"Hey," I said, "that ought to be quite a fight. Who do you think we'll have representing the Solar System? A Slaber from Jupiter would be a good bet. He—"
There he went again. He screamed, "Of course! Of course, a Slaber would be best, but you're the champion! A stupid idiot—but champion!"
I gaped at that, then let my eyes go down to the news account. He was right. As champion, I was scheduled to meet the Centaurian gladiator. On the outcome would depend the fate of the System.
"Well," I said slowly. "Guess it makes sense at that. I am the best gladiator in the System."
He closed his little bird eyes in anguish.
I added, "As a matter of fact, I could use the exercise. I haven't had a meet in months." I eyed him accusingly. "What kind of a manager are you? Here I am, Solar System Champ and you haven't got me a fight since I won the Interplanetary Meet. The biggest drawing card in—"
He'd got to the point where he was so mad he wasn't hopping any more. Just breathing real deep.
He said, "The reason you haven't had any meets since you became champ is because I'd rather have a live champ making a good living endorsing Callipso Snak-goat Cheese—and me getting ten percent—than I would have a dead champ."
"What'd'ya mean?" I scoffed. "Nobody gets killed in an exhibition match." I flexed my muscles. "Besides, I can take care of myself up against any earth-side gladiator after—"