Nick came out for the eighth, and Alix hit him with a solid right hand. He didn't set it up, or feint Nick into the spot, or hesitate. There wasn't any need to.
He put all his weight and most of his bitterness into the button-shot that made him middleweight champion of the world.
Silence, a shocked silence at the history before them, and then, from the far seats, from the cheap seats, acclamation. The video cameras covered the ring, the crowd; the lights went on all over the huge bowl.
Manny hugged him, Joe Nettleton hugged him, and others.
In the far seats, no one moved. In the near seats, no one moved. Joe said, "The word, Alix."
They were bringing the banked microphones over, the microphones that would carry the word all over the world. The cameras trained on him. The word.
He looked at Joe, and Manny. He brought the mikes to mouth level, and moved back a bit. He said, "I won, tonight. I've no message for you. But someone has. It's in the sky."
Craning necks, a murmur, the cameras leaving Alix as the operators swung the huge machines toward the red letters in the sky.
Beside him, Manny gasped. Joe Nettleton stared, unbelieving, his mouth slack.
Red letters? Something like red, but luminous and miles high, and definite. The cameras were trained directly on it, now.