"You are, so far as we know, the finest representative the world could have." Moskov looked serious, and Joe became aware suddenly of the awful burden involved. What use intellectual ability or athletic prowess, compared to Jovian standards? Wasn't there someone--even a science-fiction writer, perhaps--better qualified to handle a situation as fantastic as this? Apparently not. "When's the funeral?" Joe asked drily. "Please, m'sieu, a little respect for the situation!" M. Tourneau looked pained. "The contest is to be in Slan's ship at eight o'clock tonight," Moskov answered. "They will pick you up here in five hours." "You and me both, Joe," Mike said. "Yeah," Joe answered, and now he was mentally reeling under the impact of his responsibility. "Let's have a drink first. I think we'll need one." Sir Manly paled. "I say...." "We'll murder them damn Greeks," Mike chortled. * * * * * "Shay, I'm not goin' in that thing," Mike protested. "Can't fight 'em if we don't," Joe answered mournfully. "They're big enough, all right," Mike admitted respectfully. "Wouldn't some football coach like to have one o' _them_ on his squad!" "C'mon, le's go." Joe shoved Mike toward the waiting ship, at the door of which a behemoth of a figure waited patiently, watching with some apparent disdain as the two, arms around each other's shoulders, weaved unsteadily inside. Inside the ship, Joe took a long pull at the bottle Mike passed him. Strange, he thought, how an unforseeable factor, upsetting life's routine equations, produces unguessed mental reactions. Until last night he'd never had a drink in his life. Then a little thing like the moon being blown up. Aloud he quoted, "'Yet what are all such mysteries to me Whose life is full of indices and surds? x^2 + 7x + 53 - 11/3'" "Whassat?" "Lewish Carroll," Joe answered, and wondered greatly at the vast amounts of liquor he had consumed in a short space of time. "'Beware the Jabberwock, my son....'" And Joe Waters, the world's most brilliant human, passed out. * * * * * They left Joe in the ship and dragged Mike before Slan. That gigantic figure sat in regal splendor at the end of a long corridor that ran the length of the vessel. On either side of Mike, as he stumbled toward the throne which seemed miles away, uniformed giants stood at attention. Had he stretched his arm he might have been able to rap a belt buckle. The sensation of being a pygmy increased as he approached Slan. Grouped around Slan, whose throne was on a platform several feet high, stood members of what seemed to be a retinue. They sneered and snickered as Mike drew near, and Mike had to strain his neck and blurred eyes to see them. "Are you ready to begin?" Slan asked in a voice that nearly deafened Mike. "We'll murder ya, ya bums," Mike answered belligerently. His whiskey-fogged mind somehow assumed Joe was still by his side.