Phule's Company Part 22

"Halt!"

The major turned his back on the proceedings, shaking his arms and rotating his shoulders as the touch was awarded.

He had tightened up! Fighting the reflex to move at the sound of the foot stomp, he had tensed his arm, and Jester seized the opportunity before he could regain enough flexibility to evade the attack on his blade!

Three to zero! No! Put it out of your mind! Think of it as coming on guard for the first touch . . . except now Jester would be going for double touches! Two double touches and the bout would be over!

"Fencers ready?"

"Ready!"

"Just a moment, sir!"

O'Donnel took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. His opponent might protest the delay, but even that would buy him some time to get himself under control . . . and break Jester's momentum.

As it was, nothing was said by either the director or the Legionnaire until the major stepped up to his on-guard line and raised his sword.

"Ready, sir!"

"Allez! Fence!"

To O'Donnel's surprise, Jester did not immediately press the attack. Instead, he stood waiting in his guard . . . just a second! The cla.s.sic picture wasn't there! Instead, the point of Jester's epee was above his bell guard . . . not much, barely an inch, but . . .

The major was attacking even before he finished the thought.

BZZZ!.

"Halt! One light! Touch is left! Score is three to one!"

That was more like it! In an epee guard, holding the sword at an angle to the arm, however slight, was a dead giveaway that there was target exposed, even if you couldn't see it. Slipping his point past Jester's bell guard, O'Donnel had caught a piece of the underside of his opponent's arm . . . not much, but enough for a touch. Now to see if the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had figured out his mistake!

"Allez! Fence!"

BZZZ!.

"Halt!"

Got him again! Three to two now!

The major was waiting at the on-guard line as the touch was awarded, eager for the bout to resume before his opponent had a chance to a.n.a.lyze the hole in his defense.

"Fencers ready?"

"Ready. "

"Ready, Sir!"

"Allez! Fence!"

BZZZ-UZZ!.

"Halt! Both lights are on! Double touch! Score is four to three!"

Four to three! He had to be careful now. One more touch and . . . No! Jester had been lucky to catch a piece of his arm as he came in on the attack. He had to keep the offensive. Still, his opponent was expecting the shot to the underside of the arm now. Maybe a feint to draw his reaction . . .

"Allez! Fence!"

The major deliberately gave the point of his weapon a small twitch, and was rewarded by a quick flash of light reflected from his opponent's bell guard as it moved.

BZZZ!.

"Halt! There is one light! Touch is left! Score is four all. Bout and match point, gentlemen. Fencers ready?"

Got him! Now, just one more. C'mon . . . think! One more touch!

"Allez! Fence!"

For a moment, it was as if neither fencer had heard the director's signal. Motionless, they stared at each other, watching for an opening yet unwilling to make a move which might create a vulnerability. Then, with slow deliberation, Jester raised his sword arm six inches, exposing the target his opponent had been scoring on, daring him to try again. That frozen tableau was held for a few heartbeats, then O'Donnel went forward in a gliding rush, accepting the invitation. Jester's point darted down, racing to intercept the attack, and . . .

BZZZ-UZZ!.

"Halt!"

The major whipped his head around, looking to the electronic box to see who had scored the touch first.

Both lights were lit! Double touch!

Jester jerked his mask off and stuffed it under his arm as he saluted the director and his opponent, then strode forward with his hand outstretched for the traditional handshake that signaled the end of hostilities.

"Excellent bout, Major. Thank you."

Startled, O'Donnel found himself shaking his rival's hand reflexively.

"But . . . the bout . . ." he managed at last.

"Tournament rules, as agreed," the Legionnaire said firmly. "Isn't that right, sir?"

That last was addressed to the director, who shook his head and shrugged. "Well . . . in a double elimination tournament, it would be scored as a double loss . . ."

"There! You see?"

". . . but I suppose we could have a fence-off to decide a winner. Perhaps a one-touch sudden-death bout," the director rallied gamely. "It's really up to you gentlemen."

"Well . . ." O'Donnel hedged, removing his mask as he tried to organize his thoughts.

