It was the first crack in his rigid control — but I didn’t react to it one way or the other. The crack was too small and it had come too late: a 20-second penalty at this stage of the game, with the score at 8960 to 8419, wouldn’t make any difference in the outcome. It might enable me to cut the final margin to 400 or less, but that was about all.
I didn’t watch The Cranker take his Fuel this time; I just lowered my head and kept on punching, summoning the last reserves of my strength.
“Gulp, Gulp — give us the pulp!”
As soon as the chant went up from his rooters, I knew that the penalty time was about to elapse. I raised my eyes just long enough to check the score and to see The Cranker hunched over his typewriter, little drops of Fuel leaking down over his chin like lost words.
CULP 8960, SACKETT 8536.
His machine began to hammer again. The illusion that I was about to collapse returned, but it wasn’t the result of another block; it was just exhaustion and the terrific mental pressure. My speed was holding and the words were still spewing out as I headed into the final confrontation scene. They seemed jumbled to me, incoherent, but there was no lock and no penalty flag.
SLEDGE KNEW THE UGLY TRUTH NOW AND IT WAS LIKE A KNIFE CARVING PIECES FROM THE FLESH OF HIS PSYCHE. HE KNEW WHO HAD THE MICAWBER DIAMOND AND WHO HAD HELPED THE FAT MAN MURDER HIS PARTNER.
Thirty-five pages complete and thirty-six in the typewriter.
CULP 9333, SACKETT 8946.
Less than 700 words to go. The Prose Bowl was almost over. Just you and me, Cranker, I thought. Let’s get it done. More words rolled out — fifty, a hundred.
And all at once there was a collective gasping sound from the crowd, the kind of sudden stunned reaction you hear in a packed stadium when something unexpected has happened. It got through to me, made me straighten up.
The Head Editor’s brown-and-orange penalty flag, the one that meant “Confused Narrative,” was up and semaphoring. I realized then that The Cranker’s machine had gone silent. My eyes sought the board and read his printout in disbelief.
“I WANT YOU,” SHE SAID TO THE CREATURE, “I WANT YOU AS THE SHORES OF NEPTUNE WANT THE RESTLESS PROBING SEAS AS THE SEAS WANT THE DEPTHS GARBAGE GARBAGE
I kept staring at the board, still typing, my subconscious vomiting out the words of my prose. I couldn’t seem to grasp what had happened; Culp’s words made no sense to me. Some of the fans were booing lustily. Over in G Section, the Sackett Boosters began chanting with renewed excitement.
“Do it, Rex! Grind that text!”
The Cranker was just sitting there behind his machine with a strange, stricken look on his face. His mouth was open, his lips moving; it seemed like he was talking to himself. Babbling to himself?
I finished page thirty-six, pulled it out blindly, and reached for another sheet of paper. Just as I brought it into the platen, Culp’s machine unlocked and he hit the keys again.
But not for long.
I CAN’T WRITE THIS SHIT ANY MORE
Lock into silence. Penalty flag.
I understood: The Cranker had broken under the pressure, the crack had become a crevasse and collapsed his professional control. I had known it to happen before, but never in the Prose Bowl. And never to a pulpeteer who was only a few hundred words from victory.
CULP 9449, SACKETT 9228.
The penalty flag came down.
GARBAGE
And the flag came back up, and the boos echoed like mad epithets in the hot afternoon.
Gulp’s face was contorted with emotion, wet with something more than sweat — something that could only be tears. He was weeping. The Cranker was weeping.
A sense of tragedy, of compassion touched me. And then it was gone, erased by another perception of the radiant numerals on the board — GULP 9449, SACKETT 9296 — and a sudden jolt of discovery, belated by fatigue. I was only down by 150 words now; if The Cranker didn’t recover at the end of this penalty, if he took yet another one, I would be able to pull even.
I could still beat him.
I could still win the Prose Bowl.
