Chapter 20

George sat in a chair in the dressing room. Physically, he felt fine. He was in the best shape he’d ever been in his life. He was well hydrated. He was healthy. He was a little tired from not sleeping well the night before, but he knew it wouldn’t affect him much once his blood started pumping and he started fighting. The real challenge wasn’t his body. It was his mind, which at the moment could be occupied by only one thing.

“I’m going to fight Hector,” he said to himself. It was hard to believe, and saying it out loud didn’t make it any easier.

The door to the dressing room opened, and Ricardo stepped in.

“I spoke to the officials,” he said. “He’s officially a member of Vengeance MMA. Therefore, he’s eligible to fight for them. There’s no current rule that would prevent him from fighting us, even if he was once one of us.”

“I thought not,” griped George. “So now we have to fight him. Now I have to fight him.”

“But you don’t want to,” probed Ricardo.

George shook his head. Ricardo grabbed a chair and put it next to George and sat down.

“Is it because you’re afraid to? Afraid you’ll lose?” he asked.

George shrugged. “There’s that. But that’s not even what’s bothering me the most. He’s my friend. Or he was. Or maybe he still is. I don’t know.” George ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “All I know is it doesn’t feel right trying to fight him. I don’t think of him as my enemy. I wish he and I were still friends. How did it come to this anyway?”

Ricardo leaned forward in his chair and steepled his fingers together. The room was quiet quiet for a moment while the two of them thought.

“Do you think you’d feel guilty fighting him?” asked Ricardo.

“Yes. I mean, I don’t know,” George answered. “I guess I shouldn’t.”

“Maybe,” thought Ricardo. “And maybe not. It’s hard for me to know too. But I know this: if you don’t fight him, he’ll win. Do you think he should?”

“No,” George blurted out. “Absolutely not. We know how people would see it. That he’d bested you.” George scratched his head. “I guess that’s what he wants, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” said Ricardo.

“Okay,” said George as he stood from his chair and stretched his neck. “So I’ll fight him. I just wish I knew why he’s doing all this. Why he’s making himself our enemy like this.”

Ricardo nodded and stood from his chair. He started rubbing George’s shoulders, helping him loosen up. “The thing you need to understand about Hector is this: he’s not our enemy tonight because he’s a bad person. I don’t think he is. You know as well as I do that he can be kind. And he’s not simply because he’s now part of Vengeance. That makes him an opponent, but not an enemy. He’s our enemy tonight, the person who we absolutely must beat, because of his pride. Because whatever happens to Hector, he can never, ever be humbled. And because of that, he would never pass up an opportunity to hurt you or me. And if we let him gain an advantage on us, like beating us tonight, it’d be all he needed to do all sorts of damage to us, because he’d never admit to himself that he should let everything that’s happened between us go. He’d never stop.”

George nodded.

“Are you ready?” Ricardo asked.

George nodded again, because he could feel it. Talking to Ricardo had done the trick. He was ready.

“Good,” said Ricardo. “Then I think you should wear this.”

 

Chinese drums thundered with the cheers of thousands of fight fans. The whole place thrummed with anticipation for the next fight.

“So far tonight we’ve seen an absolutely amazing performance by Ricardo’s team. Every one of his fighters made their debut tonight. Not a single one of them with a professional record in the United States. And yet, they’ve proven to us again after nearly fifteen years that the Gracia family’s Jiu-jitsu is a formidable, effective art. With four victories in a row, Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu has secured for itself a guaranteed win over Vengeance. At this point, Vengeance will be fighting for points they will hopefully be able to cash in for the post season, as well as additional prize money. Personally, I’m eager to see if Vengeance can produce just one fighter that can beat that Gracia Jiu-jitsu.”

The tuxedo-clad announcer stepped back into the cage, careful not to step on the light-brown splotches where attendants cleaned blood off of the canvas. His polished shoes glistened like his teeth, which never seemed to cease smiling. He was spotless, clean, and untouchable, an ethereal presence in a world of sweat, grime, and wounds. The man stopped in the center of the cage and raised one hand to receive the microphone descending from the ceiling.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re about to begin the last fight of the evening. Introducing the middleweight fighter from Team Vengeance!” the man announced as fans cheered. “This man is a mixed martial artist with a professional record of five wins with no losses. He weighs one hundred and eighty-five pounds. Fighting out of Longbeach, California, Hector Vargas!”

