_He watches the sparrows_, Manny had said. A _signal_, Joe had said. I wish somebody would give me a signal, Alix thought. It's too big for me. The introductions, the numbers not blurred. The instructions, and Willie saying, "Clean tonight, Nick. I know you well, Nick. But this one is touchy, remember." "Ah, save it," Nick told him. Champ, big man, Nick Nolan. The buzzer and Manny's brief pat on the shoulder. Rising, and flexing on the ropes, looking down into that sea of faces, white faces. The ones who held dominion over sea and land. Bugs in the arcs, a hush on the crowd and the bell. Alix turned and here came Nick, shuffling across, wasting no time, bringing the fight to the upstart. Nick had a right hand, too, but it was clumsy. The hook was better trained. Alix circled to his left, away from Nick's left, and put his jab easily to Nick's nose. There are sportswriters, Alix knew, who talked of a _right_ hook, but a man would need to be a contortionist to throw it. Unless he was _completely_ unorthodox. Or a southpaw. Nick was neither. Nick had a right hand like a mallet, but it came from below or above, and was telegraphed by the pulling up of his right foot. Nick saved that for the time his opponent couldn't see or react. Nick came in with the hook, trying to slide under Alix's extended left hand, trying to time the pattern of his feet to Alix's circling, looking for the hole. Alix peppered him with the left, and then saw the low left hand of Nick's. Alix stopped circling--and tossed a singing right. It traveled over Nick's left and found the button. Nick took two stumbling backward steps, and went down. Resin dust swirled and the scream of the stands was like a single anguished cry. Alix went to a neutral corner, shrugging his shoulder muscles loose, trying to still the sudden pounding of his heart. Nick had been knocked down before, often. He took a full count, under the rules, but was on one knee at three. The big black semaphore of Willie's right hand and then those hands wiping the gloves and Willie stepping clear. Nick stormed in. He got through Alix's left, this time, and sent a looping right hand high. It missed, but it was meant to miss. Nick's elbow smashed Alix's mouth. Rage, a red rage and they stood in the corner, trading leather. The hook came in low, and pain knifed into Alix's groin. In his aching blindness he could feel Nick's feet groping for his, trying to find his instep. Champion, model. Alix grabbed, and hung on. This one he had to win. This one could be lost, right now. Nick said, "Break it up, phoney man. I can't hit you when you're hanging on." The big slap of Willie's hand. Willie, playing it straight. Alix broke at the touch. Alix broke--and Nick threw the right hand, on the break. Foul? Of course, but Alix went down, his senses numb, his mind turning black. He lay on his face, not moving, the blackness moving through his body.