"Fight back, Smith!" Geria cried.
Jorak's powers were not like the woman's. He could induce giddiness, yes, but not in any overpowering quantities. Smith swayed foolishly, tipped first to left, then to right, stood for a moment with arms at sides. Jorak rushed upon him and struck out with both fists, and Smith stumbled back half a dozen steps, crashed into a pair of struggling figures, was dimly aware that both fell.
Jorak came on, cocky, confident, and Smith rocked for a moment on the balls of his feet. Once and once only he lashed out with his right arm, smeared Jorak's nose flat against his face. Jorak toppled backward and fell, writhing.
Smith looked around him, panting. The other contestants ceased their struggles, and the instructor said:
"Someone has used psi. I don't know who, but someone—"
Jorak pointed weakly, said, "Earthsmith!"
"Snap judgment," the instructor admitted. "Your word only. Still, you alone were bested, Jorak of Gyra—and, hah, that makes twice, doesn't it?"
"Once with psi," said Jorak.
"You sure?"
"I ought to know what hit me! He held me rigid, I tell you, and then he struck me. What could I do? I ask you, what?"