The movements of the dance brought out the diverse costumes of the men. The Japanese were wearing formal black silk kimonos with trousers and wooden sandals. Makato the Korean had white trousers and a black hat and sandals. Wang Hsu, the Chinese kung-fu sifu, wore a luxurious silk robe with a golden dragon embroidered on the back; I knew without asking that the thread was genuine gold. But the younger kung-fu disciple, Pung Lii, was austere in contrast, in a simple Mao suit. The Russian wrestler, Oleg Usk, had the traditional baggy peasant trousers and blouse with voluminous sleeves, plus a fur hat. The Thai kick-boxer wore a saffron robe down to his ankles, tied by a black sash. The Argentinian boxer was in a gaucho outfit, with riding boots, leather pants, a wide colored shirt, black hat and even a whip.

  And more—but I was receiving warning nudges from Lufita for rubbernecking. Yet it was a dazzling spectacle.

  After a few minutes of mixed pleasure and agony—because I hated trying to dance, but liked holding a woman of her shape and grace—we sat down, and I began to regret my inability to converse with her. I had assumed that all the girls were hired prostitutes, but now it seemed that geishas might be the more appropriate term. Talented entertainers deserving of respect.

  “How do you do, sir.” I turned to the voice to find Hiroshi, the little aikido sensei, on my other side. He was, in his black pleated skirt, the epitome of the Japanese elder.

  “Glad to see you,” I said, somewhat at a loss. My broken finger gave a twinge, and I had a faint notion how Takao felt. It was embarrassing to receive an injury at the hands of this man, because only grievous blunder by the other party could put even that stigma upon him. But how did one apologize for receiving injury?

  “I trust your hand is better?” he said. “I regret that my inexcusable carelessness—”

  “Much better,” I said quickly, though it wasn’t.

  “I would not presume to interfere with another man’s business,” he said obliquely.

  I caught the hint. Was it about Takao? “Please feel free to speak without concern for offense,” I said.

  “Our host, while generous and effective, is a peculiar man. Perhaps he might be considered unreasonable by some, in certain respects. Yet he has a consistent rationale.”

  Hiroshi, old and discreet as he was, was not the type to gossip idly. What was he driving at? “He certainly has been strict about the festivities,” I said. “But it is a nice enough dance, with no expense spared. Good experience for us all, I’m sure.”

  “It would seem advantageous not to express surprise at what might develop,” he said. “Even a slight reaction, a mere raising of the brow, might not go unobserved.”

  “Sensible advice,” I agreed, mystified. Apparently I would have to find out for myself, after having been warned to expect something unusual from Pedro.

  Then another matter occurred to me. “Sensei, is it permissible for an occidental to ask a favor?”

  “It is,” he said gravely, as I had known he would.

  “I understand that you and Takao are not close.”

  “This is true, yet we are not so far apart as it may once have appeared. Takao has had an unfortunate life.”

  “Is the distance little enough so that you might be willing to write a letter on his behalf?”

  He looked regretful. “I can not undo the past.”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “This does not concern his professional status. It is a private matter, and I speak without his knowledge.” (I was, if I stripped away the euphemism, interfering, but I hoped I was doing right.) “It seems his wife is a good woman, but jealous, and she may misconstrue tonight’s arrangements. All these young girls . . . Only a completely reputable sensei conversant with the situation can reassure her, and—”

  Hiroshi smiled. “I shall call upon her personally.”

  The music began again and it was necessary to dance. I thanked Hiroshi hastily and got up with Lufita. I was half-pleased to note that a majority of the men were as uncomfortable as I. Makato the Korean had a partner taller than he was, and he looked about ready to lay her out with a karate punch. Whale was too big for his suit, and was literally bursting out. In addition he had a tiny girl perhaps a third his mass. But, surprisingly, he was dancing very well, swinging the girl off her feet with perfect aplomb, and they both seemed to be having fun. I did not see Takao, and presumed he was hiding in the hope that the jealous spirit of his wife would not spy him.

