AS HE WAITED IN THE DARK ALLEY FOR THE GUY WHO WAS FOLLOWING HIM, SLEDGE’S RIGHT HAND ITCHED AROUND THE GUN IN HIS POCKET. HE COULD FEEL THE OLD FAMILIAR RAGE BURNING INSIDE HIM, MAKING HIS BLOOD BOIL LIKE WATER IN A KETTLE ON THE OLD WOOD BURNING STOVE IN HIS OLD MAN’S FOURTH-FLOOR WALK-UP IN
My typewriter locked. I heard the cheering rise to a crescendo; two hundred thousand hands commenced clapping as the Line Editor’s horn blared.
End of the first quarter.
SAGKETT 2500, CULP 2473.
I leaned back in my chair, sleeving more wetness from my face, and took several deep breaths. The Cranker had got to his feet. He stood in a rigid posture, a fresh cigarette between his lips, and squinted toward the sidelines. His Seconds were already on the field, running toward him with water bucket and a container of Fuel.
My own Seconds reached me a short time later. One of them extended Fuel, but even though my mouth was dry, sandy, I shook my head and gestured him away. Mort and I had agreed that I should hold off on the Fuel as long as possible; it was part of the game plan we had worked out.
By the time I finished splashing water on my face and toweling off, there was less than a minute of the time-out left. I looked over at G Section. I couldn’t pick Mom and Dad out of the sea of faces, or Sally or Mort either, but just knowing they were there was enough.
I took my place, knocked dottle out of the briar, tamped in some fresh tobacco, and fired it. My mind was already racing, working ahead — a full four sentences when Gulp sat down again and the Head Editor raised the red starting flag.
Claxon.
THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD. THE FOLLOWER HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH HIS PARTNER’S MURDER AND THE THEFT OF THE DIAMOND, SLEDGE WAS SURE OF THAT. HE WAS GOING TO GET SOME ANSWERS NOW, ONE WAY OR ANOTHER.
And I was off, banging my machine at the same feverish pace of the first period. I cut through a full page of action, interspersing it with dialogue, drawing it out; the scene was good for another 500 words, at least. Twelve pages down and the thirteenth in the typewriter. My quality level was still good, but when I glanced up at the board, I saw that The Cranker was once again cranking at the top of his form.
BUT EVEN WHILE SHE WAS CLINGING TO THE STARFLEET CAPTAIN WHO HAD SAVED HER LIFE, SHE FELT A STRANGE SADNESS. THE GREEN-BEAST HAD BEEN DISINTEGRATED AND WAS NOTHING MORE NOW THAN A PUDDLE OF GREEN ON THE DUSTY SANDS OF DENEB, LIKE A SPLOTCH OF PAINT ON AN ALIEN CANVAS. THE HORROR WAS OVER, AND YET... AND YET, DESPITE HER REVULSION, THE THING HAD STIRRED SOMETHING DEEP AND PRIMITIVE INSIDE HER THAT SHE WAS ONLY JUST BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND.
“Gulp, Gulp — crank that pulp!”
My lead had dwindled to a mere twelve words: the scoreboard read SACKETT 3359, CULP 3347. The Cranker was making his move now, and he was doing it despite the fact that I was working at maximum speed.
The feeling of tension and uncertainty began to gnaw at me again. I fought it down, concentrated even more intensely, punching the keys so hard that pain shot up both wrists. Fresh sweat rolled off me; the hot sun lay on the back of my neck like a burning hand.
SLEDGE SNARLED, “YOU’LL TALK, ALL RIGHT!” AND SWATTED THE GUY ACROSS THE HEAD WITH HIS FORTY-FIVE. THE GUY REELED AND STAGGERED INTO THE WET ALLEY WALL. SLEDGE MOVED IN, TRANSFERRING-THE GUN TO-HIS LEFT — HAND. HE HIT THE FOLLOWER A SECOND TIME, HIT HIM IN THE MOUTH WITH A HAND LIKE A FIST
The Head Editor’s whistle blew.
And my typewriter locked, jamming my fingers.
Penalty. Penalty!
My throat closed up. I snapped my head over toward the sidelines and saw the ten-second penalty flag waving the green-and-black one that meant “Phrasing Unacceptable.” The crowd was making a magnified sound that was half excited, half groaning; I knew the TriDim cameras would have homed in on me for a series of closeups. I could feel my face reddening. First penalty of the match and I had let it happen to me.
