Makato backed up to a large mahogany tree, grinning again.

  He seemed to live for the challenge, the death-combat, in whatever form it offered. He gestured to the peccary obscenely.

  As the pig charged again, Makato raised his hands linked and brought them down savagely on its back, breaking its spine. The animal thrashed on the ground. Makato delivered a stomping blow that crushed in its skull.

  He had done it all for sport.

  Fortunately nothing big was scheduled on the third day, and we were permitted to recuperate from both the matches and the half-time activities. I slept until almost noon, ate, and meandered about the premises, chatting with people. I was surprised to find several contestants playing musical instruments with considerable skill. Takao and Makato, relaxing Japanese-style in underwear to abate the heat, were playing a bamboo flute and a zither, respectively. Wang Hsu the deadly kung-fu sifu—as deadly to snakes as to men—tapped his metallic nails on a small painted ox-hide drum in intricate counterpoint. Mustapha the boxer was rendering what sounded like Beethoven on a violin. It was a strange orchestra, but oddly evocative, with wind and strings and drum-beat. Three Orientals, all verging on the status of professional killers, and a black American—and as a group they could have performed at a swank night club for more pay than they were earning in prize money here. Strange that they didn’t do just that. But then I remembered my own dedication to judo and knew that all else was dross. Money was nothing compared to the lure of true martial art.

  I would have listened longer, but feared I would stare. In another room the second kung-fu disciple, a young and extremely tough Chinese named Pung Lii, was playing the complex Oriental game of Go with Hiroshi. I watched for a time, but could not make head or tail of the large cross-hatched board or the meaning of the black and white stones they set down in a pattern I couldn’t understand. Both were intent and seemed to find deep satisfaction in the game.

  In the courtyard Pedro himself was supervising entertainment of another nature: cock fighting. I had seen the cockpit before and had not recognized it for what it was. Now I saw the men gathered around, and the two aggressive cocks facing each other, iron spurs attached to their feet. Bets were made, and each bird had its coterie of fans. Busman’s holiday, I thought: the martial artists relaxing by watching martial art.

  I returned to the board-game section; cockfighting was not for me. The boxer Pibe was playing chess with the wrestler 0leg. It appeared to be an involved match, with neither man sure of victory, and I was unable to follow its strategies. These two men seemed to be developing a friendship, perhaps based on their common interests in riding and chess.

  I saw Filo the kick-boxer contemplating another set. “Do you play?” I inquired.

  He smiled comprehending though he did not speak much English. We set up the pieces, which were ornate hand-carved ivory. The rook was not the standard castle-shape I was accustomed to, but a complete elephant with a castle-like howdah on top, from the original India game. The pawns were foot soldiers, the bishops real priests, the kings and queens genuine royalty, and the knights armored men on horseback. My sore thighs tensed, and I was almost too bemused to play properly.

  Filo took a pawn of each color, shook both in his closed joined hands, and proffered his fists. I chose the right, and got White, so the opening was mine.

  This was fun! In college I had enjoyed chess, and had once finished third in a tournament. I did not know what to expect of Filo, so I opened more or less conventionally with the Evans Gambit. He declined, and I knew already that he was an experienced player. The proof was not long in coming; he checkmated me twice within the hour. I saw that I could not offer him meaningful competition and quit. But by then several others had set up boards, and the Wrestling judge took my place against Filo with somewhat better success.

  I drifted on to the movie room, but found that dull. Music continued; now someone was playing a samisen, the Oriental guitar. Then I heard kiais and zeroed in on that activity.

  The musicians had put away their instruments. Makato was breaking tiles with his fist. This was a standard karate demonstration, but he was good at it. Not content to smash one or two at a time, he piled up ten. They were heavy concrete, intended for construction and not for punching practice, but he cracked them all with a single blow. There was appalling power in that fist!

