Easy to say. You know what you've got, Sammy?

Besides a Jewish grandmother?

You've got leadership qualities, that's what you've got.

Listen, any time you want this fucking job…

Less than twenty-four hours later, Vince struggled along a plowed path on the Polk College campus that led from the Administration Building to the athletic fieldhouse. His head was lowered against a cutting wind. He was dressed in boots and parka, ski pants and long Johns, watch cap and fur-lined gloves, but he was cold to the bones. His fingers, toes, and nose were numb, and the rest of him wasn't far behind. The campus was covered by three feet of snow. Bare trees were sheathed in black and ugly ice, the same ice hung from eaves and windows, and the sky was the color of lead. It was a dismal scene, relieved only by the splashes of color on the bedsheet banners that were posted on every wall. Painted in Day-Glo orange, and red, and green, they all shouted the same message, BEAT VAN BUREN.

Got nothing against that, thought Vince, but why can't they beat them in tennis, or baseball, or something else that you play in the sun?

He picked up his pace, and the PR guy beside him had to jog to keep up. The PR guy was young and enthusiastic, and his head came no higher than Vince's shoulder. His name was Willard, and the weather didn't bother him. He pointed to one of the signs, and said, "As you can see, the whole school is up for the game."

"Lots of rah-rah," Vince agreed.

"School spirit."

"Can't run a school without spirit."

"It's our big game of the year. It may not be Army-Navy or Yale-Harvard, but it's traditional."

"Can't beat tradition. The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton."

"Hey, I didn't know that."

"Believe it."

"I didn't even know they played basketball at Eton. I guess you guys know all those things."

"Believe that, too. If we don't know it, it didn't happen."

In Vince's pocket were papers that named him as a reporter for Hoops magazine, the national review of college basketball. Willard lit a candle in front of a copy of Hoops every night before he went to bed. A call to the offices of Hoops in Kansas City would have confirmed that Mister Bonepart was, indeed, on assignment for the magazine, but no confirmation had been necessary. The athletic director's office had accepted his credentials without question, and had assigned Willard as his gofer, apologizing for the fact that Head Coach Haggerty was out of town on a scouting trip.

"Don't worry about Haggerty," said Willard as they worked their way toward the field house. "The Chief will take good care of you."

"What chief?"

"Chief Thunder. The assistant coach, Boyd Preston."

"An Indian?"

"No, that's just what they call him."

"How come?"

Willard grinned. "You'll see."

Coming out of the cold and into the fieldhouse was like coming home for Christmas. The place was warm, brightly lit, and noisy. The stands were empty, but the team was on the court, working out under the eye of a short and wiry man with a clipboard and a whistle. Vince paused to let the heat sink in, and along with it the smells of sweat and liniment, the squeak of shoes on the hardwood floor, the grunts of the panting players, the slap of the ball, the pounding sound of a solitary runner circling the metal track high above the court, and over it all the booming voice of the man with the whistle.

"I wanna see some quick," he was shouting, "I wanna hear some thunder. Hey, Willy, move it, make him commit. That's it, hands up. Willy, move. You tired, son? You weary, Willy? You have a big time last night, you so weary? Let's see some feet, Willy, let's hear some thunder…"

The team was working a half-court drill, red shirts defending against the white shirts, and Vince tried to match numbers with the names on the sheet of paper that Willard had given him. Devereaux, Clancy, Holmes, Chambers, Jefferson. A white-shirted player cut to the basket, faked once, went up with a defender all over him, and passed off blind to another white shirt, who scored. Vince nodded in admiration. He thought little of basketball as a sporting event-there had to be something wrong with a game that depended on deliberate fouling as an essential tactic-but he was able to admire the balletic grace that the best of the players so casually displayed. As an exhibition of style, it was magnificent, but he couldn't take it seriously as a sport.

The man with the whistle tipped back his head, and roared up at the ceiling, "Melton!"

The lonely runner who had been circling the overhead track had stopped, and was leaning over the rail, staring down at the court. "Yeah, chief."

"I don't hear any thunder."

"Just taking a break."

"Thunder, Melton, thunder. Or maybe you're weary, like Willy over here. You weary, Melton?"

"No, chief, I'm okay."

"Then let me hear it."

Melton pushed himself away from the rail, and started up again, his feet pounding the track.

The chief smiled, and said, "Not bad, but I gotta have more thunder." He pointed a finger at a white-shirted player. Vince made him as Willy Holmes, a guard. "Willy, get up there and give me some thunder."

Holmes pulled a face. "Hey, chief…"

"Yeah, I know, you're weary. Twenty laps'11 fix you fine. Let's hear some thunder, son."

Holmes shook his head, but he trotted over to the stairs that led up to the track, and soon the sound of the pounding overhead doubled. The chief smiled again. "That's the way I like it, lots of thunder. Now, let me see some feet."

He started the two squads through the drills again. Vince said to Willard, "Chief Thunder, huh?"

Willard grinned. "Now you know. "

"When can I see him?"

"After the drills. Won't be long."

It took about ten minutes. Vince stood with Willard and watched the two squads work against each other, unhappily aware of what was coming. First this Chief, then the players; tap them all and find out how many of the kids were in on the fix. Because he knew now that Sammy had to be right. There had to be a fix. It was the only practical way for Domino to carry out his instructions, and besides, fixing basketball games was as American as-he searched for a simile, and let it go. It wasn't important. What was important was how many-and which ones. And, please, if there was any grace left in the world, not all of them would be black.

The Chief dismissed the squads with a blast of his whistle, and sent them to the showers. He strode over to Vince, and put out his hand.

"I'm Boyd Preston," he said.

Willard said quickly, "This is Mister Bonepart…"

"I know who he is," Preston interrupted. "The AD's office called. Hoops magazine, we're honored. I didn't think you people bothered with the teams down here in Division Two."

Vince said, "It's all basketball, coach."

"Call me Chief, everybody does. There's only one coach around here, and that's Haggerty. How come you're here?"

"You've got a big game coming up."

"We play Van Buren every year, but you never came around before."

"Then it's about time. How does the game look to you?"

"I'm not the one to ask, I just keep the troops marching. Coach Haggerty gives all the interviews, and he's out of town."

"So I heard. Well, what would he say if he were here?"

Preston smiled. "That's easy. If the coach was here, he'd say that Van Buren is a tough team that can't be underrated. He'd say that this is a traditional game coming up, and in traditional games the stats don't mean much. He'd say that on any given day any team can beat any other team, and that we can't afford to be overconfident. That's what the Coach would say."

Vince grinned his appreciation of the conventional wisdom that every coach in every sport spouts before a big game.