The last two Yill approached and retreated, whirled, bobbed and spun, feinted and postured--and on the instant, clashed, straining chest-to-chest--then broke apart, heavy weapons chopping, parrying, as the music mounted to a frenzy. [Illustration] Evenly matched, the two hacked, thrust, blow for blow, across the floor, then back, defense forgotten, slugging it out. And then one was slipping, going down, helmet awry. The other, a giant, muscular Yill, spun away, whirled in a mad skirl of pipes as coins showered--then froze before a gaudy table, raised the sabre and slammed it down in a resounding blow across the gay cloth before a lace and bow-bedecked Yill in the same instant that the music stopped. In utter silence the dancer-fighter stared across the table at the seated Yill. With a shout, the Yill leaped up, raised a clenched fist. The dancer bowed his head, spread his hands on his helmet. Retief took a deep gulp of a pale yellow liqueur and leaned forward to watch. The beribboned Yill waved a hand negligently, spilled a handful of coins across the table and sat down. The challenger spun away in a screeching shrill of music. Retief caught his eye for an instant as he passed. And then the dancer stood rigid before the brocaded table--and the music stopped off short as the sabre slammed down before a heavy Yill in ornate metallic coils. The challenged Yill rose and raised a fist. The other ducked his head, put his hands on his helmet. Coins rolled. The dancer moved on. Twice more the dancer struck the table in ritualistic challenge, exchanged gestures, bent his neck and passed on. He circled the broad floor, sabre twirling, arms darting in an intricate symbolism. The orchestra blared shrilly, unmuffled now by the surf-roar of conversation. The Yill, Retief noticed suddenly, were sitting silent, watching. The dancer was closer now, and then he was before Retief, poised, towering, sabre above his head. The music cut, and in the startling instantaneous silence, the heavy sabre whipped over and down with an explosive concussion that set dishes dancing on the table-top. * * * * * The Yill's eyes held on Retief's. In the silence, Magnan tittered drunkenly. Retief pushed back his stool. "Steady, my boy," Ambassador Spradley called. Retief stood, the Yill topping his six foot three by an inch. In a motion almost too quick to follow, Retief reached for the sabre, twitched it from the Yill's grip, swung it in a whistling cut. The Yill ducked, sprang back, snatched up a sabre dropped by another dancer. "Someone stop the madman!" Spradley howled. Retief leaped across the table, sending fragile dishes spinning. The other danced back, and only then did the orchestra spring to life with a screech and a mad tattoo of high-pitched drums.