Into the Slave Nebula by John Brunner Read Free Book Online

stranger’s arrogance. “But I won the premier award for sword-play in my home city last year.”
    And of course everyone assumed the family had bought the judges
. … That was why he hadn’t touched his sword in eight months, why he had left it at home instead of bringing it with him for carnival week. Acquiring that skill had been the only thing in his life he had ever taken really seriously; then when he found how people regarded his triumph the whole of his enthusiasm had turned to ashes.
    With melancholy satisfaction he noted that the news seemed to have had the desired effect on his companion. The man did not utter another word until they had entered the dueling-hall.
    There was no one else present except the concessionaire, drowsing over his reception desk, and cleaning robots were waiting in the corners ready to sweep up the bloodstained sand scattered on the floor and replace it with fresh for the next night’s custom. Briefly Horn’s resentment against the universe sought a focus in the proprietor—what sort of man could bring himself to spend carnival week offering facilities for violent death?—but a moment later he found himself wondering whether it might not be a real service for some people whose
ennui
had reached the stage where even suicide appeared pointless, and who might welcome the chance to have a limit set to the emptiness of their lives.
    Passively, he agreed for the benefit of the record that he had been properly challenged by the man in white and gold. One of the masked “friends” of the latter who hadaccompanied them into the hall emerged from anonymity long enough to confirm the statement before joining his companions, all hooded and cloaked, in a group at the side of the hall.
    I’ll have to rent a sword,” Horn grunted when the legalities were over. “Have you a Duple Champion?”
    “Of course, sir,” the proprietor sighed, and produced one from a rack of weapons behind his desk. Horn felt it, tried a pass or two—which told him that he was slow through lack of practice—and applied it to the whirring grindstone beside the weapons rack. Stroking a few grains of metal from the thickest part of the blade turned it into the counterpart of his own at home, perfectly balanced.
    But one difference did remain. This was keener than a razor, whereas his own was blunt.
    “Anywhere you like on the floor, gentlemen,” the proprietor said. “I don’t expect we shall have anyone else in before dawn.”
    That at least would be a help, Horn thought: not to be hemmed into the standard deuling-zone by the tingling beams of light-bars. If all else failed him, he could at least retreat and retreat until this stranger so eager for a kill grew bored and relaxed his concentration.
    And yet …
stranger?
Once more he had the curious sensation he had felt when he was first challenged: that he ought to be able to place the man in white and gold.
    But there was no time to wonder about such superficialities. The challenger had squared off and the automatic countdown had begun. A small black cloud of nervousness had formed behind Horn’s eyes, which he could foresee growing larger if he was indeed forced to stretch the contest unduly. Make it quickly, then, if at all possible—make it before the other man began to recognize with his muscles as well as his mind that his opponent had exceptional skill.
    They touched blades on the instant the countdown ended, parried, twisted and broke free, getting each other’s measure. Horn knew he was the slower after ten short seconds; yet in the same span of time, with dawning astonishment, he realized something else which was so much to his advantage he hardly dared act on it. The stranger was no longer his own master—hadn’t been since the first click of their blades. He was instantly in the grip of blood-lust, and his next move was to launch a frenzied attack as though determined to hack Horn limb from limb.
    Dimly at the remote edge of a consciousness fined