Fighting an alien champ was always risky business for an Earthman. So Filmore decided he might pick up a pointer or two before the big—

Slaughter On Dornel IV

By Ivar Jorgensen

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy April 1957 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Larry Filmore stared at his beer and mentally roasted his fight manager for the fiftieth time. Human beings were supposed to be the toughest race that the Galaxy had ever spawned, but as a fighter, Larry didn't put too much faith in the theory. He had fought a good many races throughout the Galaxy, and, although he had always come out the winner, he had plenty of scars to show for it.

He looked around the bar. It was full of various beings, none of them human except himself.

What am I doing here? he asked himself. I'm sitting in a cheap little bar on Dornel IV, waiting for a Dornellian fighter to kill me tomorrow.

But there was no way out of it, Filmore thought bitterly. Blackmer, his manager, had the whole thing sewed up. Larry had found out, three months before, that Blackmer was cheating him—but that had been too late. According to the contract, Larry had to finish the season or go to prison. If he quit, he would, according to the law, be cheating his manager.

On the other hand, if he got killed during the battle, his entire check would go to Blackmer.

So Blackmer had done the smart thing—for him. He had lined up Larry with Fornax Kedrin, the champion of Dornel.

The Dornellians were big—eight feet high, with fingers that ended in razor-sharp claws. Of course, Larry would be provided with steel extensions on his fingers, but they wouldn't help much; Larry had never learned to use them. Fornax Kedrin would kill him in the first round.

Larry took another sip of his beer and stared forlornly at the bar. With his fingers, he traced meaningless designs in the moisture left by the cold glass.

Maybe he was taking the coward's way out—but it was the only way he could see. Better a live coward, he thought, than a dead hero.

"Another beer, bartender," he 

  P 1/7 next