"Obviously," he added, "the best fighters are the ones who can do both."

It was obvious if you accepted the basic proposition that any martial art deserved to be studied at all. But my perspective on violence didn't square with his. I knew from experience that when someone fired a gun at you, you didn't care about whether he was attacking or defending. You cared about how badly you were hit.

Until I saw Hong Fei-Tung settle himself and his phalanx of silk pajamas near the wall as far as he could get from Essential Shotokan, I didn't realize that I'd been watching for him. He was on my list. If I couldn't get him to tell me something useful about those chops, I'd have to look for another line of work.

For now, however, I wanted to keep Neill talking.

"That doesn't explain why a hard stylist would sneer at soft styles. Or why the IAMA keeps them separate."

Parker nodded.

"That's because the soft styles aren't as popular. People like to bang. And soft stylists don't seem to have the personality for self-promotion or the philosophy. They don't recruit as effectively as, say, Tae Kwon Do does.

"Three quarters of our competitors are hard stylists. So are at least ninety percent of the judges. And most of them aren't qualified to judge anything else. We keep the soft styles separate because we want to give them a fair chance. Otherwise they'll be overwhelmed by sheer numbers if they aren't alienated by bad judging."

I considered this for a moment, then admitted, "I'm still confused.

Isn't Tae Kwon Do a hard style? So why does Brick consider it a toy?"

Neill smiled without much humor.

"I said it's complicated. That insult has to do with the difference between a sport and a martial art."

Now he sounded sour, like a man with a mouthful of alum, trying to stifle scorn.

"Tae Kwon Do is the Korean national sport. It's backed by their government. And they're" he sighed "well, putting it crudely, they're imperialistic. They want worldwide recognition that doesn't confuse them with karate or kung fu.

"They're after the kind of news coverage they can only get from competitions. And they need to attract kids, lots of kids. Of course," he explained unnecessarily, "the two go together. More competitors means more coverage. More coverage means more competitors."

Already the stands were nearly full. Schools gathered in knots, making shoals for the spectators to surge around. Black belts shifted past us on their way to the staging area.

Parker cleared his throat like he wanted to spit.

"There's just one catch. To get what they want, they have to demonstrate that Tae Kwon Do is essentially safe. That means rules.

Sports require rules. Parents demand rules for their kids." He shrugged.

"We have a fair number of rules here.

"But no martial art does that." I heard a tent preacher lurking somewhere in the bushes of his personality.

"One way or another, they're all designed to save your life when somebody wants to hurt or kill you. They don't care about rules. If you aren't ready and able to repay any harm that conics your way, you might as well surrender." He made the word sound like an accusation.

"So if all your training relies on rules " He sighed again, letting some of his enthusiasm go.

"That's why boxing isn't a true martial art. Boxers can assume they won't be kicked in the groin or gouged in the eyes. They're protected by rules. That makes them vulnerable."

A sizable crowd had gathered near the roped-off display area,

waiting to filter in for a look at the chops. Sammy Posten hovered nearby as if he wanted to strip-search everyone, but he was wasting his time. The crowd defended Nakahatchi's antiques as well as Bernie's guards did. Those chops were in more danger in the Manager's safe room than they were here.

"I hate to agree with Brick," Parker went on in a distant tone, "but sometimes TKD deserves to be called a toy. I've even heard Sternway sensei use that term." Right away, however, he added, "Of course, he wasn't talking about Master Soon. His Tae Kwon Do Academy still teaches a real martial art."

Up on the dais, Sue Rasmussen stood at her mike sorting papers like she was about to begin mastering the ceremonies. I hurried to ask the question that she and Sternway hadn't answered to my satisfaction.

"But how is that different than what you do? If this tournament depends on rules, isn't it just a toy?"

Then I braced myself, just in case Neill's evangelical streak got the better of him.

He looked around the growing crowd for a moment. When he was ready to respond, he drawled indulgently, "I'm sure it looks that way." I guess he'd decided to spare my life.

"You haven't seen much of it. But the difference is real, believe me.

When a martial artist competes, he accepts the rules, he doesn't depend on them. He isn't handicapped by them. If his opponent throws an illegal technique, he deals with it. He isn't at its mercy.

"And he doesn't," Parker stated, "stand around waiting for the ref to call a foul."

Clearly he hadn't taken offense. In his own way, he seemed as secure as Ned Gage. And I understood his point. The distinction made sense.

By then Anson Sternway had walked out into the center of the floor. The tournament was about to start. I thanked Parker quickly and let him go. He gave me a polite smile and moved away.

Half a minute later, Sue called the hall to attention, and everyone jumped upright. Almost in unison, they bowed to His Royal Highness Sternway. A beat behind them, I did the same. He repeated yesterday's response, and a raw ovation answered him like the roar of Romans hungry for carnage. At once Rasmussen launched into her opening spiel and the announcement of events.

Day Two of the LAMA World Championships was underway.

Clenching my fists in my pockets to contain my enthusiasm, I eased out of the way as judges moved to the rings, competitors headed toward the staging area, and spectators jockeyed for positions in the stands.

Briefly I considered going to talk to Hong, then decided against it.

There was too much confusion, and I didn't want to shout my questions at him. Better to wait until the tournament settled down, and I could be sure that no one from Essential Sho-tokan might hear me.

Instead I picked my way toward the dais.

Before I got there, I crossed paths with Sammy Posten in mid-dither.

However, he made time to grab hold of my arm when the currents of the crowd slapped us together.

"Axbrewder!" I could hardly hear him through the noise, but congested self-importance filled his face.

"We need to talk."

I didn't want to hear it. Sadly, being polite was part of the job.

Instead of wrenching Posten's fingers, I used the pressure of movement around me as an excuse to twitch my arm loose.

"What about?"

Trying not to look as short as he was, he pushed his face up at me.

"I don't like the way you're doing your job."

That didn't surprise me. I had the impression that he didn't like the way anyone did their jobs. But he'd handed me a chance to practice my snappy repartee, and I didn't want to miss it, so I said, "Huh?"

From the microphone, Sue Rasmussen identified rings for men's brown belt and women's soft style kata. On the way to their assignments, competitors, judges, and spectators jostled Posten and me until we practically stood on each other's shoes. I had to scrunch down my chin in order to meet his glare. Would've served him right if I'd drooled in his eyes.