Mustapha was dancing again, his guard up. I had thought he would be slow and dispirited at this point, but he was actually quite swift. He had real grit, for I knew his head was hurting, and Hiroshi had dumped him before, with the corner drop. Mustapha circled the old sensei, and when Hiroshi tried to catch an arm, Mustapha snatched it away. He had really studied his man this time, and was not walking into the same mistake as before. All the time he was moving and jabbing, peppering Hiroshi with light blows.
The old Japanese was nothing if not patient, awaiting his opportunity. Too patient, it seemed to me. He was small and light, and Mustapha was strong, and that constant barrage was telling. Was it possible that the boxer could do it this time? I doubted it; Hiroshi was as deadly as the karatekas, in his way. Once he found his opening...
But the opening never came. Mustapha avoided all but the fleetest contact of his flashing hands on Hiroshi's head and body, never trying for a knockout punch. The punishment was becoming severe; the sensei's eyes were puffing and his nose was bleeding. Suddenly Mustapha unleashed a brilliant combination to head, face and body, finishing with an uppercut to the chin, and Hiroshi fell to his knees. Mustapha stood back as if waiting for the referee to count to ten, and of course there was no count, here. It was a mistaken gesture, and foolish too. "Finish him!" the Boxing judge shouted.
But Mustapha shook his head. "Not that way," he said. Hiroshi was already finished. His eyes were swollen almost shut, and he was having difficulty orienting. He had won his victories without injuring anyone, applying his techniques slowly and carefully; now, ironically, he was injured himself. He made the signal of submission.
Mustapha jumped to help him up. "I'm sorry I had to do that," he said. "You beat me before, so I couldn't ease up. But I just had to have this win, for the brothers and sisters back home."
Hiroshi smiled. There was blood on his lip and teeth. "It was well-earned," he said politely.
Indeed it was, for Hiroshi was no easy mark, however impotent he had seemed in this one match. Any single mistake by Mustapha would have reversed the outcome. But all I could think of, as they walked away, was that tomorrow, with impaired vision and insufficient rest, that nice old man would have to face Makato the killer karateka.
The third match for the day was Karate against Thai Kick-Boxing. But I had had enough. The whole show had become gloomy for me, and every match seemed part of a building tragedy. I returned to my room, ate alone, and watched television. Latin soap operas and I Love Lucy reruns. I wondered what had become of my formidable roommate, whom I had not seen since morning. My depression intensified. I wanted to go home, or at least out for a run and swim, but was certain that would not be smart. It wasn't just Pedro's ire I feared now, but Amalita's. He with his katanas, she with her kris.
Sleep would not come. Finally, late in the evening, I walked about the interior premises, searching for someone—anyone to talk to, to play chess with, or to share a film with. But no one was around. The private rooms were empty, the entertainment halls deserted. The entire building was unnaturally quiet. Now I knew something was wrong. No special event had been scheduled, and no one had told me of any change. Where had everyone gone?
I listened, then walked, and listened again. After several tries I heard faint voices. There was some sort of meeting going on in one of the projection rooms.
I was about to try the door, but hesitated. Feeling like the sneak I was, I listened—and was stunned.
Takao was talking: "...not need to repeat what I did during the war. You all know that..."
What was thisa confession session?
"...so I have no claims to honor, no claim at all." Takao paused, and someone else said something I couldn't make out. It sounded like Japanese. Then:
"But I have told you the situation here, and told you again. You know it was an accident. You know he is a decent man—more decent than some of us here. You know he is worth our support." Who was he talking about?
Then Takao's voice became loud and strong. "Every man of you who lets this pass is worse than I was! How can any of you lay claim to martial honor? Have you forgotten the social and ethical precepts of your rank? Do you call yourselves sensei and sifu and judge, yet stoop to this? It is a mockery no one could believe! You are gluttons and cowards!"
There was a chorus of protest. Then I recognized Mustapha's voice. "I'm American, same as him, so I figure I understand, some. It could've happened to me just as easily, or Whale, here. I saw that li'l girl swimming bare-assed."
