More gladiators pushed their way to the Spot, pulled off gaily-patterned cloaks and weskits, and waded in. Others folded, were dragged clear, revived to down another and shot cheer on the fray. After an hour the waiting line had dwindled away to nothing. The two battlers on the Spot slugged, clinched, breathed hard, swung and missed; the crowd booed. "Where's Torbu?" Cagu wondered. "Maybe he didn't come tonight," I said. "Sure, you met him; he knocked you under the table." "Oh, him?" "Where'd he go?" "The last I saw he was asleep on the floor," I said. "Hozzat?" "I didn't much like him slugging me. I clobbered him one." "Hey!" yelped Cagu. His face lit up. He got to his feet. "Hold it," I said. "What's--?" Cagu pushed his way through to the Spot, took aim, and floored the closest fighter, turned and laid out the other. He raised both hands above his head. "Rath-Gallion gotta Champion," he bellowed. "Rath-Gallion takes on all comers." He turned, waved to me. "Our boy, Drgon, he--" There was a bellow behind me, even louder than Cagu's. I turned, saw Torbu, his hair mussed, his face purple, pushing through the crowd. "Jussa crummy minute," he yelled. "I'm the Champion around here--" He aimed a haymaker at Cagu; Cagu ducked. "Our boy, Drgon, laid you out cold, right?" he shouted. "So now he's the champion." "I wasn't set," bawled Torbu. "A lucky punch." He turned to the fans. "I'm tying my shoelace, see? And this guy--" "Come on down, Drgon," Cagu called, waving to me again. "We'll show--" Torbu turned and slammed a roundhouse right to the side of Cagu's jaw; the old fighter hit the floor hard, skidded, lay still. I got to my feet. They pulled him to the nearest table, hoisted him into a chair. I made my way down to the little clearing in the crowd. A man bending over Cagu straightened, face white. I pushed him aside, grabbed the bodyguard's wrist. There was no pulse. Cagu was dead. Torbu stood in the center of the Spot, mouth open. "What...?" he started. I pushed between two fans, went for him. He saw me, crouched, swung. I ducked, uppercut him. He staggered back. I pressed him, threw lefts and rights to the body, ducked under his wild swings, then rocked his head left and right. He stood, knees together, eyes glazed, hands down. I measured him, right-crossed his jaw; he dropped like a log. Panting, I looked across at Cagu. His scarred face, white as wax, was strangely altered now; it looked peaceful. Somebody helped Torbu to his feet, walked him to the ring-side. It had been a big evening. Now all I had to do was take the body home.... I went over to where Cagu was laid out on the floor. Shocked people stood staring. Torbu was beside the body. A tear ran down his nose, dripped on Cagu's face. Torbu wiped it away with a big scarred hand. "I'm sorry, old friend," he said. "I didn't mean it."