"Major. "

The word was said so softly that it took O'Donnel a moment to realize Jester had spoken it rather than it being a random thought flitting through his mind. Their eyes met.

"Take the tie."

"What?"

His rival looked away, smiling at the audience as he spoke, like a ventriloquist, without moving his lips.

"Take the tie. We'll split the compet.i.tion . . . and the contract. I wouldn't want to see either of our forces lose at this point . . . would you?"

Good combat commanders do not survive by agonizing over decisions, and O'Donnel was no exception.

"Tournament rules were agreed upon." He shrugged dramatically, turning to the director. "The Red Eagles and the s.p.a.ce Legion stand by their word. Announce the double loss, sir."

Turning on his heel, he marched unswervingly back to his men, barely remembering to unhook his body cord, as the director's announcement echoed in the silent gym. Weak applause greeted the explanation, though the confused babble in the audience nearly drowned it out.

From the look on the faces of the Red Eagles, the audience wasn't alone in its puzzlement.

"What the h.e.l.l happened . . . sir?" Master Sergeant Spengler said, rising to meet his commander.

"Well, Sergeant, what we have is-"

"Company! Atten-hut!"

O'Donnel turned to look down the floor.

The s.p.a.ce Legionnaires were on their feet, Captain Jester centered in front of them. With a picture-book precision they had not shown during the close order drill compet.i.tion, they were saluting the Red Eagles.

The major stared at them for a few moments, but their pose didn't waiver. Correct military procedure called for holding a salute until it was returned or the person or unit you were saluting was out of range.

This time, O'Donnel's decision was easier.

"Red Eagles . . . Atten-hut!"

And for the first time since their arrival-in fact, in the history of the Red Eagles-the crack unit of the Regular Army saluted the s.p.a.ce Legion, and meant it.

Soaking in a hot tub can be of mental, as well as physical, therapeutic value, and Phule was enjoying it to the fullest as he felt his muscles slowly begin to relax.

"Sir?"

Slowly, reluctantly, he raised his head and opened his eyes.

"Yes, Beeker?"

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Have you asked Mother to hold all calls until this morning?"

"Yes, sir. Actually it seems she was already doing that without instruction. There are several messages of congratulation, and it seems that young reporter has been trying to reach you."

"Again?" Phule closed his eyes and sank a few inches deeper into the tub. "How many interviews does she need in one day?"

"I don't believe she's calling about an interview . . . sir."

"Oh?"

"That's the impression I got from Mother, though she didn't relay the messages word for word."

"Oh!"

"Will there be anything else?"

"No. Go ahead and call it a night, Beek. It's been quite a day . . . for all of us."

"Indeed it has, sir.

"Good night, Beeker."

There was no response.

Strange. Usually his butler was quite fastidious about such social pleasantries.

Mildly puzzled, Phule opened his eyes to discover Beeker still in attendance, but looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

"Something bothering you, Beek?"

"Well, sir . . . you know I rarely pry or question your actions, but . . ."

The butler hesitated, as if at a loss for words.

"Yes, what is it?"

"In your bout this evening . . . I mean, I've watched you fence in compet.i.tions before, sir, and flatter myself to think I know something of your abilities and style . . .

Beeker's voice trailed off again.

"And?" Phule urged.

"And . . . for my own curiosity, you understand, and in strictest confidence . . . I was wondering . . . Well, sir . . . did you throw your bout? Deliberately fence for the tie, I mean?"

Phule exhaled a long breath, closing his eyes and sinking deeper into the tub before answering.

"No, I didn't, Beek. I thought about it . . . that's why I let him pull up even instead of finishing him off when I got the lead . . . but I chickened out at the end. If I could have been sure of the tie, I would have gone for it, but it would have been chancy at best. In the final a.n.a.lysis, I decided I didn't have the right to risk the company's success on a gamble, so on the final touch I was genuinely going for the win. The way it turned out-getting the tie I really wanted-was pure luck, nothing else."

"I . . . I'm afraid I don't understand, sir. Why would you prefer a tie to a win?"

Phule opened his eyes and raised his head again, his face splitting in a wolfish grin.

"You weren't watching close enough, Beeker. We did win."

"Sir?"