The howling, slavering mob in the blood-spattered arena hated the half-breed Moljar--prayed gibberingly for his death. But Moljar looked coldly up at the Princess and licked dry lips. He would not die--while she lived! Moljar planted his columnar legs wide apart beside the dying saurian and blinked blood and sweat from his eyes. Only slightly strained after three hours of the Red Moon Games, his seven foot height of Terran-Martian muscles gleamed damply in the blazing arc lights of the Colosseum. His lungs sucked hungrily at the dense Venusian air as he waited for whatever would next be sent against him, the champion of them all.…
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