Cagu exchanged haymakers with two more opponents before he folded and was hauled from the ring. I propped him up in a chair, fitted a drink into his fist, and watched the boys pound each other. It was easy to see why the scarred face was the sign of their craft; there was no defensive fighting whatever. They stood toe-to-toe and hit as hard as they could, until one collapsed. It wasn't fancy, but the fans loved it. Cagu came to after a while and filled me in on the fighters' backgrounds. "So they're all top boys," he said. "But it ain't like in the old days when I was in my prime. I could've took any three of these bums. The only one maybe I woulda had a little trouble with is Torbu." "Which one is he?" "He ain't down there yet; he'll show to take on the last boys on their feet." More gladiators pushed their way to the Spot, downed drinks, pulled off gaily-patterned cloaks and weskits, and waded in. After an hour the waiting line had dwindled away to nothing. "Where's Torbu?" "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 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." "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 out at me. 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.