"That's where you're wrong," she snapped again. "I became engaged to a nice, quiet, thoughtful, second-rate gladiator. A mistake happened and he wound up Solar System Champion--and a stuffed shirt. The engagement is off." "Second-rate gladiator...." I blurted indignantly, but she was already on her way, stamping across the Venusian Chameleon rug to the door. I was so surprised I stood there, letting her go. It took me a full minute to understand that Suzi had just run out on me. _Me!_ The victor at the Interplanetary Meet. The sole survivor of the scores of gladiators who fought it out once every ten years to see which planet of the System would dominate interplanetary affairs. I went over to the bookcase and wrenched out one of the many books on prehistoric times that Suzi was always insisting I read. That's Suzi's bug, if you didn't know. Prehistoric times, customs, history, language, legends--all of a period that most people don't even know ever existed, and don't care. The book was "Glossary of Ancient Terminology." I thumbed through it and finally found my words. "Stuffed shirt!" I yelped indignantly. "A _stuffed shirt_! Me?" * * * * * Ten minutes later I was in the Gladiator Room of the Spacenter Building and already had three or four slugs of _woji_ under my belt. "A stuffed shirt, yet. Me! Solar System Champ." I grunted sarcastically and made with a curt flip of my hand to the bartender. He was a Venusian spiderman, who of course, make the best barkeeps in the System. "Another woji," I ordered. A guy drifted down to me from the other end of the bar. "Hanging one on, Champ?" he asked. "You must be out of training." I looked him up and down. I'd never seen him before. However, in my position you have to be nice to the fans. I said, "Woji doesn't bother me. I _train_ on it." Suzi's words were still burning. I added, out of the side of my mouth, "If you really got it, you got it, and if you haven't you haven't and all the training in the world won't give it to you." I flexed my muscles. "Woji isn't going to hurt a man like me." He blinked in admiration. "Guess you're right at that, Champ," he said. "It's the second-raters that have to be watching everything they eat, everything they drink, everything they do." "Right," I told him, condescendingly. He climbed up on the stool next to me. "Have a woji?" I asked him. I was glad to have his company; at least it'd keep my mind off Suzi. "No thanks," he said, shuddering. "But I wouldn't mind a bloor." So I ordered him a bloor and another double woji for me. My new friend said hesitantly, "Champ, what'd 'ya think of these visitors, explorers, or whatever you want to call them, from Centaurus?"