by Nick Carter
Nick sighed and removed his shoes. "Now you tell me."
Chapter 7
Siauw made one more attempt to enforce Buduk's decision without the contest, but his cautious orders were drowned in the din. The crowd yelled as Nick stripped off Wilhelmina and Hugo and gave them to Hans. They roared again when Nife swiftly stripped and hopped down into the arena, carrying his large knife. He looked wiry, well-muscled and alert.
"Think you can handle him?" Hans asked.
"I did until I heard about the rule that only the challenged use weapons. What a con game the old rulers ran…"
"If he gets to you I'll put a slug in him and get your Luger to you somehow, but I don't think we'll live long. Siauw has several hundred soldiers right in this field."
"If he gets to me you won't get him in time to do me much good."
Nick took a deep breath. Tala held his arm, her grip tight with nervous tension. Nick knew more about local customs than he had revealed — his reading and research had been thorough. The customs were a blend of animistic holdovers, Buddhism and Mohammedanism. But this was a moment of truth he could not think of an angle for except to whip Nife, and that would not be simple. The system was rigged for the house.
The crowd became impatient. They grumbled, then roared cheerfully again as Nick stepped carefully down the wide steps, his muscles rippling under his tan. He smiled and raised a hand like a favorite entering a ring.
Siauw, Buduk, Amir, and half-a-dozen armed men who appeared to be officers in Siauw's forces climbed on a low platform overlooking the cleared oblong in which Nife strutted. Nick stayed cautiously outside for a moment. He did not want to step over the low wooden rim — like a polo-field barrier — and perhaps give Nife a chance for a sucker punch attack. A burly man in green pants and shirt, wearing a turban and carrying a gilt mace, came from the temple, bowed to Siauw and entered the ring. The referee, Nick thought, and followed.
The burly man waved Nife to one side of himself, Nick to the other, then waved his arms and stepped back — well back. His meaning was unmistakable. Round one.
Nick balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands out and open, fingers together, thumbs out. This was it. No more thoughts except about what was in front of him. Concentrate. Act. React.
Nife was fifteen feet from him. The wiry, supple Mindanaoan looked fit — perhaps not as fit as himself, but his knife was a rugged ace to top. To Nick's amazement Nife grinned — a white-toothed grimace of pure evil and cruelty — then twisted the handle of the Bowie-type knife in his hand, and a moment later faced Nick with another smaller dagger in his left hand!
Nick did not glance at the burly referee. He kept his attention on his opponent. They were not likely to call any fouls around here. Nife crouched and came forward, light-footed… and thus began one of the strangest, most exciting and amazing contests that ever took place in the ancient arena.
For a long time Nick concentrated only on evasion of those deadly blades and the fast-moving man who wielded them. Nife rushed — Nick bounded back, to the left past the shorter blade. Nife grinned his demonic grimace and charged again. Nick feinted to the left and sprang away to the right.
Nife chuckled evilly and turned smoothly, following his prey. Let the big man play for awhile — it added to the fun. He spread his blades a little wider and advanced more slowly. Nick evaded the small blade with an inch to spare. Next time, he knew, Nife would allow for those inches with an extra lunge.
Nick covered twice the ground his adversary used, taking advantage of the full forty feet, yet making sure he had at least fifteen or so feet in which to maneuver. Nife charged. Nick faded back, moved to the right, and this time with a lightning tap at the end of a lunge with his arm like a fencer without a blade, tipped Nife's hand aside and jumped into the clear.
The crowd loved it at first, greeting every attack and defensive move with a storm of yells, cheers and whoops. Then, as Nick continued to retreat and dodge, they became bloodthirsty from their own excitement and their cheers were for Nife. Nick couldn't understand them, but the tones were self-evident — cut his guts out!
Nick used another fencing riposte to divert Nife's right hand and when he reached the other end of the ring he turned and grinned at Nife and waved a hand at the crowd. That caught their fancy. The roars sounded like cheers again — but not for long.
