«Now you see,» Ford said quietly, «why the military men cracked up when they used the computer.»
General LeRoy, even, was pale. «How can a man with any conscience at all direct a military operation when he knows that that will be the consequence?»
The CIA man struck up a cigarette and pulled hard on it. He exhaled sharply. «Are all the war games… like that? Every plan?»
«Some are worse,» Ford said. «We picked an average one for you. Even some of the ‘brushfire’ games get out of hand and end up like that.»
«So… what do you intend to do? Why did you call me in? What can I do?»
«You’re with CIA,» the general said. «Don’t you handle espionage?»
«Yes, but what’s that got to do with it?»
The general looked at him. «It seems to me that the next logical step is to make damned certain that They get the plans to this computer… and fast!»
SWORD PLAY
This story is not science fiction. It is not fantasy. It is autobiography. This event actually happened while I was a member of the fencing club of the Arch Street YMCA in Philadelphia. I include this tale here because so many science-fiction readers are enamored of sword-wielding superheroes that I thought it would be fun to show what fencing is really like.
«What’re you grinnin’ at?» Jimmy Matthews shrugged without answering. But he kept on grinning.
«C’mon, Jimmy… what’s going on inside your pointy head?» Paul asked.
«Nothing,» said Jimmy, still showing a lot of teeth.
The boys were standing on the corner in front of Weston High, waiting for the bus that would take them into the city. It was a chilly late autumn afternoon. School was over for the day. Windswept clouds covered the sun and brittle leaves rustled along lawns and pavements.
Paul poked a toe into the equipment bag at his feet. It rattled like a plumber’s tool kit.
«You’re still grinning,» he said.
Jimmy shrugged and dug his hands deeper into his windbreaker pockets. He was tall for a sophomore, with the lanky yet muscular body of a good swimmer. A big mop of dark-brown hair flopped over his eyes.
«Come on,» Paul nearly begged. «What’s so funny?» Paul was shorter and stockier, with sandy hair and pale blue eyes. He was the kid who got to where he wanted to go by working stubbornly until he made it. He and Jimmy studied together a lot, after school. Paul got As and Bs. Jimmy, just as bright, barely squeaked through with Cs and Ds.
«Nothing’s funny,» Jimmy said, as if he didn’t really mean it. «What makes you think something’s got to be funny? Can’t a guy just stand on a street corner and smile?»
«Something’s buzzing in your BB brain.»
Jimmy rubbed the side of his nose. «Well …»
«Yeah? What?»
«I was thinking how hard it’s going to be not to laugh when I see you in that fancy outfit.»
«My fencing uniform?»
«Yeah. With the knee pants.»
Paul frowned. «You won’t laugh so hard when you try it yourself. It’s a tough sport.»
«Sure,» Jimmy chuckled. «In those pretty outfits. With the neat little knee pants.»
Paul kicked harder at the equipment bag. «You’re always making fun of everything. Always goofing off.»
«You sound like Old Lady McNiff,» Jimmy complained. His voice went into a trembling falsetto: «James, you have a million-dollar brain, but you’re only using ten cents worth of it.»
Both boys broke up laughing.
«Hey, here comes the bus,» Jimmy said. Paul became serious again. «You won’t goof up the fencing class, will you? No clowning around?»
«I’ll try not to laugh.»
«I’ll bet you’ll like it, if you just pay attention and don’t try any horseplay.»
The bus pulled up with a hiss of air brakes. Paul hefted his equipment bag and slung it over his shoulder. Jimmy carried only a sweatshirt and shorts, in a paper bag. As Paul scampered up the bus steps, Jimmy booted him in the rear. Lightly. With a big grin.
The Y was an old, brick building, in the middle of the downtown area. It wasn’t a good neighborhood to be in, especially after dark.
The gym was big, but old. High ceiling with dim lights that were covered by wire screening. Bare wooden floors. Basketball hoops without netting and backboards that looked as if they’d crumble if just one more ball banged into them. It smelled of a century of sweat, and Jimmy wrinkled his nose as he and Paul walked through it, heading for the locker room.
But his grin returned as Paul dressed in the white knee pants and high-necked white jacket of his fencing outfit. Jimmy himself simply took off his shirt and pulled a sweatshirt over his head. His jeans and sneakers completed his outfit. «You look just swell,» he said as they walked out of the locker room.
Paul was about to reply when he spotted the fencing instructor talking to a few other kids at the far end of the gym. He also wore a jacket and knee pants, but they were gray with wear and age, and looked very different from Paul’s spanking-white three-week-old uniform.
«Come on,» Paul said. «I’ll introduce you.»
Mr. Martinez was small and wiry. A friendly smile was the main feature of his tan face.
«Welcome to the fencing club, Jim. I hope you learn to enjoy fencing.» He took Jimmy’s hand in a strong grip.
«Uh, thanks… I hope so.»
«We’ll be starting in a few minutes, just as soon as the others show up. Paul, why don’t you show Jim a few limbering-up exercises until we’re ready for the starting lineup.»
Jimmy snickered as Paul demonstrated the deep hip bends and arm-stretching exercises.
«You look like you’re gonna dance a ballet, not try to stick some clown with a sword.»
Frowning, Paul said, «You try it and see if it’s so easy.»
But Jimmy was watching the other kids. Some wore sweatshirts with their school initials. Most of them were from the downtown schools. Three were girls.
Jimmy stood off to one side as Mr. Martinez lined everybody up and put them through a set of opening exercises. He demonstrated how to lunge with a foiclass="underline" an explosion of purposeful motion, like a snake striking, so fast that Jimmy couldn’t follow it.
After about ten sweat-popping minutes, Mr. Martinez let the class drop to the floor and relax. He walked up to Jimmy, a chest protector and mask in one hand.
«See if these fit you. You’ve got to have the right protection when you fence. There’s no real danger in this sport if you’re properly equipped—unless you break a blade and fall against your opponent with the broken end. But that almost never happens, unless the fencers aren’t working correctly and they get too close to each other.»
Jimmy strapped on the chest protector, wormed the fencing mask over his head, and Mr. Martinez started to show him how to lunge. But Jimmy kept getting it all mixed up. He couldn’t seem to get his arms and legs working together right.
Finally Mr. Martinez whipped off his mask. His face was very grave. «Why did you come here this afternoon?» he asked.
Jimmy was surprised by the question. «Huh? Well, I guess I wanted to see what fencing is like.»
«And what do you think of it?»
«It’s all right, I guess.»
Mr. Martinez said, «You’ll never enjoy fencing or anything else if you don’t apply yourself. You’ve got the size and reflexes to be an outstanding fencer, but you’re just not interested, are you? Why not?»
Staring down at his sneakers, Jimmy said, «Well, it’s kind of silly. Not like football or basketball. All you try to do is touch each other with these dumb fake swords.»