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 competition... 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 Space 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 hell 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 Space 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 competition, 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 Space 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 competitions 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 analysis, 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?"
"Think about it. Our little Space Legion Omega Company, the dregs of the dregs, just held its own with the Red Eagles-the best the Regular Army has to offer. What's more, as far as the spectators were concerned, Escrima won his bout. The points favored Corbin because he knew the technicalities of the rules better, but it was obvious that in a real fight with no rules, Escrima would have made mincemeat out of him. On that basis alone, we were the winners before I even stepped onto the strip. In fact, the only event the Eagles won clearly was the drill competition-parade-ground flash that doesn't impress anyone with their fighting ability."
"I see."
"Do you?" Phule's voice was suddenly very earnest. "We had them beat, so there was no point in kicking them, too. The Red Eagles are a top outfit that deserve the reputation they've built. If preserving that reputation, helping them save face, means sharing the idiotic honor guard contract, then it's a price I'm willing to pay. There's no point in making enemies when you don't have to."
"Of course, your own force is disappointed. I may be doing them a disservice, but I doubt they would understand the subtleties of your logic."
"Yes. Isn't it incredible?" The Legionnaire was grinning again. "Do you realize how much they've changed their mind-set in just one day? This morning they didn't believe we had a chance against the Red Eagles; but tonight they're disappointed that we only tied them! They're really starting to believe that we can do anything!"
"That is how you've trained them, sir. Of course, it would have been nice if they could have celebrated a victory tonight."
"True, but instead, they're in town drinking with the Red Eagles, as equals. Unless I miss my guess, there's more than one argument going as to whose commanding officer would have won if we had gone to a fence-off... as if that were any indication of the caliber of men we are or the forces we lead."