[Illustration: 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 it, boy? That vital ingredient?_

_What you talking about?_

_Huh? Me? Oh, nothing. Take it easy. _ But Milt's thoughts were troubled. 

_When you going to let me go?_

_I said, take it easy. We'll see. _

 * * * * *

The sixth round came and Frankie felt no weariness. Milt was working himlike he was made of fragile glass. Nor was Nappy tiring so far as hecould notice. Pop Monroe was trying for just one solid blow to slow downthe Champ. So far nothing even jarring had come close to landing. 

In the seventh Frankie noticed a little desperation in Monroe's tactics. To win now Monroe and Gordon needed a knockout. Frankie had only tostay on his feet to be home safe. But when was Milt going to let him go?Milt had turned in a masterpiece of defensive fighting. The left haddeadly accuracy and now the openings were truck-sized as Monroe had cometo ignore the light tattoo of the Champ's punches. 

Milt withdrew the control in the middle of the seventh round. It hitFrankie like a dash of cold water, the exultation of being on his own!He looked over at Milt, perched rope-high in his control chair atringside. Milt was looking at him, his face tight and grim; almosthostile. 

Frankie circled warily, a touch of panic coming unbidden. What to do? Hehadn't known it would be quite like this. He tried to remember how itwas--how it felt to move in the various ways Milt always sent him. Funnyhow you could forget such things. The left hook--that jab--how did theygo?

A pile driver came from somewhere and almost tore his head off hisshoulders . .. 

He was looking up at the ceiling. He rolled his eyes and saw PopMonroe's face--smiling a little, but also puzzled. Even with his braingroggy, Frankie knew why. He'd stepped wide open in Nappy's loopingright and Pop couldn't figure Milt doing a thing like that. 

Pop looked over at Milt. Frankie followed Pop's eyes and saw the lookMilt returned. Then the spark of understanding that passed between them. Odd, Frankie thought. What understanding could there be?

He was aware of the word seven filling the studio as the loud speakerblared the count. He was up at nine. 

Nappy swarmed in now. Frankie felt the pain of hard, solid blows on hisbody as he tried to tie up this dynamo Poppy Monroe was releasing onhim. He couldn't stop it, dodge it, or hide from it. 

But he finally got away from it--staggering. Nappy came at him fast andthe left jab Frankie sent out to put him off balance didn't even slowthe fury a bit. Frankie took to the ropes to make Nappy shorten hispunches. It helped some, but not enough. No man could take the joltingeffect of those ripping punches and keep his feet under him. Frankiedidn't--he was down when the bell ended round nine. 

 * * * * *

In his corner the seconds worked quickly. He looked at Milt and saw adead-pan expression. Milt wasn't sending him anything. Punishing him ofcourse. Frankie took it meekly; ashamed of himself. Milt would take overagain when the bell sounded. Frankie knew that he couldn't stay awayfrom Nappy for another round. Nobody could. Monroe smelled a knockoutand Frankie was never fast enough to run away from the burst ofviciousness that would come at him in the form of Nappy Gordon. No, Miltwould take over. 

At the bell, Frankie moved out fast, waiting for the familiar feel ofMilt expertly manipulating his arms and legs and body; sending out thejabs and punches; weaving him in and out. 

But Milt didn't take over and Pop sent Nappy in with a pile-driver rightthat smashed Frankie to the floor. Frankie rolled over on his knees andshook his head groggily, trying to understand. Why hadn't Milt takenover? What was Milt trying to do to him?

Milt's cold face waved into focus before Frankie's blinking eyes. _Whatwas Milt trying to do?_ Frankie heard the tolling count--six, seven, eight. Milt wasn't even going to help him up. Sick and bewildered, Frankie struggled to his feet. Nappy came driving in. Frankieback-pedalled and took the vicious right cross while rolling away. Thushe avoided being knocked out and was only floored for anothereight-count. 

