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Valentine dropped his shorts. Someone on the Wildcat side had enough of a sense of humor to whistle, a twittering wolf whistle.
He picked up the ball and stuffed it into the elastic waistband, then closed most of the waist in his fist. The ball was too big to go out the leg holes.
Vista cocked his head, oddly doglike with ears outstretched.
Holding the ball in the improvised sack, Valentine ran straight at him.
The Grog, perhaps fearing another trick, widened his stance and rocked back and forth, crook held loosely in his right hand.
At three strides away Valentine feinted right, away from the crook-then leaped.
He tucked the ball into his belly as he flew through the air, not wanting it batted away as he went over Vista's head in a great Cat leap.
It swung its crook where Valentine should have been.
Valentine landed lightly on his good leg, had a bad split second when Vista's thrown crook struck him in the ankle, and ran, feeling rapidly growing pain from the blow.
Valentine managed to open the distance between them, and Vista let out a strangled, winded cry.
The Bulletproof danced and shouted behind their markers, some urging him on by circling their arms in wheels toward the red tape.
Valentine crossed the line-a gunshot sounded, and old instincts made him flinch-and fell into a mass of Bulletproofs. He felt a sharp slap on his bare buttock, and looked to see the craggy-faced woman giving him a gap-toothed grin.
Valentine turned to look at his opponent. Vista collapsed to his wide knees, pounding at the turf with great fists. He took the basketball out of his underwear, gave up trying to reach the Dispatcher, and tossed the ball in the air.
Limping, Valentine went out to Vista. The Grog jumped up, snarling.
Valentine offered his hand.
The Grog snatched him up by the arm and lowered his head with mouth gaping to bite it off at the wrist. Another shot sounded and the Grog pulled back, a bleeding hole in its cheek.
Valentine spun out of reach.
The referee trotted up, pistol held pointed at the Grog. "Back to our side! Back!"
The Grog emptied a nostril at the referee and turned away.
The referee lowered his gun, looked at Valentine from beneath a sweat-dripping brow. "You, sir, are one dumb son of a bitch. Congratulations."
"Thank you," Valentine said, rubbing his wrist.
Ahn-Kha loomed up. "My David!"
"I'm fine. A little bruised."
The Dispatcher and Zak joined them, the former with the basketball, the latter holding Valentine's clothes.
"What did you yell?" Valentine asked, remembering the scream from the sidelines. "He forgot all about me."
"I accused his mother of the lowest-caste choice of mates," Ahn-Kha said. "Such an insult can only result in a duel. He started to answer me when you ran."
"Maybe you'd better stay in camp when David goes to collect his share."
"Share?" Valentine asked.
"You won. A portion of the recovered herd is yours."
"And I owe you a great debt," Zak said. "Dispatcher, may I go along and collect my sister?"
