interferers. This my tomahawk threat completely a
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chieved. I unloaded Trotta and put her in shape without
further interference.
I think I am sticking well within the bounds of truth
when I assert that as I prepared for combat I was more
-concerned for Trotta than for myself. Not lightly did I
view the possibility of losing my one faithful beast in
some unexpected attack, and I could not help speculating on the probability that what Atta called a trick might easily include confronting me with as many as half
a dozen contestants advancing simultaneously on me
from different directions.
Such a problem might prove a pretty one; and to its
fascinations, I suppose, I owe the fact that for the time
being fear for myself remained almost totally absent from
my mind. Indeed, the last fifteen minutes that Fate allotted roe before the signal sounded I spent squatting on the ground in the paddock, pushing around a number of
small pieces of dirt, and deciding what weapons to use
first and last and at what distance.
The signal did sound finally—it seemed to come from
something more like a thousand-stringed bass viol than
any brass instrument—and when it did, the impact of it
was unmistakable. Every living thing in and out of the
stalls stopped, turned, and gazed at the gateway barrier.
Then the barrier was slowly carried to one side. Two
attendants appeared and began beckoning to me.
“Stranger and Beast!” one of them called. “Ready!”
“Ready,” I retorted. And with one last glance at
Trotta’s harness and my weapons I got slowly into the
saddle, settled myself firmly, trotted through the aperture, and flicking Trotta with my heels, urged her into a gallop that would have done justice to the Gallant Six
Hundred.
Not until I was opposite the very dais did I rein up
Trotta in a cloud of dust. But even so I found that the
chief leader had already risen. “Stranger and Beast,” he
was announcing in a full, gravel-like voice. “Facing Challenges One, Two, Three, and Four. Challenge One:
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Singles, fighting to the death.” He said this last loudly
and leaned down to a huge soldier who stood by the incline opposite me, “See that he does not ride the Beast in Challenge One,” he ordered.
And so the contest began—a contest that I shall never
forget.
For I was only one man among thousands of insensate
creatures, and I felt somehow deserted by the whole human race. I had already more than suspected that I should be compelled to fight a number of duels in order
to entertain the spectators. But not until that instant had
I conceived of any of these contests as not including the
use of Trotta. I had seen myself as competing in some
sort of medieval tournament with Trotta as my jousting
partner.
Now it was clear that in the first combat, at least, I
was to be deprived of my one real advantage over my
antagonists: my steed. This decided drawback did not
tend to make me feel sanguine about the contests to
follow.
There was nothing for it but to accept the conditions,
and I did not protest. Instead I turned my attention to
my antagonist, whom I could see in the distance coming out of the exit gate, and here I felt a slight measure of relief. After all, he was only one huge shakoed soldier;
one whose method of fighting I could already anticipate.
So there was nothing yet to worry about.
I led Trotta swiftly to the jagged stone posts in the
exact center of the arena, tethered her to one of them,
and stood awaiting with exaggerated carelessness my antagonist’s approach. For I had already decided that surprise would be half the battle in this particular instance, and I knew precisely what I intended to do.
Not until the soldier was within ten feet of me did I
deign to give any sign that I so much as recognized his
existence. As he approached I actually turned my back
on him and leaned against a post. Tiny beads of sweat
appeared on my forehead, and my heart began to pound
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alarmingly. But I clenched my teeth and did not even
unfold my arms until the last second. Then, at the sound
of his feet on the gravel, I turned suddenly without the
slightest warning, drew my hatchet from my belt, and
threw it with perfect aim straight at his vulnerable neck.
Caught off guard, he had no chance to dodge. The
hatchet went home precisely where I intended, and in an
instant he was no longer a shako soldier but some kind
of half-decapitated creature, struggling toward me and
then collapsing to lie twitching on the ground.
The impact of this terrible but effective denouement
upon the spectators was tremendous. The Oval fairly
shook with their plaudits when it became obvious that
Round One was over and that I had won.
Then in the distance the chairman rose again and
placed two pieces of something red on the semicircular
balustrade in front of him, and I perceived that Round
Two was to follow immediately. “Stranger and Beast
against Two Rubicundians,” he must have announced in
his gravel voice. His words were repeated by attendants
at intervals down the arena wall until the announcement
reached the section opposite me. “Stranger and Beast
against Two Rubicundians!”
