"Go ahead." Maybe he thought I'd appreciate his condescension.

I bared my teeth, metaphorically speaking.

"Where I come from," I told him, "violence means blood. Guns, knives, clubs, fists if the guy using them doesn't actively want you dead, he sure as hell intends to hurt you. He's serious about it.

"But you've got kids in those rings, wearing so much gear that if they fell down they wouldn't be able to stand up again. From what I've seen of the sparring, the refs stop the action as soon as anything even comes close. And in the forms the kata? your contestants attack imaginary opponents who cooperate with every move."

Somehow I caught his gaze. Leaning forward, I faced him squarely and counted the seconds until his eyes slipped away.

"If I were being gentle, Anson, I'd say it all looks like a game. But honestly, it looks like a lie. You're selling an illusion here. Isn't that true? You give out trophies the size of gazebos to convince the 'winners' that they're heavy hitters, they can whip whole platoons of thugs, no one sane is ever going to mess with them. But in fact I haven't seen anyone who'd survive for twenty seconds on the street.

It's all just charades."

He didn't last long. His gaze wandered off by the time I mentioned trophies. If I'd succeeded at making him uncomfortable, however, he didn't show it. His voice had about as much inflection as a concrete floor.

"Of course it's an illusion. A tournament is sport karate, and all sports are games. They depend on rules to keep people safe, and real violence isn't safe. That's obvious."

I hadn't expected him to be so open about it.

"Then why do you do it, if you know it's a lie? Other sports use violence. Some of them." Football, for example.

"Karate is about violence. That makes the lie dangerous."

"Because," Sternway repeated like he thought I was stupid, "no one would participate if it weren't safe."

He scanned the room, possibly counting the plastic flowers.

"Where do you suppose the money comes from?" he asked rhetorically.

"People want to compete. That's human nature. They want to prove they're the best. And for every man, woman, or child who wants to prove they are the best, there are a couple hundred more who want to see them try.

"That's how it works. First karate-ka pay for a chance to prove themselves. Then spectators pay to watch. When they've generated enough interest, newspapers report the result. Advertisers recognize a chance to promote themselves. Winning means more. More people want to compete, even more want to watch, newspapers and sponsors increase their vested interest. The eventual outcome is the NFL, a multi-billion-dollar business dedicated to the love of competition."

He'd started to scare me.

"But that's less dangerous," I insisted.

"Those games aren't about violence."

He sighed. Just for a moment, he actually looked at me.

"That's where you're wrong, Brew. What we do here isn't a lie. It's simply not the whole truth."

Probably he could've told me how many other people were in the coffee shop.

"The skills we test," he explained without any obvious patience, "are a starting point, a foundation. A karate-ka who can handle competition has begun learning to handle real violence. Serious martial artists pursue additional training to improve their skills further. That's the difference between a master and a student."

He, of course, was a master. Eighth-dan, whatever that meant.

Worshipped nationwide.

I felt sorry for his students.

I wanted to ask, So you understand real violence? You can defend yourself if someone jumps you on the street? But I didn't because what I really meant was, Do you think you can handle me? And I knew that question wasn't a good idea.

Instead I reverted to the one Sue Rasmussen hadn't answered.

"But what does it accomplish? What's it for?"

What makes the martial arts good for people?

"Do you have any idea how much those trophies cost?" Stern-way countered. He must've misunderstood me.

"They're the biggest expense we have, by far." He emphasized the words by jabbing the tabletop with his index finger.

"Do you know how much it costs to run a decent dojo? You need gis, gear, belts, wood floors, mirrors, heavy bags, speed bags, makiwaras, mats, Wing Chun dummies, shinais, bos and sais, dressings rooms with showers. None of us could stay in business if we didn't promote the martial arts, attract new students, and generate new interest.

"Mr. Lacone said, "It takes money to make money," but he's been wealthy too long. He's forgotten the truth. It takes money to stay alive."

I couldn't argue with that. Maybe he wasn't the right man to answer the question I'd tried to ask. Maybe I needed to talk to Nakahatchi.

Or Hong.

But still I hoped that he'd let slip something I needed. I kept my tone casual.

"Does that have anything to do with why you haven't joined Martial America?"

Sternway appeared to consider several replies before he said, "If he were closer to his goal, I would. But as matters stand, it's too expensive."

Then he nodded at my plate.

"Are you done?"

I held up my hand.

"Just one more question."

He waited impassively.

"Are Hong and Nakahatchi serious?" I didn't even try to look innocent.

"Aren't they overreacting? I mean, since this is all a game anyway.

They seem" I grinned uncharitably "too intense for sport karate."

I'd succeeded at last. Sternway pushed back his chair. A hint of darkness disturbed his self-control.

"You haven't been listening, Axbrewder." He could make his voice punch when he wanted to.

"Sifu Hong and Nakahatchi sen-sei are masters. Either one of them could grind you into dog food with their hands tied. I advise you to believe they're serious. If you don't, you will regret it."

Turning like a blow, he left me where I sat.