“Now this is a fighter I’ve been excited to see. Vargas has a great record with Prodigy, undefeated and all five of his wins are by ref stoppage. This guy likes to have as little rest as possible between his fights, too. If you remember about six months ago, Vargas announced himself as a fighter from Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu. Now we see him fighting against Brotherhood as a part of Team Vengeance. We don’t have any real details to say what the relationship is between Vargas and the Gracias, but we do know there’s bad blood between them. Just look at the hostility between Vargas and Peligro at weigh-ins. I mean, Vargas actually shoves Peligro over! And knocks him onto his back! Whatever happened between these people, I’m pretty sure Vargas aims to settle it tonight.”

“Fighting for Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu,” continued the announcer. “This man is a Jiu-jitsu fighter. Weighing in at one hundred and eighty-five pounds, making his debut in professional mixed martial arts, George Peligro!”

George emerged onto the walkway leading to the cage with the rest of his teammates in tow. His gi shone white under the bright lights of the arena. Tied around his waist: a brown belt.

“And here comes the entire Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu team yet again. I love how unified they’ve come tonight. They all come out together, wearing the same uniform, looking like a unit. Of the two teams tonight, Brotherhood is definitely the one that embodies the spirit of Legacy. You really get the feeling these guys aren’t just a random group of fighters, but a cohesive dojo, where each fighter works to better his teammates, and not just himself.

“As for Peligro, we don’t know much about him. He’s young. At twenty years old he’s the youngest fighter here, but only a year younger than Vargas. He looks athletic, and he’s been trained by the legendary Gracia family, but he’s not even a black belt. You can see his belt from here, and it’s brown. that makes him the only member of the team without a black belt, and we wonder how that will reflect in his fighting. Ricardo Gracia seems to have faith in him, but Vargas appears to have no respect for the youngest fighter. We’ll see who’s right in just a minute.”

George stepped into the cage. The sound of the crowd and the drums thrummed around him. he felt like he could actually feel the noise pressing in on his body from all sides. He stole a glance at the opposite end of the circular cage, where Hector stood shaking out his hands and feet. A frustrated and irritated Phil McGary stood at the base of the cage just behind him, trying to hiss instructions and being thoroughly ignored.

“George!” called Ricardo from behind the cage. “Give me your gi!”

George fumbled with his new belt and gi. Though Ricardo had him practicing and grappling with taped, gloved hands for the past few months, the simple task of getting undressed still proved to be a challenge. Finally, down to nothing but tight, white shorts that bore the newest incarnation of his academy’s logo, George handed the bundle of his belt and gi over the cage to his teammates on the other side.

When Ricardo gestured for him to come closer, George crouched down so the two of them were face level.

“I want you to be patient, but remember to keep him defending while you wait. Make him move with strikes and footwork, then wait for the right opportunity to present itself.”

George nodded. The team had built up his conditioning for this strategy: being patient while appearing not to be patient. Waiting when appearing to attack. It took great physical and mental stamina to carry out such a plan, but Scott had made sure to beat that stamina into him.

“Get ready, gentlemen,” warned the referee.

George looked and noticed the announcer had left the cage already, and the door was latched shut. The referee was waving both fighters to the center. George and Hector obeyed.

Soon the two of them were close, as close as they were the day before when they’d posed for the face off. Hector was taller than George, and seemed to be rippling with aggression and ill intent. George looked into his eyes and fought the urge to feel small. The referee, uninterested in either fighter’s feelings, took a hold of each fighter’s wrist.

“You both know the rules. I won’t tolerate any illegal techniques,” warned the referee, clearly remembering what Gordeaux had done to Mo’s eye. “If you refuse to obey my commands, you’re outta here. Remember to defend yourselves at all times. Now touch gloves and go back to your corners.”

George was ready this time when Hector shoved him with his gloves. George staggered back, but stayed on his feet. He’d been ready since his experience with his former friend at weigh-ins.

The referee pointed a threatening finger at Hector. “One more outburst like that will cost you a point, Vargas!” he warned. “Now back to your corner!”

George turned back to his corner and saw Ricardo there shaking his head in disgust. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

And George didn’t worry about the shoving. He was busy worrying about what was about to happen next.

