After surviving two months of Gope's training I felt ready for anything. Gope had warned me that Owner Qohey was a big fellow, but that didn't bother me. The bigger they came, the bigger the target.... There was a murmur in a different key in the Audience Hall and tall gilt doors opened at the far side of the room. A couple of liveried flunkies scampered into view, then a seven-foot man-eater stalked into the hall, made his way to the dais, turned to face the crowd.... He was enormous: his neck was as thick as my thigh, his features chipped out of granite, the grey variety. He threw back his brilliant purple cloak from his shoulders and reached out for the ceremonial sword one of the flunkies was struggling with; his arm was like an oak root. He took the sword with its sheath, sat down, and stood it between his feet, his arms folded on top. * * * * * "Who has a grievance?" he spoke. The voice reverberated like the old Wurlitzer at the Rialto back home. This was my cue. There he was, just asking for it. All I had to do was speak up. Owner Qohey would gladly oblige me. I cleared my throat with a thin squeak, and edged forward, not very far. "I have one little item--" I started. Nobody was listening. Up front a big fellow in a black toga was pushing through the crowd. Everybody turned to stare at him, there was a craning of necks. The crowd drew back from the dais leaving an opening. The man in black stepped into the clear, flung back the flapping garment from his right arm, and whipped out a long polished length of razor-edged iron. It was beginning to look like somebody had beaten me to the punch. The newcomer stood there in front of Qohey with the naked blade making all the threat that was needed. Qohey stared at him for a long moment, then stood, gestured to a flunky. The flunky turned, cleared his throat. "The place of Bar-Ponderone has been claimed!" he recited in a shrill voice. "Let the issue be joined!" He skittered out of the way and Qohey rose, threw aside his purple cloak and cowl, and stepped down. I pushed forward to get a better look. The challenger in black tossed his loose garment aside, stood facing Qohey in a skin-tight jerkin and hose; heavy moccasins of soft leather were laced up the calf. He was magnificently muscled but Qohey was bigger. Qohey unsheathed his fancy iron and whirled it up overhead, made a few practice swipes. He handled it like it was a lady's putter. I felt sorry for the smaller man, who was just standing, watching him. He really didn't have a chance. I had got through to the fore rank by now. The challenger turned and I saw his face. I stopped dead, while fire bells clanged in my head. The man in black was Foster. * * * * *