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a strangled cry he fell back, his face white. His head thrashed on the coat pillow, his eyes shut tightly.
    â€œ No ,” he moaned. “No. No. No. No. No.”
    Pole was looking at his hand and wrist. “ Jesus God ,” he whispered.
    Kelly’s eyes opened and he stared up dizzily at the mechanic.
    â€œHe can’t—he can’t do that,” he gasped.
    Pole licked his dry lips.
    â€œSteel, there—ain’t a thing we can do. He’s got a bunch o’ toughs in the office with ’im. I can’t…” He lowered his head. “And if—you was t’go there he’d know what ya done. And—he might even take back the two and a half.”
    Kelly lay on his back, staring up at the naked bulb without blinking. His chest labored and shuddered with breath.
    â€œNo,” he murmured. “No.”
    He lay there for a long time without talking. Pole got some water and cleaned off his face and gave him a drink. He opened up his small suitcase and patched up Kelly’s face. He put Kelly’s right arm in a sling.
    Fifteen minutes later Kelly spoke.
    â€œWell go back by bus,” he said.
    â€œWhat?” Pole asked.
    â€œWe’ll go by bus,” Kelly said slowly. “That’ll only cost, oh, fifty-sixty bucks.” He swallowed and shifted on his back. “That’ll leave almost two C’s. We can get ’im a—a new trigger spring and a—eye lens and—” He blinked his eyes and held them shut a moment as the room started fading again.
    â€œAnd oil paste,” he said then. “Loads of it. He’ll be—good as new again.”
    Kelly looked up at Pole. “Then we’ll be all set up,” he said. “Maxo’ll be in good shape again. And we can get us some decent bouts.” He swallowed and breathed laboriously. “That’s all he needs is a little work. New spring, a new eye lens. That’ll shape ’im up. We’ll show those bastards what a B-two can do. Old Maxo’ll show ’em. Right? ”
    Pole looked down at the big Irishman and sighed.
    â€œRight, Steel,” he said.

TO FIT THE CRIME
    â€œI’ve been murdered!” cried ancient Iverson Lord, “brutally, foully murdered!”
    â€œThere, there,” said his wife.
    â€œNow, now,” said his doctor.
    â€œGarbage,” murmured his son.
    â€œAs soon expect sympathy from mushrooms!” snarled the decaying poet. “From cabbages!”
    â€œFrom kings,” said his son.
    The parchment face flinted momentarily, then sagged into meditative creases. “Aye, they will miss me,” he sighed. “The kings of language, the emperors of the tongue.” He closed his eyes. “The lords of splendrous symbol, they shall know when I have passed.”
    The moulding scholar lay propped on a cloudbank of pillows. A peak of silken dressing gown erupted his turkey throat and head. His head was large, an eroded football with lace holes for eyes and a snapping gash of a mouth.
    He looked over them all; his wife, his daughter, his son and his doctor. His beady suspicious eyes played about the room. He glared at the walls. “Assassins,” he grumbled.
    The doctor reached for his wrist.
    â€œAvaunt!” snapped the hunched-over semanticist, clawing out. “Take off your clumsy fingers!”
    He threw an ired glance at the physician. “White-collar witch doctors,” he accused, “who take the Hypocratic Oath and mash it into common vaudeville.”
    â€œIverson, your wrist,” said the doctor.
    â€œWho knuckle-tap our chests and sound our hearts yet have no more conception of our ills than plumbers have of stars or pigs of paradise.”
    â€œYour wrist, Iverson,” the doctor said.
    Iverson Lord was near ninety. His limbs were glasslike and brittle. His blood ran slow. His heartbeat was a largo drum. Only his brain hung clear and unaffected, a last