Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

had expected the duel, actually, to have to be conducted with trench knives or some other alternative. But the Sovs, ever great on museums, had located one of the weapons of the American Old West in a Prague exhibit of the American frontier, the other in Budapest itself in an extensive collection of fighting knives, down through the ages, in a military museum.

Formally correct, Lieutenant colonel Bela Kossuth appeared at Joe Mauser’s apartment three days before the duel, a case in his hands. Max, in his role as batman, conducted him to Joe, doing little to keep his scowl of dislike for the Hungarian from his face. Max was getting fed up with the airs of Sov officers; caste lines were over here, if anything, more strictly drawn than at home.

Joe came to his feet on recognizing his visitor and answered the other’s bow. “Colonel Kossuth,” he said.

Bela Kossuth clicked heels. He held the case before him, opened it. Two heavy fighting knives lay within. Joe looked at them, then into the other’s face.

Kossuth said, “Frankly, major, your somewhat unorthodox selection of weapons has been confusing. However, we have located two Bowie knives. Since it is assumed that the two gentlemen opponents are not thoroughly familiar with, ah, Bowie knives, it has been suggested that each be given his blade at this time.”

Joe got it now. Sándor Rákóczi hadn’t become the most celebrated duelist in the Sov-world by making such mistakes as underrating his opponents. The weapon was new to him. He wanted the opportunity to practice with it. It was all right with Joe.

Kossuth clicked his heels again. “Our selection, unfortunately, is limited to two weapons. Since you are the challenged, Captain Rákóczi insists you take first choice.”

Joe shrugged and took up first one, then the other. It had been some time since he had held one of the famous frontier weapons in his hands. When still a sergeant in the Category Military, he had once become close companions with an old pro whose specialty was teaching hand-to-hand combat. Over a period of years, he and Joe had been comrades, going from one fracas to another as a team. He had taught Joe considerable, including the belief that of all blade hand weapons ever devised, the knife invented by Jim Bowie, whose frontier career ended at the Alamo, was the most efficient.

Joe ran his eyes over the blades carefully. On the back of one was stamped, James Black, Washington, Arkansas. Joe had found what he was looking for, however, he pretended to examine the other knife as well, ignoring the Sheffield, England stamp of manufacture.

The Bowie knife: Blade, eleven inches long by an inch and a half wide, the heel three eighths of an inch thick at the back. The point at the exact center of the width of the blade, which curved to the point convexly from the edge, and from the back concavely, both curves being as sharp as the edge itself. The crossguard was of heavy brass, rather than steel and a further backing of brass along the heel, up to the extent where the curve toward the point began. Brass, which is softer than steel, and could catch an opponent’s blade, rather than allowing it to slip off and away.

Joe balanced the weapon he had selected, and shrugged. “This one will do,” he said.

Kossuth clicked the case with the remaining knife shut. He could see no difference between the two. The selection of weapons had been a formality.

Max saw him to the door and returned to the living room. He said worriedly, “Major, sir, you sure you’re checked out on that thing? I’ve been asking around, like, and they put these duels on Telly here, just like we got fracases back home. This here Captain Rákóczi’s got one whopper of a reputation. He’s quick as a snake. Kinda like a freak. He can move faster than most people.”

“So they’ve been telling me,” Joe mused, balancing the frontier weapon in his hand. It had a beautiful balance, this knife so big that it could be used as a hatchet or machete.

He was still contemplating the vicious looking blade when Nadine entered. He smiled up at her, put the knife aside on the table, and came to his feet.

She looked at Max, and the little man turned and left the room.

Nadine said, “Joe, a plane is leaving this afternoon. A West-world plane for London.”

Joe looked at her speculatively. “I won’t be on it.”

“Joe, listen. A year ago you were an individual, trying to fight your way up to Upper caste. You weren’t able to make it as an individual, Joe. But now you’re a member of an organization, pledged to a high ideal. Joe, the organization doesn’t need martyrs at this stage. It does need good, competent, highly trained members such as Joe Mauser.”

He said nothing.

Nadine stepped suddenly closer to him. Her perfume, he noted, vaguely, was new, some sweet scent found here in the Sov world, undoubtedly. It had a heady quality, or was that merely the close presence of Nadine herself?

She put her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to her level. He had never realized that Nadine Haer was this much shorter then he. She pressed the softness of her lips to his.

Then she held back a foot or two, and said into his face, desperately serious, “Does this make any difference, Joe?”

He licked the edges of his lips, carefully, “It makes a great deal of difference.” His voice was thick. His arms came up behind her.

“Then you’ll be on the plane?”

He shook his head.

She wrenched herself suddenly free and stood back from him, infuriated. He had never seen anyone so infuriated.

He said, “Look, darling. If I had backed out of this, the way you want, you think you’d be happy. But you wouldn’t. You want a man, not a coward.”

“I want a live man! Not a dead hero.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “You mentioned the organization. All right, they sent