Bugs around the arcs, and big, ebony Willie in his striped shirt, waiting in the ring, smiling, just _happening_ to be in Alix's corner as he climbed through. Willie bent, pretending to help part the ropes. Willie whispered, "You'll get all the breaks you need, Alix." Alix came through and stood erect. "I don't want a single break, Willie, just a fair shake. _You_ can understand it has to be like that." "I can, Alix. I'm sorry. About the name--just Alix? Or I could blur the rest." "Alix one-three-four-oh, not blurred. It's my name." He turned from Willie then, acknowledging the thunder behind him, both hands high in salute. He could see the rows stretching out from ringside--the first twenty all white. Most of the thunder came from high in the stands. And now the champ came down his aisle, his faded purple dressing robe across his bulky shoulders, his handlers a respectful few paces behind him. Nick Nolan, the middleweight champion of the world. His ears were lumpy, his brows ridged with scar tissue. His round head centered on those bulky shoulders, apparently with no neck to connect them. A fringe of red hair and a brutal, thick featured face. Made in His image? Some words ran through Alix's mind--"Is this the Thing Lord God made and gave--To have dominion over sea and land...?" This was a hell of a time to be recalling Markham. Nick came over to his corner, the false geniality on his face as phoney as the gesture of a champ coming to the challenger's corner. Nick said, "Best--between us, huh?" "The better," Alix corrected him. "Keep them above the belt, Nick." Nick grinned. "Don't I always? I came up the hard way, Alix." Alix said nothing, staring.... _when this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world_.... A man with a hook and an urge to combat. The hard way? Maybe. He'd taken enough punches to give him a lifetime lease on Queer Street. But he'd handed out more than he'd received. A spoiler and a mixer. A weight-draper and in-fighter and an easy bleeder. _Blood will run in the streets, Alix...._ In the ring, Nick's blood would flow, and further stain the spotted canvas. In the streets, the blood of Nick's brothers would flow, in the streets around the world. Title fight? Oh, yes. The Irishman first, he'd come up through the ring to his grudging equality, and the Jew, then, and the Filipino and the Negro and the Cuban and all the others who wouldn't stay down. Who had their fists and their guts. Mickey Walker, Benny Leonard, Joe Louis--immortals all. Great men, great champs, great memories. And he? Alix 1340? Different, a machine, no spark. He'd almost forgotten about no spark. Nick's manager came over to inspect the bandages on Alix's hands, and then went back to his corner with Manny to inspect those on the battered hands of the champ. Alix's hands were clean lined, no breaks, no lumps. Alix was a scientific hitter, and his protocol was better than the natural product.