But it was necessary. It had to be done. This odd form of duelling had started twenty years before, when two groups of non-violent soldiers faced each other in the streets of Rio and tension mounted on both sides. Neither side could accept defeat. Neither side could return home and admit it had surrendered to unarmed men because it lacked patience. In wars fought with violence, men could lose with honor. There was no honor for the loser in a non-violent battle. Then a man had slashed his wrists and let his blood drip onto the street. "I'll die before I'll leave here," he had said. "I'll die before I'll give in to you," a man from the opposing group had said, slashing his own wrists. According to the UN psychologists who had studied the phenomenon, duelling was a form of therapy for the people of the world, a necessary transition from the days when men had earned their manhood by fighting wars or belonging to groups which could be proud of their warriors. The pride of nations demanded some sacrifice. * * * * * The needle was halfway around the dial. Still the old man hung on. MacFarland squeezed harder. He was staying ahead. How much could he take? Why didn't he die of shock? He hoped for that release and fought to keep conscious and endure a little more. His personal pride, the good of his country, and the safety of the world, demanded that he drive the contest beyond the limit of his endurance; that he lose, if he lost, not because _he_ had been afraid but because his flesh could endure no more. He screamed and moaned and squeezed. The men in the enemy line moaned with him. He heard Crawford Bell shouting to him to let go. Was that Doctor Umbana he heard? Wasn't that the calm Doctor Warren shouting and pleading? And the strangest of all sounds was his own voice mingling with the voice of his opponent, two screams with exactly the same pitch and intensity, the same rise and fall. He was going to die. He wouldn't be the first. Sometimes the honor of the nation demanded that and it was necessary nations not be shamed by their citizens. Shamed nations were dangerous nations. And after all, he was only one soldier and in previous generations the sacrifice had been millions. * * * * * He lay on the cot. Crawford Bell and a medic worked on him with hypos. Vaguely, he realized the aging Belderkan lay beside him. "It's about time you opened your eyes," Crawford Bell said. "Can you hear me?" He nodded. "We put you into therapeutic shock. You've been out an hour. You'll be all right." "How's my friend there?" "He's coming around." A jet screamed. Lifting his head, he watched it rise into the morning. "Doctor Warren's on it," Crawford Bell said. "So's Doctor Umbana. The Belderkans agreed to let any two of them through the line and Doctor Warren decided he didn't need all the rest of them after all. Your technique of persuasion isn't one I'd like to use, but it's effective."