The Dueling Machine

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.

15

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 assistants. 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.”

Odal crouched down and selected a stone the size of his fist. He rose carefully, sighted Hector standing a hundred meters or so away, and threw as hard as he could.

The effort of his throw sent him tumbling off balance and the stone was far off target. He fell to his hands and knees, bounced lightly, and skipped to a stop. Immediately he drew his feet up under his body and planted the