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Somehow Slag’s distress gave Grant no pleasure. Defeat seemed to face him everywhere; he read it in his opponent’s twisted features, even in the futile effort to withdraw attention from the ball. It’s no good, he thought. I have failed all along.

Savagely he worked the sphere. He would do it quickly. There was no use expecting Tony’s fate. The ball darted again for Slag and this time there could be no interference. It became pure mathematics, the motion, complicated far beyond Tony’s simple corondo, a flashing three-dimensional blur of color. He could not keep it up. The concentration brought an invading blackness to his mind. Somewhere there was a dull roar, and he felt as if his own mind were cracking. His nerves quivered to put an end to it, to touch Slag with the ball. Slowly, cautiously, he brought the sphere down....

Slag was not there!

He gaped. His eyes suddenly found the crumpled heap across the court, and relief swept ever him. The man was beaten, in a state of collapse, and there was nothing more Grant could do.