Then I understood. They were discussing Amalita and me! I was the one on trial. That was why I hadn't been told.
"...but we can't prove a thing, or stop it anyway. He was warned, fair and square. I told him myself to watch that sword of his. But he played dumb. Now he'll just have to watch out for himself. I'm betting he will. I wash my hands of it. It's the same as a match."
More hubbub. Then Takao again. "I see I cannot move you by reason. I plead no more. Then understand this: the man who stands aside I hold in contempt, but I let him be. But any man who participates will owe the blood debt to me. Anywhere, anytime. So deal with me first, because I shall not stand aside, and it shall be an eye for an eye, a skull for a skull, and a life for a life. Who stands with me in this oath?"
Now there was silence. Takao had gone way out on a limb, threatening this assemblage of the strongest warriors of all the world, calling them cowards and meaning it. He had invited them to kill him, if they would not yield to him. And they would not yield. But what was he trying to accomplish?
Then someone walked across the room toward Takao, and stopped beside him. The first challenger? The tread was so light as to be almost inaudible, but because of that, and the rustle of a skirt, I recognized it. Hiroshi!
The one man Takao could not oppose.
But there was no encounter, just silence. I realized that the O-Sensei had not come to oppose, but to join. No other footsteps came, and slowly more hubbub developed. I suspected that the meeting was about to break up, so I departed quickly.
I had a lot to think about!
CHAPTER 8
VENGEANCE
The eleventh round, first match: Aikido against Karate.
Hiroshi's face was remarkably improved, with the swelling diminished, but I knew he should not be fighting again so soon. Particularly not against the sledgehammer fists of Makato. But it was out of my province.
They circled cautiously, the aikidoist balanced to avoid the killing smash, the karateka careful not to extend himself vulnerably. A powerful fist counted for little against so experienced a warrior as Hiroshi, who knew every trick of evasion and counter. Makato was not fool enough to assume he could take the old man for granted; if he missed his shot, he would find his arm locked, and he would not recover it short of submission. So he was careful, and by no means assured of victory. One of Karate's two losses had been to Aikido, Sato beating Jesus. Now the stronger representatives of each discipline were up against each other.
Makato feinted. Hiroshi caught the arm anyway, winding into a devious hold that could readily be the finish, and Makato countered with a terrible smash with his other hand, whose edge was so calloused and hard it could shatter a tall pile of bricks. The blow landed midway between Hiroshi's wrist and elbow, which were held firm by his own grip on the karateka—and the bone snapped like matchstick.
Hiroshi's eyes glazed with pain, and he sagged, making no outcry. The Aikido judge signaled capitulation. Takao rushed in, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike the Korean and initiate the death match that would settle their rivalry right then. But he controlled himself and turned away, and put his arms about Hiroshi, and picked him up as tenderly as he might a child. I saw tears streaming from Takao's eyes as he walked with his burden toward the infirmary.
Makato stood impassively, watching them go. I remembered how Hiroshi had stood beside Takao the night before, sharing his oath and the invitation that went with it. Takao had at last obtained his pardon
—but what was to be the price of it? Did Makato's brutality stem from that situation?
Then the Korean looked at me, and I felt the chill of death. What was on his mind? Our matches were over.
Takao returned shortly for his own match with Kung-fu. Something had gone out of him. He was grim, and I was nervous about what he might do, but I knew better than to interfere.
Both kung-fu specialists remained in fighting order, but it was the younger Chinese who appeared for this match, Pung Lii. He was an ex-Red Guard, said to be the equivalent of the kung-fu champion—though even any unofficial title was arguable—who had entered the United States illegally after deserting the Communists. He had remained in San Francisco's Chinatown, serving as bodyguard to the Tong racketeers. He had been promised Nicaraguan citizenship, making his stay in this hemisphere legal.
