Cal's mind flashed, irrelevantly, to books and pictures he had seen. In such, the villain always spit in the hero's face in such a body-block. Cal snarled, pursed his lips and spat in Benj's face. Then with a mighty effort, Cal shouldered Benj back a full three feet and crossed points with him again.
Benj wiped his face on his shirt sleeve and raving mad, he drove forward, his point making wicked arcs. Cal parried the dancing point, engaged Benj in a thrust and counterthrust, and then with Benj's point blocked high, he drilled forward.
The white-hot point quenched itself in Benj's throat with a nauseating hiss.
Cal stood there, shaking his head at the sight, and retching slightly. His face, which had been set like granite, softened. He dropped his iron and turned away.
"Tink!" he cried.
"Nice job, Cal," she said with a strained smile.
"But you?"
"I'm in no pain."
"But what's wrong?"