Fighting an alien champ was always risky
business for an Earthman. So Filmore decided he
might pick up a pointer or two before the big—
Slaughter On Dornel IV
By Ivar Jorgensen
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
April 1957
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Larry Filmore stared at his beer and mentally roasted his fight managerfor the fiftieth time. Human beings were supposed to be the toughestrace that the Galaxy had ever spawned, but as a fighter, Larry didn'tput too much faith in the theory. He had fought a good many racesthroughout the Galaxy, and, although he had always come out the winner,he had plenty of scars to show for it.
He looked around the bar. It was full of various beings, none of themhuman except himself.
What am I doing here? he asked himself. I'm sitting in a cheaplittle bar on Dornel IV, waiting for a Dornellian fighter to kill metomorrow.
But there was no way out of it, Filmore thought bitterly. Blackmer,his manager, had the whole thing sewed up. Larry had found out, threemonths before, that Blackmer was cheating him—but that had been toolate. According to the contract, Larry had to finish the season or goto prison. If he quit, he would, according to the law, be cheating hismanager.
On the other hand, if he got killed during the battle, his entire checkwould go to Blackmer.
So Blackmer had done the smart thing—for him. He had lined up Larrywith Fornax Kedrin, the champion of Dornel.
The Dornellians were big—eight feet high, with fingers that endedin razor-sharp claws. Of course, Larry would be provided with steelextensions on his fingers, but they wouldn't help much; Larry had neverlearned to use them. Fornax Kedrin would kill him in the first round.
Larry took another sip of his beer and stared forlornly at the bar.With his fingers, he traced meaningless designs in the moisture left bythe cold glass.
Maybe he was taking the coward's way out—but it was the only way hecould see. Better a live coward, he thought, than a dead hero.
"Another beer, bartender," he called, finishing the one he held.
"Coming up, Earthman."
The beer arrived and he took a sip. Training? The hell with it, hethought happily. He was going to get himself completely stewed tonight.Live high, die young, and have a good-looking corpse.
Or maybe it would be better simply to get aboard a spaceship and try toget away. Maybe the Interstellar Police would never find him.
He shook his head dismally. That wouldn't work, either. Nothing wouldwork.
If only he'd had some practice fighting a Dornellian!
He reached out for his beer, not noticing that someone had taken thevacant seat next to him. His elbow collided with a glass. The glasstipped, pouring a green, bubbling liquor all over the Dornelliansitting next to him.
"Stupid Earthman!" snapped the Dornellian contemptuously. "A clumsybeast like you shouldn't be allowed to enter a public place!"
With one hairy paw, the Dornellian shoved against Larry's shoulder,intending to push him off the bar stool.
Larry moved back, more in astonishment than anything else. He hadn'tknown that Dornellians had any particular prejudice against Earthmen,but there was unmistakable racial hatred in the alien's voice. He putout his hand to the bar and stopped himself from falling off the stool.
"What's the idea of that?" Larry growled. "That was an accident, and—"
"Are you trying to argue with me? Here is the rest of the drink!" TheDornellian laughed and heaved the remaining contents