The needle was halfway around the dial. Still the old man hung on. MacFarland squeezed harder. He was staying ahead. How much could he take? Why didn't he die of shock? He hoped for that release and fought to keep conscious and endure a little more.
His personal pride, the good of his country, and the safety of the world, demanded that he drive the contest beyond the limit of his endurance; that he lose, if he lost, not because he had been afraid but because his flesh could endure no more.
He screamed and moaned and squeezed. The men in the enemy line moaned with him. He heard Crawford Bell shouting to him to let go. Was that Doctor Umbana he heard? Wasn't that the calm Doctor Warren shouting and pleading?
And the strangest of all sounds was his own voice mingling with the voice of his opponent, two screams with exactly the same pitch and intensity, the same rise and fall.
He was going to die. He wouldn't be the first. Sometimes the honor of the nation demanded that and it was necessary nations not be shamed by their citizens. Shamed nations were dangerous nations. And after all, he was only one soldier and in previous generations the sacrifice had been millions.
He lay on the cot. Crawford Bell and a medic worked on him with hypos. Vaguely, he realized the aging Belderkan lay beside him.
"It's about time you opened your eyes," Crawford Bell said. "Can you hear me?"
He nodded.
"We put you into therapeutic shock. You've been out an hour. You'll be all right."