She was a real tiny thing, but pretty. I sat in a room with lockers and a rubdown table. I was wearing trunks and a robe. I looked at my hands. They weren't taped. Either Angel Martell was a boxer with considerable time to go as yet before he was on, or he was a wrestler. I shuddered. I didn't know one damn thing about boxing or wrestling. Street fighting, yeah—but how the hell would street fighting help me here?
"Quit showing your muscles off to the little woman," a voice said. The voice belonged to a tired-looking little man with glasses.
I said, "Sure."
Little Sally pouted. "In fact, Mrs. Martell," the tired-looking fellow told her, "it might be better if you find your seat out front now and wait for it to get underway. You're liable to make Angel nervous in here."
"Well, if you say so," she said doubtfully but timidly. She went to the door.
"Wait!" I called. I was going to ask her about Xlptl.
"Wait, nothing!" the man who must have been my manager said. "Out she goes."
The door closed behind Sally. I shuddered. I had to find out about Xlptl before I could leave her. Which meant I had to go through with whatever was waiting for me in the arena.
After a while my manager came over and taped my fists. So it was boxing, I thought. That was worse even than wrestling. In wrestling there was a script, and the participants followed it. In boxing I could—and probably would—get my head handed to me.
We went upstairs. The manager, still looking tired, didn't say a word. The arena was small, noisy, and smoke-filled. The ring seemed very close. Too close. We reached it too soon. I climbed through the ropes awkwardly, almost stumbling and falling across the ring. Someone hooted.