“That attitude is becoming a trademark for Vargas. He’s known for his fierce attitude and equally fierce pace. He’s more well rounded and better conditioned than most fighters you see at his level, and certainly at his age. Prodigy owners are boasting him as the next big thing. I wonder how he’ll fare against Peligro, who is an unknown, like the rest of his team. But I’m guessing from Vargas’s hostility that these two might know each other. Vargas may be much better read into Peligro’s unique style than we are. Then again, the same might be true of Peligro. I can’t wait to find out.”

“Fighter are you ready?” shouted the referee.

George nodded. He raised his arms and stepped into his fighting stance, his hands open and relaxed.

“Remember George, keep moving, keep him moving!” shouted Pablo.

“Fighter are you ready?” the referee shouted again, this time looking at Hector.

Hector’s hands balled themselves to dense fists and he snorted and stamped like a bull ready to charge.

The referee raised his hand in the air, and there it stayed, suspended. He looked to both fighters one more time.

The hand came down. “Let’s rock!” he shouted.

George hunched his shoulders and cautiously began to approach the center of the cage, but Hector Charged straight for him.

            “Vargas wastes no time and rushes Peligro early with a flurry of punches!”

            George protected his face from most of the blows with his forearms, but still got rocked as a few punches found their way through his defenses and collided with the sides of his head. Not wanting to let the onslaught continue, George ducked several blows and struck out with a few punches of his own. The two young men traded strike for strike until the short exchange ended as Hector swung his shin in a vicious kick that slammed into the side of George’s thigh. The two of them separated, but not far.

            George winced at the deep sting in his leg left by Hector’s roundhouse kick. Though their brief exchange had only lasted a few seconds, it had seemed much longer to him. he dreaded what might happen if he allowed Hector to charge in again. If Hector continued attacking this way unchecked, George’s compounding injuries and fatigue would make him more and more susceptible to a knockout. He had to act first this time, and put some pressure on Hector to keep him from doing so much damage.

            George lunged forward, faking a takedown, hoping to convince Hector to lower his hands to make way for his own assault. He was disappointed as Hector recovered quickly from the fake and raised his hands in time to cover up against George’s hook punches.

            The two of them began to exchange again, and George dropped low for a real takedown. George reached for Hector’s legs, and realized too late that his friend was already sprawling backwards to avoid him. As Hector’s weight fell on George’s shoulders, George fell belly-down on the mat and struggled to get his knees under him again.

            “Peligro is in real trouble here. If Vargas can land a knee to his head this may very well be the end of the fight.”

            “Block his knees and go to T-position!” shouted Ricardo.

            George barely heard his coach over the blood rushing in his ears. He braced his arms against Hector’s rhythmic knee strikes and tried to change positions. For the briefest moment, just as Hector raised one of his feet to deliver another knee strike, George felt his opportunity and took it. George Shifted his bodyweight and wrapped his arms around Hector, gluing himself to his friend’s side. Already he could feel Hector stumble and scramble to regain his balance, but George decided to not give him the chance.

            George threw him. Hector tipped and lost all contact with the floor as George twisted away from him and wrenched their combined weight forward.

            “And Peligro gets a beautiful hip throw on Vargas, and loses his balance himself but lands in side mount, still a very dominant position. Now we get to see Peligro go to work on Vargas. Vargas tries to shield himself against those blows, but he’s in a bad position, one we’ve never seen him in before in his history with Prodigy. He needs to escape and get back to his feet if he wants to guarantee at least one victory for his team and prove that Brotherhood can be beaten.”

            “George, watch for the knee-elbow!” shouted Pablo.

            George heard him a fraction of a second too late. He felt Hector’s knee slide in front of his thigh and push, and the two young men scrambled until Hector, though still on the bottom, held George firmly in his guard.

            George, not wanting to waste the advantage of having gravity on his side, lashed out with a hard overhand punch which smashed into Hector’s mouth with an audible whumph! Hector pushed him away with his legs and kicked himself back up to his feet. Blood-tinged saliva dribbled down his chin and neck.

            “Looks like Vargas is ready to punish Peligro for the audacity of landing those strikes on the ground.”

