The Head Editor walked out carrying his flags. I lit my pipe and Gulp fired a cigarette; we were both ready. The crowd noise subsided as the Head Editor raised his red flag — and then surged again, as the flag fell and the claxon sounded.
The second half was underway.
My mind was clear and sharp as I dropped into my chair. I had checked my prose printout, waiting at the Line, and I had the rest of my unfinished halftime sentence and the rest of the paragraph already worked out; I punched it down, followed it with three fast paragraphs of descriptive narrative. Build into another action-confrontation scene? No. I was only at the halfway point in the story line, and it would throw my pacing off. I laid in a deft one-line twist, for shock value, and cut away into transition.
“That’s it, Sackett! That’s how to hack it!”
The approving cheers from the Sackett Boosters and from the rest of the fans were like a fresh shot of Fueclass="underline" I could feel my thoughts expanding, settling squarely into the groove. Words poured out of me; phrases, sentences, crisp images. The beat of my typewriter was steady, unrelieved, like a peal of thunder rolling across the hot blue sky.
But it wasn’t the only thunder in the Prose Bowl, I realized abruptly. The Cranker’s machine was making it too — louder, faster, even more intense. For the first time since the quarter had begun I glanced up at the score.
CULP 6132, SACKETT 5898.
I couldn’t believe it. I had been certain that I was cutting into his lead, that I had closed to within at least 175 words; instead Culp had widened the margin by another 30. The thin edge of fear cut at me again, slicing through the confidence and that feeling of controlled power I always had when I was going good. I was throwing everything I had at the Cranker here in the third period, and it wasn’t good enough — he was still pulling away.
I bit down so hard on the stem of my briar that I felt it crack between my teeth. Keep bearing down, I told myself grimly. Don’t let up for a second.
HE WAS STILL THINKING ABOUT THE CASE, TRYING TO PUT THE PIECES TOGETHER, WHEN THE TELEPHONE RANG. IT WAS VELDA. “I’VE BEEN WORRIED ABOUT YOU, SAM,” HER SOFT PURRING VOICE SAID, AND ALL AT ONCE HE FELT A BURNING NEED TO SEE HER. SHE WAS THE ONLY PERSON HE COULD TALK TO, THE ONE PERSON IN THE WORLD WHO UNDERSTOOD HOW HE FELT.
“Sackett, Sackett!”
But The Cranker’s machine kept on soaring; The Cranker’s words kept on racing across the board with relentless speed.
WHEN SHE WAS SURE THE CAPTAIN WAS ASLEEP SHE GOT OUT OF THE BUNK AND PADDED OVER TO WHERE HIS UNIFORM LAY. SHE KNEW WHAT SHE HAD TO DO NOW. SHE ACCEPTED THE TRUTH AT LAST, BECAUSE THE WHOLE TIME SHE HAD BEEN COPULATING WITH THE CAPTAIN HER THOUGHTS HAD BEEN BACK ON DENEB, FULL OF THE SIGHT AND THE SMELL OF GREEN.
“Gulp, Gulp, Gulp!”
The lift from the six ounces of Fuel I’d had in the locker room was gone now and the tension was back, binding the muscles in my fingers and shoulders. The sun seemed to be getting hotter, drawing runnels of sweat from my pores, making my head throb. My words were still coming fast, but the images weren’t quite as sharp as they’d been minutes ago, the quality level not quite as high. I didn’t care. Speed was all that mattered now; I was willing to sacrifice quality for the maintenance of speed.
CULP 6912, SACKETT 6671.
Down by 241 now; The Cranker had only gained seven words in the last 800. But he had gained them, not I... I couldn’t seem to narrow his lead, no matter what I did. I lifted my head, still typing furiously, and stared across at him. His teeth were bared; sweat glistened like oil on his gray skin. Yet his fingers were a sunlit blur on the keys, as if they were independent creatures performing a mad dance.
CLENCHING THE CAPTAIN’S LASER WEAPON IN HER HAND, SHE MADE HER WAY AFT TO WHERE THE LIFECRAFT WERE KEPT. SHE KNEW THE COORDINATES FOR DENEB. SHE WOULD ORDER THE LIFECRAFT’S COMPUTER TO TAKE HER THERE — TAKE HER TO THE PROMISE OF THE GREEN.
A feeling of desperation came into me. Time was running out; there were less than 500 words left to go in the quarter, less than 3000 left in the match. You could make up 250 words in the fourth period of a Face-Off, but you couldn’t do it unless you had momentum. And I didn’t have it, I couldn’t seem to get it. It all belonged to The Cranker.
The fans continued to shriek, creating a wild counterpoint to the thunder of our machines. I imagined I could hear Mort’s voice telling me to hold on, keep cranking, and Dad’s voice hoarse from shouting, and Sally’s voice saying “You can do it, darling, you can do it!”
CULP 7245, SACKETT 7002.
Holding. Down 245 now, but holding.
You can do it, you can do it!
SLEDGE’S EYES GLOWED AS HE LOOKED AT VELDA’S MAGNIFICENT BOSOM. VELDA, THE ONLY WOMAN HE’D WANTED SINCE HIS WIFE LEFT HIM THREE YEARS BEFORE BECAUSE SHE COULDN’T STAND HIS JOB AND THE KIND OF PEOPLE HE DEALT WITH. THE PALMS OF HIS HANDS WERE WET, HOT AND WET WITH DESIRE.
The palms of my hands were hot and wet, but I didn’t dare take the time to wipe them dry. Only 150 to go in the quarter now.
HE TOOK HER INTO HIS ARMS. THE FEEL OF HER VOLUPTUOUS BODY WAS EXQUISITE. HE CRUSHED HIS MOUTH AGAINST HERS, HEARD HER MOAN AS HIS HAND CAME UP AND SLID ACROSS THE CURVE OF HER BREAST. “TAKE ME, SAM,” SHE BREATHED HUSKILY AGAINST HIS LIPS. “TEAR MY CLOTHES OFF AND GIVE ME YOUR HOT
I tore page twenty-six out of the typewriter, slapped in page twenty-seven.
LOVE. GIVE IT TO ME NOW, SAM!”
SLEDGE WANTED TO DO JUST THAT. BUT SOMETHING HELD HIM BACK. THEN HE HEARD IT — A SOUND OUT IN THE HALLWAY, A FURTIVE SCRABBLING SOUND LIKE A RAT MAKES. YEAH, HE THOUGHT, A HUMAN RAT. HE LET GO OF VELDA, PULLED OUT HIS FORTY-FIVE, AND SPUN AROUND IN A CROUCH.
My machine locked the instant after I touched the period key; the Line Editor’s horn sounded.
The third quarter was over.
I sagged in my chair, only half aware of the crowd noise swelling around me, and peered up at the board. The printout and the numerals blazed like sparks of fire in the sunlight.
CULP 7500, SACKETT 7255.
A deepening fatigue seeped through me, dulling my thoughts. Dimly I saw The Cranker leaning forward across his typewriter, head cradled in his arms; his whole body heaved as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. What were the New-Sport announcers saying about him on the TriDim telecast? Did they believe he could maintain his grueling pace for another full quarter?
Did they think I still had a chance to win?
Down 245 with only 2500 left...
Gulp took his Fuel sitting down this time, with his head tilted back and his throat working spasmodically. I did the same; I felt that if I stood up my knees would buckle and I would sprawl out like a clown. The game plan called for no more than three ounces at the third-quarter break — none at all if I could hold off — but neither Mort nor I had counted on me being down as far as I was. I took a full six ounces, praying it would shore up my flagging strength, and even then I had to force myself not to make it nine or ten.