"Harry Harrison - Planet Of The Damned (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest, therefore nights in the
dormitories were as quiet as death. During the first few days, of course, the
rule wasn't observed too closely. The men themselves were too keyed up and
excited to rest easily. But as soon as the scores began to mount and
eliminations cut into their ranks, there was complete silence after dark.
Particularly so on this last night, when only two of the little cubicles were
occupied, the thousands of others standing with dark, empty doors.
Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The words were
whispered but clear--two voices, just outside the thin metal of his door.
Someone spoke his name.

"... Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making a big
mistake and there is going to be trouble--"

"Don't talk like an idiotl" The other voice snapped with a harsh urgency,
clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is of utmost importance,
and Brandd is the one I must see. Now stand aside!"

"The Twenties-"

"I don't give a damn about your games, hearty cheers and physical exercises.
This is important, or I wouldn't be here!"

The other didn't speak--he was surely one of the officials--and Brion could
sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun, because the intruder
said quickly, "Put that away. You're being a fool!"

"Out!" was the single snarled word of the response.

There was silence then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.

"Ten seconds."

The voice chopped away Brion's memories and he let awareness seep back into
his body. He was unhappily conscious of his total exhaustion. The month of
continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll. It would be hard to
stay on his feet, much less summon the strength and skill to fight and win a
touch.

"How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching muscles.

"Four-four. All you need is a touch to win!"

"That's all he needs too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look at the wiry
length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No one who had reached the
finals in the Twenties could possibly be a weak opponent, but this one, Irolg,
was the pick of the lot. A red-haired mountain of a man, with an apparently
inexhaustible store of energy. That was really all that counted now. There
could be little art in this last and final round of fencing. Just thrust and
parry, and victory to the stronger.