The Man Who Never Missed by Steve Perry Page A

at his face. This time, Khadaji’s block connected solidly and knocked the hand with the weapon away. Pen switched the knife to his opposite hand.
    “I’m not one to give advice on such things,” Pen said. “We of the Shroud tend to believe in teaching those things we know we can teach, and in affairs of the heart—or gonads—there are no real experts. Love, like zen, cannot be learned, only felt.”
    Khadaji thought about that for a moment as Pen circled to his left, holding the knife loosely. “But you have an opinion about her.”
    Pen shrugged. “What I think isn’t important. What you think is, in this case. I have been on the Disk for what seems a long time; one passes the same point more than once, even though it is usually at an upward or downward spiral.”
    Again, Pen moved, the knife leading.
    Again, Khadaji shifted away from the killing blade. He tried to trip his teacher as he passed, but missed.
    “Is that why you don’t tell me about the Shroud?” Khadaji asked. “Do you feel as if it’s something which can’t be taught?”
    “Hardly. It’s just that your circuit lies in another plane. You’ll never be a priest, Emile. You will be a great man, in your own way. Eventually.”
    There came another attack. Even as he moved, Khadaji saw the end of this series. He knew he was in perfect balance, in total control of himself. Since Pen was attacking, he had that small disadvantage of the attacker, despite his own years of sumito practice. An attacker must reach beyond himself; a defender did not need to; this gave the edge to a defender, assuming equal skill otherwise.
    Pen cut downward with the root knife; Khadaji pivoted and flipped the heel of his right hand into Pen’s shoulder, at the same time he caught Pen’s left wrist with his own left hand. Khadaji twisted, and the knife spun from Pen’s grip, falling in a lazy twirl to stick in the bare ground. Khadaji continued the movement, levering Pen past him as he dropped to one knee. Pen stumbled as Khadaji released his grip, then dived into a perfect roll, an egg rather than a ball. He came up and stepped around casually to face Khadaji. “Very good,” he said. “Excellent.”
    Khadaji grinned. It was the first time since they’d begun training, almost a year now, that he’d ever thrown Pen. He was both pleased and proud. Although there was a small voice in the back of his mind which wondered if maybe the old man hadn’t allowed it, for reasons of his own.
     
    The dim lights reflected in the bright red plastic of the bar’s surface gave her face a rosy glow as she smiled at him. “Would you like to have breakfast with me after the shift ends?”
    “Yes,” he said, feeling his heart pound faster. “I’d like that very much.”
    “Good. I have some stuffed Mikkel leaves a friend brought back from the bright belt, I’ll cook them for us.”
    Khadaji swallowed dryness as he watched her walk away carrying her tray of chem. Breakfast. In her cube. Alone. He felt the beginnings of an erection stir, and he quickly turned back to his next order. She only asked you to have breakfast with her, fool, nothing more. That’s all. But he spilled half a bottle of wine as he visualized her stripping the body stocking away. It would never happen, he thought.
     
    She had black silk sheets on her bed and the contrast between them and her naked skin was incredible. His own brown arm looked somehow alien as he reached across her breasts to squeeze her shoulder. He pulled her against him, kissing her softly. Her lips flowered and parted and her tongue slowly slid along the sides of his own tongue. “Ummm.” Her voice was a small moan. He leaned back, breaking the kiss, and looked at her. Definitely pink eyes. And pink nipples, budded up like tiny hard roses now. Perfectly white pubic hair, as fine and downy as that on a baby’s head. Her body was slender and taut, the muscles firm as she moved back against him. He slid his hand down her back and over