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?"
How is it that when you become a celebrity--no matter in what
field--your opinions on every subject seem noteworthy to everybody
else? I'd read a little about the Centaurians, seen an item or two on
the viziscreen, but I didn't know anything about them worth mentioning.
I was too busy with my own rapidly developing affairs to spend much
time keeping up with Solar System news.
"What about them?" I asked, noticing that my tongue was at last
beginning to get a bit thick. I ordered another drink. The bartender
started to protest, but then shrugged six of his shoulders and began
mixing it.
"Didn't you hear the latest?" the guy asked. "They're looking for room
for colonization and the Solar System attracts them."
It was shortly after this that the fog rolled in, and it didn't roll
out again until the following morning when my manager gave me a
dealcoholizer.
* * * * *
He was hopping mad. And when I say hopping mad I mean just that since
Mari Nown, my manager, is a chicken-headed Mercurian _Bouncer_. A
nationalized citizen of Terra, of course, but a Mercurian with all
their characteristic excitability.
When my head cleared, he was jumping up and down in front of me
and waving a sheet of newspaper he'd torn off the recorder on the
viziscreen.
"Simmer down," I told him. "My head still aches, and besides, I can't
understand what you're yelling about." I added nastily, "In fact, I
can't understand how anything could happen that you'd yell about. All
you do is sit around and let ten percent of everything I make roll into
your pockets. You're probably the richest gladiator manager in the
system and--"
He stopped hopping long enough to fix me with a beady eye. Finally
he became coherent. "And that's exactly what I want to remain!" he
shrilled. "You stupid _makron_, what're you trying to do, get yourself
killed?" He waved the news sheet again.
I began to catch on to the fact that I must have done something the day
before while under the influence of--ugh, I couldn't even think of the
word without my stomach churning.
"All right," I said. "What is it? I don't remember."
He was prancing again. "You don't remember! I'll say you don't
remember! If you did, you'd be hiding under the bed."
That got to me. I raised up indignantly. "Hiding under the bed? Me? I
don't have to hide from _anything_. I'm champ!"
"That's pronounced _chump_," he whistled nastily. He tossed me the news
sheet.
The headline read: _Interplanetary Champ says issues between Solar
System and Centaurus should be settled in the arena._
"Did I say that?" I said interestedly. "When?"
He was almost hopping again. "To that cub reporter in the Gladiator
Room, you stupid _makron_!"
"Don't swear at me," I growled. "I didn't know he was a reporter.
Besides, what're you so excited about? Maybe it'd be a good idea."
"Look at that next head," he shrilled.