Match

 If he had thrown a spinning bomb at Kalju, the fuse of which would have hissed, he would not have caused more confusion. Bald's small eyes bulged; white smoke billowed from the chimney.

»Are you talking to me?» obviously startled Balju.

"Yes. Do you have perfume? I would need Florida water.»

The bald man stood up and took the pipe from his teeth; not even a single revolver play he had seen had been able to squeeze such a sign of excitement from him.

»Florida water!» he grunted.

»Exactly.. Or if you don't have that, any kind of good-smelling substance might do. I would be happy with a box of skin cream too.»

»Skin lotion!» Bald gasped. He put a hand to his forehead as if he had received a severe blow.

»Once upon a time there was a woman in this town,« he said. »He left somehow in a hurry, and I got a bunch of his bundles. Perhaps -"

He went ahead to the darkest corner of his shop and shone his lantern on a dusty shelf. There was a short row of bottles. He peered at them closely and read the nominations aloud:

»Hair water, toe medicine, brilliantine —»

He stopped reading and looked at Jerry with a sudden look of understanding on his face.

»If you're looking for something to drink, some kind of concentrated brandy,» he said, »I can assure you that these won't do. I've tasted them all.»

"I'm not looking," answered Jerry. »I don't want a drink. Go on!”

"Henna," continued the merchant, "Florida water—"

»That's it!» exclaimed Jerry happily. »Hand over here, neighbor!»

"How much of that?"

»Do you have more than one bottle?»

»There are two.»

»One is enough for me.»

Bald straightened and wiped the cobwebs off the bottle.

"How much?" asked Jerry.

"I do not know. Looks like pretty old stuff, doesn't it?"

He peered closely at the bottle, squinting.

»There is no date or government stamp on it,» he challenged, »but it should be ten years old. I've had it for five years. A dollar a year. Is five dollars too much, stranger?”

»A lot, but not too much. Give it here!”

He pressed the note into the merchant's hand and hurried out into the night air.

Now he was really happy. After waving his hand goodbye to

Kalju, who was standing at the door, looking dismayed, watching him

leave, he started to ride with a limp along the street.

»He looks like a man,» said Balju, »talks like a man, rides like a man; but he has no revolver, and wears — perfume!'

The merchant shook his head.

»Everything has changed quite a lot in Numero Kymmene», he sighed. »Pretty soon women and children will be brought here, and then peace will be completely gone.»

But meanwhile Jerry hummed his way along. He imagined in his mind what the girl would look like when she got the Florida water. If Nancy was feminine—if she was even human—her face would have to show some kind of emotion when that happened. And he feels that maybe he would get some kind of reward for his troubles. But before that he had to ride a long way across the hills, and he wanted to fortify himself for that excursion.

There was a noise from Grogan's cabin for a long time, and it guided him, so to speak. It was a deep, muffled hum, occasionally punctuated by a sharp curse, a solitary, loud burst of laughter, and the crack and clink of broken glass once in a while.

And as he drew nearer to the yellow patch of light spreading out into the street from Grogan's door, he saw a group of horses stationed on either side of it, even in the middle of the street. Among the latter, he left his own steed and entered carelessly with a bottle of perfume now in his right back pocket and a light conscience gladdening his heart.

Grogan's Kapaka consisted of a single low, long, square room, with a wall-to-wall serving table at one end and a circular oven in the middle, while tables and chairs were scattered around the rest of the floor. A roulette wheel whirred and whirred in one corner, and another table was set aside for the fortune-teller. The other tables had been handed over mainly for dice games and poker.

When Jerry arrived, there were very few people at the tables, because a red-haired man had won a lot at the roulette table and was very benevolent to the whole world because of it. He had already consumed more than his fair share of brandy and now stood in the center of the serving table, slapping both hands on it, one clutching a wad of bills.

"Let it flow, Grogan!" he muttered to the grumpy man standing behind the serving table, who was currently rolling the glasses on the table with incredible skill, so that each one of them wobbled in front of its opposite user. »Let it flow! Fill the glasses as often as the boys can relax on the edge of the table! Hello, you!”

He had noticed Jerry, who upon entering the room had stopped to check his surroundings.

»Step forward, stranger, and take a drink!»

Jerry obeyed, humming with pleasure; a glass rolled in front of him, and next to it was a black bottle, the contents of which were sparkling. He stood next to the one who paid the bill.

»Glasses in hand, boys,» shouted the redhead, »and then to the bottom!»

Twenty glasses flashed and tipped; twenty glasses glistened empty and then fell to the serving table.

»Fill them again!» squealed the redhead. "Tonight, you bastards, I'm going to wet Number Ten so that it's wet from toe to eyebrow." What do you think, neighbor?”

He emptied the bottle of whiskey into his glass and waved it above his head.

»More substance, Grogan! Me and my friend have barely had a drop. Or are we, neighbor?”

And with the empty bottle, he playfully patted Jerry on the backside, a place where you would have thought the heavy bottle would least touch.

But when the blow happened, the sound of breaking glass was clearly heard.