But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that it was going to cost me the lead: The Cranker’s typewriter was still clattering on at white heat, churning out words and sentences that flashed like taunts on the board.
I counted off the seconds in my mind, and when the Head Editor’s flag dropped and my machine unlocked, I flailed the keys angrily, rewriting the penalty sentence: HE HIT THE FOLLOWER A SECOND TIME, HIT HIM IN THE MOUTH WITH A HAND LIKE A CEMENT BLOCK. But the damage had been done, all right. The board told me that and told everyone else too.
CULP 3899, SACKETT 3878.
The penalty seemed to have-energized The Cranker, given him a psychological lift; he was working faster than ever now, with even more savagery. I felt a little wrench of fear. About the only way you could beat one of the greats was to take the lead early on and hold it. Once an experienced old pro like Culp got in front, the advantage was all his.
A quote dropped into my mind, one I’d read a long time ago in an Old-Sports history text, and it made me shiver: “Going up against the best is a little bit like going up against Death.”
I had my own speed back now, but my concentration wasn’t as sharp as it had been before the penalty; a couple of times I hit the wrong keys, misspelled words and then had to retype them. It was just the kind of penalty-reaction Mort had warned me against. “Penalties don’t mean a thing,” he’d said. “What you’ve got to watch out for is worrying about them, letting them dam up the flow or lead you into another mistake.”
But it wasn’t Mort out here in the hot Prose Bowl sun. It wasn’t Mort going head-to-head against a legend.
The amplified sound of Culp’s machine seemed louder than my own, steadier, more rhythmic. Nervously I checked the board again. His stuff was coming so fast now that it might have been written by one of the experimental prose-computers instead of a pulpeteer.
SHE LOOKED OUT THROUGH THE SHIP’S VIEWSCREEN AT THE EMPTY SWEEP OF SPACE. BEHIND HER SHE COULD HEAR THE CAPTAIN TALKING TO THE BASE COMMANDER AT EARTH COLONY SEVEN, RELAYING THE INFORMATION ABOUT THE SHUTTLE-SHIP CRASH ON DENEB. “ONLY ONE SURVIVOR,” HE WAS SAYING. YES, SHE THOUGHT, ONLY ONE SURVIVOR. BUT I WISH THERE HADN’T BEEN ANY. IF I’D DIED IN THE CRASH TOO, THEN I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN ATTACKED BY THE GREEN-BEAST. AND I WOULDN’T BE FEELING THESE STRANGE AND TERRIBLE EMOTIONS, THIS SENSE OF UNFULFILLMENT AND DEPRIVATION.
Some of the fans were on their feet, screaming “Cranker! Cranker!”
GULP 4250, SACKETT 4196.
I felt light-headed, giddy with tension; but the adrenaline kept flowing and the words kept coming, pouring out of my subconscious and through the mind-haze and out into the blazing afternoon — nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs. Don’t let him gain any more ground. Stay close. Stay close!
SLEDGE FOLLOWED THE FAT MAN THROUGH THE HEAVY DARKNESS ALONG THE RIVER. THE STENCH OF FISH AND MUD AND GARBAGE WAFTED UP FROM THE OILY BLACK WATER AND SLAPPED HIM ACROSS THE FACE LIKE A DIRTY WET TOWEL. HE DIDN’T KNOW WHERE THE FAT MAN WAS LEADING HIM, BUT I FELT SURE IT
Whistle.
Lock.
Penalty.
I looked up in disbelief and saw the Head Editor waving the purple-and-gold penalty flag that signified “Switched Person.” A smattering of boos rolled down around me from the stands. My eyes flicked to the board, and it was true, I had slipped out of third person and into first — an amateur’s mistake, a kid’s blunder. Shame made me duck my head; it was as if, in that moment, I could feel concentrated waves of disgust from the sixty million eyes that watched me.
The ten seconds of the penalty were like a hundred, a thousand. Because all the while The Cranker’s machine ratcheted onward, not once slowing or breaking cadence. When my typewriter finally unlocked, I redid the sentence in the proper person and plunged ahead without checking the score. I didn’t want to know how far behind I was now. I was afraid that if I did know, it would make me reckless with urgency and push me into another stupid error.