uld be only
one end to this unequal contest if Brion stayed on the defensive.
The man with the knife had to win.

With the next charge Brion changed tactics. He leaped inside the
thrust, clutching for the knife arm. A burning slice of pain cut
across his arm, then his fingers clutched the tendoned wrist. They
clamped down hard, grinding shut, compressing with the tightening
intensity of a closing vise.

It was all he could do simply to hold on. There was no science in
it, just his greater strength from exercise and existence on a
heavier planet. All of this strength went to his clutching hand,
because he held his own life in that hand, forcing away the knife
that wanted to terminate it forever. Nothing else mattered--neither
the frightening force of the knees that thudded into his body nor
the hooked fingers that reached for his eyes to tear them out. He
protected his face as well as he could, while the nails tore furrows
through his flesh and the cut on his arm bled freely. These were
only minor things to be endured. His life depended on the grasp of
the fingers of his right hand.

There was a sudden immobility as Brion succeeded in clutching
Lig-magte's other arm. It was a good grip, and he could hold the arm
immobilized. They had reached stasis, standing knee to knee, their
faces only a few inches apart. The muffling cloth had fallen from
the Disan's face during the struggle, and empty, frigid eyes stared
into Brion's. No flicker of emotion crossed the harsh planes of the
other man's face. A great puckered white scar covered one cheek and
pulled up a corner of the mouth in a cheerless grimace. It was
false; there was still no expression here, even when the pain must
be growing more intense.

Brion was winning--if none of the watchers broke the impasse.
His greater weight and strength counted now. The Disan would have
to drop the knife before his arm was dislocated at the shoulder.
He didn't do it. With sudden horror Brion realized that he wasn't
going to drop it--no matter what happened.

A dull, hideous snap jerked through the Disan's body and the arm
hung limp and dead. No expression crossed the man's face. The knife
was still locked in the fingers of the paralyzed hand. With his
other hand Lig-magte reached across and started to pry the blade
loose, ready to continue the battle one-handed. Brion raised his
foot and kicked the knife free, sending it spinning across the room.

Lig-magte made a fist of his g