"I know," Lindsay told him laconically.
The would-be assassin looked frightened. He said, "How do you know?"
"I play a little tennis myself," Lindsay told him. "How come they sent a man like you on such a mission?"
"Top gladiator—top assignment," said the athlete. "We're supposed to do something besides play games for our keep."
"That's a wrinkle in the social setup I didn't know about," said Lindsay. "Mind telling me who sent you?"
"Not at all. It was my sponsors, the New Hibernian A.C." He frowned. "According to the computers I was in. There's going to be hell to pay over my muffing it."
"How do you feel about that?" the Martian asked him.
O'Ryan shrugged. "It's okay by me," he said. "They can hardly degrade me for fouling up this kind of a job. I'll simply tell them their information was incomplete. No one knew you knew judo." He eyed the gin, added, "A good thing you didn't feed me whiskey. I'm allergic to all grain products—even in alcohol. Comes from being fed too much McCann's Irish oatmeal when I was a kid."
"Interesting," said Lindsay, wondering how the conversation had taken this turn. "What does whiskey do to you?"
The gladiator shuddered. "It usually hits me about twenty-four hours afterward. Makes my eyes water so I can't see much. I've got a match at the Colosseum tomorrow night. I hope you'll be there."