  Then he had two of the house servants hold up a stout wooden plank, and he broke it with a kick. Another servant held a smaller, thicker piece before him. Makato gestured for him to prop it up somewhere, but the man would not; he wanted to see whether the karateka could break it when there was no possible fakery, and obviously thought he couldn’t.

  I didn’t like that, for I knew it was dangerous. But the man had asked for it, and I didn’t interfere. Makato’s punch not only splintered the board, it sent the servant flying. The man could not get up; he had a cracked sternum. But now he was a believer.

  By this time a considerable crowd had formed. Makato, perhaps chastened by the accident—we had to assume it was an accident— set up a different kind of exhibition. He placed a glass bottle on the table and cut off the top with the edge of his hand. He asked for a candle, lit it, dripped wax on the table and set the base in the solidifying drop so that the candle would stand upright. Then he aimed a savage punch at it, as if to sever the lighted end. But his hand stopped just short of the flame, extinguishing it without a touch.

  There was applause for that. It was a harmless yet effective demonstration of control. But Takao laughed, breaking the spell. He called for more tiles, piled up ten, and smashed his own fist down on them. About half broke. Seemingly unperturbed, he set up ten new ones, and with a terrific effort broke them all this time. Then he kicked a plank, breaking it as Makato had done. He inquired whether anyone cared to hold up a board, but no one was interested. He re-lit Makato’s candle and struck at it with a pulled punch. The flame flickered but did not quite go out, but again he succeeded on the second try. Finally he tried to cut a bottle, but it broke, not cleanly. He tried again and failed again, sending shatters of glass across the room. “A trick,” he muttered. “I would master it, if I had the time for a little practice. But there is no practical value.”

  Nevertheless, he had made his point. He had done almost everything the karateka had. Less efficiently, true, but he had done it. There was nothing unique about the Korean’s skills, and less distinction between judo and karate at the higher levels than most people believed. Probably the same applied for all the major martial arts; an expert at one was a man of many powers. I had heard of kung-fu demonstrations involving beds of nails.

  I headed outdoors for a swim, but caught myself and returned to my room instead. Takao was there already, admiring the broken sword without touching it. “Check it over, by all means!” I said. “You must know much more about these weapons than I do.”

  “Perhaps so,” he said. “For one thing, that is not samurai etiquette. May I illustrate?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  He picked up the sword and scabbard, holding it very carefully. “Shall we assume this is my katana,” he said, “and I have come to visit you? I should normally deliver it to your servant at the door, who receives it on a piece of silk, never on the bare hand. No samurai sword is ever exhibited except by special request, and such request is never made unless the blade is a rare one.”

  “This is a rare one,” I said, playing along. “I should very much like to see it.”

  “By no means,” he said gravely. “It is unworthy, and I would not bore so honored a host.”

  I caught on to the ritual. “Oh no, I insist! Seldom do I have opportunity to see so rare a blade.”

  We exchanged further apologies, and at length he consented to exhibit it. He held it with its back toward me and drew it slowly out of its scabbard, only an inch. I noticed that his hand was bruised and bleeding, from the demonstration. “This is Iado, the art of the naked blade. It is never drawn all the way free,” he explained, “unless particularly requested.” He drew it our another inch, just shy of the break, then put it away. “Turning the scabbard in the girdle is equivalent to a challenge. As it would be to lay the sword on the floor and kick the hilt towards anyone. Every motion of the katana is fraught with significance, and extreme care must be taken.”

  He was trying to tell me something. After my experience with Hiroshi, I was quite sensitive to these subtle Oriental hints. But I realized I could nor inquire directly. Obviously the sword carried important symbolism, and if I could fathom it, I might save myself a lot of grief.

  “I shall certainly try not to give offense with this sword, even inadvertently,” I said.

  “One is less likely to give offense with a broken weapon,” he said, absently mopping his hand.

  Obviously! But was that all?

  The discussion went no farther, and we went on to routine matters. Tomorrow the tournament would resume, and I suspected that the second half would be rougher than the first. I hadn’t done anything notable in the course of these three days, but I had learned a few things, and that was good.

