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But he felt her mind cling at the hope, and sent back reassurance. “I can. They may not like it, but I can stop these matches. Don’t worry, I’ll get your brother safely out of there.”

She was relieved. Knowledge of his position—his relation to the sport—he felt her memory produce the reasons. Sport, thought Grant. I invented a sport. Oh, Allah! What has my sport become?

And then her mind shrieked at him, stabbed at his brain: “Tony—Tony darling!”

Dazedly he heard the moan and fought a path to the transparent screen. Out on the court lay a white figure, outspread, and the ball rolled slowly past the dripping head.

“Too late!” sobbed Bee. “Too late! Tony....”

Somehow she was down there before Grant. He saw her, huddled over Tony’s body, as he finally reached an open gate in the domed screen. On the opposite edge of the court, Psycho-sport Commissioner Woods was in conversation with the referee, Harmon. A flash bulb glowed. Three reporters looked at the fallen player and spoke casually to each other. Towering above the group was Slag, staring down as if surprised.