_Milt--Milt--for God's sake--_

The round was over. Frankie staggered, sick, to his corner and slumpeddown. The handlers worked over him. He looked at Milt. But Milt neithersent nor returned his gaze. Milt sat looking grimly off into space andseemed older and wearier than time itself. 

Then Frankie knew. Milt had sold him out!

The shocking truth stunned him even more than Nappy's punches. Milt hadsold him out! There had been rare cases of such things. When money meantmore than honor to a veteran. But Milt!

Numbed, Frankie pondered the ghastly thought. After all, Milt was old. Old men needed money for their later years. But how could he? How couldhe do it?

Suddenly Frankie hated. He hated Nappy and Pop and every one of themillions of people looking silently on around the world. But most ofall, he hated Milt. It was a weird, sickening thing, that hatred. Butonly a mentally sickening thing. Physically, it seemed to make Frankiestronger, because when the bell rang and he got up and walked into astraight right, it didn't hurt at all. 

He realized he was on the floor; the gong was sounding; he was gettingup, moving in again. There was blood, a ringing in his head. 

But above all, a rage to kill. To kill. 

 * * * * *

He remembered going down several times and getting up. Not caring how hehad swung under Milt's control--only wanting to use his fists--to killthe thing weaving in front of him. 

Nappy. A grinning, weaving, lethal ghost. 

He felt a pain in his right fist and saw Nappy go down. He saw Pop'sface go gray as though the old man himself had felt the force of theblow. Saw Nappy climb erect slowly. He grinned through blood. Frankie--ghost-catcher. He had to get him. 

He was happy; happy with a new fierceness he had never before known. Thelust of battle was strong within him and when Pop weaved Nappydesperately, Frankie laughed, waited, measured Nappy. 

And smashed him down with a single jarring right. 

The bell tolled ten. Pop got wearily off his stool and walked away. Frankie strode grimly to his corner, ignored Milt, moved on into thedressing room. 

He knew Milt would come and he waited for him, sitting there coldly onthe edge of the table. Milt walked in the door and stood quietly. 

"You sold me out, " Frankie said. 

There was open pride in Milt's eyes. "Sure--you had to think that. "

"What do you mean, think? You didn't pick me up when Pop flattened me. Isaw the look between you and Pop. "

"Sure. " Milt's eyes were still proud. "You had to know. That's how Iwanted it. "

"Milt--why did you do it?"

"I didn't do it. I just had to make you think I did. "

"In God's name--why?"

"Because I'm sentimental, maybe, but I've always had my own ideas aboutthe kind of fighter who should be a Ten-Time winner. All my life I'vekept remembering the old greats--Dempsey, Sullivan, Corbett--the men whodid it on their own, and I wanted you to get it right--on your own--likea real champion. "

Frankie was confused. "I wanted to go on my own. Why didn't you tell methen?"

"Then you'd have lost. You'd have gone down whimpering and moaning. Yousee, Frankie, all those old fighters had a vital ingredient--the thingit takes to make a champion--courage. "

"And you didn't think I had it?"

"Sure I did. But the killer instinct is dead in fighters today and ithas to be ignited. It needs a trigger, so that was what I gave you--atrigger. "

Frankie understood. "You wanted me to get mad!"

"To do it, you had to get mad--at me. You're not conditioned to get madat Nappy or Pop. It's not the way we fight now. It had to be me. I hadto make you hate me. "

Frankie marveled. "So when Pop looked at you--"

"He knew. "

Frankie was off the table, his arms around Milt. "I'm--I'm so ashamed. "

Milt grinned. "No, you're not. You're happier than you ever were in yourlife. You're a real champion. Great feeling, isn't it? Now you know how_they_ felt--in the old days. "

Frankie was crying. "You are damn right! Thanks. "

Milt looked years younger. "Don't mention it--_champ_. "

THE END

Transcriber's Note:

 This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ September 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. Informal spellings remain as printed.