"Now you try to hit me!" Molock ignored the cries for his blood. He weaved away with his fists up.
"That's not dancing!" Shad Brisbee roared.
"It's our kind of dancing, the human way to dance," Molock answered. "Yah, you big yellow-belly, you can't do it!"
I held my breath. The hopeless idiot—or maybe genius—was trying to turn a dancing contest into a boxing match. And he did. Screaming, Shad Brisbee charged, swung a tremendous hay-maker at Molock's jaw. Dodging, Molock slugged him behind the ear.
For the next fifteen minutes, to my awed and thunderously appreciative delight, I watched a Venusian get carved to pieces. Molock hit Shad Brisbee with everything up to and including his elbows and knees. He hit the Venusian in the gullet, the stomach, all over the head, and he knocked at least three eyes out of commission.
It took him exactly fifteen minutes to reduce a seven foot Venusian giant to the status of a whimpering child.
"I give ... I give ..." Shad Brisbee gasped. "You better dancer than me...."
"You will allow us to stay here unmolested, until we can get our ship repaired?" Molock demanded.
"Sure ... Sure ... I do that for you ... if you do one thing for me...."
"What's that?"