  CHAPTER 7

  AMALITA

  I had seen the second karateka on film when reviewing the Aikido-Karate match. He was Jesus Granda, a young Puerto Rican, a fifth degree black belt who had won several American championships and even a “world” title. He had taken up karate to get out of the ghetto, but after seven years admitted to being disappointed. He had an impressive collection of trophies, but had found that the only way he could make money was to be a sensei. Unfortunately he lacked the personality to be an effective teacher. He was virtually illiterate, being a grade school dropout, and spoke English poorly. I understood via the grapevine that be had been taking pep pills for competitions. He was very dark, with wavy black hair slicked down with a perfumed hair pomade, strong and wiry and very fast.

  Everyone knew why he was here: for the prize money. “You can’t eat medals,” he had said tersely in Spanish. He was a vicious competitor, though not as brutal as his senior partner Makato. Karate had a very strong team, and it seemed likely that Karate would take the grand prize, despite Judo’s current contention. I was injured, which made a difference, and Takao seemed to have a weak heart.

  Takao faced Jesus with an open sneer. I knew it was an act, but Jesus reacted immediately, displaying a quick temper that was apt to be his undoing. He charged in, aiming a closed-fist punch at Takao’s massive neck.

  Takao dropped his hands and accepted the blow to his throat without evasive action. The karateka’s punch would have felled any normal man and finished the match right there; certainly I could not have withstood it. But the judoka only laughed. “Don’t play games, child; it makes us look bad for the TV audience when you pull your punches.”

  Jesus showed his teeth in a snarl, but there were chuckles from the men watching. Pulled his punch? Hardly! Whale was there; he had no love for Takao, who had kneed him in the crotch. But he also had been knocked out by the same punch Jesus had just used, and obviously felt better watching than receiving. And he appreciated repartee on his level. Perhaps he hoped the two rough men would kill each other.

  “Try it again,” Takao said. “A little more force this time, if you please. And extend one knuckle. I have an itch right here.” He indicated a spot on his neck. I didn’t like it, because such an invitation was foolhardy even against a poor karateka, and Jesus was, for all his temper, one of the finest in the world. Very, very few men would have had the nerve to taunt him like this, and fewer would get away with it. Takao was showing off, carried away by his successful comeback, too certain of his power. I knew why he was doing it: to humiliate Karate the way Karate had humiliated Judo in the first round. But how long would he laugh if Jesus delivered the tile-breaker blow to his heart?

  But Jesus, foolishly, struck again at that invulnerable neck— and was met with a louder round of chuckles as Takao swatted the place of contact as though stung by a mosquito.

  Something snapped. The karateka was not able to believe that human flesh could withstand the fist that shattered bricks. In his preoccupation with his own successes he had never properly studied those of the other martial arts. To him, Takao was a ghost: impossible yet evident. He had to assume that it wasn’t Takao’s strength, but his own weakness that balked him. The young man was completely unnerved.

  Then Takao moved. He gripped Jesus in a hane goshi, the spring hip throw, his bent leg lifting the other man’s leg. When the hapless karateka was high in the air, Takao executed a sutemi hane maki komi, turning during the throw and falling with all his weight on the other.

  Both men lay still. I bit my tongue, fearing that Takao had overreached himself and stopped his heart. But in a moment he lifted.

  Jesus Granda was unconscious. Whether he would recover in time to make his next scheduled match was problematical; quite possibly he had suffered internal injuries, and certainly his self-confidence had been gravely wounded.

  Judo now had undisputed command of the tournament, with a 6-1 record. But I felt little pleasure in the accomplishment. Men were being destroyed, emotionally as well as physically—and what did it really prove?

  Kung-fu took on Wrestling next, and I stayed to watch. It was Wang Hsu against Whale. The wrestler tried to grab the other, having learned respect for throws and blows and wanting none of Wang’s tiger’s claws. But Wang met him with just one blow: the crane’s beak with thumb and two fingers extended and clenched together, the three nail-spikes leading, driving into the solar plexus. Whale managed to squirm aside slightly, but even so he collapsed unconscious as the beak made contact.

