“Ten seconds,” said Astro, stepping back off the mat.
“Thanks for the compliment, Corbett.” Roger eyed the other cadet speculatively. “But are you sure you want to go on?”
“I was saved by the bell, wasn’t I?”
“Yeah—sure—but if you’d rather quit—”
“Time!” cried Astro.
Tom rose to his feet—shook his head—and brought up his hands. He wasn’t a moment too soon. Roger had rushed across the mat, trying to land another murderous right. Tom brought up his shoulder just in time, slipping with the punch, and at the same time, bringing up a terrific left to Roger’s open mid-section. Manning let out a grunt and clinched. Tom pursued his advantage, pumping rights and lefts to the body, and he could feel the arrogant cadet weakening. Suddenly, Roger crowded in close, wrestling Tom around so that Astro was on the opposite side of the mat, then brought up his head under Tom’s chin. The pop of Tom’s teeth could be heard all over the great hall. Roger quickly stepped back, and back-pedaled until Astro called time.
“Thanks for teaching me that one, Roger. Learned two tricks from you today,” said Tom, breathing heavily, but with the same cold smile on his face.
“That’s all right, Corbett. Any time,” said Manning.
“What tricks?” asked Astro. He looked suspiciously at Manning, who was doubled over, finding it hard to breath.
“Nothing I can’t handle in time,” said Tom, looking at Roger.
“Time!” called Astro and stepped off the mat.
The two boys got to their feet slowly. The pace was beginning to show on them and they boxed carefully.
The boys were perfectly matched, Tom constantly snapping Roger’s head back with the jolting left jabs and following to the head or heart with a right cross. And Roger counterpunching, slipping hooks and body punches in under Tom’s long leads. It was a savage fight. The three weeks of hard physical training had conditioned the boys perfectly.
At the end of the twelfth round, both boys showed many signs of wear. Roger’s cheeks were as red as the glow of a jet blast deflector from the hundreds of lefts Tom had pumped into his face, while Tom’s ribs and mid-section were bruised and raw where Roger’s punches had landed successfully.
It couldn’t last much longer, thought Astro, as he called time for the beginning of the thirteenth round.
Roger quickened his pace, dancing in and out, trying to move in under Tom’s lefts, but suddenly Tom caught him with a right hand that was cocked and ready. It staggered him and he fell back, covering up. Tom pressed his advantage, showering rights and lefts everywhere he could find an opening. In desperation, his knees buckling, Roger clinched tightly, quickly brought up his open glove and gouged his thumb into Tom’s eyes. Tom pulled back, instinctively pawing at his eye with his right glove. Roger, spotting the opening, took immediate advantage of it, shooting a hard looping right that landed flush on Tom’s jaw. Tom went down.
Unaware of Roger’s tactics, Astro jumped into the ring and his arm pumped the deadly count.
“One—two—three—four—”
It was going to be tough if Roger won, Astro thought, as he counted.
“Five—six—”
Arrogant enough now, he would be impossible to live with.
“Seven—eight—”
Tom struggled up to a sitting position and stared angrily at his opponent in the far corner.
“Nine—”
With one convulsive effort, Tom regained his feet. His left eye was closed and swollen, his right bleary with fatigue. He wobbled drunkenly on his feet. But he pressed forward. This was one fight he had to win.
Roger moved in for the finish. He slammed a left into Tom’s shell, trying to find an opening for the last finishing blow. But Tom remained in his shell, forearms picking off the smashes that even hurt his arms, as he waited for the strength to return to his legs and arms and his head to clear. He knew that he couldn’t go another round. He wouldn’t be able to see. It would have to be this round, and he had to beat Roger. Not because he wanted to, but because Roger was a member of the unit. And he had to keep the unit together.
He circled his unit-mate with care, shielding himself from the shower of rights and lefts that rained around him. He waited—waited for the one perfect opening.
“Come on! Open up and fight, Corbett,” panted Roger.
Tom snapped his right in reply. He noticed that Roger moved in with a hook every time he tried to cross his right. He waited—his legs began to shake. Roger circled and Tom shot out the left again, dropped into a semicrouch and feinted with the right cross. Roger moved in, cocking his fist for the left hook and Tom was ready for him. He threw the right, threw it with every ounce of strength left in his body. Roger was caught moving in and took the blow flush on the chin. He stopped as if poleaxed. His eyes turned glassy and then he dropped to the mat. He was out cold.
Astro didn’t even bother to count.
Tom squatted on the mat beside Roger and rubbed the blond head with his glove.
“Get some water, Astro,” he said, gasping for breath. “I’m glad I don’t have to fight this guy again. And I’ll tell you something else—”
“What?” asked Astro.
“Anybody that wants to win as much as this guy does, is going to win, and I want to have him on my side!”
Astro merely grunted as he turned toward the water cooler.
“Maybe,” he called back. “But he ought to read a book of rules first!”
When he came back to the mat with the water, Roger was sitting up, biting the knots of the laces on his gloves. Tom helped him, and when the soggy leather was finally discarded, he stuck out his hand. “Well, Roger, I’m ready to forget everything we’ve said and start all over again.”
Roger looked at the extended hand for a moment, his eyes blank and
