“Ki works,” I said. “It’s not superstition. I know.”

  “So does faith-healing! But my point is you’ve got to believe in it before it can work for you, right? And I don’t believe in any delayed-action deathblow, okay? So it can’t hurt me, right?”

  “I hope it can’t!” I said. “But look, Cohen, humor me. Go to your doctor for a thorough physical tomorrow. Just to make sure. Have him check your heart especially. And if you begin to feel at all funny, especially three, four or five weeks after Dato struck you—”

  “Forget it, Striker!” he said, laughing. “My doc’s booked up on routine physicals for two weeks ahead; I’m not going to waste his time on any phony emergency. You can see I’m healthy! Don’t try to voodoo me with that crap!”

  I had to let it drop, because I was trying to scare him, whatever my motive. What irony, if my very warning should start him brooding himself into a heart attack.

  In any event, he had reassured me, and made the specter of lurking death seem ludicrous. I went home.

  Jim was still at the dojo, but Thera was gone. “Fool girl said she was sick,” he said disgustedly. “I had to drive her home. Ritzy estate she lives at!”

  “Her father’s Drummond of Drummond Industries,” I said.

  “So I learned. Spoiled rich kid. But she knows her judo! Not surprising, considering you taught her, but what a pain, with her stuck-up ways. How did you stand it?”

  “I had my moments,” I admitted.

  “How’d you make out with Worthen? I never did catch what your business with him was.”

  “Morbid notion of mine,” I said. “I was worried about his health.”

  “Him? Constitution like a polar bear, and every bit as smart! Never gets sick.”

  “As I said: it was a morbid notion. Thanks for holding the fort.”

  He looked uncomfortable, for no reason I could ascertain. “Do me a favor, huh? Don’t bring in any more coeds!”

  I laughed. Thera was a bit hard to take, initially, especially for someone as short of patience as Jim.

  *

  Thera had the flu. She was sick all week, and I didn’t see her at all. Even phoning her never worked out conveniently, which was perhaps just as well; I had no business associating with her anyway. Teen-age rich girl; Jim had her pegged pretty well, actually.

  I felt better. Jim was running things well enough, so I could recuperate at leisure. Several reporters interviewed me, picking up new slants on the Martial Open, but I discouraged that for the most part. I had done what I had to do, and now it was over, with no money and some bad memories. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so generous about donating my share of the winnings, but I didn’t regret that part. It was the Roman circus aspect, the brutality and death, and I had been as brutal as anyone. I still felt unclean. The best thing I could do now was keep my nose to the dojo-business grindstone.

  Then the phone, as usual, pulled the rug out. It rang; I answered. Then:

  “Johnson Drummond here,” the familiar voice rapped. Thera’s father, whose Midas touch could mean trouble proportionate to its wealth. Well, now I would ask him whether he really had pulled wires to ease me into the Martial Open.

  “Drummond, were you the one who—”

  “Right!” he said. “Striker, have you been laying my daughter?”

  Sock! to the solar plexus, or maybe the groin. I suppose I could have gotten clever and inquired which daughter, but my brain was less nimble than my judo reflexes. “No.”

  “Thought not,” he said, and disconnected.

  I had hardly assimilated the dubious meaning of that when the phone rang again. This time it was the police: “Cohen Worthen is dead. You’re another judo instructor; do you know anything about it, Striker?”

  I mumbled something ambiguous. I would be laughed right out of town if I made known my real suspicions. Dato—his delayed deathblow had struck again. Now two of his three major competitors were dead, and I was the third. There was only way to resolve this mess. I phoned Dato. “Jason Striker!” he cried before I could say why I was calling. “I have wanted to call you! I was a zebra last time I spoke to you. A pony.”

  “An ass,” I provided helpfully.

  “Ass, ass, yes! I was an awful hole, and I apologize! I want to make it right! And I have something urgent to talk about. Come see me tonight at dojo and I’ll open good saki and we’ll talk, very well?”

