He regained and forced Cal back. His dancing point kept Cal too busy blocking to counterthrust, and Cal fought a stubborn retreat. The ground behind him grew harder as he went back, and so he took a full backward step to get the benefit of hard, dry ground. He made his stand on the bit of dry knoll, and fought Benj to a standstill. He fought defensively, waiting for Benj to come close enough to hit. Their irons danced in and out, and Benj circled Cal slowly. Part way around, Benj forced Cal's point up and rushed him. Cal backed away three steps--and tripped over Tinker's hips. He went rolling in a heap, curling his feet and legs up into his stomach. Benj leaped over Tinker and rushed down on Cal, who kicked out with both feet and caught Benj hard enough to send him flying back. Both men jumped to their feet, circled each other warily, waiting for an opening. Benj rushed forward and Cal went to meet the charge. The ring of the irons came again and the white-hot points fenced in and out. Benj thrust forward, high, and Cal blocked him with the shaft of the iron. Their arms went up, shaft across shaft, and shoulder to shoulder they strived in a body-block. "Steal my identity, will you?" snarled Cal. "Destroy it," rasped Benj. "You've been asking for this." Cal's mind flashed, irrelevantly, to books and pictures he had seen. In such, the villain always spit in the hero's face in such a body-block. Cal snarled, pursed his lips and spat in Benj's face. Then with a mighty effort, Cal shouldered Benj back a full three feet and crossed points with him again. Benj wiped his face on his shirt sleeve and raving mad, he drove forward, his point making wicked arcs. Cal parried the dancing point, engaged Benj in a thrust and counterthrust, and then with Benj's point blocked high, he drilled forward. The white-hot point quenched itself in Benj's throat with a nauseating hiss. Cal stood there, shaking his head at the sight, and retching slightly. His face, which had been set like granite, softened. He dropped his iron and turned away. * * * * * "Tink!" he cried. "Nice job, Cal," she said with a strained smile. "But you?" "I'm in no pain." "But what's wrong?" "Fractured vertebra, I think. I'm paralyzed from the waistline down. That crash--" "Bad. Now what?" "Where's your ship?" "Back there a half-mile or so," said Cal. "Don't carry me," she warned as he tried to lift her. "Go back there and either bring it here or get something to strap me on." "It'll take hours. The ship won't fly. I'll have to radio back to Northern Landing for help." "I ... won't last." "You--" the meaning hit him then. "You won't last?" "Not unless that vertebra is repaired." "Then what can we do?" "Cal ... where's Murdoch's Hoard?" "Nearby, but you're more important than anything that might be in Murdoch's Hoard." "No, Cal. No." "Look, Tink, you mean more to me than--" "I know that, Cal. But don't you see?" "See what?"