Normally Takao was on hand when I fought, but for some reason he was absent this time. This irritated me; didn’t he care whether Judo won or lost? Or was this his way of expressing his disapproval of my situation with Amalita?

  Amalita. If word of that affair were circulating, how long could Pedro himself remain ignorant? What would he do, once he learned? Even without proof, he would act.

  The break was over, way too soon for me. I went to meet the sambo wrestler, and was taken down by surprise. He bent to grab one of my knees, lifting and pushing and forcing me to the floor. I grabbed for his hair, dim-wittedly, for he was billiard-bald. He fell on top of me, giving me another good thump in the process, and tried for a leg lock. I managed to foil that, but I was pinned, and remained so, struggling futilely, until time expired again. In any sport match I would have been counted out.

  The wrestler was trying to wear me down to the point where I could no longer interfere with his win, and he was succeeding. I was escaping more narrowly, and every minute on the mat was draining my scant reserves of strength.

  In the next overtime period I summoned what remained of my energy and went for broke. I hit Oleg several times about the face and body, boxing him with my leaden-heavy left arm. Then we grappled again, and I got on his back and suddenly put a hadaka-jime on him, a naked strangle, assisting it with a scissors hold on his body. I could not have set it up had he been more conversant with the form. I passed one arm in front of his neck, and with the edge of my right hand I pressed against his windpipe. This was painful for me, because of that infernal wrist, but this time I refused to let that deter me. I seized that hand with the other to increase the pressure. This was a combination choke, interfering with the flow of blood through his carotid arteries and also stopping his breathing. It would not have worked against a neck like Takao’s, and it almost failed here, because of Oleg’s strength and my weakness. But he just didn’t know how to handle a strangle, and finally he made the signal of submission. Rather to my surprise, I had won.

  I checked my room, but Takao was not there. I was worn out, but could not relax, so went to watch the Aikido-Boxing match following mine.

  Aikido was still in contention, with a 6-3 record, but it was in trouble. Sata had been eliminated through injury to his knee in his losing match with Oleg two days before and was no longer able to compete. O-Sensei Hiroshi was carrying it alone. The man was capable, as my painful finger attested, but he was sixty-two years old, and so tiny! How long could he maintain the grueling match-a- day pace? Yesterday he had defeated Kung-fu; today he met Mustapha the boxer; tomorrow he would meet Karate, and the final day, me. Takao had planned to take the second Aikido match, but with Hiroshi now certain to appear, that was out. I had strong sympathy for the gentle, honest, discreet, indomitable old man, and I liked him personally, but I would have had to go for the win regardless.

  At least I had no decisions to make at the moment. I could watch this match dispassionately, knowing that the best man would win. If Hiroshi had a tough schedule, Mustapha had his own problems. There was a band about his head, probably because of the bull-stunning blow Makato had given him. There could easily have been a slight concussion, perhaps not so slight. Actually, Mustapha himself should have rested today, but his own partner appeared to be ill. Pibe’s last match had been with me, and I had not hurt him, I thought. I hoped.

  What decimation was occurring. Yet this was to be expected, three quarters of the way through a no-rules tournament. That was part of the point of it. A martial art that looked good in the opening encounter but could not keep the pace after absorbing some bruises did not deserve acclaim as a world leader. This was the savage but fair law of the Martial Open.

  Mustapha was dancing again, his guard up. I had thought he would be slow and dispirited at this point, but he was actually quite swift. He had real grit, for I knew his head was hurting, and Hiroshi had dumped him before, with the corner drop. Mustapha circled the old sensei, and when Hiroshi tried to catch an arm, Mustapha snatched it away. He had really studied his man this time, and was not walking into the same mistake as before. All the time he was moving and jabbing, peppering Hiroshi with light blows.

  The old Japanese was nothing if not patient, awaiting his opportunity. Too patient, it seemed to me. He was small and light, and Mustapha was strong, and that constant barrage was telling. Was it possible that the boxer could do it this time? I doubted it; Hiroshi was as deadly as the karatekas, in his way. Once he found his opening . . .

