Part 2

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.

"Grant!" Bee screamed. "Oh, no! Grant darling, look up!"

Her radiance was almost blinding. He half-twisted to reach her, and then his eyes caught it--the ugly sheen of the fast-growing ball. Desperately he turned, and it shifted in unison. Then she shrieked once more, despairingly, and he threw himself flat, arms outstretched, toward her.

The ball's speed was so great that it shattered to pieces against the shield behind him.

From back of the barrier ran Bee. She crouched beside him, and her enveloping warmth lifted the evil spell from his mind. The loud confusion of the crowd burst upon him, he saw the referee's swiftly lowering bubble. He was in control of himself, thanks to Bee's interference, and could act on the knowledge so dangerously gained.

"The murderer!" Grant pulled Bee up with him. "We've got him!"

Opposite them, Slag still lay on the court.

"I don't see how he did it," Grant said bewilderedly.

"Not Slag--_him_!" She pointed out the small, running figure.

Teagle battered vainly at a gate. The still-active screen held him back, and the man's face was a despairing white grimace. Then Grant was upon him, and took him by the throat.

* * * * *

Woods paced the dressing room, still confused. "I begin to see," he said, "but what can I do with the two of them?"

"Stop worrying." Grant was curt. "You can do nothing. The law will take Teagle, and without him Slag is just another bum."

"He never knew," marveled Bee. "Slag never knew how he won."

"I am to blame." Grant thought of the surging fear Teagle had directed in him at Slag's hotel. "I should have known that telepsychical phenomena could be used as a weapon. The man is a freak. He couldn't influence the ball, but communicated overpowering emotion--without even seeing his subjects--from behind his shield. The victims committed suicide, just as I nearly did before Bee...."

"What did you feel--a so-called called death wish?" asked Woods. "No matter. Not seeing Slag collapse, he overplayed his hand."

"Slag's being unconscious merely provided an anti-climax," said Grant. "There was a more important factor added this time. And if you don't mind, Woods, I have an apology to make in private to my one and only second."

"Not just the only one, darling," said Bee. "But your permanent, till-death-do-us-part second! Right?"

"Right!" Grant said.

"That's the only thing tonight," said Woods, "of which I officially approve."