My bum didn't pay them no never mind at foist, but one day he tells me he keeps feeling them eyes on him while he's rasslin'. I give him the old razz--but that night he tries for his pretzel bend, and misses. The other bum is young and fast, and my bum gets trun, but good! So this happens a few more times, and my bum says we gotta move on--he can't rassle no more with them dustlanders staring at him and _chuffing_ about him. Some of them ear benders on Venus are studying up on the side, anyhow, and the outlook for my bum ain't so good no more nohow. So we go to Mars. I signalled Sherry for my coffee, as Hoiman ground to a stop while he refilled his glass. I swear my eyes weren't away from the table for more than a half second, but in that moment all the french fries left my plate. I yielded to Fate--it wasn't meant to be that I eat french fries this pay day. Things are primitive like on Mars, (Hoiman was saying), on accounta the troubles they have with power there. We rassled under some funny set-ups, but that's okay with me as long as my bum tosses his man. This time they ain't none of them screwy Venusians to put the whammy on him, and he's doing okay. Until--I gotta admit it--I get deluges of grandeur, or something. I gotta tell ya about them Martians. They are about seven feet tall, not too heavy, but they got plenty moxie. And an extra pair of arms, so I get to thinking they oughta be terrific in the ring. Just so they ain't _too_ terrific. I ask my bum, I says to him, I says, could he, does he think, trun one of them Martians? He says iffen he has to he'll use his pretzel bend, and they ain't no Martian on six legs, or eight, what won't say uncle. So I check with the Colony Administrator, and he says it's okay for a match perviding we don't interfere with any of their beliefs or customs or conventions. I ast him what were they, and he told me the Martians never talked about them, so we'd just have to be careful. What the hell, I says to my bum. A bout's a bout. So I start promoting. First I find out do them Martians have a bum what wants to rassle my bum, winner take all--which is the way we like to rassle, when I know my bum can trun the other bum. Natch. I don't mean we talk to the Martians--I don't savvy them squeaks they use on each other. We hire an interpreter--we have to take his word for it that everything is woiking out. So the night of the match comes around and them Martians insist on having it in their own town, Meekweek it sounds like, near as I can say it in people talk. Remember I told you it was primitive? You never seen nothing like this. They don't live with people by the way. They live off by theirselves in their own town.