It was the very unexpectedness of the event that had been so unusual. The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest, therefore nights in the dormitories were quiet as death. During the first few days, of course, the rule wasn't observed too closely. The men themselves were too keyed up and excited to rest easily. But as soon as the scores begin to mount and eliminations cut into their ranks, there is complete silence after dark. Particularly so on this last night, when only two of the little cubicles were occupied, the thousands of others standing with dark, empty doors. Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The words were whispered but clear, two voices, just outside the thin metal of his door. Someone spoke his name. "... Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making a big mistake and there is going to be trouble--" "Don't talk like an idiot!" This other voice snapped with a harsh urgency, clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is of utmost importance, and Brandd is the one I must see. Now stand aside!" "The Twenties--" "I don't give a damn about your games, hearty cheers and physical exercises. This is _important_ or I wouldn't be here!" The other didn't speak--he was surely one of the officials--and Brion could sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun, because the other man said quickly, "Put that away. You're being a fool!" "Out!" was the single snarled word of the response. There was silence then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep. * * * * * "Ten seconds." The voice chopped away Brion's memories and he let awareness seep back into his body. He was unhappily conscious of his total exhaustion. The month of continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll. It would be hard to stay on his feet, much less summon the strength and skill to fight and win a touch. "How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching muscles. "Four ... four. All you need is a touch to win!" "That's all he needs, too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look at the wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No one who had reached the finals in the Twenties could possibly be a weak opponent, but this one, Irolg, was the pick of the lot. A red-haired, mountain of a man, with an apparently inexhaustible store of energy. That was really all that counted now. There could be little art in this last and final round of fencing. Just thrust and parry, and victory to the stronger. Brion closed his eyes again and knew the moment he had been hoping to avoid had arrived.