THEY got to meet with their assigned coach every other day on average, typically for fifteen to thirty minutes. Mr. Summer had dark hair and a sallow face with a mustache, and exuded in odor of tobacco although he didn't use it publicly He cut less of an athletic image than Mr. Green at Coulie had, but that was maybe to be expected in view of the different nature of the different nature of Seville Trace. His manner had a certain shortness and directness, but he seemed competent enough at what he did and was fair-minded in his treatment of those put in his charge, which was the main thing. However, when he and Linc next met in one of the offices for their scheduled review session, Linc sensed a reserve about him that hadn't been there previously.
"There was an accident in the tool store yesterday," Mr. Summer said.
"You mean Welsh?" Linc nodded. "Yes, I know about it." The handle had come off a case of heavy jig blocks when Welsh lifted it from a shelf. The case had dropped, scraping his shin and badly bruising a foot.
"Welsh thinks the screws holding the handle must have been loosened," Mr. Summer said.
Linc sighed. From the look in Mr. Summer's eye, it was clear who had been suggested as having perhaps done the loosening. It was clear enough to Linc what had happened: There had been an accident, and somebody had used it as an opportunity to spread rumors. He shook his head, showing his hands. "How could anyone tell? . . . Things like that happen."
But Mr. Summer was evidently not satisfied to just pass it off. "We all know that Welsh is a buddy of Arvin's," he said. "And you've been having this feud going with Arvin ever since you both got here. They've been giving you a hard time, haven't they, in one way and another? . . ." The implication was plain. Mr. Summer let it hang.
Simply denying it would have been pointless, since Linc would be expected to do so. And protesting would have sounded too much like whining. In the end Linc let it go with, "Look, if I was going to risk blowing things, I'd be sure to make it over something a little more worthwhile than that."
The answer seemed to allay Mr. Summer's suspicions somewhat. He nodded. "I'd like to think you're right, Linc. You're a lot more intelligent than you perhaps realize. But you do have this history of violence to live down. It would be a tragedy to see you spoil things now. Let's see how you do with the practical tests tomorrow."
After the previous incident, Mr. Throw seemed to have been arranging his timetable to keep Linc and Arvin apart. On the afternoon following the day of Linc's talk with Mr. Summer, however, Arvin was slotted into the same class as Linc when the evening session was canceled to free up the gym space for another event. Inevitably, when the time came for sparring and partners rotated, they ended up facing each other once again. Conceivably, Mr. Throw could have intervened and separated them, but it would have created an ungainly situation by focusing attention on something he was trying to play down—and no doubt would have preferred not to have to acknowledge existed at all. In any event, his response was to simply let things run.
The contest between Linc and Arvin degenerated into a tussle that got dirty and then went downhill from there. Arvin made a habit of dropping to the mat while hanging onto Linc's jacket, dragging Linc down to continue by means of ground fighting, where Arvin's weight gave him an edge. In this, he was particularly ferocious in trying to apply armlocks, which Linc became equally violent at avoiding—another "accident" like last time, he quickly perceived, would put him in a cast for a month. His anger rising, Linc retaliated with savagely effective choke holds, sustaining the pressure for several seconds after Arvin's submission signal, leaving him red-faced and gasping. The rancor between them could be felt by the rest of the class, who grew less vocal and were clearly uncomfortable. By the time the session ended, Mr. Throw was exasperated and ready to take both of them on personally.
"Not Linc and Arvin," he called, when he dismissed the others. "You two stay behind." They stood, eyeing each other coldly while Mr. Throw closed the door behind the last of the departing figures. He turned and came back across the mat to where they were standing. "All right," he told them in a tight voice. "I don't know what this is all about, but it's affecting my class, so let's have it out and get rid of it. This is off the record, understand? What happens here right now never happened. Your own rules apply unless I say different. Got it?"
Linc felt his instincts taking control. A hundred experiences had taught him the advantage of just letting his body react in situations like this, when his mind wanted to think for a split second longer. That split second could make the difference. Most men lost through giving in to that impulse to hold off for just a moment, to be sure—which allowed events to drive them, instead of the other way around.
Mr. Throw held up an arm like a starter at a race. "Now, back off three paces, each of you . . . ." Linc exhaled hard, and then opened his mouth wide, sucking in a last-moment lungful of oxygen. "Ready . . . Go!"
Linc flew. There was no sizing up or holding back to get any measure. Arvin had barely moved or even registered that anything had started to happen when the first punch hit him full on the jaw. Linc followed it with a second, third, fourth . . . ten staccato blows into the face with the same fist, too fast even to allow pause for changing hands. Arvin was glazed and bewildered even before the last had shot home. Linc slammed a foot into his stomach as his guard flopped, doubling him over, and clubbed him to the floor with three hammer fists using the other hand, delivered to the back of his head and neck. For an instant he saw in the blond waves not Arvin but Kyle, and his impulse was to finish things with kicks to the side of the body; but there was no need, and he held off—turning away, instead, contemptuously.
Even Mr. Throw seemed taken aback by the speed and violence of the attack. He went down on one knee and turned Arvin's head up to check him. Although not KO'd, he was functionally out of things, his eyes rolled upward, face marked and bloody, nose streaming—Linc had made sure not to omit that.
"Jeez!" Mr. Throw muttered softly. "I guess we can take it that you've been around some?"
Breathing heavily, Linc picked up a towel. His first reaction was a surge of inner satisfaction. After days, weeks, of the tension that had been building up inside him, the release was worth whatever happened now. He didn't care what they did. A few moments later, after he had mopped his face and the adrenaline hit began to subside, he was less sure. He looked at Mr. Throw questioningly. "Is that it? You meant what you said? This doesn't make any difference to anything, right?"
Mr. Throw nodded slowly, not quite able to keep a hint of awe out of his gaze. "We never go back on our word here," he said.
Linc nodded, slung the towel over his shoulder, and turned for the door.
Linc found he had good feelings inside that persisted through to the next day. By the day's end they were even better. Although some of the calculations had been a bit tricky, he felt he hadn't done too badly at all on the tests.