Ignoring the flashing display being performed on the floor, the major took a moment to study the diminutive figure warming up quietly against the back wall.
He had been surprised (again) when the lists of competitors were exchanged and he realized the Legion was fielding a woman for the foil bout. Recovering quickly, he had offered to substitute one of his own women for the competitor listed in that event, but the rival commander refused to take him up on it. "You've chosen your best, and we've chosen ours," was his only comment.
Strangely enough, though it was the most commonly fenced weapon, foil was the Eagles' weakest event. Normally O'Donnel would have fenced that weapon, being the second best fencer in the unit behind Corbin, who would, of course, fence saber. That would have possibly brought the competition to a close after only two bouts, without having to field their weakest fencer. As it was, Jester had boxed him into fencing épée, and there was a chance it would all come down to the third and final bout. The problem there was that épée was an "iffy" weapon. If your point control was not clicking or your timing was a hair off...
Again the major fought his concentration back onto his own preparations. There was no point in getting oneself wound up over speculations. Shortly the matter would be decided once and for all in the real thing.
The demonstration was over now, and the director-the coach from the university fencing club-was taking over the microphone to address the crowd. O'Donnel had met him earlier, a spry little man who was obviously nervous about directing for this confrontation in front of an audience, not to mention the holo cameras, yet his voice was firm and confident as he launched into his explanation of the sport for the benefit of the spectators.
This, at least, the major had no difficulty ignoring as he resumed his stretching exercises. He had heard it all before, even knew it by heart. He also knew that it was extremely difficult to explain some of the subtler points of fencing, like "right-of-way," to those impatient to see "people swinging from ropes while hacking at each other with swords," the common misconception of the sport generated by countless swashbuckler movies and holos.
Simply put, "right-of-way" was a set of rules designed to preserve the true spirit of dueling, from which fencing descended. By those rules, once fencer A had "declared an attack" by extending his weapon to an arm's length, threatening a valid target area, fencer B had to parry or otherwise remove that threat before retaliating with an attack of his own. The logic was that if the competitors were using "real" weapons capable of inflicting injury or death, it would be foolhardy, if not suicidal, to ignore an attack in favor of launching one of your own. Though the concept itself might be simple, a goodly portion of any fencing bout was spent with the competitors standing by impatiently after a blinding flurry of action while the director sorted out exactly who had the right-of-way at each moment during the exchange so that the touch, or point, could be awarded. This was, of course, a little lens exciting than watching grass grow. The only thing duller than sorting out right-of-way was listening to it being explained.
Finally the director concluded his explanation-or gave up-and raised his voice, announcing the first bout.
"Our first event this evening will be saber," the speakers boomed. "With this weapon, either the point or edge can be used on the attack. The target area is from the hipline up, including the arms, head, and back."
The man paused to consult his notes.
"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."