            Hector charged in again, planting a front kick against George’s chest and knocking him back against the cage. As George’s back bounced off the fence, Hector closed the distance to throw another combination, and George was ready, ducking, blocking, and returning fire.

            The two of them circled each other, exchanging blows and separating again.

            “Ten seconds!” Ricardo shouted as he heard the clapping of the wooden boards in the hands of the timekeeper.

            George braced himself, knowing as Hector approached that these would be the hardest punches from him of the entire round. He was not disappointed.

            The first punch of the last ten seconds rocked him like an ocean wave, beating George’s blocking arm by a fraction of an inch and colliding with his skull. George, thankfully, had the presence of mind to keep his arms up after taking the blow as another came careening in from the other side. And then another. And then another. George covered himself as best he could as the world shook and reeled with every shot. He felt as though he were trapped inside a cardboard box being repeatedly struck with a baseball bat.

            Somewhere far away, a horn blew, and George immediately felt hands prying Hector away from him, ending the round and saving him from a brutal beating. George lowered his arms and tried to focus his eyes on something other than Hector. He searched the people just beyond the cage for the faces of his teammates and found them somewhere off to his left and ambled drunkenly towards them.

            Pablo and Ricardo appeared from somewhere and guided George to a short stool. “Over hear, George. Look at me,” one of them said. “You took a pretty hard shot there at the end. Sit down, get your bearings, cause you’re still dizzy. You can’t continue fighting like this unless you snap out of it.”

            George realized it was Pablo speaking, and knew he was right. Something wasn’t right. He was loopy. And that was dangerous for him. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to clear it. He could feel an ice pack being pressed against his neck and shoulders, and a bottle of water being pushed into his hand.

            He opened his eyes again, and the world seemed to resolve back into solid shapes with sharp edges. Ricardo was holding an ice pack against his shoulders while Pablo was looking in his eyes, trying to determine if it was safe for him to keep fighting.

            “Hey, look at me. Are you good? Can you see straight?” George nodded. “Good. I’m pretty sure you lost that round, but you stood toe-to-toe with him and made him worry. You got some good shots in and you even hurt him. But listen. Hector is very hard to finish. He’s not going to knock out or submit very easily. Which means you need this round. You need to win this round. You hear me? Be more aggressive. Keep him backing up. Once he’s backing up on his heels, take him down. Control the position, and don’t give up a mount just because you think you can submit him or KO him. It won’t be that easy. You got it?”

            The referee appeared over Pablo’s shoulder. “Clear the cage. Round’s about to begin.”

            Ricardo waved him off. He looked at George and whispered even as Pablo hustled to get their stool and gear out of the cage. “You’re the better fighter, George. I know you are. If you get out there and fight him like you believe that, you’ll see it’s true.”

            Then Pablo pulled him along with him, and suddenly George was alone in the cage again.

            “Ready?” cried the ref. “Let’s go, gentlemen!”

            A bell rang, and round 2 began.

            “You’re the better fighter,” George whispered to himself. His voice was muffled and slurred by the mouthpiece he wore. “Believe. Believe. You’re the better fighter. Now fight like it.”

            Hector rushed forward to meet him.

            “Round two begins, and Vargas comes out swinging. Peligro, who ended the last round on shaky legs, seems to have recovered. Peligro, doing a great job of slipping those punches, really showing some great boxing skills…and Peligro counters with a big right hand and rocks Vargas! Looks like Vargas is recovering but Peligro is rushing forward, driving Vargas into the cage!”

            “Keep him on his heels,” George thought to himself as he launched himself at Hector, trying to keep his arms from swinging wildly out of control. “Get the takedown.”

            Hector’s back bounced off the cage, springing him forward like a pro wrestler sling-shotting himself off the ropes. George dropped onto his knees and let his shoulder crash into Hector’s hips. His opponent felt weightless as George lifted him into the air and slammed him onto his back on the canvas below.

            “Peligro seems to have found his bravery in between the two rounds, and is demonstrating the kind of timing, technical skill, and athleticism we’ve come to expect from Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu fighters tonight. Vargas tries to scramble away to get back on his feet but Peligro does a great job of keeping him pinned to the ground while looking for an opportunity to pass his guard.”

