"Smith, E E 'Doc' - SubSpace Vol 2 - Subspace Encounter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith E. E. Doc)

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.

Wherefore Rodnar's instantaneous and slashing attack, a fractional instant ahead of the
champion's, took all of the experts by surprise and almost succeeded. In fact, and in a
very small way, it did succeed. In spite of everything the Garshan could do to change the
trajectory of his leap, to get his leg out of the way, and/or to cut, kick, stamp, or grab
Rodnar's suddenly-wrong-sided knife-hand, the very point of Rodnar's knife did nick the
champion's leg and Garshan blood did begin to flow.

It was not at all a serious wound; it was the veriest nick. Since such wounds bleed quite
freely, however, when made by razorsharp cutting edges, it looked much worse than it
really was and the crowd went even wilder than before. For, in spite of that crowd's
innate and long-cultured savagery, practically everyone who did not have money down on
the champion was in favor of the underdog; especially since that underdog, instead of
running away from the champion, had actually taken the fight to him in the first fractional
second of the match and had actually scored first blood!

Slamming the non-skid soles of both fighting shoes against the resined texture of the
table's tightly stretched plastic cove Rodnar sprang erect and whirled around, hoping to
find the Garshan off balance and unready. He wasn't-but he wasn't quite organized for
attack yet, either, so Rodnar maintained the offensive. He feinted another dive at the
champion's backhand; then as the Garshan began to lower his guard and to whirl, he