"Oh God!" apologized the redhead in annoyance. »Did I break the bottle, my friend? But don't worry about it! I'll get you a new one — and a quarter in addition. Grogan, a quarter for this man!'

Cursing under his breath, Jerry tossed the shards from his back pocket and shook off the liquid running down his leg as best he could.

"Tough luck," complained the redhead. "Hopefully it wasn't some weird old brand—"

He stopped his sentence and was left babbling with his mouth open, gasping for breath and gasping terribly. And then he backed up a long step away from Jerry. If the latter had turned into a rattlesnake, he wouldn't have been able to make such a strong impression on the redhead.

»Good gentlemen,» panted the red one, but was unable to continue.

»What's wrong, Redhead?» of course Grogan.

"That!" chirped the redhead.

"What is wrong with you?" asked Jerry suddenly.

And he thought of the five dollars he would have to pay for another bottle of perfume.

»Smell him!» asked Redhead.

All drew their breath; the air was thick with the smell of Florida water.

"He," cried Redhead, who regained his voice, "isn't a man."

She is a woman. Perfume!”

Every breath of the others was a testimony to his words. Perfume!

A man! Number Ten!

It was a permanent stain on the city's glory; it was unheard of.

»What exactly are you?» scowled Redhead. "Man or woman?"

And there was a burst of laughter in the spacious room.

"Throw him out!" someone squealed. "I'll hang him!" roared another.

»Perfume, ha, ha, ha!»

They still swarmed around Jerry in a tight group. The redhead leaned over the serving table and took a whiskey glass full to the brim.

"Here's something for your refreshment, madam," he coaxed, throwing the contents in Jerry's face.

What then followed is precisely etched in the memory of Numero Kymmene's eligible citizens. Jerry was not a big man, but his arms were long and his shoulders were strong, and his weight was firmly placed in the right places. Fortunately, he had blinked as the liquid flew through the air and so had not gotten the pungent whiskey in his eyes; but the worse it could not have maddened him, even if it had been running fire. He quickly lunged at the Redhead, who was rearing up with a laugh, and slammed his fist right into his stomach. Under its influence, the person struck bent twice as much as a link knife pressed by a stiff spring. His mid-body jolted into the serving table behind him, and his head and heels hit the floor almost simultaneously. Then he rolled onto his side and started kicking and screaming in vain as he tried to breathe. But Jerry was just getting started.

Right next to him, right next to him, two faces came in, staring at him. He gave them two jabs from below, heightening his blows by rising to his toes, straightening his legs and violently shrugging his shoulders—and the face disappeared. So Jerry got some space and started taking.

Still, it wasn't that handling that group of men was easy. The first three blows had effectively cleared their heads of the whiskey fumes, and they ran at Jerry in a huff. They had the carcass, they had the sinews, they had the will to fight, and only the brains that knew how to control the fists were against them. But this lonely man had fallen into the grip of a wild frenzy.

As the pair of faces disappeared, she jumped back against the serving table to gain even more space, bent her head back and let out a squeal. There was no anger or anger, but only intense joy. Five or six men rushed at him, nudging each other with their elbows, huddling together and obstructing each other's movements in their eager pursuit of the perfume-smelling stranger. Jerry leaned forward and popped up against their knees like a football player. He grabbed two pairs of knees with his outstretched hands, and two heavy carcasses lurched over his back, slamming into the serving table so violently that Grogan bucked.

Then Jerry straightened up in the middle of the confused group of his opponents. He stroked the face with his right hand and buried his left hand up to the elbow in the stomach of a fat man. Those who had been hit scrambled into a crowd, pushing the others back, and when the harassers came at Jerry again, Jerry had enough room to deliver shocks right from behind the shoulder. His strikes were always accurate, quick as the stings of an enraged snake and strong as the jolts of a moose. Always in the face, and the booms of his punches were heard with a regular rhythm like the splash of the wings of a hydrofoil going full speed. And all the while he fought skilfully, never wasting blows on less tender parts, but aiming at mouth or eye, nose or chin.

A stocky, red-headed man jumped at him to knock him down. Jerry gave him an overhead kick that turned his mouth into a red stain and knocked him to the ground.

"Hey!" Jerry squealed, stepping on the red-haired man's face and delivering a straight shock to the next man's jaw.

If the blood he shed with each crushing, tearing thump had been the wine a starving man drank, it could not have had a stronger effect on Jerry. He seemed to be half-drunk with the exhilaration of the battle.

A stocky man rushed towards him with his head down like a bucking bull, pushing Jerry against the serving table, but he fell unconscious to the floor after receiving a sudden blow like a mallet behind his ear.

Then the next wave of attackers came at him. Some of those who fell first stood up again with red marks on their faces. You could see chapped lips, swollen eyes, torn cheeks, battered jaws as they bowed their heads and attacked. They came in a confused, disorganized pack, each man fighting, driven by a silent bloodlust.

If they had kept order and advanced in a solid half-circle, Jerry, with all his wrestling and boxing skills, would not have been able to resist them even for half a minute; but there was no reason for them. A single man haunted them, and the thought drove them mad; they tried to rough him up with a stupid mass attack, but Jerry didn't feel like submitting to being roughed up. He slipped from place to place. He was as impossible to hold on to as an oiled object. He literally slipped from their scraping fingers and sent them reeling, giving them flying blows like a club.

