“That’s right. Now don’t look so upset. It will work out just the way you want it. But now your real work starts. You must learn to walk and talk and smile all over again. You must learn how to eat and how to drive a car. Then you’ll have to learn how to play baseball. You must start all over again and learn timing from the ground up. You can start right now. Keep saying to yourself every moment, ‘Slowly, slowly.’ See, you’re stirring your coffee right over the sides of the cup. Now move at the same speed I do. That’s right. Slow your hand down as you raise the cup. When you speak to me pretend you’re imitating a slow deep western drawl. Pitch your voice as low as you can. Only fair, Wally. Try again.”
It was a difficult ten days. They made him stay away from Barbara. Those who had been treated had to associate with people who had normal timing. That way it came faster. At the end of ten days his slips were very infrequent. His habits changed. Each night, at ten, he was exhausted and his body yearned for sleep. Yet by six in the morning he was slept out. He was ravenous an hour before lunch, an hour before dinner. And slowly he learned always to walk as though he were wasting an idle hour in a park, move his hands like a sleepwalker.
One of the young men took movies of him standing, sitting, talking, walking. He found that his head movements were too rapid, too jerky, and he had to learn that when he heard a sound behind him he must give himself a slow count as he turned around.
Banth came back with two glum young recruits. Wally found out later that one of them was a discouraged pro basketball player, the other a pro hockey player who had slowed down to the point where none of the top teams would have anything to do with him.
That night, at dinner, Sam Banth said, “Wally, you’ve done well. Tomorrow morning you and I have an appointment at Yankee Stadium. I want to get some bids for you. I’ve wangled three top managers into being there. I guess curiosity is bringing them around. Paul Paris will pitch to you.”
“Paris! Mr. Banth, he’s the hottest arm in the game right now! He’s hanging up new records. How about that no-hitter out in Cleveland?” Even in his excitement he managed to keep his voice pitched low and say the words slowly.
“I don’t think he’ll worry you any. I’m paying him five hundred to pitch ten times. That’s fifty a pitch. If I was worried, Wally, I wouldn’t pay out that much.”
“Yes, but—”
“Now you’ve got some memorizing to do. He’ll throw ten pitches. I want the first one lined out of the park. I want a clean miss on the second one. I want the next two hit deep. Another miss, another homer, two more strikes and then another one out of the park. That’s nine. Then see if you can bang the last one for a long foul.”
“Mr. Banth, nobody can call their shots that way when—”
“Now tell me what you’re going to do on each pitch.”
“It doesn’t work that way. He won’t throw the whole ten right across the sack.”
“His control is good. If he throws a wild one, it won’t count. But if they’re a little bit outside, go after them.”
It was a misty morning. Wally felt the sweat running down his sides. He wore spikes, but Mr. Banth hadn’t wanted him to put on a uniform. There was a fill-in catcher. Lean Paul Paris, with a smirk on his face, was warming up. Banth stood over at the side laughing and joking with the three managers. One of them had remembered seeing a scout’s report on Wally and had wanted to leave right away, but Sam Banth had talked him out of it.
The vast empty stadium was filled with a hard silence. When Banth laughed an echo came back from centerfield. The ball thwacked against the mitts. Wally sweated and swung the bat a few times.
“Okay,” Paris shouted. “I’m ready. Let’s get this screwball deal over with.”
Banth said quietly, “Okay, Wally.”
Wally walked to the box, tapped the dirt out of his spikes. The catcher pulled the mask down over his face and said, “Now I seen everything.”
Paris went into a windup that looked very slow to Wally. His long arm slanted down and the ball came down the groove. It was a fine, fat pitch. Wally tightened and swung. Usually the ball disappeared completely when it was within six feet of the bag. But this time he watched it the whole way and he saw the bat swinging to meet it. He saw that the swing was too fast and too soon and a shade high. He pulled the swing a little and moved the bat down a trifle. There was a fine deep-throated crack and the ball soared away. Paris turned and put his hands on his hips and watched it. It went into the left-field stands, fair by inches.
“Lucky,” the catcher grunted. Paris put a new ball into play. It was another fat pitch. The temptation was too strong. The bat stung his hands. Paris ducked after the ball was already beyond him. Wally glanced guiltily over at Banth. Sam was scowling at him. He looked back in time to see the ball hit the centerfield wall hard enough to rebound half way back to second base.
He made himself miss the third one. It was an outside pitch, but he swung anyway. Banth looked relieved. Paris was wild on the next one. Wally slammed the next into deep right center, then swung and missed, put the next into the rightfield stands, racked up two strikes, dropped the next into the left-field stands and banged the last one high and foul into the right-field stands. Paul Paris looked seriously shaken. He tore his glove off and glared toward Wally.
“Brother,” the catcher said with deep sincerity, “some of those were the best hit balls I seen in a long time.”
Wally moved over toward the three managers and Banth. Banth told him to go take the spikes off. When he came back out only one of the managers was left. He had a smug look and a happy gleam in his eyes. He slapped Wally on the shoulder. “Welcome aboard, son.”
Chapter Four
Empire of the Damned
The meeting was held in a room so new that it still smelled of damp plaster. Dr. Tomlinson walked briskly in, pushing the door open. Linda looked quickly over her shoulder and pushed herself away from Sam Banth. Her eyes had a heavy-lidded look. Her lips were parted and her face and throat were flushed. It troubled Tomlinson to sec her like that. Banth gave him an impudent grin.
“Prader’ll be along any minute, doc,” Sam said. Prader was the combination lawyer and accountant hired by Sam when the two corporations were being formed.
The three of them sat at the board table. Linda kept her smoky eyes on Sam Banth. Dr. Tomlinson sorted his papers.
Prader came in with a short mincing stride, his briefcase under his arm. He apologized profusely for the delay. He found his chair, unbuckled the briefcase and took out a minute book. He was a giant of a man down to the waist, but his legs were absurdly short. Once he sat down he had a commanding presence, emphasized by a jutting jaw and black, unwinking eyes. Afoot he merely looked absurd.
“Let’s take Dr. Tomlinson’s pet first,” Sam said. “The meeting of the Board of the Tomlinson Research Foundation, Incorporated, will please come to order. We better take the financial report first, doctor.”
Tomlinson found the proper page. “Ah, yes. The donation this month from Champions, Incorporated was thirty-seven thousand, five hundred. Twenty-six hundred and ten went for salaries and wages. Twenty-four thousand was applied against the building. Eighteen thousand, three hundred of new equipment was ordered. The total comes to forty-four thousand nine hundred and ten. There was thirteen hundred and three on hand from the previous month. Thus the deficit to date is six thousand one hundred and seven, plus, of course, the additional fourteen thousand outstanding on the lab. I’ve given the figures to the nearest dollar for simplicity’s sake.”
Sam said harshly, “The purpose of the large donation was to build up a cash reserve. Instead you spent every dime of it and more too. I don’t know as I care for that. What’s that eighteen thousand three hundred for equipment?”