Behind him Jamison watched the two figures running away. His face froze into granite. Rage and resentment surged within him. Across the plain he saw the man who had stolen, yes, stolen, the championship from him. The fighter loped toward him casually, sneering and confident. Jamison felt a surge like an electric shock across his shoulders. His teeth ground together and he could hear their roaring within his ears. Deliberately he moved from behind his gun, started at a fighter's dog trot toward his opponent. It occurred to him that Murph and Forsyth would beat him there. He was glad they were willing to help, but for the sake of his own integrity he considered this his fight.
Jamison ran swiftly then. He passed Forsyth and Murph, determined to be the first to reach the one man he hated. He sprinted eagerly, sucking the strange air chemicals of this world into his lungs. He was short of breath. Behind him he heard the heavy thudding of Murph plunging and plowing toward him, and in addition, the light but rapid steps of Forsyth. By now he didn't care. He was confronting his opponent.
Dropping into a crouch, Jamison moved in. Feet wide, tense; there would be no mistake, no error, this time. His fist lashed out and his opponent fell on the strange and powdery dust of a strange world millions of miles from their first fight.
The man started struggling up—and again flat-footed, tense, fists like crunching sledge hammers, Jamison dove at him.
And then it happened. Murph hit Jamison from the side. Raw and choking with rage, Murph clubbed, groped, kicked, fouled, until the ex-fighter fell in the pale and strange dust. Murph's voice was hoarse and shaking:
"Hit my woman, will you!" he screamed in rage.
Jamison tried to rally, but each time he moved Murph's fists slammed against his face and head.
There was a final crash as the back of his head struck against the rocks on the ground. Jamison lay in the dust on an alien planet and from behind his right ear gray and reddish matter oozed. He didn't move.
Murph stood up. He looked again at Sitra. He was choked and tired, standing there, and as he grasped for breath, Forsyth ran by him, ran up to her. Angrily he watched. Forsyth running up to his woman! What was wrong with these men? Murph saw Forsyth put his arms around Sitra, and say—meaninglessly to Murph—"Jimmy, Jimmy!"