ever used in actual combat, any more than any of the old Western gunmen ever used such fancy stunts as the highwayman’s roll or the border shift. You don’t generally do juggling tricks when your life’s at stake.
But still, it was a theoretical possibility, and he was right in position for it, and I had to do something with him that wasn’t lethal. I made a sharp counter-clockwise circle with the cane—I’ve forgotten the technical name of the maneuver—catching that wide point and spinning it around, twisting the weapon in his grasp…
An alert swordsman, in good condition, would simply have come smoothly around my blade, or cane, and continued his attack; but the little man’s reflexes were slowing, his wrist was tired, and the sudden wrench caught him by surprise, took the sword away from him, and sent it flying across the road. He stood there for a moment, disarmed and vulnerable, and I couldn’t decide what the hell to do with him. I guess I was a bit tired, too.
When I moved, it was too late. He gave a kind of sob and ran after his weapon. He beat me to it and picked it up and came at me again, but he wasn’t fencing any more. He had the sword in both hands and he was wielding it like a club, beating at my head and shoulders. He was crying with frustration and anger as he whacked away, trying to chop me down like a tree.
It was all I could do to defend myself against the crazy attack. I could kill him, all right—he was wide open, with his arms above his head like that, and one straight-armed lunge would have driven the brass-tipped cane through the cartilages of his throat—but I wasn’t supposed to kill anybody. Under no circumstances. This is an order. This is an order. Suddenly I had too many weapons. My hands were full; I had to get rid of something if I was going to take him alive, although this seemed to have most of the pleasant aspects of getting a living, spitting bobcat out of a tree.
I parried a two-handed cut with the sword that would have laid my scalp open even if the weapon didn’t have a real edge on it. I threw my arms about the little man, dropped everything and, clutching him desperately—if he got free now, he could run me through in an instant—I gave him the knee just as hard and dirty as I could. When he doubled up, I clubbed him on the back of the head, not with the edge of the hand to break his neck, but just with the heel of my fist, like a hammer, to drive him down into the road. He went down, and curled up like a baby, hugging himself where it hurt.
Breathing hard, I retrieved my knife. I picked up the sword, and the cane sheath, and fitted them back together. It was a beautiful job of workmanship: you couldn’t see the joint at all. I picked up the Homburg hat and dusted it off, and carried it back to the little guy, who was still lying there. My left hand ached, and I didn’t feel a bit sorry for him, although I had to admit, in all honesty, that he’d put on a damn good show. Whether it was genuine or phony remained to be determined. I bent over to hear what he was moaning. I caught a name, and leaned closer.
“Sara,” he was whimpering. “I did my best, Sara. I am sorry.” Then he looked up at me. “I am ready,” he said more clearly. “If I were just a little bigger… But I am ready now. Kill me, murderer, as you did her!”
13
It took us a while to get things straightened out. When he’d finally become reconciled to not dying heroically at my hands, the little man told me he was Sara Lundgren’s fiancé, Raoul Carlsson, of the house of Carlsson and LeClaire, women’s clothing, Stockholm, Paris, London, Rome. He’d met Sara at her dress shop in the line of business, it seemed, and romance had flowered.
He’d been worried about his Sara lately, however. She’d seemed preoccupied and unhappy, he said. Finally, when she stood him up for lunch and then called up later the same day from a certain hotel to cancel their dinner engagement for reasons
But still, it was a theoretical possibility, and he was right in position for it, and I had to do something with him that wasn’t lethal. I made a sharp counter-clockwise circle with the cane—I’ve forgotten the technical name of the maneuver—catching that wide point and spinning it around, twisting the weapon in his grasp…
An alert swordsman, in good condition, would simply have come smoothly around my blade, or cane, and continued his attack; but the little man’s reflexes were slowing, his wrist was tired, and the sudden wrench caught him by surprise, took the sword away from him, and sent it flying across the road. He stood there for a moment, disarmed and vulnerable, and I couldn’t decide what the hell to do with him. I guess I was a bit tired, too.
When I moved, it was too late. He gave a kind of sob and ran after his weapon. He beat me to it and picked it up and came at me again, but he wasn’t fencing any more. He had the sword in both hands and he was wielding it like a club, beating at my head and shoulders. He was crying with frustration and anger as he whacked away, trying to chop me down like a tree.
It was all I could do to defend myself against the crazy attack. I could kill him, all right—he was wide open, with his arms above his head like that, and one straight-armed lunge would have driven the brass-tipped cane through the cartilages of his throat—but I wasn’t supposed to kill anybody. Under no circumstances. This is an order. This is an order. Suddenly I had too many weapons. My hands were full; I had to get rid of something if I was going to take him alive, although this seemed to have most of the pleasant aspects of getting a living, spitting bobcat out of a tree.
I parried a two-handed cut with the sword that would have laid my scalp open even if the weapon didn’t have a real edge on it. I threw my arms about the little man, dropped everything and, clutching him desperately—if he got free now, he could run me through in an instant—I gave him the knee just as hard and dirty as I could. When he doubled up, I clubbed him on the back of the head, not with the edge of the hand to break his neck, but just with the heel of my fist, like a hammer, to drive him down into the road. He went down, and curled up like a baby, hugging himself where it hurt.
Breathing hard, I retrieved my knife. I picked up the sword, and the cane sheath, and fitted them back together. It was a beautiful job of workmanship: you couldn’t see the joint at all. I picked up the Homburg hat and dusted it off, and carried it back to the little guy, who was still lying there. My left hand ached, and I didn’t feel a bit sorry for him, although I had to admit, in all honesty, that he’d put on a damn good show. Whether it was genuine or phony remained to be determined. I bent over to hear what he was moaning. I caught a name, and leaned closer.
“Sara,” he was whimpering. “I did my best, Sara. I am sorry.” Then he looked up at me. “I am ready,” he said more clearly. “If I were just a little bigger… But I am ready now. Kill me, murderer, as you did her!”
13
It took us a while to get things straightened out. When he’d finally become reconciled to not dying heroically at my hands, the little man told me he was Sara Lundgren’s fiancé, Raoul Carlsson, of the house of Carlsson and LeClaire, women’s clothing, Stockholm, Paris, London, Rome. He’d met Sara at her dress shop in the line of business, it seemed, and romance had flowered.
He’d been worried about his Sara lately, however. She’d seemed preoccupied and unhappy, he said. Finally, when she stood him up for lunch and then called up later the same day from a certain hotel to cancel their dinner engagement for reasons
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