"A what?" I complained. "Listen, Suzi, don't start calling me those
prehistoric names again."
"A phony," she said, "a humbug, a four flusher, a quack, a faker...."
She'd finally got to a word I knew. "Hey," I protested, "what's this
all about?"
She indicated the portraits of me hanging on the wall. She pointed out
the statuettes. She picked up a magazine and showed me the ad on the
back page--me, endorsing a boomerang. I'd got a thousand credits for
that.
She went over to the bookcase and pulled out a copy of "How I Became
Champ" and the first volume of "Gladiator Technique". Both by me. That
is, ghost written for me; but my name was on the cover. She indicated
two or three other books I was cashing in on.
"You're a phony, Jak," she repeated. "You used to be a nice quiet
fellow, actually more shy and retiring than was good for you. Now your
head is swollen beyond bearing."
I was getting a little hot about this. For the past few months I'd been
acquiring the habit of having people look up to me, admiring me, asking
for my autograph, that sort of thing.
"Look here," I said. "Just because you've known me for years and
just because for most of that time I've been chasing you, doesn't
mean that the Gladiator Champion of the Solar System is a nobody." I
finished with what I thought would be the clincher. "Let me tell you,
there isn't one girl in a billion who wouldn't be glad to be in your
shoes--engaged to Jak Dempsi."
* * * * *
It was the clincher all right. She took her hands from her hips and
folded them over her breasts and glared. "Oh yes there is," she told
me. "There's exactly one girl who isn't interested in being engaged to
you Gladiator Jak Dempsi. Me," she snapped.
I glared back at her. "Are you crazy?" I asked. "We're going to be
married the day after tomorrow."
"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."