When Tanker saw Charlie come into the room fuming mad, he shut off the reflex-machine and turned to watch him. Charlie Jingle paced back and forth in the room, in the small space between work-bench and wall. Suddenly he stopped, spun savagely to face Tanker. "Well? What the hell you lookin' at?" Tanker Bell grinned. "You, Charlie. I like to watch you when you're mad."
"You do, eh?"
Tanker watched the rage build up to a good healthy flush on Charlie's skin.
"Jeez," Tanker jibed, "you look as red as those beets they sell over in the Old-Methods Market."
"Listen you! Just because you dropped that flashy character last night. Don't let it go to your head! You get me sore, by God, I'll have you piled up in the yard along with yesterday's rusty pugs!"
Tanker laughed.
Charlie Jingle glared at the Tanker a moment, drew a deep breath, snorted it out, and paced twice. Then he faced the Tanker again.
"Sorry, kid. They got me goin' today. First the fight commission. Then these soap-peddlers from Hollywood. Sorry I blew off."
"How'd it go with the Commission?"
"Okay, okay. Jergen knows about me. He's just hungry for a bust, you know? Wants to nail the Fixers."
The Tanker took a step toward Charlie.
"The Champ call?" he asked, voice trembling. Charlie shook his head in the negative.
"Why don't you sucker him, Charlie? Force his hand!"
"You want a bout with the Champ?"
"Sure! Don't you?"
Charlie sat down on the work-bench and pulled the Tanker down next to him.
"Listen, Tank. Last night was a freak, you understand? Something happened last night, I don't know what. But you ain't the boy to fight the Champ—My God, boy, you're older than me!"
Tanker Bell looked at Charlie, his face puckering like a child's.
"No, now wait. Lemme make it clear, Tank," said Charlie Jingle softly. "You'n me been together fourteen years. We've fought in some pretty ancient Tank-towns. We've fought young and old alike, and you know as well as me that it was always an even toss whether or not you would get knocked cold. We're mediocrities, Kid. When I bought you, you'd already seen your best days. Am I right?" Tanker Bell nodded, his head down on his chest.
"Look, Tanker, I ain't tryin' to hurt you. I just don't wanna see you get killed!"
"Well who said anything about gettin' killed, for God's sake!" bawled the Tanker.
"Look at it this way. You've been knocked to pieces a dozen times, and I've gone to work and put you back together a dozen times. I've twisted your wires, re-shaped your reflex plan, doubled your flexibility and your punch-power, co-ordinated and re-co-ordinated you and re-analyzed your nervous-pattern until I've exhausted every possible combination. You're a fighting machine, and a good one, kid. But machines grow old. They get outdated, like me. I'm a Mechanical Engineer. Okay! There's lots of new stuff I don't know that these college kids know. What happens to them? They go to work for Pugilists Inc., inventing new machines with new systems. They got systems that I never dreamed of. Do you know that?"
"Well what's that got to do with me fightin' the Champ, for God's sake?"
"Everything! They put machines in the ring now that are worth Five Hundred Thousand dollars! They're almost indestructible!"
"How come that punk I fought last night wasn't so indestructible, then? How come about that, Charlie?"
"I dunno, I dunno. Somethin' musta gone wrong. Maybe he shorted out."
"Or maybe for once you hit the right combination, how about that, Charlie? Maybe I'm real ripe, now, after all these years of tankin' around!"
"But Tanker! Use your head! The Champ's brand new, spankin' young. He's the newest-styled fighting machine in existence. What chance you think we stand against that?"
"Listen. I fought that bum last night with ease, you know that? There I was, just glidin' around him, punchin' him at will—"
"Maybe it was an accident! Maybe somethin' went wrong with his system last night...."
"And maybe I dropped him on the square, too...."
"OKAY!" shouted Charlie Jingle in desperation. "Maybe you did. And maybe, if you go in against the Champ, maybe he'll kill you! Maybe he'll smash you so hard I won't be able to put you together again. You wanna take that chance? Or you wanna settle down nice and quiet in some Pug factory, supervisin' young fighters?"
"Naw!" yelled the Tanker. "I wanna take that chance! I want you to get me a fight with the Champ!"
"Are you dumb, or what? Don't you know they never come back?"
"All I know is this," began the Tanker. "Fourteen years we bin together. Fourteen years you stuck it out and starved it out, workin' with scraps from a junk-heap, with stumble-bums like me who've seen their day. There was times when you went hungry because the junk-heap needed oil, or wiring, or a pattern-analysis, or parts. Now you got something! Now you can be on top! You know damn well you don't want any part of that Hollywood fiasco. You got a crack at big money. You gonna let it go by-the-by because you're afraid a pile of wires might get killed? Naw! We fight, and that's the way it stacks!"
"You mean it, don't you, Tanker?"
The Tanker said nothing.
Charlie Jingle slowly rose, tired in his bones, tired in his joints. "Okay. I'll arrange it. But don't blame me if—"
"I won't," said Tanker Bell tightly, and Charlie went out. In the hall, the Hollywood people were still waiting for him. Charlie shouldered past them with a half-spring to his step.