"E. E. Doc Smith - Subspace 2 - Subspace Encounter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith E. E. Doc)

"Although he's an ammachoor" the fat man bawled happily on, "he's got nineteen good
tough kills chalked up and he's one of the very few men who is actually good enough to
bet his life that he can take the champ. Like all championships, this match is unlimited
and to the death, not to any set number of bleeding wounds or to incapacitation.
Unlimited! Anything goes! To the winnah the diamond-studded gold belt, the purse of
twentyfive thousand junex, and two full numbers in status. To the loozah one free
cremation. Take stations, gentlemen.тАЭ


-11-
The Garshan sprang to the ring's center as was the champion's right, with his back to the
games-master; Rodnar stationed himself half a radius out from the center, facing his
opponent, with knees and elbows slightly sprung and with knife at the ready.

"Go!" Baylor yelled.

Simultaneously with the word, a bell clanged and the games-master, surprisingly agile for
a man of his bulk and mass, leaped from the table and took the seat of Arbiter-In-Chief.

At the first sound-wave of the bell's clangor both gladiators sprang furiously into action.
The Garshan leaped straight at the Slaaran; his eager knife in his right hand, point
outthrust; the fingers of his left hand spread and flexed to grab anything that could be
grabbed.

Each man had long since studied his opponent, of course, and also his opponent's
seconds. The Masked Marvel's mental shield was as solid and as tight as was Rodnar's
own; nothing whatever could be read through either. So also were those of the two
strapping Garshan seconds seated to the right of the Arbiter-In-Chief; as were those of
Knuaire of Spath and Manjyl of Orm, sitting at that official's left. Although no nonpsi even
suspected it, the real business of those seconds was to protect their respective
principals against such psionic shenanigans and low blows as telepathically confusing the
opponent's thoughts or by imperceptibly-to the non-psionic judges, that is-teleporting that
opponent's knife and hand an inch or so off-target at critical instants of the engagement.
Or in the threat of sure death a games man 'porting himself to safety. Those seconds, all
four, were very good indeed at their business.

(There was of course no outward hint or sign whatever of any psionic activity. Since all
officialdom was not only non-psi but also rabidly anti-psi, psionics did not officially exist,
and at any display whatever of "witchcraft" the offender became eaglemeat on the spot.
So all fighting was strictly honest no psionic fudging was or could be permitted.)

Rodnar leaped, too-or, rather made a spectacular gymnast's dive-and faster even than
the champion; but not directly toward him. Off-line slightly to his own right, and flipping
his knife into his left hand while still in the air, with the double purpose of flying unscathed
under the Masked Marvel's blade and of slashing his left leg half off.

The smaller and faster man's normal strategy would be to take all possible advantage of
his superiority in speed. Thus, whatever the crowd might think of his tactics and however
it might yell and boo at him, he would ordinarily get onto his bicycle and stay on it out of
the taller man's longer reach, and try to wear him down.