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.
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