rrupted them
both. He recognized the newcomer's voice from the final night in
the barracks.

"Let him in, Dr. Caulry," he said. "I want to meet a man who thinks
there is something more important than the Twenties."

While the doctor stood undecided, Ihjel moved quickly around him and
closed the door in his flushed face. He looked down at the Winner in
the bed. There was a drip plugged into each one of Brion's arms. His
eyes peered from sooty hollows; the eyeballs were a network of red
veins. The silent battle he fought against death had left its mark.
His square, jutting jaw now seemed all bone, as did his long nose
and high cheekbones. They were prominent landmarks rising from the
limp greyness of his skin. Only the erect bristle of his
close-cropped hair was unchanged. He had the appearance of having
suffered a long and wasting illness.

"You look like sin," Ihjel said. "But congratulations on your
victory."

"You don't look so very good yourself--for a Winner," Brion snapped
back. His exhaustion and sudden peevish anger at this man let the
insulting words slip out. Ihjel ignored them.

But it was true; Winner Ihjel looked very little like a Winner, or
even an Anvharian. He had the height and the frame all right, but it
was draped in billows of fat--rounded, soft tissue that hung loosely
from his limbs and made little limp rolls on his neck and under his
eyes. There were no fat men on Anvhar, and it was incredible that
a man so gross could ever have been a Winner. If there was muscle
under the fat it couldn't be seen. Only his eyes appeared to still
hold the strength that had once bested every man on the planet to
win the annual games. Brion turned away from their burning stare,
sorry now he had insulted the man without good reason. He was too
sick, though, to bother about apologizing.

Ihjel didn't care either. Brion looked at him again and felt the
impression of things so important that he himself, his insults, even
the Twenties were of no more interest than dust motes in the air. It
was only a fantasy of a sick mind, Brion knew, and he tried to shake
the feeling off. The two men stared at each other, sharing a common
emotion.

The door opened soundlessly behind Ihjel and he wheeled about,
moving as only an athlete of Anvhar can move. Dr. Caulry was halfway
through the door, off balance. Two men in uniform came close behind
him. Ihjel's body pushed against them, his speed and the mountainous
mass of his f