The Venus Belt by L. Neil Smith Page A

not unde r standing a single word. As with the idea of concealed weapons, there’d never been any need in the Confederacy for unarmed combat—nobody was ever unarmed! Also, under a more enlightened North American fo r eign policy, Japan had remained self-isolated until the 1950s. My dete c tive business had been a little thin at first, and I’d fattened it up giving elementary Korean martial arts instruction. I’d been a Gold Belt, a virtual beginner myself, and after a few bonafide masters from the U.S. and K o rea set up real dochangs, I’d quit to become a student once again.
    And slacked off about twenty-five pounds ago.
    Camillus led us back upstairs to a gym. Koko watched a while, then made excuses lamely and departed. “Doctor’s appointment,” I guessed. G o rillas don’t really need much in the way of training for fisticuffs, an y way—they just break their opponents in half and tie knots in what’s left.
    Starting with a number of fencing and karate stances, we walked through variations allowing for the use of the big heavy choppers co m mon in the asteroids. Mine was typical enough, as was Gerb’s, a double-edged fourteen-inch snickersnee. We sparred with his toy replicas, however. He showed me a swell trick with a smartsuit, adjusting the surface so the pre s sure of a blow leaves a visible mark in simulated gory crimson—no arg u ments whether a touch has really been scored.
    But the main thing I learned in that first afternoon was that, all these years, I’d been holding my Rezin upside-down, rather like a kitchen knife, thumb overlapping my fingers in what’s contemptuously termed a “hatchet grip.” Gerber demonstrated how the short back “clipped” edge is for hac k ing arms and shoulders, and to protect you from the other fe l low’s blade. The main, “lower” edge is carried upward, thumb behind the quillon like a saber, the long razor-curve slicing into the opponent’s belly clear up to the sternum.
    No two ways about it, self-defense is just plain messy .
    I divided the rest of the trip between smartsuit lessons and sword-fighting, with a little target practice on the side. Tactically, the pistol is a sword, most effective at a sword’s distance, intended for the same pr i marily defensive purpose, personal protection, rather than as a military or political instrument (one reason rifles are scarce in the Conf e deracy, and why they’re so conveniently immune to political attack in the United States). And, like a sword, a pistol comes to possess for its bearer a unique personality all its own, almost symbiotic with the personality it defends. Say what you will about the mystique of cutlery, the civilized individual’s edge is the handgun.
    The Webley’s new sights were perfect, a big square notch in back, a big square post on a ramp up front, coarse and quick-to-center, just like my old S & W. Captain Forsyth’s extra ammunition came in mighty handy—I sure as hell needed the practice. I also decided to hang on to the little Bauer .25. In an emergency, it’d be better than no gun. But not much.
    The Bonaventura passed its turnover point (which I spent snugly strapped to a barstool), and continued roaring along backward through the cosmos, acceleration dropping steadily until I was grateful for the heavy padding on the ceilings: I weighed about twenty pounds at the end of the journey, easy weight to throw around with muscles built for ten times that amount.
    All the better to smash your head in.
    ***
    Seen from space, Ceres is enough to convince you that the Bonave n tura is a big, expensive fraud. The asteroid shows up as a swirly blue-and-white marble shining in the void, occasional patches of dry land peeking through the clouds, exactly like Terra Firma .
    “ What the hell? ” I was lounging at a window in the 790-level bar, watc h ing my assistant sipping from a freefall plastic baggie.
    “What the hell are you what-the-helling about now, Boss?”
    I shook my head.