"You won't be that lucky again. These gooks always run late. They're supposed to be out of here at nine P.M." but by then they'll be hours behind."

"According to the placards," I observed, just making conversation, "there's another demo tonight. Benny 'the Jet' Urquidez. What're they going to do, make him sit on his hands until midnight?"

Bernie shook his head.

"Too many paying spectators. They run the demos on time.

Approximately. Then they'll set up the rings again, hold more events."

He snorted his version of a laugh.

"The spectators go home after the demo. Won't be anybody here except the gooks and the judges. And us. They'll compete in a vacuum.

"Good thing they don't expect Security to supply the applause." The idea seemed to give him an obscure satisfaction.

I nodded. I was in no mood to clap for anyone.

A few minutes later, the hall was ready rings set up, blazers at the registration table, Security standing petrified watch over the antiques and the doors. Sternway, Rasmussen, and Neill conferred around the record-keeper's laptop while Gage discussed something or other with Soon and Gravel. No one seemed to need Posten's supervision, so he just dithered.

"It's those doors I'm worried about," I remarked to Bernie, pointing across the hall.

"Can you cover the service corridors?" They presented the most obvious security risk.

"We spotted you, didn't we?" Bernie countered. Then he admitted, "We're stretched thin. But Max is conscientious. If he's ever missed anything on the monitors, I don't know about it. He'll get a look at anybody who doesn't belong."

So much for the obvious. Nagged by the queasiness in my stomach, I'd fallen into the trap of trying to anticipate trouble, despite my good intentions. Anticipation was Bernie's job. Discovery was mine.

Discovery and reaction.

I could think of all kinds of questions to ask people, if I got the chance.

From the dais, Anson Sternway announced his readiness. On cue, the IAMA blazers opened the doors, and the rush began. Like the quick tumult of a flash flood, or the growing roar when a hydroelectric plant opens the spillways, the hall went from hollow quiet to thunder in the space of about thirty seconds. If I hadn't known it was coming, I might've lost my nerve.

Soon I saw that Sue Rasmussen was right. The IAMA World Championships would be a hell of a lot busier today. Crowds inundated the registration table, pounded up onto the bleachers in waves, spilled out across the rings, piled against the walls men and women in pajamas or warmup suits, torrents of spectators. But no kids this time, except in the gallery. Today was for grownups, "real" martial artists, and everyone took it more seriously. Even the noise had a tearing edge I hadn't heard yesterday. Half the people around me looked like they were going to war.

From the microphone, the master of ceremonies called for judges. I let the human current carry me out into the middle of the floor. Worry burned on my skin like a low-grade infection. Jangling premonitions echoed inside me. Now more than ever I needed to tune my instincts to the jagged rhythms of the tournament, let them warn me when something didn't fit. But I couldn't do it. I was paying the wrong kind of attention.

I missed Ginny.

Distraction, that was the key. Keep the front of the brain busy, let the rest work on its own.

I took the first opportunity I could find. Seeing Parker Neill nearby, I angled in his direction. He stood in the crowd with spectators and contestants frothing past him like water on both sides. I joined him in the eddy.

"Got a minute?" I had to raise my voice against the clamor.

"You're probably busy. But I wanted to ask you something yesterday, and I forgot."

"Ask away." He sounded tired worn down by his longing for competition, if Ned Gage understood him.

"By now I don't have a lot to do. Tournament coordination is all preparation." He grimaced.

"Today my biggest headache will be deciding how to adjust the schedule when we fall behind."

By way of preamble, I offered, "Well, if you don't mind my ignorance "

But he didn't react, so I forged ahead.

"I heard a couple of things that didn't seem to fit the I don't know what to call it the 'seriousness of the occasion."

" The alleged quest for perfection of character.

"One of your competitors was sneering at 'soft styles." And apparently Nelson Brick's boy called Tae Kwon Do 'a toy martial art." But I thought " I wasn't quite sure how to say what I meant politely.

"You thought," Parker finished for me, "martial artists are supposed to have more respect. Is that it?"

Close enough. I nodded.

"They are," he stated flatly.

"Any teacher who doesn't train his students to honor all the martial arts doesn't deserve to have students. But in practice " He shrugged.

"It's a complicated problem."

He looked around the hall in case anyone needed him. Then he started to explain. I expected to hear boredom in his voice, the weariness of an expert discussing advanced concepts with a tyro, but I didn't.

Instead he gathered animation as he talked. Ned Gage was right about him. Neill was a true believer who needed a chance to express himself.

"For one thing," he told me, "schools and styles are often parochial.

Secretive. Some of them think they'll lose their effectiveness if other people know what they do. And some are afraid to admit they can be beat. They teach their students to think their school is the only pure one, or their style is the only one that really works. They concentrate on what they already know. Anything that doesn't come out of their own traditions, they ignore. And they sneer at everything else.

"The result," he pronounced categorically, "is bullshit. Truck-loads of it. On one side, some schools refuse to join the LAMA or compete because they believe they'll be corrupted by outside influences. And on the other "Nelson Brick is a good example. His students aren't here to learn. They're here because he expects them to prove his style is better than anybody else's."

Conviction gleamed in Parker's eyes.

"But in fact there are no better styles. Or worse ones, either. There are only better and worse martial artists. The styles simply solve different problems, or solve the same problem in different ways."

Around us, the in-rush accumulated toward critical mass. If the ceiling hadn't been so high, the din would've been deafening. Already the temperature had started to climb. Watching vaguely while I listened, I saw several of the masters begin to gather their schools.

Nakahatchi sat on one of the bleachers as close as he could get to his display. Hideo Komatori and a group of canvas pajamas attended him like spear-carriers.

Parker lowered his voice confidentially.

"That's what makes

Sternway sensei's accomplishments so amazing. I never would've believed that he could get so many schools and martial artists to join the lAMA. And I would have bet money that he couldn't talk Nakahatchi sensei, Master Soon, Sifu Hong, Soke Gravel, and even Brick into joining Martial America."

Then he resumed his explanation.

"That's one side of the problem. Nationalism is another we talked about that yesterday. And then each style has it own personality and philosophy.

"As a crude generalization, you could divide the martial arts into 'hard' and 'soft' styles. Hard styles like Shotokan, Shorin-Ryu, and Muay Thai are ballistic, linear." His tone hinted at fervor.

"They're designed to counter your attack with an attack of their own.

"Soft styles Aikido, Wing Chun, Judo are circular. They don't counterattack, they redirect. You jump at a hard stylist, and he breaks your ribs. You jump at a soft stylist, and he plants your face in the dirt.