  Meanwhile the copious alcohol was enlivening the party. I heard a commotion and looked over to the great marble staircase that ascended from one side of the ballroom. A man was at the head of it—a Japanese, I thought, but I couldn’t be sure—urinating copiously in full view.

  Oh-oh. If that was Takao—!

  Someone went up to haul him away, getting spattered in the process, and there was an embarrassed chuckle below. But I knew no obscenity had been intended. Orientals are much freer about natural functions, and the copious liquors of a party like this could make them forget. Surely Occidental customs were just as indiscreet in Japan, on occasion.

  “I hope our host did not witness that,” a familiar voice murmured beside me.

  “Takao!” I exclaimed, jumping. Then I felt foolish. Of course he wouldn’t have . . .

  “A natural error,” he continued. If he had a date, I didn’t see her, and perhaps that was just as well. “But a cripple who must use a catheter could take such a display as a very personal affront.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. How would I feel, in Pedro’s position?

  Then, appropriately, it was my turn to go through the receiving line, for I had not yet met my host.

  Vicente Pedro sat in a wheelchair. He was indeed a handsome man, despite his infirmity, and his arms looked very strong. I knew now that he had a third degree black belt in judo and a fifth degree in karate; possibly he still practiced the latter, breaking boards and striking dummies. He was about forty-five years old, with a dark skin and black wavy hair. He wore a white linen suit with a silk shirt bearing a diamond stickpin and pearl cufflinks. His hands bore large ruby and emerald rings.

  The mayordomo introduced us: “Don Pedro, may I pressent Jason Striker of America. Judo.”

  Pedro studied me, frowning. I remembered that he did not like judo, because of his injury, and wanted it to lose. “You had a bit of trouble getting started,” he said.

  He must have enjoyed that! “Yes.”

  He paused a moment more, then decided I would do. “Striker, my niece, Amalita.”

  I turned with a polite smile to acknowledge the girl beside him. I had been so absorbed by Pedro himself that I hadn’t noticed her before.

  It was the nymph of the pool.

  “You have met my niece?” Pedro inquired with an edge.

  This was what Hiroshi had tried to warn me about. “I believe I have seen her in your beautiful gardens.”

  Now Pedro’s gaze was ugly. “My niece does not socialize in the gardens, judoka!”

  “Of course not,” I agreed.

  Amalita herself remained demure and silent. She was quite fetching in her formal dress, though it was of a more conservative cut than the standard for the other girls.

  “Come,” Pedro said, abruptly wheeling himself forward. He indicated Amalita and me, waving back the others in the receiving line including my own date.

  Amalita walked gracefully beside him while I followed. We traversed the breadth of the ballroom, which was now silent, and entered a side gallery leading to a closed series of rooms. Armed guards saluted Pedro as we entered, then blocked the doorway behind us. That claustrophobic feeling crept up on me again.

  The walls were covered with weapons on display. Not conventional ones, like swords and firearms, but oddities of Oriental martial arts. I had to read the plaques to identify most of them, and couldn’t get a proper look because Pedro kept moving along. There is nothing clumsy or slow about a well-managed wheelchair.

  There were nunchakus, like two billy-clubs connected by about nine inches of rope. I saw two little knobbed sticks, about five inches long; the plaque said yawara-jutsu. Apparently they were used to strike at nerve centers. There were several long bows and quarterstaffs, marked respectively kyudo and ho jitsu; also nanriki gusari, a pole with a chain; and several shuriken, which were star like little throwing missiles with sharp points that, according to the legend, the ninjas of Japan threw with unnerving accuracy through the holes in enemy helmets such as eye-slits. But the main weapon I noticed was also one of the smallest: shukos, or metal tiger claws: barbed bands that fit across the palms, to scratch the victim cruelly or even aid in scaling walls. They could also be used as handguards, making it possible to foil or grip the blade of a striking sword. What a macabre preoccupation our host had!

  We entered another chamber and stopped. This time I did not need to read the plaques. “Japanese katanas!” I exclaimed, amazed.

  “Ah, judoka—you are a collector?” Pedro inquired with alert interest.

