I'm tempted to say I got in two or three good punches. Cricket says I did, but it might have been just to raise my spirits. The truth is I can't remember much from the time her horrid white teeth first filled my vision to the time I ripped a meter-long gash in the carpet with my face.
To get to the carpet I'd first had to smash through a table full of drinks. I used my face for that, too. Before the table I had been flying, rather cleverly, I thought, and the first real fun I'd had in many long minutes, but how I came to be flying was a point I was never too clear on. It seems safe to say that the Princess hurled me in some manner, holding on to some part of my anatomy and then releasing it; Cricket said it was my ankle, which would account for the room whirling around so quickly just before I flew. Before that I had vague memories of the bar mirror shattering, people scattering, blood spattering. Then I crashed through the table.
I rolled over and spit out carpeting. Horses were milling nervously all around me. Actually it was the centaur extras, whose table I'd just ruined. I resolved to buy them all a round of drinks. Before I could do that, though, there was the Princess again, lifting me by the shoulder and drawing back a bloody fist.
Then someone took hold of her arm from behind, and the punch never landed. She stood up and turned to face her challenger. I let my head rest against the ruins of a chair and watched as she tried to punch Andrew MacDonald.
There was really no point in it. It took her a long time to realize it, as her blood was up and she wasn't thinking straight. So she kept throwing punches, and they kept just missing, or hitting him harmlessly on the elbows or glancing off his shoulders. She tried kicking, and the kicks were always just a little off their target.
He never threw a punch. He didn't have to. After a time, she was standing there breathing hard. He wasn't even sweating. She straightened and held up her hands, palms outward.
I must have dozed off for a moment. Eventually I became aware of the Princess, Cricket, and MacDonald, three indistinct round faces hanging above me like a pawnbroker's sign.
"Can you move your legs?" MacDonald asked.
"Of course I can move my legs." What a silly question. I'd been moving my legs for a hundred years.
"Then move them."
I did, and MacDonald frowned deeper.
"His back's probably broken," said Wales.
"Must have happened when he landed on the railing."
"Can you feel anything?"
"Unfortunately, yes." By that time most of the drugs were wearing off, and everything from the waist up was hurting very badly. Deep Throat arrived and lifted my head. He had a painkiller in his hand, a little plastic cube with a wire which he plugged into the socket at the base of my skull. He flicked the switch, and I felt a lot better. I looked down and watched as they removed the splintered chair leg which had pierced my hip.
Since that wasn't a particularly diverting sight, I looked around the room. Already cleaning robots were picking up broken glassware and replacing shattered tables; Deep Throat is no stranger to brawls, and he always keeps a supply of furniture. In another few minutes there would be no sign that I had almost destroyed the place five minutes ago. Well, I had almost destroyed the place, in the sense that it was my hurtling body that had done most of the damage.
I felt myself being lifted. MacDonald and Wales had made a hammock with their arms. It was like riding in a sedan chair.
"Where are we going?"
"You're not in any immediate danger," MacDonald said. "Your back is broken, and that should be fixed soon, so we're taking you across the corridor to the NLF Studios. They have a good repair shop there."
The Princess got us past the gate guard. We passed about a dozen sound stage doors, and I was brought into the infirmary.
Which was jammed like Mainhardt's Department Store on Christmas Eve. It seemed NLF was doing a big scene from some war epic, and most of the available beds were taken by maimed extras patiently waiting their turn, counting up the triple-time salary they drew for injured down-time.
The room had been dressed as a field hospital for the picture, apparently doing double duty when not actually treating cinematic casualties. I pegged it as twentieth century-a vintage season for wars-maybe World War Two, or the Vietnam conflict, but it could easily have been the Boer War. We were under a canvas roof and the place was cluttered with hanging IV bottle props.
MacDonald returned from a conference with one of the technicians and stood looking down at me.
"He says it'll be about half an hour. I could have you taken to your own practitioner if you want to; it might be quicker."
"Don't bother. I'm in no hurry. When they patch me up, I'll probably just get up and do something foolish again."
He didn't say anything. There was something about his demeanor that bothered me-as if I needed anything else about him to bother me.
"Look," I said. "Don't ask me to explain why I did it. I don't even know myself."
Still he said nothing.
"Either spit it out, or take your long face and park it somewhere else."
He shrugged.
"I just have a problem with a man attacking a woman, that's all."
"What?" I was sure I had misunderstood him. He wasn't making any sense. But when he didn't repeat his astonishing statement, I had to assume I'd heard him correctly.
"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked.
"Nothing, of course. But when I was young, it was something you simply didn't do. I know it no longer makes sense, but it still bothers me to see it."
"I'll be sure to tell the Mean Bitch you feel that way. If they've put her back together after your last bout, that is."
He looked embarrassed.
"You know, that was a problem for me, early in my career. I wouldn't fight female opponents. I was getting a bad reputation and missing a lot of important match-ups because of it. When some competitors started getting sex changes simply so they could have a go at me, I realized how ridiculous I was being. But to this day I have to psych myself something terrible to get into the ring with someone who's currently female."
"That's why you never hit… does the Princess have a first name?"
"I don't know. But you're wrong. I wanted to stop her, but I didn't want to hurt her. Frankly, you had it coming."
I looked away, feeling terrible. He was right.
"She's feeling bad about it, though. She said she just couldn't seem to stop, once she got going."
"I'll send her the repair bill. That should cheer her up."
Cricket arrived from somewhere. She had a lighted cigarette which she placed in my mouth, grinning.
"Got it from the prop department," she said. "They always used to give these to wounded soldiers. I can't imagine why."
I puffed on it. It wasn't tobacco, thank god.
"Cheer up," Cricket said. "You tore up her fists pretty good."
"I'm clever that way; I pounded them to hamburger with my chin."
I suddenly felt an alarming urge to cry. Holding it back, I asked both of them to leave me alone for a while. They did, and I lay there smoking, studying the canvas ceiling. There were no answers written there.
Why had the taste of life turned so bitter for me in the last weeks?
I had sort of drifted away. When I came back, Brenda was bending over me. Considering her height, she had a long way to bend.
"How'd you find me?" I asked her.
"I'm a reporter, remember? It's my business to find things out."
I thought of several cutting replies, but something about the look on her face made me hold them back. Puppy love. I had vague memories of how badly that could hurt, when it wasn't returned.
And to give her her due, she was improving. Maybe she would be a reporter, some day.