"Representing the Red Eagels of the Regular Army will be Isaac Corbin, who held the Tri-Planetary Saber Championship for five years in a row!"

O'Donnel swore lightly under his breath as a surprised murmur swept through the audience. He had hoped Corbin's record would go unnoticed or at least escape comment. As it was, before the bout had even started, the Legion's representative would be seen as an underdog. If he lost, it would be expected, and if he won, if would be an upset!

"And representing the Space Legion, Sergeant Escrima, who has never fenced saber before this evening!"

This time, the major ignored the crowd's surprised reaction as he snatched the lineup list from his pocket and studied it quickly.

There it was: Sergeant Escrima... Saber! He had been so wrapped up thinking about his own bout and the woman foilist that he had completely overlooked the posting for saber!

Sure enough, the demonstrator had surrendered his sticks and was being helped into a fencing jacket and mask by two Legionnaires.

Not a bad idea, O'Donnel thought with a tight smile, running a totally unpredictable opponent at the champion by bringing in a nonfencer. Still, he doubted it would make much difference. Corbin was simply far too seasoned a veteran to be rattled by the antics of a beginner.

As it turned out, the major was correct in his assessment. Corbin scored an easy win over his inexperienced opponent, though the victory was not as decisive as O'Donnel would have liked.

At first, Escrima scored a few hits, lashing out with lightning speed to "slash" the wrist of his opponent as Corbin began his attack. As the major predicted, however, the champion soon learned to ignore these "stop hits," carrying through with his simple attack and scoring the hit on right-of-way. In short, he knew the rules of the weapon better and rode that knowledge to victory.

Time and again, Escrima would electrify the crowd with his speed, either closing with his tormentor or dropping low to slash at his legs, only to have his hits disqualified as being "off target." Twice he was warned by the director for bodily contact, a strict no-no in tournament fencing.

The crowd, not fully understanding the rules, cheered and applauded Escrima's moves, only to lapse into stunned silence spiked with a few low hisses and boos when the action was nullified or the touch awarded against him.

As a final indication of his ignorance of the sport, Escrima clearly missed when the bout was over. With the awarding of the final touch, Corbin whipped off his mask and stepped forward to shake hands, only to be confronted by an opponent who was still clearly ready to fight. For a moment it looked like a disaster, but then Escrima realized his opponent was no longer competing. Sticking his saber under one arm, he pumped Corbin's hand once, then removed his own mask and stood looking around in bewilderment as the weak applause rose and sank.

"Sergeant Escrima!"

The voice cracked like a whip, and Escrima turned toward the bleacher of Legionnaires.

The company commander, who had been sitting, suited and ready for his own bout, stood pointedly in a position of attention. With careful deliberation, he raised his weapon to Escrima and held it in a salute. In a slow wave behind him, the entire company of Legionnaires rose and joined their commander, saluting their sergeant in his defeat.

The Eagles' commander was puzzled for a moment. It had been his understanding that the Legion didn't go in much for saluting. Of course, proper military form would have been for the salute to be given only by whoever was in charge of the formation, which was to say Jester, rather than by every' individual simultaneously. Still, it was a nice touch.

Escrima stared at the company for a moment, then acknowledged their salute with a curt nod of his head. Holding himself stiffly erect, he turned and marched off the floor, ignoring the new burst of spontaneous applause that rippled down from the spectators.

"Our next event will be foil. This is a point weapon only, and the target area is the main torso, including the groin and back, but excluding the head and arms. Representing the Space Legion will be Private...Super Gnat, and for the Red Eagles, Corporal Roy Davidson."

Without being conscious that he was ignoring the announcement and the beginning of the next bout, O'Donnel found his attention arrested by a small drama being played out outside the spectators' line of vision.

From his vantage point, the major could see the wall behind the bleachers which held the Space Legion company. What caught his eye was the figure of Escrima, who had just challenged the Red Eagles champion saber man. The stick-fighting sergeant was squatting by the back wall facing away from his company, his head bowed and shoulders hunched forward, a picture of abject misery.

To O'Donnel, the reason was immediately clear. Everyone else might have expected Corbin to win, and his rival commander might have fielded Escrima as a long-shot chance, but either the strategy hadn't been snared with Escrima or the message had failed to sink in. The proud, scrappy little warrior had apparently expected to emerge from the bout triumphant, and was now suffering the crushing aftermath of not only having lost but of having let down those who had counted on him as their champion.

As the major watched, Captain Jester appeared, first standing behind the sergeant, then kneeling to talk with intimate, earnest intensity. Though they were too far away for him to hear the exact words. O'Donnel had no difficulty constructing the conversation in his mind.

The commander would be explaining again the impossibility of the fight Escrima had just undertaken, possibly even apologizing for sending the sergeant into a hopeless situation instead of undertaking the job himself. It would be pointed out that the sergeant had scored several hits against a seasoned champion, which was more than many practiced fencers could do, and that he had, indeed, more than upheld the honor of the company.

Eventually the sergeant's head came up, and a few moments later he was nodding at what his commander was saying. The two men rose to their feet, and the captain clapped Escrima fondly on the shoulder, leaning close to share a few last words before leading him back to the bleachers.

O'Donnel found himself nodding as well.

Good. The little sergeant was much too good a man to be abandoned by his own during such a trauma. The major's appreciation of his rival went up yet another notch as he turned his attention to the bout in progress... the initial attack misses... passe... then the counterattack lands before the final replacement of the point. The touch is right... Score, three to one!... Gardez!...

Three to one?

O'Donnel focused his attention on the action.

What was going on here? How could his man be down 3-1 so fast?

"Allez! Fence!"

In the quick flurry of swords that followed the director's signal, it became clear what was happening.

The little fencer representing the Legionnaires-what was her name? Oh yes, Super Gnat-had found a way to compensate for her shorter reach. She would hang back at the edge of Davidson's lunge range, obviously too far back to launch an attack of her own, and bait the Eagles' fencer into initiating the action. Sometimes she would simply step back out of the reach of the attack, but then...

The major scowled as Super Gnat dodged the oncoming point and stepped in close to her taller opponent. Davidson tried to reverse his advance to bring his point to bear again, but she followed him back down the strip and...

"Halt! The initial attack falls. On the recovery, the counterattack lands! Touch is right! Score, four to one!"

The bitch was so small her target area was almost nonexistent! Hell, she could inhale and disappear behind her foil! And that footwork she was using...