crippled or dead before you got your hands on him," said the
yes or maybe no," said Hugo. "All the same, I wouldn't mind trying him
in a mixed bout—my wrestling, and him using his tricks."
Hugo's words were
beginning to kindle within me the tiny warm flame of treachery. I said to
Lieut. Murphy as sweetly and tentatively as I could manage:
"Do you think
you could arrange a bout like that, lieutenant?"
possible," said the lieutenant. "Do you actually want to give it a try,
would," said Hugo.
of judo seems to be that the judo expert can take the momentum and weight of
his opponent and turn it against him. Theoretically, it's fine. But as a
logical positivist I'd have to dismiss it as meaningless until it can be
The tone of
Lieut. Murphy's voice made it seem as though he had stood up.
man's Air Force, Mr. Batzlinger, we don't waste our time with meaningless
theories. If you really want an empirical demonstration of judo, I can arrange
So they fitted
Hugo out in a judo suit ("What do I need this thing for?" he said), and
they made him sign a form ("red tape") that released Uncle Sam from
responsibility and gave him shipping instructions for the body. Meanwhile, on
the mat, Lieut. Murphy was doing his best to make the puzzled peewee from Japan
understand that they had a disbeliever on their hands. Murphy seemed to be
making headway, for finally the little creature's face expanded into a grin,
and from there on he began bowing and nodding and grinning and saying, "Ah
so," and drawing air in an "issh" between the gold points of his
teeth and bowing and nodding. He looked more like a lamb than a wolf, and I was
beginning to think he would fail. Not that I wanted to see Hugo maimed in any
way, you understand—after all, we still had a few exhibitions to play.