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

locking and unlocking the digits in strange and complex patterns. Khadaji
stared at Pen's hands. What was he—?

Pen stepped forward, almost slowly, Khadaji thought. He reached out with one
foot and kicked, a kick aimed at Khadaji's leading leg, behind the knee. The
younger man couldn't seem to move in time to parry or block. Pen's instep
smacked solidly into Khadaji's leg, lifting it high. For the third time,
Khadaji fell, arms flailing. This time, he stayed on the grass. He sat up and
stared at the other man.

Pen laughed, a deep belly rumble.

Khadaji shook his head. "I suppose I'm missing something funny."

"Only a cliche," Pen said.

"I don't understand."

"This whole scene." Pen waved one arm to encompass Khadaji and the surrounding
landscape. "The old martial arts master defeating the young student. It's
classic. Problem with cliches is, they get to be that way because they tend to
be more or less valid. I couldn't devise a better means to show you I have
something you need to learn than the old routine. Sometimes older is better,
it seems."

Pen bent and extended a hand to Khadaji, then helped lift him back onto his
feet. "The art is called sumito," he said, "and the idea is to learn to
control your own body, not defeat somebody else. When you can make your hands
and feet go where you want them to, it doesn't matter if you have an opponent
or not."

Khadaji shook his head. He had always been taught that muscle memory required
specificity—if you wanted to learn to play nullball, you practiced in zee-gee;
if you wanted to improve boxing skill, you boxed with a partner. Anything less
was good only for general conditioning, not specific skills. On the other
hand, Pen had been tossing him around as if he were feeble and brainless,
instead of a trained and augmented professional soldier. Had to be something
to what the man said. Had to be something.

Chapter Eight

KHADAJI STARED AT the floor. There was a strange pattern of footsteps drawn
there, laid out like some madman's dance. He looked up at Pen. "What am I
supposed to do here?"

Pen smiled. "It's simple enough. Walk the pattern."

Khadaji shrugged. He began to step on the drawn figures. They seemed to be
exactly the size and shape of his own feet. The first five steps were simple.
He looked at the sixth with disbelief. "I can't reach that one from here."