Whatever his politics, there was no doubt of his fighting competence. I deemed him less dangerous than his partner Wang Hsu because he lacked the refinements of deception of the smiling sifu. Nevertheless, Pung Lii was 170 pounds of very wiry, strong, fast fighting ability, conversant with the tiger's claw and other terrifying kung-fu weapons.
Pung made a tremendous leap, did a reverse somersault, and landed with both feet on Takao's chest. I winced. Takao was strong, but this bowled him over. Ordinarily such gymnastics are less effective than they look, because the intended target has merely to step aside. But on occasion they work well enough.
Before Takao could right himself, Pung kicked him in the nerve center under the armpit. I winced again; my partner had an invulnerable neck, but was not adapted to withstand such punishment elsewhere.
My misgivings seemed well founded. Takao recovered his feet, but his arm was half paralyzed. Pung, with true killer instinct, took immediate advantage of that liability, battering the wounded judoka with heavy blows.
Takao maintained a tight defensive shell, so that his massive neck and shoulders took the brunt. But I knew the punishment was getting to him, and I feared for more than the mere loss of the match. I had seen him waver during his battle with Whale, and I knew that only the brevity of his other matches had kept him out of serious trouble. He was tough and skilled, but he was also too old and stout for prolonged exertion of this nature. Soon he would tire; he lacked the stamina, the staying power necessary for a long contest. The abilities remained, but the wind is the first to go.
Pung Lii was well aware of this. He was in fine physical condition, with excellent endurance. He wanted the match to be long, for every minute increased his advantage. He did not bother with the tiger's claw or crane's beak, knowing the attempt would be futile against a judoka of Takao's experience. A failed strike was always an invitation to a devastating counter, and Takao, like Makato, could shatter bricks with his fist. So Pung kept moving, moving, avoiding Takao's attempts to grapple, dodging Takao's punches, presenting no good target, not even the sole of his foot.
Twice more he slammed the judoka with flying kicks, kicks that should never have landed had Takao been properly alert. He shoved him mercilessly about the room, weakening him further. Then Pung deemed the moment propitious and tried a frontal charge.
Mistake! Takao dropped, and came up with a kata-guruma shoulder wheel throw. Suddenly the complexion of the match changed. Kung-fu had fallen into Judo's power. Experience and patience, once again, had told. Takao lifted him high into the air, heaved, and threw him crushingly to the floor.
Pung struck and bounced. He lay there stunned, wide open for the finishing kick. The Kung-fu judge was already standing, beginning the signal of capitulation. The victory was Takao's. But Takao staggered, clutching at his chest. I saw the bruise marks forming, from the repeated strikes of the flying feet and leopard's paw. Pung had really worked on that chest.
Then Takao toppled.
Pung struggled upright and came dazedly to attack again. But he halted. Then he turned away.
He had seen what we now saw. Takao's heart had failed, and he was dead. No kwatsu would bring him back.
I spent a bad night alone. It was not that I liked Takao; my feelings about him had been strongly mixed, though I had learned considerable respect for his prowess and candor. It was not that Judo, by that defeat snatched from victory, had now dropped into a tie with Karate. It was not even my own bleak situation, linked mysteriously with Takao's oath. It was a general, deep-delving disgust with the entire tournament, that had seemed such an excellent idea but turned out to be so ugly in practice. What was being settled, really, by all this injury and death? Was this any more than a bloody Roman circus, a spectacle put on by paid cutthroats for the sadistic amusement of jaded masses? Could any amount of notoriety be worth the brutal snapping of a nice old man's arm, or the death of one of the leading judokas of our time? Where were our values?
In the morning I went to visit Hiroshi at the infirmary. I had been scheduled to meet him in combat again, but that match was now mine by forfeit. I was surprised to find no other visitors. Then, remembering that secret meeting of two nights ago, I was angry. Was the O-Sensei being ostracized even now for his stand beside Takao?
Hiroshi smiled when he saw me. His arm was in a complex hanging sling, and his position looked uncomfortable, but I was sure he had been peacefully meditating. He was not one to complain about discomfort.
