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

Amidst a tremendous roar of applause a tall, trim, splendidly-muscled man leaped in one
bound to the center of the table and bowed four ways, saluting the crowd gracefully with
his knife at each bow. He wore fighting shoes, a tight breech-clout, and a light mask of
yellow gold-a mask that did not conceal his Garshan beak of a nose, to say nothing of
interfering with even his widest peripheral vision. The games-master finally broke into the
applause, still bellowing and still loving the sound of his own voice.

"All I'm allowed to tell you about the champ is that he's a Garshan, and . . ."

"You're telling us?" a stentorian voice came raucously from ringside-and that statement
had been entirely unnecessary. The Masked Marvel's reddish-brown skin and his
veritable beak of a nose could not possibly have belonged to anyone except a native of
Garsh-the home of the proudest, the haughtiest, the purest of blood and the most
intransigently warlike of all the Justiciate's races of men. "Chop it off get on with the
fight!" the heckler howled, and the crowd went wild-clapping, stamping, whistling,
shrieking, cat-calling, booing.

"QUIET! SILENCE! SHUT UP!!!" the games-master yelled; so loud now and so close to
a microphone that even Hall One's super-powered public-address system squawked
under the overload . . . and the crowd did quiet down enough so that his voice could
again be heard. "He's a Garshan, and he's always had high status and a number, and
he's got an awful lot of kills on his belt. Forty-six. Enough so he's now Status Ten point
Nine Nine Four.

"And on my left the challenger-Sonrodnar Rodnar of Slaar-Status Thirty-Eight-an
amma-CHOOR. . . . There was some applause-not very much-as Rodnar leaped lightly
to the purple-and-gold triple-ringed star in the table's center and made his four-point
bows. Most of the noise seemed to be the offering and taking of bets as to how long the
challenger would last.

"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."

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