The sun was hot. Sweat poured over Nick but he was pleased to discover he was not breathing hard. Nife was dripping perspiration and he was starting to puff. The schnapps was telling on him. He paused and flipped the small knife over into a throwing hold. The crowd screamed with delight. They didn't stop when Nife tossed the blade back into a fighting grip, edge up and made a stabbing motion with it as if to say — "you think I'm crazy? I won't throw one away, I'll butcher him."
He rushed. Nick went low, parried and got away under the big blade, which nicked his biceps and drew blood. A woman shrieked happily.
Nife came after him slowly, like a boxer cornering his adversary. He matched Nick's feints. Left, right, left. Nick flashed forward, got a brief hold on the right wrist, evading the larger blade by a fraction of an inch, and spun Nife around and jumped on past him before he could bring the smaller knife around. He knew it had missed his kidneys by less than the length of a ball-point pen. Nife almost fell, caught himself and rushed angrily after his victim. Nick hopped aside, delivered a savate kick under the small blade that caught Nife above the knee but did little damage as Nick tumbled over in a side somersault and leaped away.
The Mindanaoan was intent on business now. This jack-in-the-box was a bigger handful than he had imagined he might be. He stalked Nick carefully, and on his next lunge sliced a deep furrow in Nick's thigh as he dodged. Nick felt nothing — that would come later.
He thought that Nife was slowing a little. Certainly he was breathing much harder. Now was the time. Nife came in smoothly, blades fairly wide, intent on cornering his foe. Nick let him have ground, backing toward a corner in small jumps. Nife knew a moment of elation as he thought that Nick could not escape him this time — and then Nick leaped straight forward into him, parrying both Nife's arms with quick jabs of his hands formed into stiff-fingered judo spears.
Nife opened his arms and came back with the thrusts which should spit his prey on both blades. Nick went under the right arm and slid his own left hand up it, not going away this time but coming up behind Nife, thrusting his left arm up and in back of Nife's neck — following it with his right from the other side to apply an old-fashioned half nelson!
The combatants crashed to the ground, Nife on his face on the hard-packed ground with Nick fastened to his back. Nife's arms were forced up, but he held the blades firmly. Nick had practiced personal combat all his life, and he had been through this particular throw and hold many times. In four or five seconds Nife would discover that he should skewer his opponent by twisting his arms down.
Nick applied the headlock with all his force. If you were lucky you could disable or finish your man this way. His grip slipped, his locked hands slid up and over Nife's oily bull neck. Grease! Nick felt it and smelled it. That was what Buduk had done when he gave Nife his brief blessing!
Nife thrashed under him, twisted, a knife-arm crawled backward along the ground. Nick whipped his arms free and got in one pounding fist-chop on the back of Nife's neck as he sprang clear, barely avoiding the shining steel which flashed at him like a viper's fang.
Jumping clear and crouching, Nick studied his man. The neck blow had done some damage. Nife had lost a lot of his bounce. He swayed a little, puffing.
Nick took a deep breath and steadied his muscles, attuned his reflexes. He recalled MacPherson's «orthodox» defense against a trained knife man — "a lightning kick to the testicles or run." MacPherson's manual had never even mentioned what to do against two knives!
Nife stepped forward, stalking Nick cautiously now — carrying the blades wider and low. Nick retreated, faded left, dodged right, then sprang forward usi
ng a hand-parry to tilt the shorter blade aside as it swept upward at his groin. Nife tried to pull his blow but before his arm stopped its forward lunge Nick had taken one step forward, spun beside the other and cross-locked the extended arm with the V of his own arm under Nife's elbow and a hand upon the top of Nife's wrist. The arm snapped with a crunching sound.
Even as Nife screamed, Nick's keen eyes saw the big blade make its swing toward him, coming around in front of Nife. He saw it all as clearly as a slow-motion movie. The steel was low and edge-up and due to penetrate just under his navel. There was no way to block, with his arms just completing the snapping of Nife's elbow. There was only…
It all took a small fraction of a second. A man without lightning reflexes, a man who had not taken his training seriously and made an honest effort to stay in condition, would have died right there in a welter of his own intestines and belly flesh.
