My throat was parched, raw and hot from pipe smoke, and for the first time I thought about the Fuel. It had been a long time since I’d wanted it in the first half of a Face-Off, but I wanted it now. Only I couldn’t have it, not until halftime, not without taking a disastrous 20-second Fuel penalty. There had to be less than 600 words left to the end of the quarter, I told myself; I could hold out that long. A top-line pro could do 600 words no matter what the circumstances. A top-line pro, as The Cranker himself had once said, could do 600 words dead.
I forced myself to shut out everything from my mind except the prose, the story line. Old page out of the platen, new page in. Old page out, new page in. Speed, speed, but make sure of the grammar, the tense, the phrasing. Still a full 5000 words to go in the match. Still an even chance for a second-half comeback.
THE INTERIOR OF THE WAREHOUSE WAS DANK AND MUSTY AND FILLED WITH CROUCHING SHADOWS LIKE A PLATOON OF EVIL SPIRITS WAITING TO LEAP ON HIM. THEN THERE WAS A FLICKER OF LIGHT AT THE REAR AND IT TOLD SLEDGE THE FAT MAN HAD SWITCHED ON A SMALL POCKET FLASH. GUN IN HAND, HE CREPT STEALTHILY TOWARD THE
My machine locked again.
I jerked my head up, half expecting to see a penalty flag aloft for the third time. But it wasn’t a penalty; it was halftime at last. The Line Editor’s horn blew. The Cranker’s cheering section was chanting “Gulp, Gulp, Gulp!”
I had to look at the board then, at the score shining against the sky, and I did: CULP 5000, SACKETT 4796.
Some of the tension drained out of me and I sat there feeling limp, heavy with fatigue. The joints in my fingers were stiff; there was a spot of blood on the tip of my right forefinger where the skin had split near the nail. But the score was all that mattered to me at that moment, and it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Only 204 words down. I had made up larger margins than that in my career; I could do it again.
Across the Line, Gulp was on his feet and staring down at the turf with eyes that gleamed and didn’t blink. He wasn’t quite so imposing now, strangely. His back was bowed and his hands looked a little shaky — as though he was the one who was trailing by 204 words and facing an uphill battle in the second half.
When I pushed back my own chair and stood up, a sudden sharp pain in my tender hamstring made me clutch at the table edge. I was soaked in sweat and so thirsty I had trouble swallowing. But I didn’t reach for the Fuel when my Seconds appeared; in spite of my need I didn’t want to take any while I was out here, didn’t want to show The Cranker and the crowd and the TriDim audience that I needed it. In the locker room, yes. Just another few minutes.
Two of Culp’s Seconds began escorting him off the field toward the tunnel at the south end; he was hanging onto his Fuel container with both hands. I waved away my people and hobbled toward the north tunnel alone.
Fans showered me with roses and confetti as I came into the tunnel. That was a good sign; they hadn’t given up on me. The passageway was cool, a welcome relief from the blazing sun, and empty except for the two guards who were stationed there to keep out fans, New-Sport reporters, and anyone else who might try to see me. The Prose Bowl rules were strict: each of the contestants had to spend halftime alone, locked in his respective locker room without typewriter or any other kind of writing tools. Back in ’26, the year of the Postal-Rate Riots, a pro named Penny-A-Word Gordon had been disqualified for cheating when officials found out another wordsmith, hired by Gordon’s agent, had written a fast 1000-word continuation during the break and delivered it to Gordon, who then revised it with a pen, memorized it, and used it to build up an early third-quarter lead. The incident had caused a pretty large scandal at the time, and the Prose Bowl people weren’t about to let it happen again.
As soon as I came into the locker room, the familiar writer’s-office odors of sweat, stale tobacco, and spilled Fuel assailed me and made me feel a little better. The Prose Bowl officials were also careful about creating the proper atmosphere; they wanted each of the contestants to feel at home. Behind me the door panel whispered shut and locked itself electronically, but I was already on my way to where the Fuel container sat waiting on the desk.
I measured out three ounces, tossed it off, and waited for it to work its magic. It didn’t take long; the last of the tension and most of the lassitude were gone within seconds. I poured out another three ounces, set it aside, and stripped off my sodden uniform.
While I was showering I thought about The Cranker. His performance in the first half had been flawless: no penalties, unflagging speed, front-line prose. Even his detractors wouldn’t be able to find fault with it, or even the slightest indication that he was washed up and about to wilt under the pressure.
So if I was going to beat him I had to do it on talent and speed and desire — all on my own. Nothing came easy in this business or in the Prose Bowl; I’d known that all along. You had to work long and hard if you wanted to win. You had to give your all, and try to stay away from the penalties, and hope that you were good enough and strong enough to come out on top.
No, The Cranker wasn’t going to beat himself. And I wasn’t going to beat myself either.
I stepped out of the shower, toweled dry, bandaged the wound on my right forefinger, put on a clean tunic, and took the rest of my allotted Fuel an ounce at a time. I could feel my confidence building, solidifying again.
The digital clock on one wall said that there were still nine minutes left in the time-out. I paced around, flexing my leg to keep the hamstring from tightening up. It was quiet in there, almost too quiet — and suddenly I found myself thinking how alone I was. I wished Mort was there so we could discuss strategy; I wished the folks and Sally were there so I could tell them how I felt, how self-assured I was.
But even if they were here, I thought then, would it really make a difference? I’d still be alone, wouldn’t I? You were always alone in the pros; your parents, your agent, the Editors, the girl you loved, all of them gave you as much help and support as they could — but they weren’t puppeteers and they just didn’t know what it was like to go out time after time and face the machine, the blank sheets of paper, the pressure and pain of millions of words and hundreds of Face-Offs. The only ones who did know what it was like were other pros; only your own could truly understand.
Only your own.
The Cranker?
Were we really opponents, enemies? Or were we soul brothers, bound more closely than any blood relatives because we shared the same basic loneliness?
It was an unnerving thought and I pushed it out of my head. I couldn’t go out there and face Gulp believing we were one and the same. It would be like going up against myself, trying to overcome myself in a contest that no one could ever win...
The door panel unlocked finally, just as the three-minute warning horn blew, and I hurried out of the locker room, down the tunnel past the silent guards and back into the stadium. The last of the marching bands and majorettes were just filing off onto the sidelines. The fans were buzzing, and when they saw me emerge and trot out toward the Line, there were cheers and applause, and the Sackett band began playing my old school song again.
Gulp wasn’t there yet. But as I reached the Line and took my position, I heard the roar from the stands intensify and his rooting section set up a chant: “Cranker! Cranker!” Then I saw him coming out of the south tunnel, not running but walking in a loose rapid gait. Halfway out, he seemed to stagger just a little, then regained his stride. When he stopped across from me I saw that his eyes were still bright and fixed, like shiny nailheads in a block of old gray wood. I wondered how much Fuel he’d had during the time-out. Not that it mattered; it wouldn’t have been enough to make a difference.