I stopped, whirled, and said tightly to the one pressing me, "Who's calling who a _makron_ now?" At the same time my sword parried his and ripped into his unprotected belly. He died, his eyes wide with surprise and pain. I hardly had time to disengage my sword before the second _Dwoorf_ was upon me. I dropped to one knee and slashed upward cutting completely through his right arm. The arm fell to the ground, his hand still clutching the three pronged javelin with which he'd expected to spit me. He screamed in agony and stumbled away hopelessly trying to staunch the flow of blood with his left hand. The third came running up, both hands high over his head, ready to bring down his battle ax. I kicked him savagely with a spiked shoe, cracking a knee and bringing him to the ground. I could have finished him then and there but didn't have the time. The fourth, yelling like a maniac, slashed into me, his blade ripping my right arm from elbow to shoulder. He brought up his sword for another stroke. I was short winded from the long run across the arena and from the fast action of the past few moments. I drew all my strength together and lunged desperately forward. My sword pierced his throat. He fell, writhing, taking my blade with him. I stood up wearily to confront the fifth one. My arm was bleeding freely and I had no weapon nor time to get one. He came shouting, raging with bloodlust and desire for revenge. His arm flew back for the javelin cast when a Plutonian _Gadaboot_ shot out from a nearby melee and struck him from the rear. The _Dwoorf_ collapsed, bleeding his life away in moments. The _Gadaboot_ straightened up, shrilling its death whistle, preparatory to darting at me, but a Mercurian _Bouncer_, wounded and fluttering, came down from above and made a last desperate stroke. They died together. * * * * * I shook my head to clear it, and reached down to disengage my sword from the neck of the fallen _Dwoorf_ I'd killed last. I looked about. There were no others near me. For a moment there was a breathing spell. In the past ten minutes, two thirds of the contestants had either died or had been carried off the field incapacitated. Those of us that remained were wounded but still in the fight. As I stood there staggering, panting, aching, it occurred to me that never before had a Terran lasted so long in an Interplanetary Meet. As though by common consent, we all gravitated toward the center of the arena. This was it. In the next few moments the contest would be over. And so would I. As I stumbled forward, a wounded Martian staggered to his feet and made a half-hearted stab at me. I bypassed him. He was too far gone to fight. Shortly, the judges' assistants would get to him and take him from the field; possibly he'd have a chance to survive. I had no desire to finish him off. In fact, I envied him.