“IT WAS YOU ALL ALONG, VELDA,” SLEDGE HAMMERED AT HER. “YOU SET MILES UP FOR THE FAT MAN. NOBODY ELSE BESIDES ME AND MICAWBER KNEW HE WOULD BE GUARDING THE DIAMOND THAT NIGHT, AND MICA WBER’S IN THE CLEAR.”
Penalty flag down.
ALL GARBAGE
Penalty flag up.
Virgin paper into my typewriter. Words, sentences, paragraphs. Another half-page completed.
SHIT, The Cranker’s printout said. A rage of boos. And screams, cheers, from G Section.
SACKETT 9481, CULP 9449.
I’d caught up, I’d taken the lead.
VELDA REACHED INSIDE THE FRONT OF HER DRESS, BETWEEN HER MAGNIFICENT BREASTS. “YOU WANT THE DIAMOND?” SHE SCREAMED AT HIM. “ALL RIGHT, SAM, HERE IT IS!” SHE HURLED THE GLITTERING STONE AT HIM, THEN DOVE SIDEWAYS TO HER PURSE AND YANKED OUT A SMALL PEARL-HANDLED AUTOMATIC. BUT SHE NEVER HAD THE CHANCE TO USE IT. HATING HER, HATING HIMSELF, HATING THIS ROTTEN PAINFUL BUSINESS HE WAS IN, SLEDGE FIRED TWICE FROM THE HIP.
“Sackett, hack it! Sackett, hack it!”
More words. Clean page. More words.
SACKETT 9702, CULP 9449.
The Cranker was on his feet, stumbling away from his machine, stumbling around in circles on the lonely field, his hands clasped to his face, tears leaking through his shaky old fingers.
TEARS LEAKED FROM SLEDGE’S EYES AS HE LOOKED DOWN AT WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND TREACHEROUS VELDA LYING ON THE FLOOR. ALL HE WANTED TO DO NOW WAS TO GET OUT OF THERE, GO HOME TO SALLY, NO, SALLY HAD LEFT HIM A LONG TIME AGO AND THERE WAS NOBODY WAITING AT HOME ANY MORE. HE WAS SO TIRED HE COULDNT THINK STRAIGHT.
Two of Culp’s Seconds had come out on the grass and were steadying him, supporting him between them. Leading him away.
New page, old words. A few more words.
SLEDGE SENT THE CAR SLIDING QUICKLY THROUGH THE COLD WET RAIN, ALONG THE MEAN STREETS OF THE JUNGLE THAT WAS THE CITY. IT WAS ALMOST OVER NOW. HE NEEDED A LONG REST AND HE DIDN’T KNOW IF HE COULD GO ON DOING HIS JOB EVEN AFTER HE’D HAD IT, BUT RIGHT NOW HE DIDN’T CARE.
Pandemonium in the stands.
Word count at 9985.
AND SAM SLEDGE, AS LONELY AND EMPTY AS THE NIGHT ITSELF, DROVE FASTER TOWARD HOME.
THE END.
The claxon sounded.
Above the din the amplified voice of the PA announcer began shouting, “Final score: Rex Sackett 10,000, Leon Culp 9449. Rex Sackett is the new Prose Bowl champion!”
Fans were spilling out of the stands; security personnel came rushing out to throw a protective cordon around me. But I didn’t move. I just sat and stared up at the board.
I had won.
And I didn’t feel anything at all.
The Cranker was waiting for me in my locker room.
I still wasn’t feeling anything when my Seconds delivered me to the door, ten minutes after the final horn. I didn’t want to see anybody while I had that emptiness. Not the New-Sport reporters and the TriDim announcers who would be waiting at the victory press conference. Not even Sally, or Mom and Dad, or Mort.
I told the Seconds and the two tunnel guards that I wanted to be alone for a few minutes. Then I went into the locker room, and hurried over to the container of Fuel. I had three ounces poured out and in my hand when Gulp came out of the back alcove.
“Hello, kid,” he said.
I stared at him. His sudden appearance had taken me by surprise and I couldn’t think of anything to say.