the dueling machine time and again. There’s no possible way for Odal to plug in five helpers... unless...”
“Unless?”
Leoh hesitated, seemingly debating with himself. Finally he nodded sharply and answered, “Unless Odal is a telepath.”
“Telepath? But...”
“I know it sounds farfetched, but there have been well-documented cases of telepathy.”
Frowning, Hector said, “Sure, everybody’s heard about it... natural telepaths, I mean... but they’re so unpredictable... I mean, how can...”
Leoh leaned forward on the couch and clasped his hands in front of his chin. “The Terran races have never developed telepathy, or any extrasensory talents, beyond the occasional wild talent. They never had to, not with tri-di communications and star ships. But perhaps the Kerak people are different...”
“They’re human, just like we are,” Hector said. “Besides, if they had, uh, telepathic abilities... well, wouldn’t they use them all the time? Why just in the dueling machine?”
“Of course!” Leoh exclaimed. “Odal’s shown telepathic ability only in the dueling machine!”
Hector blinked.
Excitedly, Leoh explained, “Suppose Odal’s a natural telepath... the same as dozens of Terrans have been proven to be. He has an erratic, difficult-to-control talent. A talent that doesn’t really amount to much. Then he gets into the dueling machine. The machine amplifies his thoughts. It also amplifies his talents!”
“Ohhh.”
“You see? Outside the machine, he’s no better than any wandering fortuneteller. But the dueling machine gives his natural abilities the amplification and reproducibility that they could never attain unaided.”
“I get it.”
“So it’s a fairly straightforward matter for him to have five associates in the Kerak embassy sit in on the duel, so to speak. Possibly they’re natural telepaths, too, but they needn’t be.”
“They just, uh, pool their minds with his? Six men show up in the duel... pretty nasty.” Hector dropped into the desk chair. “So what do we do now?”
“Now?” Leoh blinked at the Watchman. “Why... I suppose the first thing we do is call the hospital and see how Dulaq came through.”
“Oh, yes... I forgot about her... I mean, him.”
Leoh put the call through. Geri Dulaq’s face appeared on the screen, impassive.
“How is he?” Hector blurted.
“It was too much for him,” she said bleakly. “He is dead. The doctors have tried to revive him, but...”
“No.” Leoh groaned.
“I’m... sorry,” Hector said. “I’ll be right down there. Stay where you are.”
The Star Watchman dashed out of the office as Geri broke the phone connection. Leoh stared at the blank screen for a few minutes, then leaned far back in the couch and closed his eyes. He was suddenly exhausted, physically and emotionally. He fell asleep, and dreamed of men dead and dying. Sometimes it was Odal killing them, and sometimes it was Leoh himself.
Hector’s nerve-shattering whistling woke him up. It was deep night outside.
“What are you so happy about?” Leoh groused as Hector popped into the office.
“Happy? Me?”
“You were whistling.”
Hector shrugged. “I always whistle, sir. Doesn’t mean I'm happy.”
“All right.” Leoh rubbed his eyes. “How did the girl take her father’s death?”
“Pretty hard. She cried a lot. It... well, it shook us both up.”
Leoh looked at the younger man. “Does she blame... me?”
“You? Why, no, sir. Why should she? Odal, Kanus... the Kerak Worlds. But not you.”
The Professor sighed, relieved. “Very well. Now then, we have much work to do, and little time to do it in.”
“What do you want me to do?” Hector asked.
“Phone the Star Watch Commander...”
“My commanding officer, all the way back at Perseus Alpha VI? That’s a hundred light-years from here.”
“No, no, no,” Leoh shook his head. “The Commander-in-Chief, Sir Harold Spencer. At Star Watch Central Headquarters, or wherever he may be, no matter how far. Get through to him as quickly as possible. And reverse the charges.”
With a low whistle of astonishment, Hector began punching buttons on the phone.
The morning of the duel arrived, and precisely at the specified hour, Odal and a small retinue of Kerak seconds stepped through the double doors of the dueling machine chamber.
Hector and Leoh were already there, waiting. With them stood another man, dressed in the black-and-silver of the Star Watch. He was a blocky, broad-faced veteran with iron-gray hair and hard, unsmiling eyes.
The two little groups of men knotted together in the center of the room, before the machine’s main control board. The white-uniformed staff meditechs emerged from a far doorway and stood off to one side.
Odal went through the formality of shaking hands with Hector. The Kerak major nodded toward the older Watchman. “Your replacement?” he asked mischievously.
The chief meditech stepped between them. “Since you are the challenged party, Major Odal, you have the first choice of weapon and environment. Are there any instructions or comments necessary before the duel begins?”
“I think not,” Odal replied. “The situation will be self-explanatory. I assume, of course, that Star Watchmen are trained to be warriors and not merely technicians. The situation I have chosen is one in which many warriors have won glory.”
Hector said nothing.
“I intend,” Leoh said firmly, “to assist the staff in monitoring this duel. Your aides may, of course, sit at the control board with me.”
