Power of the Sword - Smith Wilbur (читать книги онлайн регистрации .TXT) 📗
The storm trooper working on David was sweating and panting with exertion. Now he stepped back, measured the shot carefully, and sent a final upper cut smashing into David's dangling head. It took David full in the mouth and his head jerked backwards, cracking against the brickwork and they let him collapse, face down onto the paving stones.
David lay slack and unmoving, making no effort to avoid the boots that smashed into his inert body, and the storm troopers tired of the sport. It was no fun to kick somebody who was not writhing and doubling up and screaming for mercy. Swiftly they gathered up their caps and banners and in a group trotted away, past the two police constables who were standing at the mouth of the alley trying to look disinterested.
Mathilda Janine dropped on her knees beside David and lifted his battered head into her lap.
Speak to me, Davie, she wailed, and Tara came out of the kitchen with a wet dishcloth and stooped over Shasa, trying not to show her anxiety.
It was some minutes before there were signs of life from the victims. Then Shasa sat up and put his head between his knees, shaking it groggily. David pulled himself up on one elbow, and spat out a tooth in a drool of blood-stained spittle.
Are you all right, Davie my boy? Shasa asked through crushed lips.
Shasa, don't ever come to My rescue again, David croaked. Next time you'll get me killed. Mathilda Janine helped them to their feet, but now that Shasa had revived, Tara was bleak and disapproving.
That was the most despicable display I have ever seen, Shasa Courtney. You were obscene and rowdy, and you asked for everything that you got. That's a bit hard, old girl, Shasa protested, and he and David leaned heavily on each other as they limped down the alley. One of the constables waiting at the corner snarled at them as they passed What did he say? Shasa asked Tara.
He says, quite rightly, she translated frostily, that next time you will be arrested for public violence. As the two of them made their painful way back down the Ku-damm, bloodied and battered, Mathilda Janine hovering close at hand and Tara marching a dozen paces ahead of them, trying to disassociate herself, they drew the quick horrified glances of passersby who looked away immediately and then hurried on.
As the four of them rode up in the elevator of the Bristol, Mathilda Janine asked thoughtfully, That story of yours, Shasa, you know about growing things on the Mount of Olives. I didn't understand it. Tell me, what is a schmuck? David and Shasa doubled over with agonized mirth, clutching their injuries. Please, Matty, don't say anything more, David pleaded. It hurts so when I laugh. Tara turned on her sternly. You just wait until I tell Daddy about your part in all this, young lady. He is going to be livid. She was right, he was, but not as furious as Centaine Courtney.
It turned out that Shasa had broken four ribs and a collar bone and ever afterwards he maintained that his absence from the team accounted directly for the Argentinian victory over them by ten goals to four in the polo quarter-finals two days later. Apart from two missing teeth, David's injuries were superficial contusions, sprains and lacerations.
Not too much harm done, Centaine conceded at last. At least there will be no publicity,, one of those horrid little newspaper men writing gloating spiteful articles. She was wrong. Amongst the clientele at the Kranzler coffee house had been the South African correspondent for Reuters, and his article was picked up by the South African Jewish Times.
It played heavily upon Shasa Courtney's part in defending his Jewish friend, the bronze medalist sprinter, and when they finally got back to Cape Town, Shasa found himself a minor celebrity. Both Shasa and David were asked to speak at a luncheon of the Friends of Zion.
The law of unforeseen consequence, Blaine pointed out to Centaine.
How many Jewish voters do you suppose there are on the rolls? Centaine squinted slightly as she calculated, and Blaine chuckled.
You truly are incorrigible, my sweeting!
The boxing hall in the great complex of the Reichssportfeld was filled to capacity for the final bout in the light heavyweight division, and there were ranks of brown-uniformed storm-troopers lining each side of the aisle from the dressingrooms, forming an honour guard for the contenders as they came down to the ring.
We thought it might be necessary to have them, Colonel Boldt explained to Heidi Kramer as they sat in their ringside seats, and he glanced significantly at the four judges. All of them were Germans, all members of the party, and it had taken some delicate negotiation and trading on Colonel Boldt's part to arrange it so.
Manfred De La Rey was the first contender to enter the ring. He wore green silk shorts and a green vest with the springbok emblem on his chest and his hair was freshly cropped into a golden stubble. He swept a quick glance around the ringside seats as he clasped both gloved fists over his head to acknowledge the tremendous burst of applause that greeted him. The German sporting public had accepted him as one of their heroes; this evening he was the champion of white racial supremacy.
He picked out Heidi Kramer almost immediately, for he knew where to expect her, but he did not smile. She looked back at him as seriously, but he felt the strength flow into his body, absorbed from her presence. Then suddenly his gaze switched away from her, and he scowled, rage mingling with the strength of his love.
That woman was here. He always thought of Centaine Courtney as 'that woman'. She sat only three seats away from his beloved Heidi. Her dense dark plume of hair was unmistakable, and she wore yellow silk and diamonds, elegant and poised; he hated her so strongly that he could taste it in his mouth, like gall and alum.
Why does she always come to hound me? he wondered.
She had been there in the crowd more than once during the other matches he had fought, and always that tall arrogant man, with large nose and ears, sat beside her.
Centaine was watching him with that disconcerting enigmatic expression in her dark eyes that he had come to recognize so well. He turned his back on her deliberately, trying to convey the full force of his contempt and hatred, and watched Cyrus Lomax climb into the ring across from where he stood.
The American had a well-muscled body the colour of milk chocolate, but his magnificent head was all African, like one of those antique bronze castings of an Ashanti Prince, with deep-domed brow and wide-spaced eyes, thick lips sculpted into the shape of an Assyrian war bow, and a broad flat nose.
He wore the red, white and blue stars and stripes on his chest and there was an air of menace about him.
This one is the worst you will ever meet, Uncle Tromp had warned Manfred. If you can beat him, you can beat them all. The referee called them to the centre of the ring and announced them and the crowd roared at Manfred's name.
He felt strong and indomitable as he went back to his corner.
Uncle Tromp smeared Vaseline on his cheeks and eyebrows and slipped the red gumshield into his mouth.
He slapped Manfred's shoulder, an open-handed stinging blow that was like the goad to the bull and he hissed in his ear.
Fast as a mamba! Brave as a ratel! Manfred nodded, mouthing the bulky rubber shield, and went out to the chime of the gong, into the hot white glare of lights. The American came to meet him, stalking him like a dark panther.
They fought matched and equal, they fought close and hard, blows with the power to maim and stun slipping by just a shade wide, sensing each other's intention with almost supernatural concentration and shifting the head, pulling back, ducking, using the spring of the ropes, blocking with forearm and glove and elbows, neither ever quite connecting but both of them hostile and quick and dangerous.
