O'Donnel watched closely as Super Gnat skipped and danced backward down the strip, leading Davidson like a terrier teasing a bull. He had seen that floating, pivoting footwork before. He couldn't quite put his finger on where, but it wasn't on a fencing strip! The Legionnaires had run another off-style martial artist in on him, but this one had managed to translate her moves into fencing! What was more, Davidson lacked Corbin's experience and was clearly thrown off his normal form by his opponent's unorthodox movements.

The Eagles' fencer managed to rally and score two touches in a row, but to the major the outcome was already a given. The scrambling little fencer was simply too resourceful to let a three-point advantage slip away, and...

As if in response to his thoughts, Super Gnat launched a running, diving flèche attack, taking the offensive for the first time and catching Davidson napping as he planned his own attack.

"Halt! The attack carries! Touch is right! Five to three! Bout to the Space Legion! The meet is tied at one bout each!"

The spectators exploded with cheers and applause as Super Gnat saluted her opponent and pulled off her mask, revealing a beaming face that shone like the sun. She pumped the hands of her adversary and the director, nodding her thanks at their murmured compliments, then turned toward the Legion bleachers.

No cue had been necessary from their commander this time.' The entire company was on its feet saluting its victorious champion. Still holding the jubilant smile that seemed to pass her ears, Super Gnat returned the salute with a flourish of her weapon that ended in an exaggerated mock curtsey. At that, the Legionnaires broke their stiff poses and swarmed out of the stands to surround their teammate.

"All right, Gnat!"

"Way to go!"

The first to reach her was the tall, misshapen nonhuman Legionnaire whose mere presence made the Red Eagles uneasy. In a move that could only be genuine affection, he snatched her into the air in a huge bear hug that was at once enthusiastic and gentle, then, without setting her down, shifted his grip and held her aloft to the cheers of the rest of the company.

"Sorry about that, sir."

The terse apology pulled O'Donnel's attention back from the other end of the gym.

"Don't worry about it, Davidson," he said firmly, lightly punching that notable on the arm. "Nobody wins all the time. Looks like it's up to me to try to settle up."

"Yes, sir," the corporal said, shooting a glance down the floor to where the Legionnaires were still celebrating. "Do you think you can do it? They may be goofballs, but they're tricky as hell."

The major nodded his agreement of the corporal's assessment.

"To tell you the truth, Corporal, I don't know. Ask me again in about ten minutes."

Davidson flashed him a quick smile.

"Right. Good luck, sir."

"Our next and final bout..." The director's mike boomed through the loudspeakers, and he paused to wait for the Legionnaires to quiet down and take their seats again before continuing.

"Thank you. Our next and final bout will be épée For those of you who have been confused by my explanation of the right-of-way rules, you'll be glad to know there is no right-of-way in épée! Whoever hits first, gets the touch!"

A brief ripple of applause and laughter greeted this announcement, which the director acknowledged with a grin.

"This is because the encounter épée is re-creating a duel from the period after the Code Duello was changed to accept 'first blood' rather than death to settle an affair of honor. First blood can be drawn from anywhere on the body, including the hands and feet, and accordingly the entire body is fair target when fencing épée."

O'Donnel gathered up his mask and his weapon, plugging his body cord into the socket hidden inside the weapon's bell guard. The movements were automatic and ritualistic as he began to mentally set himself for the upcoming bout.

"By watching the lights on the scoring machine," the director was continuing, "it is easy to see who has scored the touch. The machine, which both fencers will be attached to by means of feed reels and body cords, determines within a twentieth of a second who hit whom first. If both fencers score a hit within that time frame, which happens more often than you might think, both lights will come on and it will be scored as a double touch. That is, a hit will be awarded to each fencer for that particular exchange."

The major wished the bout would get under way. He was starting to feel the tension of the deciding bout creeping into his shoulders. Nervously he shook his sword arm to keep it loose. Tension meant stiffness, and stiffness meant slowed reflexes, a potentially fatal error in a sport where the winner and loser were often divided by split seconds.

"The final bout will be between the commanding officers of the competing groups. For the Red Eagles of the Regular Army, Major Matthew O'Donnel... and for the Space Legion, Captain Jester!"

"Go get him, Cap'n!"

"LEGION!"

The cheering section at the other end of the gym was obviously wound tight as a drum, bellowing out encouragement in their excitement that would be more appropriate at the opening of a boxing match than in a fencing meet. O'Donnel noted, however, that his opponent seemed oblivious to the racket as they moved onto the strip and hooked their body cords into the spring retrieval reels at either end. Saluting each other and the director, they donned their masks and stepped up to their respective on-guard lines.

"Fencers ready?"

"Ready, sir. "

"Ready!"

"Allez! Fence!"

Judging from what he had seen before, both this evening and this afternoon, the major had expected Jester to be an off-the-wall, unorthodox fencer, relying on weird, unexpected moves to score his points. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to see his opponent take a conventional, textbook guard stance as they began to jockey for position.

Fine by me, mister. By the book it is. Let's see how good you really are.

Unlike foil and saber, where the hits are usually scored "deep" to the body in flashy, driving attacks, épée is more of a sniper's weapon where the touches are made with sudden quick jabs to the arm and hand-and, rarely, the leading foot-of one's opponent.

Silence slowly descended on the crowd as the two men edged back and forth on the strip, watching each other for the slightest opening.

O'Donnel was now oblivious to the audience as he studied Jester's guard stance .

... weapon arm ramrod straight at shoulder level, hiding the entire arm and hand behind the oversized bell guard... never a waiver in the coverage as he advanced and retreated in small, coiled spring steps... Classic!... No cheap, easy touches here!... Maybe if he invited an attack to...

In a flicker of movement, the Legionnaire attacked... not with an explosive burst of energy, but seeming to almost collapse as his sword dropped and...

BZZZ!

"Halt! One light! Touch is right! Score, one to zero! Fencers ready?"

The major barely heard the director's call, much less the applause from the stands as he mentally raged at himself.

The foot! He had been hit on his leading foot! Of all the...

While foot hits were, of course, permitted, they were rarely tried in actual bouts. If the defender simply withdrew his lead foot, the attacker would be left with no target, and his entire arm exposed for the counter hit! Still, occasionally a low attack would catch the defender flat-footed, but your opponent had to be...

O'Donnel pushed his self-criticism from his mind, focusing instead on the next touch as the director placed them on guard again.

Okay, wise guy. You know I'm ticked at having gotten caught that easy. If you've got any smarts at all, you'll fake your next attack to that same foot, counting on me to overreact in defense. When I do, you'll be back on the high attack before I can cover. Well, I'm waiting for you, buster, so just