Odal nodded.
“If you are ready to begin, gentlemen,” the chief meditech said.
Hector and Odal went to their booths. Leoh sat at the control console, and one of the Kerak men sat down next to him. The others found places on the long curving bench that faced the machine.
Hector felt every nerve and muscle tensed as he sat in the booth, despite his efforts to relax. Slowly the tension eased and he began to feel slightly drowsy. The booth seemed to be melting away...
Hector heard a snuffling noise behind him and wheeled around. He blinked, then stared.
It had four legs, and was evidently a beast of burden. At least, it carried a saddle on its back. Piled atop the saddle was a conglomeration of what looked to Hector—at first glance—like
a pile of junk. He went over to the animal and examined it carefully. The “junk” turned out to be a long spear, various pieces of armor, a helmet, sword, shield, battle-ax, and dagger.
The situation I have chosen is one in which many warriors have won glory.
Hector puzzled over the assortment of weapons. They came straight out of Kerak’s Dark Age. Probably Odal had been practicing with them for months, even years. He may not need five helpers, Hector thought.
Warily, he put on the armor. The breastplate seemed too big, and he was somehow unable to tighten the greaves on his shins properly. The helmet fit over his head like an ancient oil can, flattening his ears and nose and forcing him to squint to see through the narrow eye slit. Finally he buckled on the sword and found attachments on the saddle for the other weapons. The shield was almost too heavy to lift, and he barely struggled into the saddle with all the weight he was carrying.
And then he just sat. He began to feel a little ridiculous. Suppose it rains? But of course it wouldn’t.
After an interminable wait, Odal appeared on a powerful trotting charger. His armor was black as space, and so was his mount. Naturally, thought Hector.
Odal saluted gravely with his great spear from across the meadow. Hector returned the salute, nearly dropping his spear in the process.
Then Odal lowered his spear and aimed it—so it seemed to Hector—directly at the Watchman’s ribs. He pricked his mount into a canter. Hector did the same, and his steed jogged into a bumping, jolting gallop. The two warriors hurtled toward each other from opposite ends of the meadow, with Hector barely hanging on to his mount.
And suddenly there were six black figures roaring down on Hector!
The Watchman’s stomach wrenched within him. Automatically he tried to turn his mount aside. But the beast had no intention of going anywhere except straight ahead. The Kerak warriors bore in, six abreast, with six spears aimed menacingly.
Abruptly, Hector heard the pounding of other hoof-beats right beside him. Through a corner of his helmet slit he glimpsed at least two other warriors charging with him into Odal’s crew.
Leoh’s gamble had worked. The transceiver that had allowed Dulaq to make contact with the dueling machine from his hospital bed was now allowing five Star Watch officers to join Hector, even though they were physically sitting in a star ship orbiting high above the planet.
The odds were even now. The five additional Watchmen were the roughest, hardiest, most aggressive man-to-man fighters that the Star Watch could provide on one-day’s notice.
Twelve powerful chargers met head-on, and twelve strong men smashed together with an earsplitting CLANG! Shattered spears showered splinters everywhere. Men and animals went down.
Hector was rocked back in his saddle, but somehow managed to avoid falling off. On the other hand, he couldn’t really regain his balance, either. Dust and weapons filled the air. A sword hissed near his head and rattled off his shield.
With a supreme effort, Hector pulled out his own sword and thrashed at the nearest rider. It turned out to be a fellow Watchman, but the stroke bounced harmlessly off his helmet.
It was so confusing. The wheeling, snorting animals. Clouds of dust. Screaming, raging men. A black-armored rider charged into Hector, waving a battle-ax over his head. He chopped savagely, and the Watchman’s shield split apart. Another frightening swing—Hector tried to duck and slid completely out of the saddle, thumping painfully on the ground, while the ax cleaved the air where his head had been a split second earlier.
Somehow his helmet was turned around. Hector tried to decide whether to grope around blindly or lay down his sword and straighten out the helmet. The problem was solved for him by the crang! of a sword against the back of his head. The blow flipped him into a somersault, and knocked the helmet off completely.
Hector climbed painfully to his feet, his head spinning. It took him several moments to realize that the battle had stopped.
The dust drifted away, and he saw that all the Kerak fighters were down—except one. The black-armored warrior took off his helmet and tossed it aside. It was Odal. Or was it? They all looked alike. What difference does it make? Hector wondered. Odal’s mind is the dominant one.
Odal stood, legs braced apart, sword in hand, and looked uncertainly at the other Star Watchmen. Three of them were afoot and two still mounted. The Kerak major seemed as confused as Hector felt. The shock of facing equal numbers had sapped much of his confidence.
Cautiously he advanced toward Hector, holding his sword out before him. The other Watchmen stood aside while Hector slowly backpedaled, stumbling slightly on the uneven ground.