  But the opening never came. Mustapha avoided all but the fleetest contact of his flashing hands on Hiroshi’s head and body, never trying for a knockout punch. The punishment was becoming severe; the sensei’s eyes were puffing and his nose was bleeding.

  Suddenly Mustapha unleashed a brilliant combination to head, face and body, finishing with an uppercut to the chin, and Hiroshi fell to his knees. Mustapha stood back as if waiting for the referee to count to ten, and of course there was no count, here. It was a mistaken gesture, and foolish too. “Finish him!” the Boxing judge shouted.

  But Mustapha shook his head. “Not that way,” he said.

  Hiroshi was already finished. His eyes were swollen almost shut, and he was having difficulty orienting. He had won his victories without injuring anyone, applying his techniques slowly and carefully; now, ironically, he was injured himself. He made the signal of submission.

  Mustapha jumped to help him up. “I’m sorry I had to do that,” he said. “You beat me before, so I couldn’t ease up. But I just had to have this win, for the brothers and sisters back home.”

  Hiroshi smiled. There was blood on his lip and teeth. “It was well-earned,” he said politely.

  Indeed it was, for Hiroshi was no easy mark, however impotent he had seemed in this one match. Any single mistake by Mustapha would have reversed the outcome. But all I could think of, as they walked away, was that tomorrow, with impaired vision and insufficient rest, that nice old man would have to face Makato the killer karateka.

  *

  The third match for the day was Karate against Thai Kick- Boxing. But I had had enough. The whole show had become gloomy for me, and every match seemed part of a building tragedy.

  I returned to my room, ate alone, and watched television. Latin soap operas and I Love Lucy reruns. I wondered what had become of my formidable roommate, whom I had not seen since morning. My depression intensified. I wanted to go home, or at least out for a run and swim, but was certain that would not be smart. It wasn’t just Pedro’s ire I feared now, but Amalita’s. He with his katanas, she with her kris.

  Sleep would not come. Finally, late in the evening, I walked about the interior premises, searching for someone—-anyone— to talk to, to play chess with, or to share a film with. But no one was around. The private rooms were empty, the entertainment halls deserted. The entire building was unnaturally quiet.

  Now I knew something was wrong. No special event had been scheduled, and no one had told me of any change. Where had everyone gone?

  I listened, then walked, and listened again. After several tries I heard faint voices. There was some sort of meeting going on in one of the projection rooms.

  I was about to try the door, but hesitated. Feeling like the sneak I was, I listened—and was stunned.

  Takao was talking: “ . . . not need to repeat what I did during the war. You all know that . . .”

  What was this—a confession session?

  “ . . . so I have no claims to honor, no claim at all.” Takao paused, and someone else said something I couldn’t make out. It sounded like Japanese. Then:

  “But I have told you the situation here, and told you again. You know it was an accident. You know he is a decent man—more decent than some of us here. You know he is worth our support.” Who was he talking about?

  Then Takao’s voice became loud and strong. “Every man of you who lets this pass is worse than I was! How can any of you lay claim to martial honor? Have you forgotten the social and ethical precepts of your rank? Do you call yourselves sensei and sifu and judge, yet stoop to this? It is a mockery no one could believe! You are gluttons and cowards!”

  There was a chorus of protest. Then I recognized Mustapha’s voice. “I’m American, same as him, so I figure I understand, some. It could’ve happened to me just as easily, or Whale, here. I saw that li’l girl swimming bareassed.”

  Then I understood. They were discussing Amalita and me! I was the one on trial. That was why I hadn’t been told.

  “ . . . but we can’t prove a thing, or stop it anyway. He was warned, fair and square. I told him myself to watch that sword of his. But he played dumb. Now he’ll just have to watch out for himself. I’m betting he will. I wash my hands of it. It’s the same as a match.”