  “Good enough,” I agreed, since this was exactly what I wanted to do. I wasn’t fooled for a moment by his friendliness; that was how he had been with Charles Smith. But this thing had to be settled: had he really rediscovered the delayed-action deathblow, and if so, how was it executed? I couldn’t let him go on killing with impunity, eliminating all rivals or fancied rivals. Such murder could not be tolerated, and judo should not be abused this way. Also, who had taught him? Suppose a plague of such killings developed, with half a dozen renegades perpetrating them? “Nine o’clock?”

  “Come alone. What I have to tell you, no one else must hear!”

  That I could believe. I agreed to come alone. When the day came that I was afraid to see a man alone, I’d know it was time to retire. I’d doubted that he’d try anything so soon after the other killings. Certainly Dato wouldn’t admit to murder in the presence of others. Probably he’d swear me to complete secrecy first. But that was a separate problem.

  I called Jim to let him know where I’d be. “Don’t wait up for me,” I said. “If I’m not home by morning, check Dato’s, that’s all.”

  “Sure thing,” he said uncertainly. Did he suspect what I was up to?

  Dato’s dojo was closed when I got there a little before nine. But there was a light on in back, so I went around there and knocked. There was no response.

  I waited a few minutes, but he didn’t come. It was a cold night, and with my usual foresight I hadn’t dressed for it. So I tried the door, and it was open. He must have meant me to enter and wait until he came. He was a funny guy, even allowing for the attraction the martial arts had for far-out characters. So I entered.

  Outside, the dojo was run-down. Inside it was elegant. This was an attractive display room: many senseis are connoisseurs and collectors of rare weapons. There were Chinese lacquered shields and battle axes, assorted daggers, a number of katana swords, and even a few pistols. Police clubs were laid out on a table, not ordinary ones, but—

  I heard a step behind me. Before I could turn I was struck hard in the back. The blow was not crippling, but it felt strange.

  I reacted instantly. I turned, seized him about the waist, and threw him violently? over my head in an ura-nage, the inside-out throw. Dato was old and small, weighing only about 110 pounds, and I was jumpy; I put more power into it than I would have otherwise. An attack from behind, when I had come to talk! He flew over my head as I fell back against the table, and he crashed against the wall just under a huge samurai sword.

  Dato dropped to the floor, heavily. The wall trembled, making the sword quiver on its mountings. He was still conscious. He started to get up, his arm swinging around to bang into the wall, while I stood there dumbly, braced against the leaning table.

  That small extra vibration did it. The samurai sword slipped off its nails and fell. I tried to shout a warning, but the force of gravity was faster than my reaction time. My cry still forming, I saw that immense blade crash down edge first.

  It sliced across his neck and clattered to the floor. Then I was over there, scattering police clubs, lifting Dato up, trying to stanch the flow. But there was blood spurting all over and his clothing was in the way, half cut, half intact, so that it was impossible to get it off neatly, and the light was poor and I was half in shock. As I looked, the spurts diminished and the pool of blood grew. An artery had been cut.

  It was not that injury or blood unnerved me unduly; I’ve seen plenty of both. But the sheer malignancy of the inanimate preyed on my mind as I struggled ineffectively to help him. Witchcraft, voodoo—it was as if Dato had been ensorceled and struck down by his own weapon. I was powerless to interfere. Where could I apply a tourniquet, when the gash had opened both jugular and carotids?

  Yet, amazingly, he spoke. “Jason! Jason Striker! I am dead, but the laugh is mine! I struck you with the fist of doom, stronger than that karateka’s, and you will die.”

  That first blow. That had been it! The delayed action death-blow!

  “When?” I demanded. “When does it take effect?”

  “You will never know, until the end!” he whispered. And began a liquid laugh. In the midst of his laughter the blood bubbled out from his mouth, and he died.

  I ran. All I could think of, in that awful moment, was that I was a man-killer. For the second time. That Vietnam memory— how long was it going to haunt me? Who would believe that this had been an accident, self-defense? I had entered Dato’s dojo at his secret invitation, and he had attacked me, and one of his own weapons had killed him. But any jury would say that my hand had wielded that blade, even though there were no fingerprints. The blood could have obscured prints, so I could not prove I had not touched the sword.

