knew who you were is that I'm a fan of yours. I was glad to see you beat that Dornellian, believe me."

"Thanks," Larry said. "But it's not going to do me any good when I get into the ring against Fornax Kedrin. If an ordinary Dornellian citizen puts up a fight like that, what am I going to do against a professional boxer?"

The Arcturian laughed again. "Just get in there and fight, Filmore. You can handle him. I'm sure you can."

The car pulled up before the hotel where Larry and his manager were staying, and Larry got out. The Arcturian waved to him and drove off.

Wearily, Larry dragged himself inside and into the elevator.

"Seventeen, please."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Filmore," said the Dornellian elevator boy.

He pushed open the door to his room and dropped on the bed, dead tired. He didn't dare look in the mirror; he was afraid to see what a mess the Dornellian had made out of his face, which hadn't been any too neat before.

"Blackmer?" he called.

There was no answer. The manager was not around. Larry got up, looked bleary-eyed into the other room, and, seeing no one, dropped off into a deep sleep. His last thought before he blacked out was that he'd get into the ring and do his best. He'd already beaten one Dornellian; how tough could Fornax Kedrin be? And what did it matter anyway? He was bound to get killed sooner or later anyway. That was the unspoken assumption every fighter operated under.

When he awoke the following morning, he didn't feel quite so certain about things. The brawl the night before had taken a terrific toll on his nervous system, and he knew that he'd be butchered if he stepped into the ring with the Dornellian champ. He was in no condition to fight.

"Blackmer? You here?"

The manager's bed had been slept in, but there was no sign of him. Larry groped for the house phone, grabbed it, spoke into it. "Do you know where Mr. Blackmer is?"

"He's in the bar, sir," said the switchboard boy. "Do you want me to call him for you?"

"Yes, please."

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