He turned from Willie then, acknowledging the thunder behind him, both hands high in salute. He could see the rows stretching out from ringside—the first twenty all white. Most of the thunder came from high in the stands.
And now the champ came down his aisle, his faded purple dressing robe across his bulky shoulders, his handlers a respectful few paces behind him.
Nick Nolan, the middleweight champion of the world. His ears were lumpy, his brows ridged with scar tissue. His round head centered on those bulky shoulders, apparently with no neck to connect them. A fringe of red hair and a brutal, thick featured face.
Made in His image?
Some words ran through Alix's mind—"Is this the Thing Lord God made and gave—To have dominion over sea and land...?"
This was a hell of a time to be recalling Markham.
Nick came over to his corner, the false geniality on his face as phoney as the gesture of a champ coming to the challenger's corner. Nick said, "Best—between us, huh?"
"The better," Alix corrected him. "Keep them above the belt, Nick."
Nick grinned. "Don't I always? I came up the hard way, Alix."
Alix said nothing, staring.... when this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world....