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

leaped high into the air and somewhat to his own left, swinging his right leg-with the
fullest intention of driving the steel-lined toe of his fighting shoe into and through the
champion's face.

But the Garshan had been feinting, too. Or, if not exactly feinting, he knew his trade well
enough to be very skeptical indeed about `this apparent exact repetition of technique.
Wherefore he was prepared to straighten up instantly; and it took everything Rodnar had
to arch his belly out of the way of the Garshan's ultra-fast and ultra-vicious riposte-a
return slash intended to spread Rodnar's bowels all over the floor. In fact, he should have
had just a little more, for he did not escape entirely unscathed. The frantically wriggling
twist that saved him from disembowelment brought his left hip into the knife's line of drive
and he took a nick-about as serious a wound as he had inflicted on the champion a few
seconds before.

Still in the air, Rodnar grabbed the wrist of the Garshan's knife-hand and, with the
anchorage thus afforded, spun and twisted like a cat and struck with foot and hand-to
kick his foe in the solar plexus and at the same time to cut his throat. The Garshan,
however was familiar with that maneuver, too. He seized Rodnar's wrist and yanked it;
simultaneously moving his solar plexus just enough so that the combination resultant of
the motions made Rodnar miss both objectives. Then, both knife-hands being
immobilized, the Garshan went viciously into close quarters. This, he thought exultantly,
was his dish, he had broken a dozen mens' backs from this exact situation.

To break a man's back, however, you have to hold him at least momentarily in some
position or other; and Rodnar of Slaar was as hard to hold as a double armful of live eels
and angleworms. Thrusting his head in close, he went for the champion's throat with his
teeth. Foiled there by a hard and bristly chin, he went for his ear, but only got his
mask-the first time that the Masked Marvel had been unmasked in combat. Then,
wriggling and wrenching himself partially free, he shoved with all the strength of arms,
torso, and legs; and as the two gladiators reeled apart the spectators saw the stream of
blood running down the Slaaran's thigh-and the whole vast crowd exploded into
pandemonium.

Then, for the first time, Rodnar mounted his velocipede. No athlete, however hard and
however well-trained, could maintain that pace of violence for long. He was fairly sure
that it was taking more out of the champion-an older, heavier, slower man-than it was out
of him; but there would be no cessation of combat until one of them was dead and he
would have to save some of his strength. But not too much-he could not afford to let the
Garshan get very much rest-he would have to wear him down to where he would make a
mistake.

Wherefore very shortly he resumed his harrying, sniping, lightning-fast attacks; circling,
reversing, feinting, thrusting, leaping . . . giving nicks and taking them . . . but as time
wore on giving more and more than he took . . . until both men were literally plastered
with slowly-congealing, sweat streaked blood, and foot-wide areas of the ring's floor
were slippery with gore despite the resin . . . and the sadistic uproar of the crowd
mounted higher and higher. . . .

Until finally, after what seemed like hours and was actually twenty-eight minutes, the
champion did make a mistake. His knife was too high and he was a fraction of a second