  “Hardly! I could not afford the least of these fine swords,” I admitted. “But I admire weapons from a distance.” And indeed this display of blades was superlative. Many were embossed with jewels or gold and were precious works of art. The hilt of one thirty-inch curved sword was of carved wood in the shape of a wolf ‘s head, the guard inlaid with silver, and a panel of engraved brass just below the guard. All the swords appeared to be genuine, not replicas—which meant they had been stolen from Japanese temples in the period after Japan’s defeat in World War Two, when so many treasures had been looted. There was also a remarkable katana-kake, or sword stand, made in the shape of a giant dragonfly, gold lacquer throughout except for green lacquered eyes. It must have been a very wealthy or royal samurai warrior who had originally owned this.

  “And do you by chance know how the best katanas were made?” Pedro inquired.

  “I have only a general notion,” I said, wondering why he chose to question me along this line. “In the old days, methods of purifying iron and making steel were at best imperfect. Some pretty bizarre techniques were employed, but apparently they worked, because the steel in such swords is said to be as good as any modern steel, and their cutting edges have never been excelled.”

  “How could one tell?” Pedro asked, his eyes bright. I felt nervous, but answered him steadily.

  “They were said to have been tested by allowing a silk handkerchief to fall upon the blade, to see whether the cloth would be cut in half by its own slight weight. It was claimed some swords never grew dull. And they were strong: the true katana had to be capable of cutting off the head of a man at a single stroke. Or to cut a human body in half. Sometimes two or more bodies were piled on top of a mound of sand, and cut across. I have heard that as many as seven bodies have been severed by one cut.”

  Amalita stood silently, showing no interest in either the collection or the discussion; but Pedro’s eye had a fanatic gleam. “You are well educated, Striker,” he said, leaning forward. “But the cooling— do you know about that?”

  “Some were cooled in blood,” I said, repelled by his morbidity. He was leading up to something unpleasant.

  “This sword,” Pedro said, wheeling up to take a katana in its scabbard from the wall. He drew the blade out slowly, and it was incomplete, snapped off a few inches below the guard. “See, it is broken. Can you imagine its history?”

  So he had a story to tell. “Sir, I can not.”

  He held the imperfect weapon and gazed on it as he talked, as though fascinated. “This sword was to be cooled in the living body of the metalworker’s worst enemy,” he said, glancing sidelong at me. “But the proposed victim comprehended the plot the moment he was captured, and managed to scoop up and swallow a number of large rocks that littered his cell. When the heated blade was plunged into his body, it struck the rocks and broke. It was said that man died laughing!”

  I merely nodded, uncertain how to respond to such a twisted joke.

  Pedro slid the broken sword back into its scabbard and held it out to me. “A gift,” he said. “For your prowess and discretion. Draw no blood with it in this household.”

  Astonished, I accepted.

  Pedro spun about and wheeled, back toward the dance, Amalita keeping pace. I followed, carrying the precious but awful gift. Was it genuine? Was the story true? Why had he so honored me?

  Or was it an honor?

  *

  The remaining half-time activities seemed routine. The dance ended promptly at eleven, so the relieved contestants could retire at a suitable hour. Next morning Vicente Pedro personally awarded the cash prizes to the members of the martial arts teams in direct proportion to their rankings, though the real payoff would come at the conclusion of the tournament. Judo received twenty-six thousand dollars for its five wins and one loss, as did Karate; Kung-fu and Aikido, with 4-2 records, had twenty-two thousand apiece; Wrestling at 2-4 got fourteen thousand; Thai Kick-Boxing, 1-5, ten thousand; and Boxing got just the consolation money, six thousand dollars.

  Mustapha, the American boxer, brooded alone, drinking heavily. I tried to talk to him, thinking he might prefer American company, but he would have none of it. “Just you watch that fuckin’ sword, cousin!” he snapped, though I had left the gift katana in my room.