  More hubbub. Then Takao again. “I see I cannot move you by reason. I plead no more. Then understand this: the man who stands aside I hold in contempt, but I let him be. But any man who participates will owe the blood debt to me. Anywhere, anytime. So deal with me first, because I shall not stand aside, and it shall be an eye for an eye, a skull for a skull, and a life for a life. Who stands with me in this oath?”

  Now there was silence. Takao had gone way out on a limb, threatening this assemblage of the strongest warriors of all the world, calling them cowards and meaning it. He had invited them to kill him, if they would not yield to him. And they would not yield. But what was he trying to accomplish?

  Then someone walked across the room toward Takao, and stopped beside him. The first challenger? The tread was so light as to be almost inaudible, but because of that, and the rustle of a skirt, I recognized it. Hiroshi!

  The one man Takao could not oppose.

  But there was no encounter, just silence. I realized that the O-Sensei had not come to oppose, but to join. No other footsteps came, and slowly more hubbub developed. I suspected that the meeting was about to break up, so I departed quickly.

  I had a lot to think about!

  CHAPTER 8

  VENGEANCE

  The eleventh round, first match: Aikido against Karate. Hiroshi’s face was remarkably improved, with the swelling diminished, but I knew he should not be fighting again so soon. Particularly not against the sledgehammer fists of Makato. But it was out of my province.

  They circled cautiously, the aikidoist balanced to avoid the killing smash, the karateka careful not to extend himself vulnerably. A powerful fist counted for little against so experienced a warrior as Hiroshi, who knew every trick of evasion and counter. Makato was not fool enough to assume he could take the old man for granted; if he missed his shot, he would find his arm locked, and he would not recover it short of submission. So he was careful, and by no means assured of victory. One of Karate’s two losses had been to Aikido, Sato beating Jesus. Now the stronger representatives of each discipline were up against each other.

  Makato feinted. Hiroshi caught the arm anyway, winding into a devious hold that could readily be the finish, and Makato countered with a terrible smash with his other hand, whose edge was so calloused and hard it could shatter a tall pile of bricks. The blow landed midway between Hiroshi’s wrist and elbow, which were held firm by his own grip on the karateka—and the bone snapped like matchstick.

  Hiroshi’s eyes glazed with pain, and he sagged, making no outcry. The Aikido judge signaled capitulation. Takao rushed in, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike the Korean and initiate the death match that would settle their rivalry right then. But he controlled himself and turned away, and put his arms about Hiroshi, and picked him up as tenderly as he might a child. I saw tears streaming from Takao’s eyes as he walked with his burden toward the infirmary.

  Makato stood impassively, watching them go. I remembered how Hiroshi had stood beside Takao the night before, sharing his oath and the invitation that went with it. Takao had at last obtained his pardon—but what was to be the price of it? Did Makato’s brutality stem from that situation?

  Then the Korean looked at me, and I felt the chill of death. What was on his mind? Our matches were over.

  Takao returned shortly for his own match with Kung-fu. Something had gone out of him. He was grim, and I was nervous about what he might do, but I knew better than to interfere.

  Both kung-fu specialists remained in fighting order, but it was the younger Chinese who appeared for this match, Pung Lii. He was an ex-Red Guard, said to be the equivalent of the kung-fu champion—though even any unofficial title was arguable—who had entered the United States illegally after deserting the Communists. He had remained in San Francisco’s Chinatown, serving as bodyguard to the Tong racketeers. He had been promised Nicaraguan citizenship, making his stay in this hemisphere legal.

  Whatever his politics, there was no doubt of his fighting competence. I deemed him less dangerous than his partner Wang Hsu because he lacked the refinements of deception of the smiling sifu. Nevertheless, Pung Lii was 170 pounds of very wiry, strong, fast fighting ability, conversant with the tiger’s claw and other terrifying kung-fu weapons.

  Pung made a tremendous leap, did a reverse somersault, and landed with both feet on Takao’s chest. I winced. Takao was strong, but this bowled him over. Ordinarily such gymnastics are less effective than they look, because the intended target has merely to step aside. But on occasion they work well enough.

