ter shouted.

Boswellister strained forward, clutching the seat arms. It had to work!
His equation must be right! The symbol had the proper cultural
connotations. It was bound to capture the audience, put them in the
right mood of awe-struck superstitious reverence, make the revelation of
the great circle of the Ipplinger starship overhead a thing of
wonderment and devotion-focus.

The Blond Terror should now look upwards, guide the eyes of the
audience, bring them to the recognition. After all, as a Boswellister
... and according to his great grandfather, and his poppa too....

But the Blond Terror gazed appreciatively into the mirror, smiling slyly
at the audience.

The crowd roared its applause for the trick lighting effect. You could
depend on the Blond Terror. No matter how many times you'd seen his act,
he always managed to come up with something new. Now, for the opening of
the new Million Dollar Ventura Boulevard Open Air Sports Arena, the
Blond Terror had done it again.

Boswellister shouted. He pointed. He stared upwards, trying to draw the
crowd with his vehemence. But he couldn't capture one gaze, no matter
what he did.

He poked the man seated next to him, but the surly fool snarled,
"Shuddup! The Hatchet Man's goin' into his act!"

* * * * *

Boswellister moaned. There it was, sailing in the night sky, illuminated
with soft etherealness to give the proper effect to these
superstition-ridden people. All they had to do was glance up and accord
to Ippling the superiority that was Ippling's, and they would be brought
gently, delicately into galactic contact, opening out their narrow ways
into the broad ways of the galactic universal worlds. With Boswellister
to lead them.

But he couldn't make the play. Not a head would tilt up. The TV cameras
that should be scanning the great lighted circle of the Ipplinger
starship had swung to the entrance, waiting for the Hatchet Man.

And here he came, down the aisle like a bolt of Chinese lightning. He
vaulted the ropes, leaped to the tub, overturned it and was gone back up
the aisle before the Blond Terror could retaliate. Bath water sopped the
piles of robes and made a mess out of the bearskin rug; but the ring
attendants carted everything off, removed the waterproof canvas from the
ring mat and prepared to get the match underway.

The Blond Terror paced in his corner, waving his hand mirror,
challenging the Hatchet Man to q