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fingers closed on nothing.
    Again they rolled away to opposite sides of the little gym. Again they bounced up, panting. Both were pouring sweat, nearing exhaustion. For ten minutes they’d been going at each other with all the strength and guile they could muster. He’d laid an offensive hand on her just once. She’d done little better. The ruddy patch on her cheekbone where he’d caught her with the hard edge of his palm was darkening to a bruise; his bruises, on his ribs and the outside of his left thigh, were invisible under his gi, but they would leave him limping when he cooled down.
Neither of them said a word, but no one seeing the red gleam in Sparta’s eye or the knotted muscles of Blake’s jaw could mistake this for friendly exercise.
     
It got abruptly unfriendlier when Blake pulled a knife.
    In half a second he had hitched up his thick black belt and freed it from where it was strapped to the small of his back. Its diamond-filmed carbon-carbon blade was just long enough to be lethal; standard North Continental Treaty Alliance military issue, it was a useful tool for cutting or stabbing or, in a pinch, for throwing.
He moved toward her, the knife grip snug in his right palm, its leaf-shaped blade pointed at her wishbone.
     
“Aren’t you taking this . . . a little far?” she rasped.
     
“Give up?”
     
“Don’t make me hurt you,” she warned.
     
“Words. We’ve been even. Until now.”
    Warily he circled, lunged in a feint, recovered before her darting hand could capture his wrist, lunged again and went inside her guard, found himself snared by her leg and had to snap roll out of it, found her diving for him. He faked a retreat and then rolled into her; she overshot.
The tip of the blade ripped the cotton of her gi at waist level. He too had his inhibitions.
    Before he could get to his knees she was back on her feet and coming at him. He measured the kick aimed at his head and dodged it, but her bare heel connected with his wrist instead. The knife flew out of his numbed fingers, but he got his other hand on the back of her black belt and allowed her momentum to carry him onto her back as she sprawled. His right hand was useless, but his arm went around her neck and he pulled her chin back with the crook of his elbow.
    Not soon enough. One of her legs and one of her arms had escaped his pin and she was twisted sideways under him. He felt the tip of his own knife against his kidney; her long jump had brought it into her hand.
For a moment they lay like that, frozen, two battling carnivores caught in the ice.
     
“You could have broken my neck,” she whispered.
     
“Just before I died, maybe,” he said. He slowly relaxed his grip and rolled away from her.
     
Sparta sat up. She said nothing, but flipped the knife endwise to catch the tip and handed it to him handle first.
     
“Okay, I didn’t beat you.” As he took the knife he expelled his breath sharply, ballooning his cheeks. “But you didn’t beat me, either. And nobody we’re likely to come up against could be as good as you.”
    “You don’t think so?” She put her hands behind her neck and gripped it with knitted fingers, rolling her head to stretch out the kinks. “What if Khalid turns out to be our man after all? You said his training was the same as yours.”
“Up to a point.”
     
“Maybe beyond it. We don’t know who they are , Blake. . . .”
     
“Yes, yes. But I’ll hold you to your promise.” He gave her his hand and they helped each other stand. “I’ve proved I can defend myself.”
     
“At a constant one gee. Mars gravity is a third Earth’s.”
     
He ignored her sophistry; she didn’t need reminding that she’d never been to Mars either. “I didn’t come all this way to sit in a tourist hotel in Labyrinth City.”
     
“You’re a civilian consultant, not a Space Board officer.”
     
“Then I’ll work the case on my own.” He slipped the knife into its scabbard and settled his belt over it.