“Uh-uh,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re watchin’ this.”
Haney spoke with elaborate courtesy: “You mind, Braun? Want to get some friends of yours, too?”
“I got no friends,” said Braun. “Let’s go.”
The Chief went authoritatively to the owner of Sid’s Steak Joint. He paid the bill, talking. The owner of the place negligently jerked his thumb toward the rear. This was not an unparalleled request—for the use of a storeroom so that two men could batter each other undisturbed. Bootstrap was a law-abiding town, because to get fired from work on the Platform was to lose a place in the most important job in history. So it was inevitable that the settlement of quarrels in private should become commonplace.
The Chief leading, they filed through the kitchen and out of doors. The storeroom lay beyond. The Chief went in and switched on the light. He looked about and was satisfied. It was almost empty, save for stacked cartons in one corner. Braun was already taking off his coat.
“You want rounds and stuff?” demanded the Chief.
“I want fight,” said Braun thickly.
“Okay, then,” snapped the Chief. “No kickin’ or gougin’. A man’s down, he has a chance to get up. That’s all the rules. Right?”
Haney, stripping off his coat in turn, grunted an assent. He handed his coat to Joe. He faced his antagonist.
It was a curious atmosphere for a fight. There were merely the plank walls of the storeroom with a single dangling light in the middle and an unswept floor beneath. The Chief stood in the doorway, scowling. This didn’t feel right. There was not enough hatred in evidence to justify it. There was doggedness and resolution enough, but Braun was deathly white and if his face was contorted—and it was—it was not with the lust to batter and injure and maim. It was something else.