  In the afternoon Pedro staged a jaguar hunt. We all had to wear elaborate hunting costumes: baggy khaki pants, black leather boots, khaki hat, white short-sleeved shirt, and a silk kerchief around the neck to inhibit the dust. Each man also had a canteen of water, for we were warned that although the streams looked clear, some were infected with river flukes—parasites of the liver—so that no natural water could be presumed to be safe for the unaware. Another reminder how difficult it would be to escape this place on foot. We also carried hunting guns of assorted makes, not the single-shot pieces I had supposed true sportsmen employed. Mine was a Belgian semi-automatic rifle, specifically, an FAL semi-auto 7.62 mm. I had only a vague notion how to operate it, and no intention of making the attempt.

  And of course we rode sleek steeds, even those of us who had never been near a horse before. I wondered how Pedro himself managed to ride: did he have a special harness, or did he just sit in his wheelchair and laugh at the rest of us? I saw poor Filo Domingo, the Filipino kick-boxer, clutching the swaying saddle-horn and looking seasick. Whale rode beside him, equally miserable, for no boots fit him and he was in heavy socks and low shoes instead, and his horse was none too comfortable, either. I made a gesture signifying a saddle being shoved into a pornographic aperture, and both smiled wistfully.

  But a number were expert horsemen. Pibe Rosario, the brawling Argentine slugger, seemed oafish in combat despite his strength and stamina. But on horseback he was poetry in motion. He must have ridden bareback since early childhood on some great ranch, cowpunching, before departing for the greener pastures of American boxing. Oleg, the Russian sambo champion who had defected to the West during the Olympics (probably explaining why my original East German judo partner had been balked) and was the second wrestler in this tournament, now demonstrated his Kipchak heritage by doing some fine exhibition riding.

  Again I was reminded: it was foolish to judge anyone by parts. The complete man may be a very different person than the part.

  Meanwhile, I would be exceedingly happy to get off this galumphing brute with my posterior intact. It felt as if the saddle really was being rammed where I had suggested earlier. Every motion of the rein aggravated my bandaged hand, and I was not keen on killing a jaguar anyway, even though I understood it was larger than a lion and far more dangerous. I certainly wouldn’t appreciate running barefoot through the forest while a pack of jaguars on horseback chased me with guns.

  As it happened, we did not flush a jaguar. We fanned around the heavy woods along the river bottom and in due course routed out a tapir, and that was deemed sufficient. I lagged back, avoiding participation in the kill; this pointless slaughter was simply not my style.

  Not that I was in shape to kill anything, or even to put up a decent fight. The swaying of the horse brought a headache, with waves of pain reminiscent of my karate knockout going across my head. My clothes were so drenched with sweat it looked as if I had ridden through a shower.

  But better a match with Makato in a cold shower, than this. I began to chuckle involuntarily, and people glanced surreptitiously at me. I couldn’t even care.

  Even so, I had a bad moment when I dismounted, for I almost stepped on a snake. Wang Hsu, next to me, saw it before I did. His hand was a blur as he seized it by the tail and snapped it violently in the air, breaking its spine. Yes, it was a poisonous specimen; possibly he had saved my life. Such was my weariness that I hardly cared.

  Attendants led the horses away, while we weary riders walked off some of our stiffness. It was a few minutes’ walk through the brush to the cultivated grounds, and we moved along the narrow paths in small bunches.

  Suddenly there was a commotion ahead. A large, hairy, hoofed creature appeared, snorting as it spied us.

  “A peccary!” Makato shouted, grinning. At least that was what I understood; he had not said it in English. Certainly it was a wild pig, and a massive one, with ugly tusks and stiff bristles on its snout. It might have weighed as much as three hundred pounds, though of course I was no judge of hogflesh.

  Someone raised his rifle, but Makato cried him off. Then he stepped forward.

  The pig seemed to recognize the challenge. Perhaps it was one of the wild animals Pedro seeded on his premises, encouraged to attack men. At any rate, it charged.

  As it came at him, Makato stepped aside and tried to finish it with one blow of his fist. But he was not fast enough; the boar caught his leg with a tusk, ripping the pants and drawing blood.