Every now and then he popped as if his muscles were the springs of a clock. The bullies bent down like him, slipped under his arms and slammed him against the wall, but he bounced back like a rubber ball, sliding and jumping everywhere. He resembled a wolf fighting with a pack of dogs, never surrendering to a decisive struggle, but struck and after striking, slipped forward.

Then Redhead, who had regained his life, stood up and stood at the edge of the circle to watch the battle. He had misjudged this man, this laughing, caressing, mocking, screeching evil spirit, who wore perfume like women and fought as fiercely and furiously as a leaping mustang and as clever as seven devils—he had misjudged the stranger in his judgment. But Redhead's belly was tender; he had been pinned to the floor, and now the stranger had to pay. So he waited until there was an opening in the crowd—an opening through which he could attack the dancing, fighting creature, and then he let out a bull-like lunge and charged at his enemy.

The right hand's hammer-tipped jab rattled Redhead's jaw, but he was rushed forward by nearly a hundred kilos of stiffened muscles and bones; he just shook his head after being hit and angrily went to Jerry. His arms wrapped around his slender opponent and pressed him against his chest; from the force of the fall, they both fell to their feet and rolled around on the floor among the trampling feet.

How it all turned out, Punapää couldn't tell afterwards. All he knew was that both arms of the stranger were in his bear hug, and that in his ears echoed the screams of the others: »He's tall! He's in Redhead's grasp! Kill him, Redhead! Leave it to me to cover him too! Break his back!”

Punapää was screamed like this in the chorus, and he tightened his grip. And then — it was very wonderful. The other helpless hand slipped like a snake from his grasp. A firm palm pressed against his chin and violently pushed his head back; the other hand was immediately freed. Then Redhead spun around to stand up and grab another grip. But he did rise higher. He was somehow supported by the shoulder and hip. He was tossed into the air and spun around; her flailing hands hurt one man in the face, her pounding heels knocked another to the ground, and then Redhead was shaken to the floor intoxicatingly violently and lost his memory.

A match raged around his body, just as the Greeks fought around the body of Patroclus. Jerry's biting tongue incites his tormentors to struggle; his swiftly moving fists knocked them back again. His shrill screeching echoed in their ears from one direction, but the next moment a thump-like thump coming from the opposite direction knocked the listener to the floor. He swarmed around them like a hornet, and he was almost as elusive to hit. They struck at him—yes, thousands of times—but their blows did not strike hard against that clinging target, and their wildly swinging fists skimmed over swinging shoulders, spinning heads, and swiftly parrying forearms.

Then Grogan interfered in the match. Like Redhead, he too had watched and admired from afar; but Grogan admired more sensibly, for he had some understanding of boxing; and he giggled as he saw the jabs hit, the jolts slip exactly where they were intended, the jabs tear faces, and the direct thrusts push men before them like foam on the crest of a wave. Grogan watched all this without flinching. Let them fight enough! At least until someone grabbed a revolver, and no one would grab a revolver unless a stranger set an example. It was prevented by the chivalry concepts of the mountain desert.

But when Jerry Aiken tossed the man plunging onto him into the air at the same speed and the man as he fell shook the roulette table and Number Ten's only roulette wheel was thrown and spun on the floor, it became clear to Grogan that he had to get involved in the game with his sturdy shoulders and his old boxing skills.

He slapped one hand on the serving table and then, despite his fatness, flipped lightly over it.

This jump took him right in front of Jerry. The group of men had just retreated, so Jerry was somehow left alone in the middle of the floor for a moment. And Grogan shouted to the others: »Deliver him to me! Stay away! Make room!»

Then he ran off to harass Jerry.

The others were willing to interrupt the match in order to collect their confused thoughts; and so they stood, panting and wiping the blood from their faces, and watched Grogan's charge with fury.

The beginning went very well for Grogan. Jerry's arms were tired—too tired to strike in his usual bullet-speed fashion. And in the last few seconds, he had also smacked the faces of men who didn't know how to dodge or bow in the accepted way. But when he aimed a jab at the fleeing Grogan, the grizzled opponent partially parried the force of the blow, then let his head swing with the weakened blow. The sneer didn't faze him in the least, and as he lunged forward, he slammed his right fist down hard on Jerry's ribs, at the same time sending a terrible thud with his left fist into his midsection. The impact literally lifted Jerry into the air and sent him reeling against the wall. At that he rose, and Grogan prepared to deliver the final jolt,

But—

The wobbly and wobbly creature dodged, and a slobbering grimace hissed over Jerry's shoulder. From the force of his missed blow, Grogan leaned forward, then spun around with catlike speed, just in time to see the smaller man direct a long, low swipe at him with his left hand.

Grogan's blocking hand came down. But the jab didn't hit, didn't even touch his protective forearm, but stopped midway. At the same moment, Aiken's feet took a dance step, so he seemed to hover closer, his right arm swung upward, his fist curled—

And then the bulkhead collapsed on Grogan's head.