Ker-jon groped upward, blindly, got his fingers at the corner of the mutant's mouth, pushed in and tugged. Flam-harol screamed, rolled off him.
They stood up, glaring at each other. Ker-jon's breath came in ragged gasps. He wanted to rest, rest....
His hands felt weary, so weary that he hardly could lift them, and that was no good, for hard fists pummelled his head, his shoulders, his chest. He struck back, under the bigger man's guard, pounding trip-hammer blows against his belly.
Grunting, Flam-harol gave ground, lowered his hands to protect his mid-section. Ker-jon darted around him, swiftly, never standing still long enough to be struck, flicking out with his left hand and keeping the mutant off balance by cuffing his jaw. The hands raised again, formed a shield for Flam-harol's face. Hit the stomach, then, pound it, pound it....
Abruptly, it was over. Flam-harol puffed feebly, tried to catch his breath and failed. He spun about slowly, like a battered top, looking for his foe through bloody eyes. Once and once only, Ker-jon crossed his right fist and felt the knuckles crunch against the mutant's jaw. Flam-harol stood very still for a moment, one eye wide-open, the other swollen shut. Then he plunged to the floor, and he didn't try to rise.
After that, the crowd closed in. Flam-harol was a symbol for everything that had been wrong. A symbol for the fight of man against man, when together men should tackle loftier things. They climbed all over him....
"Know what happened today?" Cluny-ann demanded.
"Of course—"