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  Pop's lightning brain reacted. He sent in the haymaker.]

  _Frankie was ready for the big test--Ten-Time Winner of the world title. He was young and fit and able; also, he had Milt's cunning brain to direct every feint and punch. This left only one thing in doubt, the----_

  VITAL INGREDIENT

  By GERALD VANCE

  "Champ, what's with ya lately?" Benny asked the question as they lay onthe beach.

  "Nothing," Frankie answered. "Just fight-nite miseries, I guess."

  "No it ain't, Frankie. It's something else. You losin' confidence inMilt? That it? Can't you hold it one more time? You guys only needtonite and you got it. One more to make Ten-Time Defenders--the firstin the game, Frankie."

  "We won the last two on points, Benny. Points--and I'm better than that.I keep waiting, and waiting, for my heels to set; for Milt to send it upmy legs and back and let fly. But he won't do it, Benny."

  "Look, Champ, Milt knows what he's doing. He's sending you right. Youthink maybe you know as much as Milt?"

  "Maybe I just do, Benny. Maybe I do."

  Benny didn't have the answer to this heresy. By law this was Frankie'slast fight--as a fighter. If he won this one and became a Ten-TimeDefender he would have his pick of the youngsters at the Boxing College,just as Milt had chosen him fifteen years before. For fifteen years he'dnever thrown a punch of his own in a fight ring.

  Maybe because it was his last fight in the ring he felt the way he didtoday. He understood, of course, why fighters were mentally controlledby proved veterans. By the time a fighter had any real experience andknow-how in the old days, his body was shot. Now the best bodies andthe best brains were teamed by mental control.

  Benny had an answer now. "Champ, I think it's a good thing this is yourlast fight. You know too much. After this one you'll have a good strongboy of your own and you can try some of this stuff you've been learning.Milt knows you're no kid anymore. That's why he has to be careful withyou."

  "I still have it, Benny. My speed, my punch, my timing--all good. Therewere a dozen times in those last two fights I could have crossed a rightand gone home early."

  "Two times, Frankie. Just two times. And them late in the fight. Miltdidn't think you had it, and I don't think you did either."

  * * * * *

  Milt, Frankie's master control, came down to the beach and strolled overto join them. Milt had been a Five-Time Defender in the Welter divisionbefore his fights ran out. Now he was skinny and sixty. His was the mindthat had directed every punch Frankie had ever thrown.

  He studied the figure of Frankie lying on the sand. Thetwo-hundred-pound fighting machine was thirty years old. Milt wincedwhen he compared it to that of the twenty-two-year-old slugger theywould have to meet in a few hours.

  Benny said "Hi," and ambled off.

  "Well, boy, this one means a lot to both of us," Milt said.

  "Sure," was all Frankie could answer.

  "For you, the first Ten-Time Defender the heavyweight division has everproduced. For me, The Hall of Boxing Fame."

  "You want that pretty bad, don't you, Milt?"

  "Yeah, I guess I do, Frankie, but not bad enough to win it the wrongway."

  Frankie's head jerked up. "What do you mean, the wrong way?"

  Milt scowled and looked as though he wished he hadn't said that. Heturned his head and stared hard at his fighter. "There's something wemaybe ought to have talked about, Frankie."

  "What's that?"

  Milt struggled for words. "It's just--oh, hell! Forget it. Just forget Isaid anything."

  "You figure we win tonight?"

  "I think maybe we will."

  "You don't seem very sure. On points, huh?"

  "Yeah, maybe on points." Milt turned his eyes back on Frankie's eagerface. "Frankie, boy--there's something about being a Ten-Time Defenderthat's, well--different."

  Milt took a deep breath and was evidently ready to tell Frankie exactlywhat he meant. But Frankie broke in, his voice low and tense. "Milt--"

  "Yes?"

  "When I get in there tonight--turn me loose!"

  Milt was startled at the words. "Release _control_?"

  "Yeah--sure. I think I can take Nappy Gordon on my own!"

  "Nappy can stick his fist through a brick wall--all night long. And PopMonroe knows all there is to know and some he makes up himself. They'dbe a tough pair to beat. Our big ace is that they have to beat us. We_got_ the Nine-Times."

  "I can take him, Milt!"

  There was a strange light in Milt's eyes. He did not speak and Frankiewent on. "Just one round, Milt! If I slip you can grab control again."

  "You just want a try at it, huh?"

  There seemed to be disappointment in Milt's voice; something Frankiecouldn't understand. Milt seemed suddenly nervous, ill-at-ease. ButFrankie was too eager to give it much attention. "How about it,Milt--huh?"

  Milt had been squatting on the sand. He got to his feet and looked outacross the water. "All right. Maybe we'll try it."

  He seemed sad as he walked away. Frankie, occupied with his own elation,didn't notice ...

  * * * * *

  In the studio dressing room, a few hours later Milt and Frankie werewarming up. Frankie in the practice ring and Milt perched on a highchair just outside the ropes.

  Everything was just as it would be in the fight. Three minutes work, oneminute rest. Frankie noticed how slowly and carefully Milt was workinghim, and how he watched the clock.

  Frankie had nothing to do now but watch, as a spectator would; watch asMilt moved him around. Milt could control every muscle, every move andevery reflex of his body. It had taken them five years to perfect thisroutine. That was the training period at the College of Boxing, and wasprescribed by law.

  In their first fight they had been at their peak. Frankie was Milt'ssecond boy and Milt knew boxing as only a Champion Welter with thirtyyears of experience could know it. For fifteen years he had watched andstudied while a good veteran had directed his body. And for anotherfifteen years he had been the guiding brain to a fine Middleweight.

  As a Welterweight, Milt had learned to depend on speed and quick hands.In Frankie he had found the dream of every Welter--a punch. Frankie'sbody could really deliver the power. At first, it had been the heavyhitting that had won the fights; lately, Milt had relied more and moreon the speed and deception he had developed in Frankie.

  * * * * *

  Frankie felt the control ease out and knew the warm-up was over. Heslipped on his robe and he and Milt went to join the others in the TVstudio.

  There would be no crowd. Just the cameras, the crews and officials. Thefight would be televised in 3-D and filmed in slow motion. If a decisionwere needed to determine the winner, it would be given only after acareful study had been made of the films.

  There was little to be done in the studio and Milt had timed Frankie'swarm-up right to the minute. The fighters and their controllers tooktheir positions: the controllers seated in high chairs on opposite sidesof the ring; the fighters in opposite corners.

  As the warning buzzer sounded, Frankie felt Milt take control. This onehe would watch closely.

  At the bell Frankie rose and moved out slowly. He noticed how relaxed,almost limp, Milt was keeping him. There was only a little more effortused than in the pre-fight warm-up. His left hand had extra speed butonly enough power to command respect. The pattern was just about as hehad expected. As the fight went along the left would add up the points.But his thoughts were centered on a single question. _How is it going tobe on my own?_


  In the early rounds he was amazed at the extreme caution Milt wasemploying. Nappy Gordon's face was beginning to redden from thecontinual massage of Frankie's brisk left and occasional right. ButFrankie felt that his own face must be getting flushed with eagerness.The glory of going in and trying to do it by himself; of beating PopMonroe without Milt's help. He wondered if Milt would have to clamp onthe controls again. He sure hoped not. But there wasn't anything toreally worry about. Milt could beat Pop Monroe and he wouldn't letFrankie take a beating by himself.

  Frankie's attention was caught by some odd thoughts in Milt's mind. Miltdidn't seem to be sending them, yet they were clear and direct: _Youreally think you've got