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Bee’s reddened eyes stared at the man, and Grant whispered, “Darling, can you tell?”

“You know their minds are closed to me. I just feel ... something evil. I must get out of here. Please, Grant, take me away.”

Behind Slag the little blond man Teagle, manager and second of the professional, spoke up. “Like Slag says, Commissioner, it isn’t his fault. These fast-thinking players match him, get him all excited in the court, and then wonder why they get knocked down. They just don’t have the stuff to match a champ.”

“Slag is the only man ever warned to pull his shots,” agreed a reporter who was taking notes.

“Gentlemen!” Woods turned to Grant. “All of us here respect the opinion of Dr. Lane, who brought this sport into being and who is, in my estimation, its greatest exponent. I have consulted with him. If he is to retain any connection whatever with the game, he informs me, Slag must get out.”

There was silence. The men stared first at the florid-faced Commissioner, then at Grant.

“More than personal considerations are involved,” added Woods. “Slag’s brutal style of play, according to Dr. Lane, endangers the entire future of this grand sport.”