It was an announcement that caused considerable excitement in the stands, due I suppose to the reputation of the red fighters and their slave carriers. But it aroused in
me merely a kind of cold rage against Draca. For now
I began to understand him better. There was, however,
little I did not already know about the methods of combat in use among the Rubicundians; not even Rubicundian-trained carriers could hope to equal my Fabrian’s
speed, now that I was to be permitted to use her; and
this use also meant that this time I could choose my own
battleground and methods. So for the second time I faced
the contest with confidence, “Don’t worry, old girl,” I
said to Trotta as I made sure that both my lariats were in
good shape.
And this was truly my mood as I faced the second
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challenge. I coldly intended to survive, and I viewed my
antagonists with no feeling whatever when the barrier
at the far exit was pulled aside once more and into the
open came two powerful red warriors borne by slaves.
These were warriors of the first class, I could see, and
their slaves made a good run of it, carrying them; at least
it was a good run as Formican running goes, and perhaps
in ordinary circumstances the combination might have
overcome an antagonist much more powerful than I.
But this time I did not wait for my enemies to approach
my station at the stone posts. I went galloping straight
at them, twirling my lasso. Just before I reached the first
one head on, I cast my lariat at him, took off at right
angles, and braced Trotta for the jerk.
In a matter of seco
nds the rope tightened, the coil
choked the warrior about the throat, and almost before
I knew it I had pulled him abruptly off his slave-carrier
on to the ground. At the same time the other Rubicun-
dian tried to make his slave come to a stop before he
was carried past me, and almost simultaneously I took
my reserve rope from the saddle, whirled it swiftly several times, and let its loop go full after him. It descended on him while he was still going, and, behold, I had two
Rubicundians at the end of my lassos!
I gave neither time to escape. With a slap I stung
Trotta into an instant gallop, and down the Oval we went,
the two trussed warriors dragging and bumbling on the
ground like mummies. They were half dead, I think, before I pulled up in front of the dais, dismounted swiftly, and ax in hand, despatched both of them like any headsman. Indeed, I suddenly felt like a brutal gladiator, and even as I stood with my dripping ax in my hand I could
not help darting a glance of triumph at Draca where he
sat above me by his stone pulpit, impassive and implacable, He gave no sign, however, that he saw me or even heard the new applause from the stands. No enthusiasm
infected the other leaders either, and I must say that for
the first time a kind of contempt began to invade me
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for these selected creatures who ruled Atta’s countrymen.
There was not a single Fusan on the dais above me who
could have equalled my exploit; yet no faintest recognition of my achievement appeared on their faces. What kind of creatures were these who ruled Atta’s supposedly
civilized world? This was my honest reaction to their expressions, and it did not encourage me to a further interest in Fusa.
But it was not mine to desist or to go on as I chose,
and the chairman—his name was Oban, I learned later-
soon made this fact evident. He paid no attention to the
applause that was still coming from the stands, but
leaned forward impassively and placed four pieces of
some kind of mahogany wood on the balustrade before
him. “Four Forzans against Stranger and Beast!”
Again the announcement echoed down the sides of the
arena. And this time, I will admit, it was a challenge that
startled me. Atta’s advice to conserve my strength had
recurred to me, and involuntarily I glanced up at my
friend where he sat beside Nuru in back of Nurn’s pulpit.
To my surprise he was not looking at me at all: he was
leaning forward in his seat, staring at the stone floor in
front of him. His attitude was one of utter dejection—a
mood I had never before seen in him.
What the reason for it was, I had no chance to conjecture, for already the far exit’s barrier had been rolled aside, and out from the paddock behind it four Forzans
were coming out, their forearms thrown up and out and
all four of them looking for all the world like Atta himself. Indeed, the simple gesture almost struck a cold chill into me. For I had seen Atta fight and maneuver, and
here were four Attas; four wily, fearless Attas all loosed
upon me at once.
They had the good sense of Forzans, too, I noticed,
for they did not separate as they came running out, but
made a tight little knot of themselves as they ran, so that
they advanced like an old-fashioned football backfield.
Moreover they had just one aim, and I knew it: to bring
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Trotta to the ground by seizing one of her legs, whereupon I, on foot, should be no match for four antagonists.
To forestall this device it was not possible to use the
lasso, for it was unlikely that I could ever snare all four
at once, and even one would be enough to bring down
Trotta.