  Then we all noticed: the wrestler no longer breathed.

  Takao jumped up, brushed Wang aside as though he were a bystander in the way, and put his hands on Whale. The Wrestling judge started to protest, but the other judges cautioned him back. Takao hauled on the prostrate man, trying to get him into a sitting position. When I saw what he was doing, I went to help. We got Whale up, and Takao kneeled behind him and reached around to massage his huge belly, but there was no response. We were supporting a dead man.

  Then Takao kneed him in the small of the back and gave a tremendous kiai! that blasted my ear and made me jump involuntarily. But Whale jumped too—and took a breath.

  It was kwatsu: the secret judo art of resuscitation. I had tried it on Jim Blake, after I strangled him, but with only partial success. How would we fare this time?

  We helped the huge man to his feet, making him walk, forcing him to get his circulation back. I saw the puncture marks the crane’s beak had made, just to the side of the nerve complex. Had Wang’s strike been true, no art we knew could have restored this man to life.

  I looked up to see the TV camera covering our faces. I knew Takao had performed a feat that more than made up for the brutality with which he had brought Whale down in his own match. The American audience, probably antipathetic to Takao and perhaps judo itself, might now have a change of heart. I felt it in myself. Takao had shown me another side of his personality, and it made up for all the rest.

  Wang merely watched, smiling as always. But I wondered what was in his mind. Had he intended to kill Whale? With Karate’s loss and Kung-fu’s win, Kung-fu was now in a three-way tie for second place with Karate and Aikido. And Kung-fu’s next two matches were with those same two arts. Was a new leader in the making—via a trail of dead men? The top prize money— $240,000—was a big temptation. But more than that was the glory of vindicating one’s own martial art, proving conclusively that when the fighting was serious, that art was strongest. Even second or third place would be impressive, if a number of Kungfu’s opponents were dead.

  I hoped I was being unduly suspicious. But I liked this tournament less and less.

  *

  My own next match was with the second boxer, Pibe Rosario. I had admired his horsemanship during the jaguar hunt, but now he had metamorphosed back into the brutish slugger. He had a broken nose, scarred eyebrows, cauliflower ears and monstrous fists. He was the current Latin American champion, ranked about third in the world, and had never been knocked out in regular boxing. He was a bleeder, and also seemed a bit punch-drunk, but I knew Pibe could take a great deal of punishment. In fact he had done so, here in the tournament. But he had still managed to play a good game of chess, which suggested more brain to him than normally showed.

  I had no desire to exchange dull blows with this brawler. My finger continued to bother me, for it had had no chance to heal and set between marches, and my wrist was not much better off. So I needed a fast, simple win. The kind this man seldom yielded.

  Before Pibe could approach me, I made a high leap and went into the kani-basani, the flying scissors or flying crab-pincers. I turned my body sidewise in the air, one leg going to his front, the other to the back of Pibe’s legs. He was thrown back, and I dropped with him, holding that clamp. I squirmed around and straddled him, taking his head in my two hands. My weak right hooked onto his forelock, my strong left caught the shorter hair on the back of his skull, and I twisted, gently.

  The judges were on their feet, but Pibe was already screaming capitulation. This was smart of him, for I could easily have broken his neck had he resisted. He was great for absorbing punches, and no doubt he had given Karate a hard fight, but the tactics I had used were foreign to him, and deprived him of his will to fight.

  *

  “Will you order a girl tonight?” Takao inquired gruffly. I saw he had a bruise where the karateka had hit him; his neck was tough, but he had been hurt.

  I shrugged, surprised. Normally Takao did not make suggestions of this nature. “No. I thought I’d go out for another training run.”

  “In the nude, past pretty pools?” He shook his head. “Our esteemed host would undoubtedly feel better if you took a girl. You are not married.”