He followed Catherina out onto the dance floor, the first couple to arrive, and took her into his arms.
She leaned back slightly, in surprise. "I thought that in most modern dances the partners didn't touch each other."
He took her more firmly to him. "That's old hat," he said. "The latest thing is the Two-Step. The man holds the girl right up against him, his right arm around her waist, their left hands joined like this. You'll catch on in no time at all. Later, I'll demonstrate the waltz."
"Waltz?" she said in surprise. "But we do that in the Soviet Complex. It's one of the oldest dances of all, isn't it?"
"It's going through a great revival," Mike told her. "Later, I'll get the musicians to play some waltzes and we'll practice."
She snuggled closer to him. "I'll leave it to you. It would be uncultured not to take the advice of an expert."
Actually, she turned out to be a moderately good dancer, he found. His own comparative skill was such that they made themselves. the stars of the dance floor. His colorful trajes de luces , his matador's suit of lights, combined with her spectacular Cretean costume, didn't detract from the show.
The Russkies entered into the spirit of the dance with a vim. Which wasn't surprising to Mike. Most of them were already smashed and the champagne and vodka were still going down like water. He closed his mind to the tragedies that probably lay ahead, before the evening was through, and devoted himself to his dream world.
They danced the first three dances together before Vovo got around to reeling over to their table and requesting Catherina for the next one. She laughingly declined on the grounds that she was thirsty. Vovo reeled off again, seeking an alternative victim.
Catherina laughed and said, "I can just feel that overgrown oaf walking all over my slippers. Besides, I Page 32
promised every dance to you tonight, Mike."
"I'm not arguing," he said.
However, the next time they got onto the dance floor, Mike could see the scowl on Vovo's face. That wasn't so good. Thus far, the Cossack had been a genial drunk. But there was no good reason to believe that he couldn't be a mean one, given what he thought was provocation.
When the dance was over and they'd returned to their table again, where Nick and Ana had gotten down to some really serious drinking, Vovo came reeling over once more, his peasant face dour.
He said to Catherina, "This next dance must be mine. I have ordered the band to play a Cossack polka."
Catherina said, "Oh, please, Vovo, not me. I don't know how to dance the polka."
"Very well. I will teach you." The hulk of a man looked at Mike Edwards. 'This fancy pip isn't the only one who can teach dancing."
She said, "Please, Vovo. I don't want to dance this one."
"Then the next!"
Mike Edwards said gently, "Mr. Chernozov, Miss Saratov obviously doesn't want to dance with you.
Perhaps she thinks you've had a bit too much wine."
"Da, go on away, Vovo," Nick Galushko slurred. "You'd break her leg."
The Cossack ignored that opinion and swayed a bit as he eyed Mike balefully. He said finally, "Well, if Catherina won't perform with me on the floor, how about you? I challenge you to wrestle with me, Turkoman style!"
Chapter X
Silence dropped momentarily.
Then Ana Chekova, her face red with drink, muttered woozily, "Oh, don't be a fool, Vovo."
Vovo said with drunken formal dignity. "If he wishes to take my woman, then he must be ready to fight for her -Turkoman style."
"I'm not your woman," Catherina flared up. "I am no one's woman."
He leered at her. "Well see about that."
She shot a quick, embarrassed look at Mike Edwards. . All right, Mike told himself. Put up or shut up.
You can't back down in front of the woman you're pursuing. He sighed, inwardly, and stood. If he won, he'd probably get fired for beating up a customer of Horizonal Holidays. If he lost, he'd probably have a few broken bones and a face that looked like hash.
He said, "I can't fight you Turkoman style, simply because I don't even know what Turkoman style is.
But I'll fight you my own way, and you can fight any way you wish."
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The big Cossack stared at him, unbelievingly. Without a doubt he had expected victory by default. He snorted deprecation and turned and shouted in Russian, "Clear the floor!"
Catherina, in alarm, put a hand on Mike's arm. "Mike," she said. "Don't be insane. He is champion of his Soviet Republic. I believe I know what you are thinking, but it is ridiculous. I'll understand, if you back down."
Nick was staring at him, seemingly somewhat more sober. "Don't be crazy," he said. "Did you see what he did to that bull in Malaga?"
Mike had seen, all right, all right. And one thing was obvious. Vovo was able to operate whilst up to his eyeballs in alcohol. Happily, Mike himself had been too preoccupied with Catherina and the dance to have done much drinking himself, because he couldn't operate even partially when stoned.
He shucked out of his matador's jacket since it was too stiff with gold and other lace for proper movement. But Vovo didn't bother. Evidently, his Cossack dress lent itself to rough and tumble.
The dance floor had cleared magically. Inwardly, Mike Edwards groaned. The floor, of course, was wooden, no sort of mat on which to work, not even a rug. It was going to be brutal.
Vovo had marched out onto the floor. Now he turned and faced his opponent, going into a wrestler's crouch.
It had been years since Mike Edwards had been on the student and faculty team. He had kept himself in reasonable shape, but he was rusty, rusty as all get out, and Vovo was not only a champ but evidently currently champ.
He threw himself into the Hackiji-dachi , spreadout position, with his left foot slightly forward and his body weight evenly distributed and in a well-balanced pose. Both fists were clenched, knuckles facing down and held slightly to the side of his waist, with his toes pointed slightly inward.
In actuality, his clothing wasn't bad for karate fighting. Matadors had to be able to move lithely, and his bull fighting slippers lent themselves to the game he was attempting to play.
Vovo was, on the face of it, taken aback by the stance Mike had assumed. Obviously, it meant something. And inwardly, Mike thanked whatever gods there might be, if any, that the other had probably never seen Japanese hand-to-hand fighting in his Life. It was Mike's only chance.
Vovo, now in action, was seemingly completely sober. It was astonishing how the man could throw off the effects of alcohol. He came in, arms spread, knees slightly bent, and then suddenly rushed.
Mike used the Backward Mule Kick. As Vovo came in, he stepped back on his left foot and after completely turning his body around, dropped with both hands to the floor. With his right leg, he kicked the Cossack in the stomach as hard as he could, refraining from slamming the man in the groin instead, the original idea of this particular kata.
Vovo's stomach was like iron, in spite of all his high living, but he was thrown backward. The rest of the Russkies laughed uproariously at his discomfort. They had no doubts, of course, about the final conclusion but it was amusing to see their champion given a temporary setback in this bout with the comparatively puny American tourist manager.
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Vovo came semi-erect again and glared thoughtfully at the smaller man. He had truly expected the whole thing to be over in a matter of moments. But, once again, Vovo was no fool in hand-to-hand combat. He had not become champion of the Soviet Republic of his birth by being a fool. This time he moved in more carefully; he was fighting in a field utterly unknown to him.