Nick spun left, carrying Nife's arm as you would for the orthodox fall and lock. He crossed his own right leg forward with a jump, twisting, turning, falling — Nife's blade caught the point of his thigh bone, tore the flesh cruelly, and ripped a long superficial slash in Nick's buttock as he dove forward to the ground, carrying Nife with him.
Nick felt no pain. You don't — immediately; Nature gives you fighting time. He made the leg whip across Nife's back and pinned the Mindanaoan's good arm with the leg lock. They lay on the ground, Nife on the bottom, Nick across his back, pinning his arms in the snake-in-the-bow lock. Nife still had his blade in his good arm but it was temporarily useless. Nick had one free arm — but he was not in position to strangle his man, poke out his eyes or grasp his testicles. It was a stand-off — the instant Nick released his hold he could expect a thrust.
It was time for Pierre. With his free hand Nick felt his bleeding rump, pretended pain, groaned. A sigh of blood-identification, moans of sympathy and a few taunting cries, sounded from the crowd. Swiftly Nick took the little pellet out of the hidden slot in his shorts, felt the tiny lever with his thumb. He grimaced and writhed about like a TV wrestler, contorting his features to express horrible pain.
Nife was a great help to the act. As he struggled to get free he wrenched them along the ground like some grotesque eight-limbed squirming crab. Nick pinned Nife down as well as he could, got his hand near the knife-lover's nose and released some of Pierre's deadly contents, pretending to grope for the man's throat.
In open air Pierre's swiftly expanding vapor dissipated quickly. It was primarily an indoor weapon. But its fumes were lethal, and for Nife, panting for breath — his face a few inches from the small oval exuder of doom hidden in Nick's palm — there was no escape.
Nick had never held one of Pierre's victims as the gas took effect, and he never wanted to again. There was a moment of frozen inaction, and you thought death had come. Then Nature protested at the killing of an organism she had spent billions of years developing and muscles tightened and there was a last struggle for survival. Nife — or Nife's body — tried to wrench free with more power than the man had used when in command of his senses. He almost threw Nick off. A horrible retching scream burst from his throat and the crowd yowled with him. They thought it was a battle cry.
Many moments later, when Nick stood up slowly and watchfully, Nife's legs jerked fitfully, even though his eyes were wide and staring. The body and Nick were smeared with blood and dirt. Gravely Nick raised both arms to the sky, bent and touched the earth, turned Nife over with a respectful and gentle motion, and closed the eyes. He took a clot of blood from his own buttock and touched his fallen adversary on the forehead, the heart and the stomach. He scraped up a little earth, blotted up more blood, and poked the mess into Nife's sagging mouth — thrusting the spent pellet down the man's throat with his finger.
The crowd adored it. Their primitive emotions were expressed in a howl of acclaim that shivered the tall trees. Honor thy foe!
Nick stood up, spread his arms wide again as he looked at the sky and intoned, "Dominus vobiscum." He looked down and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, then thrust a thumb upward. He muttered, "Rot quick with the rest of the garbage, you crazy throwback."
The mob poured into the arena and raised him on their shoulders, oblivious to the blood. Some reached for it and touched themselves on the forehead with it, like newcomers daubed after a kill at a foxhunt.
* * *
Siauw's dispensary was modern. An efficient native doctor put three neat stitches in Nick's buttock and antiseptic and plaster on his two other cuts.
He found Siauw and Hans on the veranda with a dozen others, including Tala and Amir. Hans said briefly, "Quite a duel."
Nick looked at Siauw. "You've seen that they can be beaten. Will you fight?"
"You don't leave me any choice. Muller has been telling me what Judas will do to us."
"Where is Muller — and the Jap?"
"In our guardhouse. They won't go anywhere."
"Can we use your boats to go after the ship? What armament do you have?"
Amir said, "The junk is disguised as a Portagee trader. They have many large cannons. I will try — but I do not think we can take her or sink her."
"Do you have any aircraft? Bombs?"
"We have two," Siauw said gloomily. "An eight-place flying boat and a biplane for crop work. But I only have hand grenades and some dynamite. You would only scratch them."
Nick nodded thoughtfully. "I will destroy Judas and his ship."
