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Three
beers
later
,
she
was
asking
Ratz
about
the
fights
.
'
Sammi
’
s
,
’
Ratz
said
.
'
I
’
ll
pass
,
’
Case
said
,
'
I
hear
they
kill
each
other
down
there
.
’
An
hour
later
,
she
was
buying
tickets
from
a
skinny
Thai
in
a
white
t
-
shirt
and
baggy
rugby
shorts
.
Sammi
’
s
was
an
inflated
dome
behind
a
portside
warehouse
,
taut
gray
fabric
reinforced
with
a
net
of
thin
steel
cables
.
The
corridor
,
with
a
door
at
either
end
,
was
a
crude
airlock
preserving
the
pressure
differential
that
supported
the
dome
.
Fluorescent
rings
were
screwed
to
the
plywood
ceiling
at
intervals
,
but
most
of
them
had
been
broken
.
The
air
was
damp
and
close
with
the
smell
of
sweat
and
concrete
.
None
of
that
prepared
him
for
the
arena
,
the
crowd
,
the
tense
hush
,
the
towering
puppets
of
light
beneath
the
dome
.
Concrete
sloped
away
in
tiers
to
a
kind
of
central
stage
,
a
raised
circle
ringed
with
a
glittering
thicket
of
projection
gear
.
No
light
but
the
holograms
that
shifted
and
flickered
above
the
ring
,
reproducing
the
movements
of
the
two
men
below
.
Strata
of
cigarette
smoke
rose
from
the
tiers
,
drifting
until
it
struck
currents
set
up
by
the
blowers
that
supported
the
dome
.
No
sound
but
the
muted
purring
of
the
blowers
and
the
amplified
breathing
of
the
fighters
.
Reflected
colors
flowed
across
Molly
’
s
lenses
as
the
men
circled
.
The
holograms
were
ten
-
power
magnifications
;
at
ten
,
the
knives
they
held
were
just
under
a
meter
long
.
The
knifefighter
’
s
grip
is
the
fencer
’
s
grip
,
Case
remembered
,
the
fingers
curled
,
thumb
aligned
with
blade
.
The
knives
seemed
to
move
of
their
own
accord
,
gliding
with
a
ritual
lack
of
urgency
through
the
arcs
and
passes
of
their
dance
,
point
passing
point
,
as
the
men
waited
for
an
opening
.
Molly
’
s
upturned
face
was
smooth
and
still
,
watching
.
'
I
’
ll
go
find
us
some
food
,
’
Case
said
.
She
nodded
,
lost
in
contemplation
of
the
dance
.
He
didn
’
t
like
this
place
.
