Part 2 (1/2)
Grinning inanely, holding onto his portable, wireless mike, he babbled along about the wonderful people present tonight and the good time being had by all. The Exclusive Room being founded on pure sn.o.bbery, he made great todo about the celebrities present. This politician, that actress, this currently popular songstress, that baron of industry.
Joe and Nadine ignored most of his chatter, still glaring at each other, until he came to....
”And those among us who are fracas buffs, and who isn't a fracas buff these days, given the merest drop of red blood? Fracas buffs will be thrilled to know that they are spending the evening in the company of the intrepid Major Joseph Mauser....”
Behind him, the orchestra broke into the quick strains of ”The Girl I Left Behind Me.”
”... Whose most recent act of sheer military genius and derringdo combined resulted in his all but single-handed winning of the fracas between Continental Hovercraft and Vacuum Tube Transport, and thus inflicting defeat upon none other than Marshal Stonewall Cogswell for the first time in more than a decade.”
The M.C. babbled on, now about another present celebrity, a retired pugilist, once a champion.
Nadine looked into his face. ”I think I understand now. You mentioned that in any society the ... how did you put it? ... the strong, intelligent, aggressive, cunning or ruthless could work their way to the top. You've tried strength, intelligence, and aggressiveness, haven't you, Joe? They didn't work. At least, not fast enough. So now you're giving cunning a try. Will ruthlessness be next, Joe Mauser?”
He was saved an answer.
A hulking body in evening wear stood next to their table, swaying. Joe looked up into a face glazed by either trank or alcohol. He didn't know the other man and for a moment failed to realize the other's purpose. The man was mumbling something that didn't come through.
Joe, irritated, said, ”What in Zen do you want?”
The stranger shook his head, as though to clear it. He sneered, ”The famous Joe Mauser, eh? The brave soldier-boy. Well, lemme tell you something, soldier-boy, you don't look so tough to me with your cute little mustache and your fancy-pants uniform. You look like a molly to me.”
”That's too bad,” Joe bit out. ”And now, if you'll just go away.” He turned his face from the other.
”Joe...!” Nadine said in an alarmed warning.
The other's contemptuous cuff, unsuspected, nearly bowled Joe completely from his chair. As it was, he barely caught himself.
His attacker shuffled backward and Joe recognized the trained step of the professional boxer. The other's ident.i.ty now came to him, although he was no follower of pugilism, a sport largely out of favor since the rapid growth of Telly scanned fracases. Boxing at its top had never been more than an inadequate replacement of the games once held in the Roman area.
Joe was on his feet, instantly the fighting man under attack. The table that he and Nadine occupied was a ringside one, and in open view of half the room, but that meant nothing. He was under attack and for the nonce surprised, on the defensive.
”How'd you like them apples, soldier-boy?” the professional pugilist chuckled nastily. His left flicked forward and Joe barely avoided its connecting with his face.
He threw aside, for the time, any attempt to explain the other's uncalled for aggression. Unless he did something, and quick, he was going to be a laughing stock, rather than the hero into which Freddy Soligen was trying to build him.
Nadine said, Anxiously, ”Joe ... please ... the waiters will deal with--”.
He didn't hear her.
Joe Mauser, with all his hospital studies, had never heard of the Marquis of Queensbury. But even if he had, it would never have occurred to him to be bound by that arbiter of fisticuffs. In fact, he had no intention even of being restricted to the use of his hands as fists. The j.a.panese, long centuries before, had proven the fist less than the most effective manner in which to pursue hand-to-hand combat.
Joe Mauser, working coolly, fast and ruthlessly, now, a trained combat man exercising his profession, moved in for the kill, his shoulders hunched slightly forward, his hands forward and to the sides, choppers rather than sledges.
Joe stepped closer, as quick as a jungle cat. His left hand leapt forward to the other's neck, hacked, came back into another blurring swing, hacked again. His opponent grunted agony.
But a man does not become heavyweight champion without being able to take as well as give punishment. Joe's attacker tucked his chin into his shoulder, fighter style, and moved in throwing off the effects of the karate blows. Somehow, he seemed considerably less drunk or over-tranked than he had short moments before, and there was rage in his face, rather than glaze.
One of the blows caught Joe on a shoulder and sent him reeling back.
At the same time, behind the other, Joe could see the maitre d'hotel flanked by three waiters, hurrying up. He was going to have to do something, and do it quickly, or be branded a boorish Middle who had intruded into a domain of the Uppers only to partic.i.p.ate in a brawl and have to be expelled by the establishment's servants.