ny fight, but if you
force one, I'll break you all to pieces. I didn't mean to bust your
head the first time, but I can do it on purpose if I have to. Why
don't we just forget it?"

Vernay looked dazed for an instant, then recovered and laughed
derisively.

"You trying to crawl out and still look good? No, no. You made your
brags. Now we'll have a little dance." He took a step forward.

"Come on, baby, just stay there. I'm going to unscrew your head."

He came closer, then reached out, his hand open.

Stan looked at the hand incredulously. No one could be that careless.
For an instant, he almost spun away from a suspected trap. Then he
decided the man was in no position for a counter. A try for a simple
hand hold couldn't do a bit of harm.

His right hand darted up, gripping the outstretched hand before him.
He jerked down, clamped the hand with his left, then pressed up and
took a quick step forward.

With a startled cry of pain, Vernay spun around and bent toward the
ground. Stan carried the motion through with a sudden surge that
forced the big man's face almost to the stones. Abruptly, Vernay
twisted and kicked, trying to tear away. There was a ripping noise and
he screamed thinly, then slumped to the pavement.

Stan looked down at him in bewilderment. It had been too easy, he
thought. Something had to be wrong. The imprisoned hand twitched and
was flaccid. He let it go and stepped back.

For a few seconds, Vernay lay quietly, then he struggled into violent
motion. He scrambled to get to his feet, his left hand groping at his
belt. Stan caught the glint of polished steel. He stepped quickly
around the man, poising himself.

It was no use, he thought. This would have to be decisive. He brought
his two hands up to his shoulder, then swung them like an axe,
stepping into the swing as Vernay got his feet under him.

The impact of the blow brought Vernay to a standing position. As the
man stood swaying, Stan swung his hands again.

Vernay's back arched and for an instant he was rigid. Then he stumbled
forward, to pitch against the wall.

Briefly, he was braced upright against the wall, his left hand high on
the stones, the scalpel glittering. Then the hand relaxed and the
sliver of steel clattered to the paving. Slowly, the man slid down, to
melt into a shapeless heap in the gutter.

Stan sighed, then shook his head and wiped an arm across his eyes.

There was a concerted sigh behind him.

"Go ahead,