I kept the sword.
Needless to say, the amphitheatre was packed. Tens of thousands must have pauperized themselves for fare to Venus and for the highly priced seats. But whatever the cost, the stands were packed beyond belief. And, of course, throughout the system every man, woman and child, every brim, mador and loet, every—but you get the idea. Every intelligent living thing in the Solar System was glued to his viziscreen.
And above the arena floated the Centaurian ship, silent, sinister.
There were no preliminaries. That would have been too much.
Instead, when the moment of conflict arrived, I came out into the arena—staggered, might have been the better word. I had a burden of weapons that was just about all I could carry.
When the stands first saw me enter, they came to their feet and began a cheer that should have echoed and reechoed—but didn't. It died almost before it began. When they saw my equipment, the cheer faltered, then died in shame.
They realized, those citizens from all over the Solar System, what was happening. The stakes were too high. The Solar System was trading honor for security. Instead of being armed with the traditional sword or spear, battleaxe or boomerang, I was laden with the most deadly devices our scientists could develop.
As I said, the cheers died almost before they began.
Maybe I flushed a little. I don't know. But I tightened my jaw. At least they didn't boo. Everyone in the stands knew the issue; however he writhed in shame there must be no indication to the Centaurians that we weren't playing the game, that we weren't living up to our own rules.