  Before Takao could right himself, Pung kicked him in the nerve center under the armpit. I winced again; my partner had an invulnerable neck, but was not adapted to withstand such punishment elsewhere.

  My misgivings seemed well founded. Takao recovered his feet, but his arm was half paralyzed. Pung, with true killer instinct, took immediate advantage of that liability, battering the wounded judoka with heavy blows.

  Takao maintained a tight defensive shell, so that his massive neck and shoulders took the brunt. But I knew the punishment was getting to him, and I feared for more than the mere loss of the match. I had seen him waver during his battle with Whale, and I knew that only the brevity of his other matches had kept him out of serious trouble. He was tough and skilled, but he was also too old and stout for prolonged exertion of this nature. Soon he would tire; he lacked the stamina, the staying power necessary for a long contest. The abilities remained, but the wind is the first to go.

  Pung Lii was well aware of this. He was in fine physical condition, with excellent endurance. He wanted the match to be long, for every minute increased his advantage. He did not bother with the tiger’s claw or crane’s beak, knowing the attempt would be futile against a judoka of Takao’s experience. A failed strike was always an invitation to a devastating counter, and Takao, like Makato, could shatter bricks with his fist. So Pung kept moving, moving, avoiding Takao’s attempts to grapple, dodging Takao’s punches, presenting no good target, not even the sole of his foot. Twice more he slammed the judoka with flying kicks, kicks that should never have landed had Takao been properly alert. He shoved him mercilessly about the room, weakening him further. Then Pung deemed the moment propitious and tried a frontal charge.

  Mistake! Takao dropped, and came up with a kata guruma shoulder wheel throw. Suddenly the complexion of the match changed. Kung-fu had fallen into Judo’s power. Experience and patience, once again, had told. Takao lifted him high into the air, heaved, and threw him crushingly to the floor.

  Pung struck and bounced. He lay there stunned, wide open for the finishing kick. The Kung-fu judge was already standing, beginning the signal of capitulation. The victory was Takao’s.

  But Takao staggered, clutching at his chest. I saw the bruise marks forming, from the repeated strikes of the flying feet and leopard’s paw. Pung had really worked on that chest.

  Then Takao toppled.

  Pung struggled upright and came dazedly to attack again. But he halted. Then he turned away.

  He had seen what we now saw. Takao’s heart had failed, and he was dead. No kwatsu would bring him back.

  *

  I spent a bad night alone. It was not that I liked Takao; my feelings about him had been strongly mixed, though I had learned considerable respect for his prowess and candor. It was not that Judo, by that defeat snatched from victory, had now dropped into a tie with Karate. It was not even my own bleak situation, linked mysteriously with Takao’s oath. It was a general, deep-delving disgust with the entire tournament, that had seemed such an excellent idea but turned out to be so ugly in practice. What was being settled, really, by all this injury and death? Was this any more than a bloody Roman circus, a spectacle put on by paid cutthroats for the sadistic amusement of jaded masses? Could any amount of notoriety be worth the brutal snapping of a nice old man’s arm, or the death of one of the leading judokas of our time? Where were our values?

  In the morning I went to visit Hiroshi at the infirmary. I had been scheduled to meet him in combat again, but that match was now mine by forfeit. I was surprised to find no other visitors. Then, remembering that secret meeting of two nights ago, I was angry. Was the O-Sensei being ostracized even now for his stand beside Takao?

  Hiroshi smiled when he saw me. His arm was in a complex hanging sling, and his position looked uncomfortable, but I was sure he had been peacefully meditating. He was not one to complain about discomfort.

  “Will you see that Takao’s share of the prize money is delivered to his widow in Japan?” I asked him. “In fact I don’t want any of it, so the entire Judo allotment should go there. But don’t tell his wife that, or she might not accept it. There should be close to two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “No,” he said. “She would not accept any payment associated with his death. You must find another way.”

  Another way? I set that aside for future consideration. I intended to see that Takao’s family got its share.