Jones came down from his high seat and started toward me. I stepped back to the edge of the circle and Chicago did the same. His man was also on the way over. The crowd was having a fit.
Chicago winked at me. "I guess it's a draw. The customers are going to start tearing up the seats."
Joro-Jones and his opposite number met near the circle and bowed stiffly to each other. They said nothing, but from the expressions on their faces I gathered that they were having a rip-roaring telepathic conversation. Finally they bowed again and Jones took my elbow to lead me back to the sidelines.
"So long, Chicago," I called. "Good luck."
"Thanks," he said. "Same to you. See you around, maybe."
One of the officials was trying to make an announcement to the outraged crowd as Jones and I went under the stands to the dressing room.
Sorrow and shame seemed to be Jones's chief emotions as he helped me off with my steel claws and the other lethal paraphernalia.
"I suppose this is worse than if I got killed," I said.
"Infinitely," he said. "Never before has cowardice besmirched the Sport."