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“Now,” said Grant. His voice seemed loud in the awed silence of the spectators. “Now, Tony! Call it a day!”

“Just touch him,” whispered Bee. “Don’t hurt him, Tony.”

It was as if they had signaled the player, even through the tele-proof screen. Gradually the wild swings of the ball slowed. It circled Slag gently, dropped closer, and poised above him. Tony’s mind was clearly in full control of the sensitive sphere.

In a seat behind Grant, an excited man suddenly yelled, “Thumbs down, hard!” Obviously the crowd was ready to sacrifice its erstwhile hero.

Then—the ball moved, a small movement, and there was a roar. Uninfluenced, the ball dropped and rolled to the center court, and Tony stood in bewilderment as Slag shook himself awake.

Grant leaped up and tried to push through to the box exit. Behind him, Bee clung. “Granny, what will you do? What can you....”

He shook her off and answered her with his mind as he struggled on. “Stop them, that’s what! End the match.”

“How? You know you cannot!”

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