At my appearance they sent up a mocking cheer.
We reached the flat on which the centaurs were gathered and Paint went rocketing toward them at a steady clip. One of the centaurs trotted out to meet me and Paint stopped, facing him. He had a shield, exactly like the one I carried, and a sword belt strapped around one shoulder.
“You return,” he said. “We had not thought you would.”
“I remain still a man of peace,” I said, “Is there no other way?”
“Peace be coward,” he said.
“You insist?” I asked.
“There is,” he said, “no other way of honor.” He was mocking me.
“Speaking of honor,” I said, “how do I know that when I get through killing you I will get the sphere?”
“You speak most lightly of killing me,” he said.
“One of us must die,” I told him.
“That is true,” he said, “but it will be you.”
“Just on the chance that you are wrong,” I insisted, “how about the sphere?”
“In the unlikely event that you still live,” he said, “it will be brought to you.”
“And I’ll be allowed to leave in peace?”
“You insult me,” he said, in cold anger. “You insult my race.”
“I am a stranger here,” I said. “I do not know your race.”
“We are honorable,” he said, the words gritted through his teeth.
“In that case,” I said, “let us proceed to business.”
“The rules must be observed,” he said. “Each of us will move back and turn around to face each other. You note the fabric on the pole?”
I nodded. Someone in the crowd of centaurs was holding up a pole with a dirty piece of cloth tied to it.
“When the symbol falls,” he said, “the fight begins.” I nodded and kicked Paint in the ribs to get him turned around. I rode a few paces, then turned Paint around again. The centaur also had turned around and we were facing one another. The pole with the dirty piece of cloth still was held on high. The centaur unsheathed his sword and I followed his example.
“Paint, old hoss,” I said, “now we’re in for it.”
“Most honored sir,” Paint told me, “I shall strive my utmost in our cause.”
The pole with the dirty rag came down.
We rushed together. Paint was going full speed after the first two swings he made upon his rockers, and the centaur was thundering down upon us, his driving hoofs cutting great clots of earth out of the ground and throwing them behind him. He held his sword on high and his shield was raised above his head. As he charged toward us he let go with a strange shrill yodeling warwhoop that was enough to freeze the blood.
Not more than a couple of seconds could have elapsed between the time the flag had dropped and we were upon one another and in those two seconds (if it were two seconds) my suddenly busy mind thought of at least a dozen clever tricks by which I could outsmart my opponent, and as speedily dropped them all. In that last moment, I knew there was nothing I could do other than try to catch the blow of his sword upon my shield and to try, by whatever means presented itself, to get in a blow of my own.
My mind dropped its wild flurry of ideas and became a hard, cold block and a grimness settled on me and I knew that this was it. I had to finish him off quickly or he would finish me and the matter of my finishing him must depend largely upon luck, for I had no skill and no time to learn the skill.
I saw his sword coming down in a full-armed swinging stroke and I knew also that my sword was swinging at his head, driven by every ounce of strength I could muster in my arm. His eyes were half-closed and beady and his face wore a look of self-satisfied alertness.
For he knew he had me. He knew I had no chance. From many little things that he had noted, he must have sensed that I was no expert swordsman and was at an utter disadvantage.
His sword struck the edge of my shield so hard that my arm was numbed and the blade went skidding off it to go slicing past my shoulder. But even as this happened, he jerked suddenly, beginning to rear up and backward. A glazed look flitted across his face and the arm that held the shield dropped away and the edge of my sword came down squarely on top his head, driven with all the strength I had, slicing into his skull and bisecting his face to drive deep into his neck.
And in that instant before my blade had struck him, when his face had taken on that glazed look and his shield arm had sagged away, I had glimpsed the black hole which blossomed in his forehead, on a line between and just above his eyes. But I saw it only for a fraction of a second, for almost as soon as it appeared, the sword was slicing through it, almost as if it had been placed there to show me where to strike.
SIXTEEN
The brain case was nicked and battered. It had had hard usage.
I handed it down to Sara. “There it is,” I said. “That was a hell of a chance you took.”
She bristled at the anger in my voice. “It was no chance at all,” she said. “The bullet goes where I aim the rifle and I am good at it. It worked out, didn’t it?”
“It worked out just fine,” I said, still shaken. “But two feet to one side. . .”