  But no one knew where I had been. I might never come under suspicion. So I was far better off to leave, once more fleeing the consequences of my action.

  The deathblow! No matter who suspected or what the law decided, I was doomed. The evidence had pointed to it, and Dato had confirmed it as he died. When would it strike? In a day? A month? A year? I would have to have a thorough medical examination, the same one I had urged on Worthen.

  Then I remembered. I was not free of suspicion. I had told Jim where I was going. He would make the connection as soon as the news of Dato’s death got out.

  I knew it would be better to report to the police immediately and tell them everything. I was a law-abiding man. But Diago had also obeyed the law, and look where that had led him. The flight-reflex was too strong, and other objections crowded in. How would it look, to have the near-winner of the fabulous Martial Open booked for murder so soon after his success? What a reputation that would give judo! Nothing Dato had done could approach the harm I might do to my profession. And suppose the deathblow took effect while I was in prison awaiting trial? I couldn’t tell the police about that; they would be sure it was the ranting of a man too eager to get out, or to fashion a defense of insanity. And Thera— what would I say to her? After all my talk about the ethics of judo.

  Thera. I needed her now! Why had I held out on her? Age was no sufficient barrier to love.

  I had to talk with Jim. He at least had to know the truth, so he would keep silent. I had to catch him tonight, before the story broke.

  First I stopped at my own place and took care of all the blood. I washed it off and changed my clothes; they would have to be burned. But first—Jim.

  I drove to his apartment, but he was not there. Was he working out late at the dojo? Sometimes he did that, practicing special techniques in privacy. Yes, that was it.

  I went there, keyed up by nervous energy, wishing the whole episode with Dato had never happened, wishing I’d spent the time with Thera. I’d passed up romance—and killed a man with a sword. Make love not war!

  I had been a fool. There were worse things than having an affair with a girl like that.

  Jim’s car was outside, and there was a light on in the dojo. I was reminded for an ugly moment of Dato’s light, but I quelled that. Nothing sinister could happen to me in my own place. I used my key and entered quietly at the front. Once I talked to Jim, everything would be okay.

  He was on the tatami. I was about to call to him, for he did not know I was there. Then I realized he was not alone, and not practicing. There was a girl with him.

  I was furious. This was a profanation of the dojo and an abuse of the trust I had placed in him. A dojo is more than a martial arts training hall; it is a temple to the budo spirit, the gentle way of judo. Jim could have whatever affairs he wanted, but not in my dojo!

  But I needed his cooperation, so it was a poor time to condemn his lapse. Obviously he still hadn’t mastered the proper attitude, but I couldn’t hold myself up as any example, after killing a man and fleeing. I did not want the girl to overhear our conversation, either. So I would have to pretend I knew nothing of his little exploit, and catch him after he had gotten rid of his night’s entertainment.

  I shook my head, watching them a moment more. They were really going at it. She thrust up her torso in time with his lunges, so it was a fifty-fifty proposition with both contributing effectively. The sight helped take my mind off the outer gloom that pervaded me. I could not see the girl’s face from this position, but she certainly had nice legs. Firm, healthy thighs, no flab, but good form.

  I ducked out before working myself into a state. If Drummond’s daughter were here at this instant, I’d soon be in the position where I’d have to give a different answer to his query. Just who had he thought was making it with her?

  Jim would be furious if he realized someone had seen him in action. So he wouldn’t know. And I hoped he would keep my secret as well as I kept his.

  I sat in the car, lights out. Twenty minutes passed. At the rate Jim had been exercising, he should have wrapped it up long ago. Were they trying for a second go?

  Then I heard the back door open. At last! They were walking around to Jim’s car. Mine was on the street, not obvious; I had to catch him alone, not now.

  They passed through the glow of the streetlight and I saw the girl’s face. And I froze in shock.

  Thera.

  There was no mistaking either her identity or the nature of her relation to Jim. She stopped to kiss him as they reached his car—a lingering, intense caress. Not the sort given a partner on a one-night stand. A fiancé-kiss.