Such was my instant perception, and in arriving at it I
blessed all those hours of wrestling and fooling that Atta
and I had put in around the garden of our house. For I
knew exactly what would happen if any of these Forzans
ever got a good grip on either me or Trotta. He would be
an Atta in earnest, and the result would be fatal.
These thoughts take longer to tell than they did to
flash through my brain. Actually I do not believe two seconds passed before I leaped into the saddle again, dug my heels into Trotta’s ribs, and was off toward the center
of the Oval once more.
This time, too, I had a definite plan in mind. To make
it clear to you let me explain that Trotta was not iron-
shod like your ordinary horse, nor was she so formidable.
She was of a more delicate mold than a good Percheron
or even a coach horse. She moved swiftly if pressed, but
usually she trotted, putting her feet quickly one before
another in somewhat the way a small cat does in crossing
a dangerous lane at night.
This gait afforded good speed with little change of
pace, and it made me dubious of trusting her too close
to my enemies. But it did permit a very effective attack
with my lance, because this clocklike speed could be remarkably accelerated, so that she bore down on an antagonist like a small, inexorable engine.
that I could scarcely miss transfixing one of them if I
rode them all down. My real danger lay in not reining
Trotta aside quickly enough and spurring her to the gal-
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lop once my lance had taken its toll. Here there would
be little time to lose.
There was small opportunity to indulge in that worry,
however, for already the distance between my antagonists
and ourselves was rapidly diminishing, and Trotta was
increasing her speed with machinelike precision. “Good
girl,” I encouraged her as I braced my lance in my arm-
pit. And in this manner I went to my third attack.
I succeeded, too, in my initial intention. I struck one
of the Forzans in the neck with the point of my extended
lance, reined Trotta instantly to the left, and spurred her
to the gallop. It was a terrible blow, and ordinarily I
should have congratulated myself on one enemy the less.
But there is always the chance of bad luck, and this time
it happened. Even as the lance sank into the unfortunate
Forzans body he grasped it with his feelers with such
tremendous strength that I was almost tom from the
saddle, and I could retain my weapon only by pulling on
Trotta’s bridle. At the same instant another of the Forzans threw himself at Trotta’s hind legs and got a grip so strong that she almost spun about with the suddenness of her double detention. To make the contretemps complete the two remaining Forzans rose on their hind
legs and rushed at me. One second more and I think they
would have dragged me from the saddle to the ground.
But I had considered such a situation fully many times,
and the order of my actions was already decided. Without hesitation I let go my lance, snatched my hatchet from its holster, and, leaning far back, struck downward
with it in my right hand at the Forzan who half knelt
clasping Trotta’s hind leg. With a crunch the blade
cracked thr
ough his head and collapsed him like an eggshell. It was a blind blow, because I could not turn in the saddle, and I meant only to free Trotta. Therefore
I can only suppose that it was not enough. For even in
death he held his grip on her right hind leg, and it was
sufficient to slow up her start.
This check gave my two remaining antagonists time to
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reach me, and for an instant I thought my end had come.
I struck the first one with my hatchet, but he dodged,
and the blow fell on his shoulders, so that he grasped the
weapon even as he sank to the ground. I could do nothing but let go or risk being unseated and dragged down on top of him. I did the only thing possible: without
hesitation I dismounted on the far side of Trotta, almost
falling entangled in my own stirrup as I did so. Once on
my feet I drew my long ax from its holster and, striking
Trotta a smart blow with my fist, drove her from between me and my last antagonist, leaving me face to face with him almost over the body of the last preceding attacker.
This already disabled creature was down but not yet
completely out. He reached for my legs with his arms,
and in another second, I veritably believe, I should have
been overborne by this peculiar combination had I not
remembered Atta’s oft-repeated advice: “Few Formicans
understand a calculated retreat.” The words tolled like a
bell in my brain as I stepped deliberately backward. I
had left now only my long ax and my dagger, and it is
exceedingly difficult to strike a Forzan a frontal blow
without being seized.
Behind me, however, not over twenty steps away, were
the stone posts that I have mentioned, and toward these
I turned and actually ran—an action that, as I dimly remember, evoked a roar of disapproval from the stands. I knew exactly what I was doing, though, and in the few
seconds thus gained I was enabled to raise my self quickly on the nearest rough post; and thus in the twinkling of an eye I presented' a new and most formidable front
to my final antagonist. For the Formican, though he
stands up or sits up while talking and occasionally while