Odal feinted and cut at Hector’s arm. The Watchman barely parried in time. Another feint, at the head, and a slash to the chest; Hector missed the parry but his armor saved him. Odal kept advancing. Feint, feint, crack! Hector’s sword went flying from his hand.
For the barest instant everyone froze. Then Hector leaped desperately straight at Odal, caught him completely by surprise, and wrestled him to the ground. The Watchman pulled the sword from Odal’s hand and tossed it away. But with his free hand Odal clouted Hector on the side of the head and knocked him on his back. Both men scrambled up and ran for the nearest weapons.
Odal picked up a wicked-looking double-bladed ax. One of the mounted Star Watchmen handed Hector a huge broadsword. He gripped it with both hands, but still staggered off balance as he swung it up over his shoulder.
Holding the broadsword aloft, Hector charged toward Odal, who stood dogged, short-breathed, sweat-streaked, waiting for him. The broadsword was quite heavy, even for a two-handed grip. And Hector never noticed his own battered helmet lying on the ground between them.
Odal, for his part, had Hector’s charge and swing timed perfectly in his own mind. He would duck under the swing and bury his ax in the Watchman’s chest. Then he would face the others. Probably, with their leader gone, the duel would automatically end. But, of course, Hector would not really be dead; the best Odal could hope for now was to win the duel.
Hector charged directly into Odal’s plan, but the Watchman’s timing was much poorer than anticipated. Just as he began the downswing of a mighty broadsword stroke, he stumbled on the helmet. Odal started to duck, then saw the Watchman was diving face-first into the ground, legs flailing, and that heavy broadsword was cleaving through the air with a will of its own.
Odal pulled back in confusion, only to have the wild-swinging broadsword strike him just above the wrist with bone-shattering impact. The ax dropped out of his hand and Odal involuntarily grasped the wounded forearm with his left hand. Blood seeped through his fingers.
Shaking his head in bitter resignation, Odal turned his back on the prostrate Hector and began walking away.
Slowly the scene faded, and Hector found himself sitting in the booth of the dueling machine.
The door opened and Leoh squeezed into the booth.
“You’re all right?”
Hector blinked and refocused his eyes on reality. “I think so...”
“Everything went well? The Watchmen got through to you?”
“Good thing they did. I was nearly killed anyway.”
“But you survived.”
“So far.”
Across the room, Odal stood massaging his forearm while Kor demanded, “How could they possibly have discovered the secret? Where was the leak? Who spoke to them?”
“That’s not important now,” Odal said quietly. “The primary fact is that they’ve not only discovered our trick, but they’ve found a way to duplicate it.”
The glistening dome of Kor’s bullet-shaped head—which barely rose to the level of Odal’s chin—was glowing with rage.
“The sanctimonious hypocrites,” Kor snarled, “accusing us of cheating, and then they do the very same thing.”
“Regardless of the moral values of our mutual behavior,” Odal said dryly, “it’s evident that there’s no longer any use in calling on telepathically guided assistan
ts. I’ll face the Watchman alone during the second half of the duel.”
“Can you trust them to do the same?”
“Yes. They easily defeated my aides, then stood aside and allowed the two of us to fight by ourselves.”
“And you failed to defeat him?”
Odal frowned. “I was wounded by a fluke. He’s a very... unusual opponent. I can’t decide whether he’s actually as clumsy as he appears, or whether he’s shamming and trying to confuse me. Either way, it’s impossible to predict what he’s going to do.” To himself he added, Could he be telepathic, also?
Kor’s gray eyes became flat and emotionless. “You know, of course, how the Leader will react if you fail to kill this Watchman. Not merely defeat him. He must be killed. The aura of invincibility must be maintained.”
“I’ll do my best,” Odal said.
“He must be killed.”
The chime that marked the end of the rest period sounded. Odal and Hector returned to their booths. Now it was Hector’s choice of environment and weapons.
Odal found himself enveloped in darkness. Only gradually did his eyes adjust. He was in a spacesuit. For several minutes he stood motionless, peering into the darkness, every sense alert, every muscle coiled for instant action. Dimly he could see the outlines of jagged rock against a background of innumerable stars. Experimentally, he lifted one foot. It stuck, tacky, to the surface. Magnetized boots. This must be a planetoid.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness he saw that he was right. It was a small planetoid, perhaps a mile or so in diameter, he judged. Almost zero gravity. Airless.
Odal swiveled his head inside the fish-bowl helmet of his suit and saw, over his right shoulder, the figure of Hector—lank and ungainly even with the bulky suit. For a moment, Odal puzzled over the weapon to be used. Then Hector bent down, picked up a loose stone, straightened, and tossed it softly past Odal’s head. He watched it sail by and off into the darkness of space, never to return. A warning shot.
Pebbles? Odal thought to himself. Pebbles for a weapon? He must be insane. Then he remembered that inertial mass was unaffected by gravity, or the lack of it. On this planetoid a fifty-kilogram rock might be easier to carry, but it would be just as hard to throw—and it would do just as much damage when it hit, regardless of its gravitational “weight.”