Harry set down his bongka and took off his jacket. “I don’t suppose you’re going to strip,” he said. “Being my second and all.”

“The judge didn’t say anything about it in the job description,” Schmidt said. He took the jacket from Harry.

“What is your job description?” Harry asked.

“I’m supposed to research your opponent and give you tips on how to beat him,” Schmidt said.

“What do you know about my opponent?” Harry asked. He was out of his shirt and was slipping off his trousers.

“My guess is that he will be short,” Schmidt said.

“How do I beat him?” Harry said. He slipped off his shoes and let his toes test the spongy flooring.

“You’re not supposed to beat him,” Schmidt said. “You’re supposed to tie and then take a fall.”

Harry grunted and handed Schmidt his pants, socks and shoes. “Am I correct in assuming that there are several species of legume that would do a better job being my second than you, Hart?”

“Sorry, Harry,” Schmidt said. “I’m flying by the seat of my pants here.”

“And my pants,” Harry said.

“I guess that’s true,” Schmidt said. He looked at the nude Harry and counted the number of apparel he was holding. “Where’s your underwear?” he asked.

“Today was laundry day,” Harry said.

“You went commando to a diplomatic function?” Schmidt asked. The horror in his voice was unmistakable.

“Yes, Hart, I went commando to a diplomatic function,” Harry said, and then motioned to his body. “And now, as you can see, I’m going Spartan so a midget can whack me with a stick.” He bent and picked up his bongka. “Honestly, Hart. Help me out here. Focus a little.”

“All right,” Hart said, and glanced at the pile of clothes he was holding. “Let me just put these somewhere.” He started off toward the human seating area.

As Hart did this, three Korba approached Harry. One was the judge from earlier. Another Korban was carrying his own bongka, proportional to his own height; Harry’s opponent. The third was a step behind Harry’s opponent; Harry guessed it was the other second.

The three Korba stopped directly in front of Harry. The one holding the bongka handed it to his second, looked up at Harry, and then thrust out his hands, palms forward, making a grunting noise as he did so. Harry hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with this. So he handed his bongka to Schmidt, who had just come running up, thrust his own hands forward, and returned the motion. “Jazz hands,” Harry said.