"But the prisoners? The sons of my friends…"
"I will free them first, of course." Nick thought — I hope. "And I will do it far from here, which I think will make you happy."
Siauw nodded. This big Orang America probably had a U.S. Navy warship on call. After seeing him whip the man with two knives, you could imagine anything. Nick considered asking Hawk for Navy help, then discarded the idea. By the time State and Defense said no, Judas would have found an angle.
"Hans," Nick said, "let's get ready to leave in an hour. I'm sure Siauw will lend us his flying boat."
They took off into the garish afternoon sun. Nick, Hans, Tala, Amir and a native pilot who seemed to know his job well. Shortly after suction broke the hull free from the clinging sea Nick said to the pilot, "Please make a swing out to sea. Pick up a Portagee trader who can't be far offshore. I just want a look."
They found the Oporto in twenty minutes, easing along on the northwest leg of a port tack. Nick drew Amir to a window. "There she is," he said. "Now tell me all about her. Cabins. Armament. Where you were confined. Number of men…"
Tala spoke softly from the next seat. "And perhaps I can help."
Nick turned his gray eyes on her for an instant. They were hard and cold. "I thought you could. And afterward I want you both to draw me plans of her decks. As detailed as you can."
* * *
At the sound of the plane's engines Judas retreated under the awning, watching from a hatchway. The flying boat went over him, circled. He frowned. That was Lopohusias' ship. His finger strayed toward the battle stations button. He withdrew it. Patience. They might have a message. The launch might have broken down.
The slow craft circled the sailing vessel. Amir and Tala talked rapidly, vying with each other to explain details of the ketch-junk which Nick absorbed and retained like a pail collecting droplets from two spouts. Occasionally he asked a question to spur them on.
He saw no AA equipment, although the youngsters described it. If the concealing nets and panels had fallen he would have had the pilot get away — as fast and evasively as he could. They flew past the ship on both sides, crossed directly over her, circled tightly.
"There's Judas," Amir exclaimed. "See. Back… Now he's hidden by the awning again. Watch the port side after-hatch."
"We've seen what I wanted to," Nick said. He leaned forward and talked into the pilot's ear. "Make one more slow pass. Bow to stern directly over her." The flyer nodded.
Nick rolled down the old-fashioned window. From his case he took
Nife's five blades — the big double-Bowie and three throwing knives. When they were four hundred yards from the bow he dumped them overside and yelled to the pilot, "Let's head for Djakarta. Now!"
From his seat aft Hans called, "Not bad with no bomb sight. Those knives all seemed to fall on her somewhere."
Nick sat back in his seat. His rump hurt and the bandage squished when he moved. "They'll collect them and get the idea."
As they approached Djakarta Nick said, "We'll stay here overnight and go on to Fong Island tomorrow. Meet at the airport at eight a.m. sharp. Hans — will you take the pilot home with you so that we won't lose him?"
"Sure."
Nick knew that Tala pouted because she was thinking about where he would stay. With Mata Nasut And she was right, but not precisely for the reasons she had in mind. Hans' pleasant face was impassive. Nick was running this project. He would never tell him how agonized he had been during the fight with Nife. He had sweated and breathed as hard as the combatants, ready every instant to draw his pistol and put a slug in Nife and knowing he could never be fast enough to block a blade and wondering how far they would get through the enraged mob. He sighed. You lived rapidly with "Al Bard."
At Mata's Nick took a hot sponge bath — the large wound was not clotted enough to shower — and napped on the patio. She arrived after eight, greeting him with kisses that turned to tears as she inspected his bandages. He sighed. It was pleasant. She was more beautiful than he remembered her.
"You might have been killed," she sobbed. "I told you… I told you…"
"You told me," he said, holding her tightly. "I think they rather expected me."
There was a long silence. "What happened?" she asked.
He told her the events. Minimizing the battle and omitting only their reconnoitering flight over the ship — about which it was possible she might learn very soon. When he had finished she shuddered, cuddling very close, her perfume a kiss in itself. "Thank heaven it wasn't worse. Now you can turn Muller and the sailor over to the police and it's all over."