She'd finally got to a word I knew. "Hey," I protested, "what's this all about?"
She indicated the portraits of me hanging on the wall. She pointed out the statuettes. She picked up a magazine and showed me the ad on the back page—me, endorsing a boomerang. I'd got a thousand credits for that.
She went over to the bookcase and pulled out a copy of "How I Became Champ" and the first volume of "Gladiator Technique". Both by me. That is, ghost written for me; but my name was on the cover. She indicated two or three other books I was cashing in on.
"You're a phony, Jak," she repeated. "You used to be a nice quiet fellow, actually more shy and retiring than was good for you. Now your head is swollen beyond bearing."
I was getting a little hot about this. For the past few months I'd been acquiring the habit of having people look up to me, admiring me, asking for my autograph, that sort of thing.
"Look here," I said. "Just because you've known me for years and just because for most of that time I've been chasing you, doesn't mean that the Gladiator Champion of the Solar System is a nobody." I finished with what I thought would be the clincher. "Let me tell you, there isn't one girl in a billion who wouldn't be glad to be in your shoes—engaged to Jak Dempsi."
It was the clincher all right. She took her hands from her hips and folded them over her breasts and glared. "Oh yes there is," she told me. "There's exactly one girl who isn't interested in being engaged to you Gladiator Jak Dempsi. Me," she snapped.
I glared back at her. "Are you crazy?" I asked. "We're going to be married the day after tomorrow."
"That's where you're wrong," she snapped again. "I became engaged to a nice, quiet, thoughtful, second-rate gladiator. A mistake happened and he wound up Solar System Champion—and a stuffed shirt. The engagement is off."