_What's this God like? It would depend upon who you ask. They ever tell you what He looks like?_ The blackness turned red, the red of blood, running in the streets. And there was suddenly a cross, and a dim figure and he heard Willie's sonorous, "Five, six--" He turned over at seven, was on one knee at eight and up at nine. And Nick came bulling in, both hands ready. The bell. He got to his corner without Manny's help. The magic of Manny's hands dug at his neck, bringing clarity. The ice, the other handler probing at his flaccid legs. "I saw a cross, Manny." "Nobody's crossing us, Alix. Don't think, Alix. Here." He gave him the water bottle. Alix rinsed his mouth, and spit it out. "He's rough, Manny. He knows all the tricks." "Don't you?" "I don't want to. I saw a cross when I was unconscious, Manny. A cross like you see on a church." "Don't tell me about it. Get him, boy. Don't try to mix with him, but get him, with that left, with your speed, with your brain. Get him." "I'll try. But he's not typical, Manny. They're not all like Nick." "The hell they aren't. He's one of the better ones. Get him." The buzzer, the bell, and Nick. Nick with the iron jaw, Nick with the hook and the bulging shoulders, Nick the champion. Alix put the left into Nick's face, but it wasn't a jab. It was a straight left, with shoulder in it. It twisted Nick's nose, and brought blood. Nick was nettled, and he charged. He charged into a straight, sweet right hand that was delivered from a flat-footed stance. Nick wavered, and tried to grab. Alix felt his strength pour back and the pattern of his feet was sure and planned. A left, a feint, a jolting right, moving around this hulk, this blundering knot of flesh and muscle, beating a tattoo on him, spreading the blood. _Get him._ It looked like a slaughter-house. Blood all over Nick's face, and blood matting the curled, sweaty hair on his chest. Starting to look dazed, starting to wonder, the champ. The untypical man? He must be, he had to be, to have dominion over sea and land. Why didn't he go down? Couldn't he see the pattern of it, the pattern Alix was tracing for him with his blood-soaked gloves? Why didn't he go down? Why didn't he quit? He hadn't quit by the end of the fifth round. Out there, those eighty thousand were silent. This was no fight, this was now murder. Why didn't he quit? Alix asked Manny, on the stool, before the sixth, "Why doesn't he quit? He can't win. Manny, I hate to hit him." "Don't be a sucker. Don't be a damned fool." Manny's voice was hoarse. "As long as there's a spark of life in those bastards, they won't quit. He's dangerous yet, Alix." A spark, a spark--Life? Cognizance? No, life, a spark of life. In the sixth, Nick almost went to his knees, in the middle of the ring. But he got control, and stumbled toward Alix. Alix came in fast and carelessly--and the earth erupted.