"There may be no grounds from your point of view and theirs." Grant gestured at the crowd struggling through the exits. "But there are from mine. If I'm to remain Honorary President of the Association, Slag has got to go. That's final!" Woods said, "Lane, you could stop this another way. If you don't, and you put Slag out, they will think...." But Grant was already hurrying over to Bee Anthony. More people joined the group and talk died away as uniformed men bent down to the prone figure. Bee sobbed in Grant's arms. Her mind was withdrawn, grieving, and he patted her awkwardly while he thought of how much these young twins had come to mean to him in the years since he began his research in metaphysics. Just children, they had seemed at first. He had been young. Doctor Lane, graduate of '52 on fellowship, and they were the kids he had worked with, who had shown remarkable powers of the mind. Tony and himself--they had formulated the methods which still governed the cultivation of telekinesis. Grant had discovered--the principles, but it was the successful results of the Anthony boy's training which paved the way for others to learn. Yet Bee was different. No amount of tutoring could help her influence an object with her mind. Different, but not inferior, for Bee was a telepath. With intimates her conversation was most strange--much of it understood, yet left unspoken. Grant was one of the intimates. Her silent sorrow would have found him at any distance, but now he tried to evade it, because Tony was gone and Woods had come over to face the reporters--and Slag. "Mister Woods," began one of the men, but the Commissioner raised a hand and turned to the giant player. "You have had my personal warning, Slag. Do you think I will allow you to carry on your ugly career? Why, man, you're lucky the courts have not ruled you a murderer!" "It's not my fault," Slag said. "I didn't _try_ to smash him, honest. I don't know my own strength, I guess." Bee's reddened eyes stared at the man, and Grant whispered, "Darling, can you tell?" "You know their minds are closed to me. I just feel ... something _evil_. I must get out of here. Please, Grant, take me away." Behind Slag the little blond man Teagle, manager and second of the professional, spoke up. "Like Slag says, Commissioner, it isn't his fault. These fast-thinking players match him, get him all excited in the court, and then wonder why they get knocked down. They just don't have the stuff to match a champ." "Slag is the only man ever warned to pull his shots," agreed a reporter who was taking notes. "Gentlemen!" Woods turned to Grant. "All of us here respect the opinion of Dr. Lane, who brought this sport into being and who is, in my estimation, its greatest exponent. I have consulted with him. If he is to retain any connection whatever with the game, he informs me, Slag must get out." There was silence. The men stared first at the florid-faced Commissioner, then at Grant.