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“Johnny!”

John Osborne Drake was putting his suitcase into the rear of the ‘copter.

“What is it, Ric?” he asked in a friendly voice without turning.

It would be impossible to ask him to change his mind. Alcala found a rock, raised it behind Syndrome Johnny’s back. “I know I’m being anti-social,” he said regretfully, and then threw the rock away.

His fist was enough like stone to crush a skull.

Before them the ball took a savage turn toward the player in white. Around Grant the crowd stood up and roared, and he felt suddenly tense and doubting. Then the player ducked, the ball shot through above him to smash against the court wall, and he controlled the rebound to send the sphere once more into erratic, darting flight.

“Again!” Grant felt his muscles suddenly relax with release of anxiety. He turned to the girl. “Bee, I’m worried. It’s not like Tony—does he want to get killed? He should stop those shots, not dodge them. Are you sure he’s all right?”