Only Van Rycke was not disturbed.  Now and then he raised his smelling bottle to his nose with an elegant gesture which matched those of the befurred nobility around him, as if not a thought of care ruffled his mind.

The Eysie feinted in a opening which was a rather ragged copy of the young Salarik’s more fluid moves some hours before.  But, when the net settled, Jellico was simply not there, his quick drop to one knee had sent the mesh flailing in an arc over his bowed shoulders with a good six inches to spare.  And a cry of approval came not only from his comrades, but from those natives who had been gamblers enough to venture their wagers on his performance.

Dane watched the field and the fighters through a watery film.  The discomfort he had experienced since downing that mouthful of the cup of friendship had tightened into a fist of pain clutching his middle in a torturing grip.  But he knew he must stick it out until Jellico’s ordeal was over.  Someone stumbled against him and he glanced up to see Ali’s face, a horrible gray-green under the tan, close to his own.  For a moment the Engineer-apprentice caught at his arm for support and then with a visible effort straightened up.  So he wasn’t the only one—­He looked for Rip and Weeks and saw that they, too, were ill.

But for a moment all that mattered was the stretch of trampled earth and the two men facing each other.  The Eysie made another cast and this time, although Jellico was not caught, the slap of the mesh raised a red welt on his forearm.  So far the Captain had been content to play the defensive role of retreat, studying his enemy, planning ahead.

The Eysie plainly thought the game his, that he had only to wait for a favorable moment and cinch the victory.  Dane began to think it had gone on for weary hours.  And he was dimly aware that the Salariki were also restless.  One or two shouted angrily at Jellico in their own tongue.

The end came suddenly.  Jellico lost his footing, stumbled, and went down.  But before his men could move, the Eysie champion bounded forward, his net whirling out.  Only he never reached the Captain.  In the very act of falling Jellico had pulled his legs under him so that he was not supine but crouched, and his net swept but at ground level, clipping the I-S man about the shins, entangling his feet so that he crashed heavily to the sod and lay still.

“The whip—­that Lalox whip trick!” Wilcox’s voice rose triumphantly above the babble of the crowd.  Using his net as if it had been a thong, Jellico had brought down the Eysie with a move the other had not foreseen.

Breathing hard, sweat running down his shoulders and making tracks through the powdery red dust which streaked him, Jellico got to his feet and walked over to the I-S champion who had not moved or made a sound since his fall.  The Captain went down on one knee to examine him.

“Kill!  Kill!” That was the Salariki, all their instinctive savagery aroused.