"Stay back, Thorp!" Joel yelled. "He can see in the dark!"
Something snatched his paralyzer. He struck out blindly, felt his fist crunch against flesh and bone. The paralyzer clattered on the floor.
Joel's eyes were adjusting. He could make out a dim gray silhouette dancing in front of him. He struck at it. The shadow bobbed. Joel's fist whistled through air.
He struck again and missed. Then a barrage of fists exploded in his face. He was driven back against the wall.
He could see the elusive Roos more clearly, a weaving, bobbing silhouette. He swung and missed, swung and missed.
Roos hit him in the mouth, in the solar plexus.
Joel sagged gasping to his knees. Roos kicked him viciously in the kidneys. It was like the searing thrust of a knife.
He thought, I'm being licked. Once he'd seen a Histrofilm of a prizefight. That was why he couldn't hit the police chief. Roos was a skilled boxer.
He pulled himself groggily to his feet, lunged for him. He could see him quite clearly now but in varying shades of gray like a black and white photograph.
Roos danced aside, clipped him behind the ear. He was grinning. "Ox!" he said.