onsciousness. The nagging memory of the previous night
loomed up then, and he turned it over and over in his mind,
examining it from all sides.

It was the very unexpectedness of the event that had been so
unusual. The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest,
therefore nights in the dormitories were as quiet as death. During
the first few days, of course, the rule wasn't observed too closely.
The men themselves were too keyed up and excited to rest easily. But
as soon as the scores began to mount and eliminations cut into their
ranks, there was complete silence after dark. Particularly so on
this last night, when only two of the little cubicles were occupied,
the thousands of others standing with dark, empty doors.

Angry words had dragged Brion from a deep and exhausted sleep. The
words were whispered but clear--two voices, just outside the thin
metal of his door. Someone spoke his name.

"... Brion Brandd. Of course not. Whoever said you could was making
a big mistake and there is going to be trouble--"

"Don't talk like an idiot!" The other voice snapped with a harsh
urgency, clearly used to command. "I'm here because the matter is of
utmost importance, and Brandd is the one I must see. Now stand aside!"

"The Twenties--"

"I don't give a damn about your games, hearty cheers and physical
exercises. This is _important_, or I wouldn't be here!"

The other didn't speak--he was surely one of the officials--and
Brion could sense his outraged anger. He must have drawn his gun,
because the intruder said quickly, "Put that away. You're being a
fool!"

"Out!" was the single snarled word of the response. There was
silence then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.

"Ten seconds."

The voice chopped away Brion's memories and he let awareness seep
back into his body. He was unhappily conscious of his total
exhaustion. The month of continuous mental and physical combat had
taken its toll. It would be hard to stay on his feet, much less
summon the strength and skill to fight and win a touch.

"How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching
muscles.

"Four-four. All you need is a touch to win!"

"That's all he needs too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look
at the wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat. No
one who had reached the finals in the Twenties could possibly be
a weak opponent, but this one, Irolg, was the pick of the lot. A
red-haired mount