The ape wasn't fat, at that, Kinnison realized then; he was as hard as cordwood underneath. Not fat enough, anyway, to be anybody's push-over; although he was probably not in good-enough shape to last very long—he could probably wear him down. He wondered fleetingly, if worse came to worst, whether he would use his mind or not. He didn't want to—but he might have to. Or would he, even then—could he? But he'd better snap out of it. He couldn't get anywhere with this body-check business; the zwilnik was fully as strong as he was.
They broke, and in the breaking Kinnison learned a brand-new cut. He sensed it coming, but he could not parry or avoid it entirely; and the crowd shrieked madly as the captain's point slashed into Gannel's trunks and a stream of crimson trickled down Gannel's left leg.
Stamp! Stamp! Cut, thrust, feint, slash and parry, the grim game went on. Again, in spite of all he could do, Kinnison was pinked; this time by a straight thrust aimed at his heart. He was falling away from it, though, so got only half an inch or so of the point in the fleshy part of his left shoulder. It bled spectacularly, however, and the throng yelled ragingly for the kill. Another—he never did know exactly how he got that one—in the calf of his right leg; and the bloodthirsty mob screamed still louder.
Then, the fine edge of the captain's terrific attack worn off, Kinnison was able to assume the offensive. He maneuvered his foe into an awkward position, swept his blade aside, and slashed viciously at the neck. But the Thralian was able partially to cover. He ducked frantically, even while his parrying blade was flashing up. Steel clanged, sparks flew; but the strength of the Lensman's arm could not be entirely denied. Instead of the whole head, however, Kinnison's razor-edged weapon snicked off only an ear and a lock of hair.
Again the spectators shrieked frenzied approval. They did not care whose blood was shed, so long as it was shed; and this duel, of two superb swordsmen so evenly matched, was the best they had seen for years. It was, and promised to keep on being, a splendidly gory show indeed.
Again and again the duelists engaged at their flashing top speed; once again each drew blood before the colonel's whistle shrilled.
Time out for repairs: to have either of the contestants bleed to death, or even to the point of weakness, was no part of the code. The captain had outpointed the lieutenant, four to two, just as he always did in the tournaments; but he now derived very little comfort from the score. He was weakening, and knew it, while Gannel's arm seemed as strong and as rock-steady as it had been at the bout's beginning. Kinnison also knew these facts.
Surgeons gave hasty but effective treatment, new and perfect sabers replaced the badly nicked weapons, the ghastly thing went on. The captain tired slowly but surely; Gannel took, more and more openly and more and more savagely, the offensive.
When it was over Kinnison flipped his saber dexterously, so that its point struck deep into the softly resilient floor beside that which had once been his captain. Then, while the hilt swung back and forth in slow arcs, he faced one segment of the now satiated throng and crisply saluted the colonel.