            George felt Hector’s attempts to strike him, the hammerfist blows that fell on his back and shoulders, but the strikes did little. George was in a position with too much leverage for any of Hector’s punches to have much strength. He felt tempted to rear up and strike Hector right then, to use gravity to his advantage and throw everything he had at his former friend while he had the chance, but he dismissed it, reminding himself there were better positions than the one he was in at the time.

            “Pass! Pass his guard!” George could hear from his corner, though he couldn’t tell from whom.

            George listened.

            “Peligro, showing an incredible amount of patience, finally passes Vargas’s guard and settles himself into the side mount. He’s drawing his knees in and making that position really tight, which will make it really hard for Vargas to escape. It looks like Peligro is going for control more than damage, since he could drop some serious elbows from that position but is choosing not to in order to keep the position tight. I think he’s going for the mount.”

            George tried to make his position as tight as possible. He drew his knees in close to Hector’s side to keep him from scrambling away, and only broke the position briefly to drop his elbow into his head. A lucky strike might cut Hector above the eye and prompt the doctor to stop the fight, George hoped.

            Perhaps because he was tired of George’s crushing weight, or because the elbows wore proving more damaging than George realized, Hector suddenly bucked his hips high into the air in a risky bid for escape. George’s knee, which was already pressed tight to Hector’s side, snapped up and flew to the other side of Hector’s thrashing torso as though set off by a spring. George shifted his weight, and found himself in the mount. Hector’s face, just two feet below his own, was wide-eyed in consternation and shock.

            “Hit him! Hit him George!” Mo shouted from somewhere.

            Careful to keep his precarious balance on top of Hector, George raised his fist in the air and brought it down like a steam drill. As his gloved fist made contact with Hector’s face, the flat area between the eyes just above the bridge of the nose, George felt a dull crunch in his hand, and feared for a moment that he’d somehow broken his former friend’s skull. When he moved his hand to look at Hector’s face, he saw no evidence of such an injury. Though red from the impact and beaded with sweat, Hector’s face was still in good condition.

            It was at that moment that George noticed the numbing, burning sensation filling the hand he’d just punched with. It felt like his glove was filling with something hot and thick, and that at any moment it would start seeping out at his wrist.  A terrible reality settled on George, even as he adjusted his position to prevent another hip-thrusting escape from Hector: his hand was broken.

            The clapping sound came again. Ten seconds remained in the round. Careful to protect his numb, burning right hand, George punched at Hector with his left hand, and dropped elbows with both. Hector covered his head with his arms, and George struggled to penetrate the bony shield in the hopes of stopping the fight from going on any further. But as the horn blew to end the round, George knew he hadn’t done enough damage to Hector to prevent another five minutes of fighting.

            The referee pulled the boys apart, and George walked to his corner where Pablo and Ricardo waited.

            “What happened to your hand?” asked Ricardo as George slumped onto the stool.

            George took a water bottle from Pablo with his left hand and took a drink. Now that his hand was in agony, all parts of his body seemed to take the opportunity to protest the abuse they were enduring. His throat was hot and parched. His head was throbbing. The muscles in his arms and legs and chest screamed with fatigue. His entire body felt heavy, decrepit, and tired.

            “You definitely won that round,” Roy offered. “Give us another one of those and you’ll definitely get the win.”

            George said nothing.

            “What happened to your hand?” Ricardo repeated.

            George looked him in the eye, and struggled not to let his disappointment show. How could he win now? “It’s broken,” he said. He wanted to say more, to explain himself, but there was nothing else to say. The hand was broken. It is what it is.

            Ricardo looked at him. George looked down at the canvas again. He’d never been very good at reading Ricardo’s face, and worried that his father’s cousin was disappointed in him.

            “I don’t want you to further injure your hand. If it’s broken, we need to think about calling the match. What do you think?” Ricardo asked.

            George shook his head. He wasn’t worried about further injury. He was afraid to admit that victory was now beyond his reach. He couldn’t win with a broken hand. Not against Hector. But if he conceded now, Hector would win, anyway.

            “I don’t want to quit,” he said, afraid he was going to lose control of his emotions, “but I can’t use this hand anymore.”

            No one said anything.

            “It’s time,” said the referee. The third and last round was about to start.

            “George! George, look at me!” said Scott from the other side of the cage.

