The Tanker shook his fist under Charlie Jingle's face. Oil had drained from his system up into his face and head, lubricating his head-mechanisms as protection from strain, as his head-parts were being overworked. His "skin" looked blotchy. "Charlie! After this is over, I want quits with you! You hear me? I want quits!" "Suits me fine," said Charlie Jingle. "I'll bet--" began Tanker Bell, "--I'll bet you ain't even gonna bet on me! Are you?" "Sure! I'm gonna bet a thousand on you in the open market. Then what I'm gonna do is let Hannigan bet five thousand for me on the sly on the Champ. That way, at least I'll come out with somethin'." "Even Belok's better than you! At least he's got guts enough to fix fights. You ain't even got guts enough to fight one!" Charlie Jingle walked to the door. "You better rest up," he said, and swung the door open. "Don't worry about me," said the Tanker. "I can take care of myself!" Charlie Jingle looked at him a moment, a cloud of inexpressible something in his eyes. "See you later," he said quietly, and shut the door. * * * * * Charlie Jingle strode, shoulder to shoulder with Tanker Bell, down the long cluttered corridor of Golum Auditorium toward the roped ring. There swelled, to either side of them, the surging roar of the crowd, and it seemed to Charlie that the sound lifted the bitterness of his expression from his face and floated it forcibly toward the rafters overhead, for all to see, and to know that Charlie Jingle had given up the good fight, Charlie Jingle was tired, had been had, was through, inside and out. The fix was in. There was no way to stop it. That was the way the bugle blew. They climbed into the ropes and the roar of the crowd boomed and grew, electric with the mood and feel of battle. Swiftly Charlie disrobed the Tank, sat him on a stool, and looked over at the Champion's corner. Iron-Man Pugg was already seated. On his face, as on Tanker's, there was the brooding look of combat, of dead-sure certainty that he, and he alone would win. And Charlie felt a jolt of sick depression in his stomach, because he knew it was true. The robot-referee came into the ring, and the crowd immediately hushed. A dime-sized microphone on an almost invisible wire dropped down from the batteries of overhead lights (this was more in the line of tradition than need, since the robot-referee had a built-in mike of his own), and the referee held up his hands for complete silence. The crowd shushed itself to a murmer, and the referee went through his introductory piece. After each fighter had received the crowd's roar of approbation, the referee signalled for them to come to the center. They went back to their corners. Charlie shook the robe from the Tanker's back as a hum of excitement charged through the crowd. The buzzer sounded and the fighters rose, ready. Charlie stepped through the ropes, slapped Tanker on his back. "Do your best, Tank."