o
toss a bag over his head, Lindsay had no idea of what the would-be
assassin looked like. For a moment he could only struggle blindly to
retain his balance, expecting every instant to feel the quick searing
heat of a blaster burn through his back.

But no heat came, nor did the chill of a dagger. Instead he felt his
attacker's strong hands encircle his neck in a _judo_ grip.

This was something Lindsay understood. He thrust both his own hands up
and backward, getting inside the assassin's grip and breaking it. His
thumbnails dug into nerve centers and he bent an arm sharply. There was
a gasp of agony and he felt a large body crumple under the pressure.

* * * * *

Lindsay's first impulse was to summon the constabulary. His second,
after examining the face of his would-be slayer, was to drag the man
into the shelter of his apartment, revive him and seek to learn what he
could about the attempt.

To his astonishment he discovered that he knew the man. His assigned
murderer was long, red-headed Pat O'Ryan rated as a top gladiator, a
tennis and squash champion whose reputation was almost as widespread
among sporting fans on Mars as on Earth. Lindsay had remodeled his own
backhand, just the year before, upon that of the man sent to kill him.

He got some whiskey from the serving bar beside the vidar screen, poured
a little of it between the unconscious killer's lips. O'Ryan sputtered
and sat up slowly, blinking. He said, "Get me some gin, will you?"

Lindsay returned the whiskey to its place, got the requested liquor,
offered some neat to the tennis player in a glass. O'Ryan downed it,
shuddered, looked at Lindsay curiously. He said, "What went wrong?
You're supposed to be dead."

Lindsay shrugged and said, "I know some _judo_ too. You weren't quite
fast enough, Pat."

O'Ryan moaned again, reached for the bottle. Then he said, "I remember
now. Thank God you got my right arm--I'm left-handed."

"I know," Lindsay told him laconically.

The would-be assassin looked frightened. He said, "How do you know?"

"I play a little tennis myself," Lindsay told him. "How come they sent a
man like you on such a mission?"

"Top gladiator--top assignment," said the athlete. "We're supposed to do
something besides play games for our keep."

"That's a wrinkle in the social setup I didn't know about," said
Lindsay. "Mind telling me who sent you?"

"Not at all. It was my sponsors, the New Hiberni