So Blackmer had done the smart thing—for him. He had lined up Larry with Fornax Kedrin, the champion of Dornel.
The Dornellians were big—eight feet high, with fingers that ended in razor-sharp claws. Of course, Larry would be provided with steel extensions on his fingers, but they wouldn't help much; Larry had never learned to use them. Fornax Kedrin would kill him in the first round.
Larry took another sip of his beer and stared forlornly at the bar. With his fingers, he traced meaningless designs in the moisture left by the cold glass.
Maybe he was taking the coward's way out—but it was the only way he could see. Better a live coward, he thought, than a dead hero.
"Another beer, bartender," he called, finishing the one he held.
"Coming up, Earthman."
The beer arrived and he took a sip. Training? The hell with it, he thought happily. He was going to get himself completely stewed tonight. Live high, die young, and have a good-looking corpse.
Or maybe it would be better simply to get aboard a spaceship and try to get away. Maybe the Interstellar Police would never find him.
He shook his head dismally. That wouldn't work, either. Nothing would work.
If only he'd had some practice fighting a Dornellian!