There would be no crowd. Just the cameras, the crews and officials. The
fight would be televised in 3-D and filmed in slow motion. If a decision
were needed to determine the winner, it would be given only after a
careful study had been made of the films.

There was little to be done in the studio and Milt had timed Frankie's
warm-up right to the minute. The fighters and their controllers took
their positions: the controllers seated in high chairs on opposite sides
of the ring; the fighters in opposite corners.

As the warning buzzer sounded, Frankie felt Milt take control. This one
he would watch closely.

At the bell Frankie rose and moved out slowly. He noticed how relaxed,
almost limp, Milt was keeping him. There was only a little more effort
used than in the pre-fight warm-up. His left hand had extra speed but
only enough power to command respect. The pattern was just about as he
had expected. As the fight went along the left would add up the points.
But his thoughts were centered on a single question. _How is it going to
be on my own?_

In the early rounds he was amazed at the extreme caution Milt was
employing. Nappy Gordon's face was beginning to redden from the
continual massage of Frankie's brisk left and occasional right. But
Frankie felt that his own face must be getting flushed with eagerness.
The glory of going in and trying to do it by himself; of beating Pop
Monroe without Milt's help. He wondered if Milt would have to clamp on
the controls again. He sure hoped not. But there wasn't anything to
really worry about. Milt could beat Pop Monroe and he wouldn't let
Frankie take a beating by himself.

Frankie's attention was caught by some odd thoughts in Milt's mind. Milt
didn't seem to be sending them, yet they were clear and direct: _You
really think you've got it, boy? That vital ingredient?_

_What you talking about?_

_Huh? Me? Oh, nothing. Take it easy._ But Milt's thoughts were troubled.

_When you going to let me go?_

_I said, take it easy. We'll see._

* * * * *

The sixth round came and Frankie felt no weariness. Milt was working him
like he was made of fragile glass. Nor was Nappy tiring so far as he
could notice. Pop Monroe was trying for just one solid blow to slow down
the Champ. So far nothing even jarring had come close to landing.

In the seventh Frankie noticed a little desperation in Monroe's tactics.
To win now Monroe and Gordon needed a kno