* * * * * Charlie Jingle gripped the edge of the ring hard, digging his hands into the canvas, straining and twisting in tortured anguish with every slashing blow that struck the Tanker. He watched the two fighters weave, jerk, dart--bodies and arms flashing blurs, smashing blows one to the other in sequences that were too complex for the eye to follow in detail. He groaned, cursed, hoped, bellowed, roared and screamed along with two thousand nine hundred and seventy four other human beings in the arena. The round was the twenty-sixth. This was the stretch. The final, ineradicable stretch. The bell banged away and the fighters parted under the glare of the lights, dancing away from each other to their corners. Charlie shot the stool into the ring and went through the ropes. Tanker dropped like a chunk of hot lead onto the stool. "How do you feel, boy? How do you feel?" prompted Charlie, pumping the cooling-fluid into Tanker's insides. "Hot," rasped the Tanker. "Hot as hell." "Want me to throw in the towel?" asked Charlie, working fast, working the pump up and down quickly. "No, goddamit. Wrap it around your eyes if you can't take it." Charlie worked the body, stimulating the free flow of oil through the system. "How'm I doin'?" asked the Tanker grudgingly. "Well at least you're still in there." "By God, Charlie! Fighting Machines ain't supposed to be too emotional, but if anybody gets me sorer than you do so help me, I'll murder him!" Charlie Jingle worked the body fast, checked the heated joints for too much strain. "Favor the right. The elbow's gettin' creaky. And save the fight for the Champ. You'll need it." The buzzer sounded, Charlie shoved his tools through the ropes onto the edge of the deck, climbed out, and holding onto the edge of the stool, he said, "Watch his Three-Six combo. He's gonna angle for your jaw pretty soon." Tanker turned, looking down at him. "You don't trust me at all, do you?" The bell banged and quickly Tanker was on his feet, moving in his curious, side-long motion. * * * * * By the end of the twenty-seventh, Tanker came back to his corner lame. The Champ had dented his forehead. "How is it?" asked Charlie Jingle. "Fine," said Tanker thickly. "It's fine." There was a slur to his voice, which tipped off what was beginning to happen. Tanker's co-ordination system had been damaged. "He's crackin' down, now. He's got all his power behind them punches. You can see it when he pivots." "Yeah? Well _I_ kin feel it when he punches," said the Tanker. Charlie pumped him up with cooling fluid, worked his body. In the pit of his stomach was a sickness, a feeling of helplessness because Tanker's trouble was not where he could reach it, now. Now it was inside. "He's gonna knock your head off, this one, Tank. You got a dent in it." "I know I got a goddam dent. You don't hafta tell me." Charlie put his gear out of the ropes.