"Steve Perry - The Man Who Never Missed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

Khadaji shifted into a fighting stance, left foot forward, his left hand held
high, his right low, fingers extended and stiffened, thumbs curled tightly. He
edged forward slightly, keeping his legs wide for balance. He had been
training in the unarmed combat for nearly six years; he was young, strong, and
practiced. He didn't want to hurt Pen, so he figured to snake in and tap the
man lightly a couple of times and then back off. He kept his eyes impassive,
focused on the entire figure, and held his breathing even, so as not to reveal
his intent.

Pen stood quietly, looking relaxed, his hands by his sides.

Khadaji jumped suddenly, half again as fast as a normal man, and jabbed his
stiffened hand at the other man's solar plexus; it was fast, but not hard.

Pen pivoted, caught Khadaji's wrist lightly with his thumb and forefinger and
did a kind of two-step dance, ending in a twirl. Khadaji felt himself lose
balance and start to fall. He twisted and managed to roll out of the fall, but
he hit the ground harder than expected; it jarred his teeth together. He came
up, spun, and crouched, to face Pen again.

Pen stood as he had before, looking unconcerned.

Khadaji considered the throw. Some sort of wrestling technique, rather than
boxing. All right. One of the judo or jujitsu or aikido variants. Well. That
could be handled. If he kept his weight centered and only used muscle-strikes,
he could avoid being thrown.

He moved in, snapping his right foot up toward Pen's groin, still fast but
without real power, then stepped down and swung his hand around in a sweeping
chop. His stance was solid, it was unlikely he'd be pulled off-balance at this
angle.

Pen shifted, spun again and seemed to wave his hand past Khadaji's shoulder
with only a light touch. Khadaji went over backwards. He reached out to slap
at the soft grass with both hands, but he still hit hard, on his back. It
knocked the wind from him. He twisted to one side, rolling, and scrambled up,
trying to inhale tiny sips of air. Maro's sun beat upon him and he felt his
face go hot. The air was heavy with moisture and sweat rolled down his neck
and spine. This was all wrong. He was faster than Pen, he could feel that.
Okay. The problem was in his attack. An initiated strike left one more open
than defense, an attacker had to commit himself while a defender only had to
wait. He would stand his ground and wait for Pen's move, then.

The two men stood facing each other for what seemed like a long time to
Khadaji. He kept his stance wide and powerful, his hands raised to cover
himself high and low, and waited. Pen, meanwhile, simply stood in his neutral
stance.

Finally, Pen moved. He raised his hands and clasped them together. He began to
knit his fingers together in an intricate weave, crossing and uncrossing,