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

us to do a job here. They can’t move in the West-world until they know where the Sov-world stands. They can’t afford an attack, a sudden heating up of the Frigid Fracas, right in the middle of the confusion of a socioeconomic change. They’ve got to know how the Sov-world stands, what it will do. They’ve got to know about this so-called underground, and the religious revival stuff out there in Siberia.”

“You’ve been discovered,” she said hotly. “They can send somebody else.”

He was still stubborn. “No. There’s a leak. If they send somebody else, the same thing will happen. And the next man might not be as much of a potential opponent to such as Sándor Rákóczi as even I am. If I run now, the West loses prestige, and the movement sponsored by Holland and Hodgson and the rest of us, loses prestige, too. Somewhere in Budapest, is some kind of a group that is watching us. We don’t know who, or where, or what they stand for, but we can’t afford to lose prestige with them.”

“We’re not exactly going to gain it, when and if this official assassin kills you.” She looked down at the wicked knife, and shuddered. “Oh, Joe, your mercenary career is over. Miraculously, you stayed alive for fifteen years through it all. From the Rank Private all the way up to Rank Major. Now at long last, you’re an Upper. You’re not going to throw it all away, now.”

He could say nothing.

She stamped a foot in uncharacteristic fury. “You silly clod. Suppose you do win? Don’t you see? They’ll simply send another killer after you. They’re out to get you, Joe Mauser. Don’t you see you can’t win against the whole Sov-world? Next time, possibly they won’t be quite so formal. Possibly a few footpads in the streets. Do you think they haven’t the resources to kill a single man?”

The side of his mouth twitched. “I’m sure they have. But it will give me a few days before they come up with something else. It’d be too conspicuous if I fought their top duelist one day, and then was cut down on the streets the next.”

She spun, in a fury, and all but ran from the room and from his apartment.

Joe looked after her ruefully. He growled in sour humor, “Every time matters pickle for me, my gal goes into a tissy and runs off.”

XX

As Max had said, as one of their alternatives to the fracas of the West-world, the Sovs put on Telly such duels as were fought amongst their supposedly honor-conscious officer caste. Evidently, the lower caste of the Proletarian Paradise was well on the way to its own version of bread and circuses. In fact, Joe had already wondered what their version of trank was.

But though the Telly cameramen were highly evident, and for this inordinary affair had six cameras in all, placed strategically so that every phase of the fight could be recorded, they were not allowed to be so close as by any chance to interfere with the duel itself. Spaced well back from the action, they must needs depend upon zoom lenses.

Joe Mauser and Sándor Rákóczi stood stripped to the waist, both in tight, non-restricting trousers, both wearing tennis shoes. General Armstrong and Lieutenant Andersen, on one side, and Lieutenant colonel Kossuth and Captain Petöfi, on the other, stood at the sides of their principals.

Kossuth was saying formally, “It has been agreed, then, that the gentlemen participants shall be restricted to this ring measuring twenty feet across. Seconds will remain withdrawn to twenty feet beyond it. The conflict shall begin upon General Armstrong calling commence, and shall end upon one or the other, or both, of the gentlemen participants falling to the ground. Minor wounds shall not halt the conflict. This is understood?”

“Yes,” Joe said. He had been sizing up his enemy. The man stripped well. He was almost a duplicate of Joe’s build, perhaps slightly lighter, slightly taller. Like Joe, he bore a dozen scars about his upper torso. Sándor Rákóczi hadn’t worked his way to the top in the dueling world without taking his share of punishment.

Rákóczi said something curtly, obviously affirmative, in Hungarian.

Lieutenant Andersen, his open face drawn worriedly, tendered Joe his Bowie knife. Captain Petöfi proffered Rákóczi his. The two men stepped into the arena, which had been floored with sand, its dimensions marked with blue chalk. Though nothing had been said, it was obvious that if a combatant stepped over this line he would have lost face.

They stood at opposite sides of the arena, both with arms loose at their sides, both holding their fighting knives in their right hands.

General Armstrong said, his voice tight and worried, “Ready, Captain Rákóczi?”

The Hungarian used his affirmative word again.

“Ready, Major Mauser?”

“Ready,” Joe said. He felt like adding, as ready as I’m ever going to be. He was feeling qualms now. He’d been too long in the game not to recognize a superlative opponent when he saw one.

The four seconds drew back their twenty feet and joined the two doctors and half dozen hospital assistants who were there. Further back still, Joe knew, were emergency facilities. Two men by contemporary usage were going to be allowed to butcher each other, but moments after, all the facilities of modern medical science were going to be at their disposal. Joe felt a wry twinge of humor at the incongruity of it.

General Armstrong called, “Commence!”

Joe spread his legs, grasped the knife so that his thumb was along the side of the blade and held approximately waist high. He shuffled forward, slowly, feeling the consistency of the sand. There must be no slipping.

The Sov officer had assumed the stance of a swordsman. His smile was foxlike. For the first time, Joe noticed the scar along the other’s cheek. It was white now, which brought it into prominence. Yes, Sándor Rákóczi, in his time, had copped one more than once. At least the man wasn’t infallible.

As they came