"More than personal considerations are involved," added Woods. "Slag's brutal style of play, according to Dr. Lane, endangers the entire future of this grand sport." The black-robed player looked around for support. Little Teagle pushed in front of the Commissioner. "You mean that has-been," he pointed at Grant, "is trying to get rid of my boy? It ain't fair, I say. Even when he tries to take it easy, Slag has it tough. They're scared, and won't match us--even these amateurs. And yet look what we've done to pep the game up!" "You may be right, Mister Teagle. All things considered, however, I feel the merit of Dr. Lane's suggest--" "Who is this Lane?" The little man's face was fierce. "So he starts the game, and invents the ball, so what? They used to call him a champ, the _master_, but that's a long time ago. Now that he's out, he don't like Slag coming up so strong. It kills him that he ain't the best any more." "That will be all for tonight. In the morning I'll have an official release ready." The reporters were tense, anxious to miss nothing. "And, gentlemen, you have a good idea of the nature of that statement." "Wait! I'm telling you," said Teagle. "We've tried to get a match with this Lane. Here it is, boys, the real truth. The guy wants Slag out because he's scared to meet him. Right here and now we challenge him! And I bet he hasn't got the guts to take us up." "I feel," said Woods, "that a scientist like Dr. Lane should not be subjected to this ... this insolence." The reporters ran toward the exit, eager to call in this news break. Grant said nothing. Aware of Bee's feelings, he shot a look of contempt at Teagle and turned. Yet he knew, as they walked slowly away, that behind him were no feelings of good will. At best, the men awaited his next move--and until then suspended judgment. * * * * * In three days the city became for Grant Lane a savage jungle. The papers shrieked at him Teagle's endless insults, Slag's boastful challenge. Each statement by the Commissioner cleverly shifted more responsibility from Woods to himself, and the tragic end of yet another match was played down until it appeared that Slag, and not his opponent, was the injured party. After all, was his crowd-convincing argument, did they jail professional fighters in the old days when one was killed? Just a little accident in the heat of fair contest; it was no more than that. Yet there _was_ more, this time. People appeared unsatisfied, disapproving of Grant, as if he should offer himself as a sacrifice to their sympathy with Slag. The one time he went restlessly into the streets, they watched him sullenly, waiting....