Only Neilson wouldn't. Unless he'd miscalculated the number of grenades, he wouldn't come charging at Treb. And he couldn't be sure of the number of cartridges Treb possessed. He was just talking to keep his nerve up. Especially if he was wounded now. That sudden yip.... * * * * * It was night again, an artificial night as artificial as the central ten-acre pool of water, the ring of flowering green trees and grasses, and the final outer ring of forest trees. It was here that the two thousand UN employees and soldiers on Earth Satellite One normally took their recreation periods. Only the supervised war-duels, that since 1969 had been the only blood-letting permitted between nations, could long keep a Terran from visiting the green meadows and trees of this lowest of the three levels.... "I'd give half that quarter million," Neilson groaned, across the darkness, "for a cigarette." "You mean," corrected Gram Treb, "half your ten thousand." "It's the winner's grant or nothing, Treb. I promised Jane I'd hand it to her. Then we'll marry." "But not if you are the loser?" "I wouldn't--she wouldn't--it's impossible to think of asking her to share poverty and disgrace." "I'd hardly say that. We lost our first war here on the Satellite. Baryt was obligated to cede a thousand square miles to Tarrance. Most of my ten thousand paid off my family's debts. "Yet I married. I married Nal who had nursed me back to health. And we were happy. Until the second war with Duristan. I wanted money for her--for the children--for my impoverished valley." Treb broke off. He backed away several feet and shifted noiselessly to a new position. Every night, and sometimes in the artificial sunlight, they talked together. But they never forgot that they were sworn foes. "So you won it didn't you?" From his voice Neilson had shifted closer and to the left. "Sure. And I wish I were as poor as before. For Nal was kicked to death--by the horse I should have been using--while I fought here." Neilson made a sympathetic sound. Treb felt his lips twitch into a thin crooked line. This is what it meant to be human. To feel sorrow for another man's misfortunes--and then kill him! Sure, Neilson was a good sort. Only twenty-four and in love with a girl, a woman really, widow of a dead lunar explorer. And he was a clean-living sort, nothing dishonorable or hateful about him. They even honored the same God. But tomorrow, or the next day, or a month from now, he would kill or wound Neilson. Unless, as might well happen, Neilson got to him first. He pushed aside a thought that came more and more often of late. Why not surrender, or let Neilson capture him? He did not consider suicide--little Gram and Alse needed him--although he had not been thinking of them when he signed for this ugly miniature battle in space. His wife's death had been too vivid yet.