  I had introduced them to each other . . .

  The car drove off, and still I sat. I had thought the worst had happened when I killed Dato, and perhaps it had; but this second blow, in the moment of my vulnerability, hit me harder. I was not now in the throes of action; I was sitting still, completely open to the thrust. Thera obviously had not been as sick as she had claimed—if, indeed, she had been sick at all. How long had this been going on? Now, in retrospect, Jim’s attitude of the past week seemed suspicious.

  How could I talk to him now? The answer was that I couldn’t. If I met him now I might have a second murder on my battered conscience, and I was no Pedro, who could calmly contemplate that prospect. Yet I had to see Jim, because of tomorrow’s news. What else could I do?

  For the moment I was numb to pain of any type. Tomorrow I would suffer; tonight I could concentrate on only one thing: home. Nothing further could happen to me there.

  I made it home and let myself in. I fell on the bed without undressing, seeking refuge in instant sleep.

  And dreamed of murder. I was fighting someone in the dark, interminably, knowing he was killing me. Strange weapons hung all about, S-shaped blades, boomerangs that fired bullets, crazy things that seemed quite possible and menacing in that trance state. Finally I lifted my mortal enemy with the ura nage inside-out throw and hurled him against the wall. Then a sword was in my hand, stiff and cylindrical like a—like a—and he was split in half, the bamboo split, famous Japanese sword technique. But when I looked closer, only his neck was cut. I saw his face. It was Jim.

  I struggled awake, but sleep held me like a demon in its strait jacket, an endless suffocating canyon from which I could never quite rise. Despairingly I sank back into the depths of the nightmare. I was in a church, kneeling in prayer, begging forgiveness for my sins—and the priest was Dato, laughing in falsetto glee as he poured unholy water on me that burned like lava, melting me into another blackness. Once more I tried to rise, but I was floating in an ocean of warm blood, drowning in it yet not dying fast enough.

  Then I saw Thera, more beautiful than she could ever be in life, naked. I had a powerful reaction, and I reached for her, accepting all offers, and I knew that her affair with Jim had been nothing more than an irrelevant suspicion on my part, jealousy on a par with Dato’s resentment of competitors, unworthy of me. But as I touched her vibrant flesh there was a terrible pain in my back, spreading through my chest to the heart, and in front of my amazed judo class I fell dead.

  It began again. The night was years long, eternally morbid. I lay supine, looking up at Diago, he of the kiai yell. “What are you doing in this particular nightmare?” I inquired.

  “I saw the headline,” he replied, holding it up. JUDO TEACHER SLAIN. “I knew you needed me, Striker.”

  “We murderers must stick together,” I muttered, knowing it was too soon for the morning paper to have the news. “What’s in it for you?”

  “I want to go home,” he said.

  “Japan?”

  He nodded. “Now you understand my position.”

  I began to fear that this was not dream-nightmare but reality-nightmare. I peered at the paper–and discovered that it was the afternoon edition. I had slept late. “Diago, I can’t help you! We did shiai—”

  “Your friend in Nicaragua. Call him.”

  “Pedro? I cuckolded him!”

  “The way your student cuckolded you?”

  “What do you know about that?” I demanded angrily.

  “That girl is my distant cousin. I know what goes on in the white-sheep branch of the family.”

  “Why didn’t you teach her judo yourself, then?”

  “Drummond didn’t want her sleeping with my color.”

  “That isn’t funny!” I snapped. “Thera doesn’t—”

  “That same day they met, he came to her house.”

  “She was sick! He took her home!”

  “Sick with lust. They did it in the garden. I watched from behind the fountain. An appropriate metaphor! After their urges were spent, they were sorry.”

  “You mean she was avoiding me because—?” But of course it was true.

  “Jason, there is nothing for you here,” Diago said. “I came to give Drummond good advice, and I gave it; now I do the same for you. Call Pedro, have him fly you to Japan. My old sensei Hiroshi understands about ki, and—”