"Hey," I said, "that ought to be quite a fight. Who do you think we'll
have representing the Solar System? A _Slaber_ from Jupiter would be a
good bet. He--"
There he went again. He screamed, "Of course! Of course, a _Slaber_
would be best, _but you're the champion! A stupid idiot--but
champion!_"
* * * * *
I gaped at that, then let my eyes go down to the news account. He was
right. As champion, I was scheduled to meet the Centaurian gladiator.
On the outcome would depend the fate of the System.
"Well," I said slowly. "Guess it makes sense at that. I _am_ the best
gladiator in the System."
He closed his little bird eyes in anguish.
I added, "As a matter of fact, I could use the exercise. I haven't had
a meet in months." I eyed him accusingly. "What kind of a manager are
you? Here I am, Solar System Champ and you haven't got me a fight since
I won the Interplanetary Meet. The biggest drawing card in--"
He'd got to the point where he was so mad he wasn't hopping any more.
Just breathing real deep.
He said, "The reason you haven't had any meets since you became champ
is because I'd rather have a live champ making a good living endorsing
Callipso Snak-goat Cheese--and me getting ten percent--than I would
have a dead champ."
"What'd'ya mean?" I scoffed. "Nobody gets killed in an exhibition
match." I flexed my muscles. "Besides, I can take care of myself up
against any earth-side gladiator after--"
He glowered at me. "Anybody who killed the champ, by accident or
otherwise, in an exhibition match, would have a nice reputation for
himself. _You_ might go into the arena with the idea of not killing
your opponent, but would _he_?"