"Harry Harrison - Planet Of The Damned (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

They disengaged and Irolg put up a solid defense. He didn't attempt to attack,
just let Brion wear himself out against the firm shield of his defense.

Brion saw something dose to panic on his opponent's face when the man finally
recognized his error. Brion wasn't tiring. If anything, he was pressing the
attack. A wave of despair rolled out from Irolg--Brion sensed it and knew the
fifth point was his.

Thrust--thrust--and each time the parrying sword a little slower to return.
Then the powerful twist that thrust it aside. In and under the guard. The slap
of the burton on flesh and the arc of steel that reached out and ended on
Irolg's chest over his heart.

Waves of sound--cheering and screaming--lapped against Brion's private world,
but he was only remotely aware of their existence. Irolg dropped his foil, and
tried to shake Brion's hand, but his legs suddenly gave way. Brion had an arm
around him, holding him up, walking towards the rushing handlers. Then Irolg
was gone and he waved off his own men, walking slowly by himself.

Except that something was wrong and it was like walking through warm glue.
Walking on his knees. No, not walking, falling. At last. He was able to let go
and fall.
II




Ihjel gave the doctors exactly one day before he went to the hospital. Brion
wasn't dead, though there had been some doubt about that the night before.
Now, a full day later, he was on the mend and that was all Ihjel wanted to
know. He bullied and strong-armed his way to the new Winner's room, meeting
his first stiff resistance at the door.

"You're out of order, Winner Ihjel," the doctor said. "And if you keep on
forcing yourself in here, where you are not wanted, rank or no rank, I shall
be obliged to break your head."

Ihjel had just begun to tell him, in some detail, just how slim his chances
were of accomplishing that, when Brion interrupted them both. He recognized
the newcomer's voice from the final night in the barracks.

"Let him in, Dr Caulry," he said. "I want to meet a man who thinks there is
something more important than the Twenties."

While the doctor stood undecided, Ihjel moved quickly around him and closed
the door in his flushed face. He looked down at the Winner in the bed. There
was a drip plugged into each one of Brion's arms. His eyes peered from sooty
hollows; the eyeballs were a network of red veins. The silent battle he fought
against death had left its mark. His square, jutting jaw now seemed all bone,