By the end of the twenty-seventh, Tanker came back to his corner lame. The Champ had dented his forehead.
"How is it?" asked Charlie Jingle.
"Fine," said Tanker thickly. "It's fine." There was a slur to his voice, which tipped off what was beginning to happen. Tanker's co-ordination system had been damaged.
"He's crackin' down, now. He's got all his power behind them punches. You can see it when he pivots."
"Yeah? Well I kin feel it when he punches," said the Tanker.
Charlie pumped him up with cooling fluid, worked his body. In the pit of his stomach was a sickness, a feeling of helplessness because Tanker's trouble was not where he could reach it, now. Now it was inside.
"He's gonna knock your head off, this one, Tank. You got a dent in it."
"I know I got a goddam dent. You don't hafta tell me."
Charlie put his gear out of the ropes.
"I told you it was a fix. Don't blame me for nothin'."