He had been somewhat less than discreet, he reflected; Rook’s purpose had shown in his eyes; he, Annister, had walked into a trap from which, this time, there could be no escape. He had meant to beard them to their faces, wring from Rook an admission as to his father, perhaps more; then shoot his way out, if need be.
But now—he would have to fight this giant, a ring veteran of a hundred battles, with bare fists, surrounded by an encircling, hostile cordon, who, if by any chance he might prove the victor, would see to it that he paid for that victory with his life.
Annister knew that it was on the cards that Rook, for instance, would shoot him down as remorselessly as a man would squeeze a mosquito, say, out of life between thumb and finger. But it was the lawyer’s humor, doubtless, to see him manhandled, perhaps killed beneath the drumming impact of those iron fists.
Calmly, he removed his coat, bestowing his automatic in the pocket of his trousers. He did it openly, turning to face Ellison, who, stripped to an athletic undershirt and trousers, regarded Annister with a grinning assurance.
He was big; perhaps twenty pounds heavier than Annister, with wide shoulders and a deep arching chest; with his forward-thrusting jaw and bullet head, with its stiff fell of pig’s-bristles, the long arms like a gorilla’s, he towered over his antagonist like a cave bear, a grizzly waiting for the kill, and like a cave bear, at Rook’s snarling call of “Time!” he was upon the lesser man like a thunderbolt, fists going like flails.
Annister, in his day and generation, had absorbed the science of hit, stop, and getaway under masters of the art who pronounced him, as an amateur, the equal of many a professional performer of the squared circle; he was lean and hard, whereas Ellison’s waistline showed, under the thin shirt, in folds of fat.
If the onlookers expected to see Annister annihilated by that first, furious rush, they were mistaken. Crouching, lightly, on the balls of his feet, he drove forward a lightning straight left, full on the point. Ellison, coming in, took it, grunting; the blow had traveled a scant six inches, but there had been power in it.
It set him back upon his heels, from which, as he rose, raging, he dove in with a ripping one-two punch, which, partly blocked by his antagonist, yet crashing through the latter’s guard, landed high upon his cheek-bone with a spanking thud.
It had been a grazing blow; otherwise, the fight might have ended then and there. Annister, backing nimbly before the giant’s rush, realized that he must avoid a clinch; at in-fighting the giant would have the edge: those mast-like arms and massive shoulders, the huge bulk—they would, at close quarters, with the drumming impact of the great fists, have spelled a quick ending with the sheer, slugging power of the attack.
He heard Rook snarl as, side-stepping like a sliding ghost, he countered with a long, curving left.