"Blackmer?" he called.
There was no answer. The manager was not around. Larry got up, looked bleary-eyed into the other room, and, seeing no one, dropped off into a deep sleep. His last thought before he blacked out was that he'd get into the ring and do his best. He'd already beaten one Dornellian; how tough could Fornax Kedrin be? And what did it matter anyway? He was bound to get killed sooner or later anyway. That was the unspoken assumption every fighter operated under.
When he awoke the following morning, he didn't feel quite so certain about things. The brawl the night before had taken a terrific toll on his nervous system, and he knew that he'd be butchered if he stepped into the ring with the Dornellian champ. He was in no condition to fight.
"Blackmer? You here?"
The manager's bed had been slept in, but there was no sign of him. Larry groped for the house phone, grabbed it, spoke into it. "Do you know where Mr. Blackmer is?"
"He's in the bar, sir," said the switchboard boy. "Do you want me to call him for you?"
"Yes, please."
A moment later, Larry heard the manager's harsh voice. "Blackmer here. Who's calling?"
"This is Larry. I'm ready for that fight, Blackmer," he said, hoping he'd have the strength to go through with it. "And after I get through with the Dornellian, I'm going to knock your teeth in. This is my last fight for you."
"Now Larry," Blackmer said. "Don't be hasty. I—"