"Will you see that Takao's share of the prize money is delivered to his widow in Japan?" I asked him. "In fact I don't want any of it, so the entire Judo allotment should go there. But don't tell his wife that, or she might not accept it. There should be close to two hundred thousand dollars."
"No," he said. "She would not accept any payment associated with his death. You must find another way."
Another way? I set that aside for future consideration. I intended to see that Takao's family got its share.
"It appears likely that there will be a tie in the final rankings," Hiroshi said. "Perhaps it would be expedient to let it stand."
I shook my head. "Vicente Pedro will insist on a playoff. He demands a single winner to this tournament."
"So," Hiroshi murmured reflectively. "Yet there may be a positive approach."
What was he hinting at now? I knew better than to ignore his warning, however discreetly couched. This had to connect with that secret meeting, where the two men had stood in defense of meand suffered grievously in their following matches. I had thought it the misfortune of battle—but Takao had obviously had another opinion, when he almost attacked Makato out of turn. Then Takao's own demise—had it really been an accident? Pung had attacked him brutally, not even trying for the quick win, but blasting him about the chest at every opportunity. If these two had been struck down because of me, what could I expect when I entered a match myself? There was now no one to settle any blood debt. Hiroshi seemed to be suggesting that I stay clear, even if it meant forfeiting the top prize.
Had I been marked for death?
It was paranoid to think so. There was no conclusive evidence. But it made sense out of many of the ugly mysteries of the past few days. Pedro could not avenge himself directly. and neither could he have a guest killed out of hand. Not with the proceedings being televised worldwide, and that guest a contender for the top spot in the tournament. He would have to depend on a legitimate match to accomplish his purpose. If, say, a man knew he would receive a large bonus if his opponent died, rather than submitting or being knocked out.
There would be a playoff match, and surely I would meet Makato again. There was death in that karate fist. My only safe course was to stay out of that encounter.
Yet there were other sides to it. I was no helpless innocent. I was a fifth degree black belt in judo, a former world contender, and I had won five of my six matches here. I was in fact guilty of the crime accused, shedding the blood of Pedro's niece. In judo a mistake is just as bad as inferior skill; the best fighters are the ones who make fewest mistakes. I had been given warning, yet I had acted carelessly, and now there was a reckoning to meet. But Pedro himself had consp
ired against Judo, wronging me before I ever heard of him, so he had invited trouble. Both of us had justice and error.
"Should a man flee the consequence of his action?" I asked.
Hiroshi shook his head, not answering. I knew he was not surprised.
We remained a time in silence. I would have left him to his rest, but there was something uplifting about his company that dispelled my own depression, and I could not yet make myself go. He was the ill one, yet also the healer.
"You said something about a positive approach," I reminded him. "I would like to understand."
"Our host is a complex man," Hiroshi said. "It may seem that he is antagonistic to judo, but this is not so. If he could be freed of his liability, he would forget the scapegoat. Then he would find other interests, and perhaps forgive the past. It would be kinder to assist him, rather than to inflame his misery by opposing him."
"My absence would not cure him," I said. "Not even my death."
He only shrugged, and I knew I had missed the point. But if he would not speak directly, I would just have to work it out for myself. And if I could not, I would have to settle with Makato, the hard way.
I got up to go. "I thank you for your efforts on my behalf," I said, meaning it. "And for the support you gave to Takao." I put my hand momentarily on his.
"It is easy to support a good man," he said politely.
Something was nagging me. I concentrated, and realized what it was. Hiroshi's hand was burning hot!
"You're sick!" I exclaimed. "Really sick! You're running a terrible fever!"
"It is not important," he demurred.
I brushed that aside. "This can't be from your arm! It must be a hundred and six degrees! What is it? Is Pedro's doctor trying to—"
He laughed weakly. "Jason, such suspicion does not become you. The doctor is excellent, and he is doing his best, and he has remained silent at my behest. The siege must run its course. Do not be concerned."