            George looked, and Scott had a look on his face that wasn’t much different from the expression he usually wore, but George was somehow reading it as one he’d never seen before. It said something like “man the hell up and focus!” Perhaps George had just been with the man so long now he was starting to read him better.

            “Remember the tires? In the field?” he asked.

            George remembered the brutal conditioning Scott put the whole team through. It seemed like such a long time ago.

            “The problem is not your body. Remember?” said Scott. “Your body’s not the problem. What is the problem?”

            George remembered that day pushing tires and running obstacle courses and sprinting on the slippery grass. He remembered how Scott showed him just how far he could push himself. How much more his body had to give despite what his body told him.

            “There’s no problem,” George answered.

            Scott nodded approvingly and gave a thumbs up.

            “Guys, I said it’s time,” the referee repeated himself.

            “Alright, alright. We’re going,” answered Pablo as he and his father collected the stool and their gear and carried it out of the cage.

            George could see the referee turning to him to ask if he was ready, but he couldn’t hear him. all he could hear was his own heart beat. He controlled his breathing, trying to keep his heart rate steady.  The aches and pains in his body began to fade, as did the throbbing heat in his right hand. He focused on one thing and one thing only: bringing the fight to Hector for one last round.

            “Last round, gentlemen! Fight Hard!” shouted the ref.

            This time it was George’s turn to rush in to meet his opponent.

            The crowd seethed with excitement as George drove Hector into the cage with his shoulder. Hector retaliated with a flurry of punches and elbows, but George pressed into his opponent, denying him the space necessary for more powerful hits. The two young men traded back and forth, Hector with his brutal strikes that seemed to swing for the fences, and George’s own mix of kicks, elbows, and takedown attempts.

            Though Hector thwarted many of George’s aggressive attempts to throw him, twice he found himself head-over-heels being slammed into the canvas. Both throws took their toll, visibly shaking Hector to his core with the impacts. Both times, George took a strong position on top of Hector, battering him with left-handed punches and elbows. Both times Hector pulled off difficult, costly escapes that made him pay in both stamina and confidence.

            George took his share of punishment, receiving more strikes from Hector than he could give back. Hector’s fists, elbows, and shins seemed to find the tiny holes in George’s defenses, coming from angles unexpected and unprotected. It wasn’t long before his ribs were bruised, his legs numb, and his head swimming.

            After what felt like an eternity of trading blow for blow in a body that felt like it would shut down at any moment, George heard a voice from his corner. It was Ricardo.

            “One more minute, George! Survive one more minute!”

            Hector, in a change of tactics, dropped low and shot forward for George’s legs. George tried to drop himself lower to sprawl the takedown, but his body refused to cooperate. His leg muscles seized and his rib cage screamed in pain as Hector plowed into him and lifted him into the air before the two of them descended to the canvas like a meteor.

            Somehow, George kept the presence of mind to keep Hector in his guard, but as soon as his back slammed into the floor, Hector’s fists came down like hailstones, battering anything and everything that George did not cover with his forearms.

            And then, just for a moment, Hector’s right fist tarried just a little too long where it had struck George in the chest. George felt the flow of time slow to a trickle as instinct took over, and he twisted his body sideways as his arms snaked around Hector’s vulnerable appendage and pinned it in place. Hector reacted a second too late, and soon George had his legs wrapped around his head and back, with Hector’s arm trapped and slowly straightening between his legs. Hector tried to lock his hands together, but George hammerfisted his face with his left hand to break Hector’s grip.

            “This is unbelievable! Peligro seems to have Vargas in an incredibly tight armbar! With only ten seconds left in the third round, Peligro has a possible submission! Will Vargas be able to hold on long enough for a possible decision victory? Or will Peligro tap him out for a shut out win for Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu? Five more seconds!”

            “Break it! Break the arm!” screamed Scott as he slammed his hand on the cage floor.

            George pulled with all the energy he could squeeze from his spent body. Something hot and wet trickled down his cheek from the brow above his right eye. From where he lay on the floor he could see Hector’s free hand. At first it pulled at George’s thigh in a desperate attempt to wrench the other arm free, but now it hovered above his leg, as if ready to tap.

            George could hear someone screaming. Was it Hector, from the pain? Or was it himself, from the strain? He quickly realized it was both.

            Somewhere, on another world, a horn blew.