“But only one of us can shape the cosmos to his will. That one will be me. I’ll dominate you—not because I hate you—I have no cause for enmity. But because I must—as an Alexander must destroy a Darius.”
“Funny,” I said, “I never had any interest in shaping the cosmos to my will. But I’m not willing to see it shaped to yours. Home was never much to me, but I’m not ready to see it flushed down the drain to give you a roost to rule.”
Roosevelt nodded. “I suppose it’s a thing outside both of us, Curlon, written in the stars, as they say. For seven hundred years, your ancestors and mine fought to rule the quantum. Think of it, Plantagenet! In a thousand billion alternate world-lines, each differing from the others in some greater or lesser degree, your clan and mine, striving, down through the centuries, each to dominate his world, none knowing of the others, all driven by the common instinct to fulfill the potentiality inherent in them. And then—the day of cataclysm, when the Blight swept in to wipe them out, root, stem and branch—all but one man of my line, and one of yours.”
It had been about ten minutes since the game had begun. Fiery pains were shooting along the backs of my arms and shoulders. Roosevelt was still standing as rigid as a statue. His arms hadn’t quivered.
“They tell me the Blight dates back to the nineties,” I said. “You’re a little young to be remembering it—unless your Imperium has face-lift techniques that beat anything Hollywood’s come up with.”
“I’m telling you what I’ve learned—what my researchers have revealed, what I was told—” He cut himself off.
“I thought this was all your own idea, Roosevelt.”
“Told—by my father,” Roosevelt said. “He devoted his life to the conviction that somehow—somewhere—our time would come again. His world was gone—but how could such glory be forever vanished? He worked, studied, and in the end made his discovery. He was old then, but he passed the charge on to me. And I’ve made it good! I worked first to gain a powerful position within Imperial Intelligence—the one organization that knew the secrets of the Net. This gave me a platform from which to prepare this line—New Normandy—to be the vessel that would contain and shape the forces of the Blight.”
I had to concentrate on keeping my arms at shoulder level. Somehow, it seemed important not to lose at Roosevelt’s game. If he was suffering, he didn’t show it.
“Are you tiring?” he asked in a conventional tone.
“Poor Mother Nature, so blind in her efforts to protect the body. She sends pain as a warning, first. Then little by little, she’ll numb the nerves. Your arms will begin to sag. You’ll try, with” all your will, to hold them high—to outdo me, your inevitable master. But you’ll fail. Oh, the strength is there—but Nature forces you to husband your strength. So though you might be willing of yourself, to endure the torture of fatigue until death from exhaustion—she won’t let you. You’ll suffer—for nothing. A pity, Mr. Curlon.”
I was glad he felt like talking. It kept my mind off the hot clamps set in the back of my neck. I tried to fan a little spark of anger alive—another of Mother Nature’s tricks, this one on my side. I wanted to keep him chattering, but at the same time coax along the frustration I hoped he was beginning to feel.
“Seeing you drop will be worth waiting for,” I said.
“But you won’t. I’m stronger than you are, Mr. Curlon. Since childhood I’ve trained every day in these exercises—and the mental control that goes with them. At the age of seven I could hold a fencing foil across my palms at arm’s length for a quarter of an hour. For me, this is literally child’s play. But not for you.”
“There’s nothing to this,” I said breezily. “I can stand here all day.”
“So far, you’ve endured it for less than a quarter of an hour. How will you feel fifteen minutes from now, eh, Mr. Curlon? And half an hour after that?” He smiled—not quite the easy smile he’d have liked. “In spite of yourself, you’ll have failed long before then. A simple demonstration, Curlon—but a necessary one. You must be brought to realize that in me you’ve met your superior.”
“There must be a catch to it,” I said. “Maybe this is supposed to keep my attention occupied while your pals aim a spy beam at my brains—or whatever it is mad scientists do.”
“Don’t talk like a fool, Curlon,” Roosevelt almost snapped the words. “Or—why, yes, I see.” He smiled and the strain went out of his face. “Very good, Mr. Curlon. You were almost beginning to irritate me. A well-designed tactic. Such distractions can appreciably sap endurance. By the way, how are your arms feeling? A trifle heavy?”
“Fine,” I said in what I hoped was a light tone. “How about yours?” The lines of fire were lancing out into my trapezius muscles, playing around my elbows, tingling in my fingertips. My head ached. Roosevelt looked as good as new. He stared across at me, silent now. That bothered me. I wanted him to talk.
“Keeping up the patter’s hard work, eh? But I’ll tip you, Roosevelt. You picked the wrong man. I’m a fisherman. I’m used to fighting the big ones eight hours at a stretch. For me, this is a nice rest.”
“A flimsy lie, Curlon. I expect better of you.”
“The circulation is the weak point,” I said. “Soldiers who could march all day in the sun under a full pack used to drop out in a dead faint on parade. Standing at attention, not moving, restricted the flow of blood to the brain—and all of a sudden—blackout. Some fellows couldn’t take it. Nothing against them, just a peculiarity of the metabolism. It never bothered me. Good circulation, you know. How’s yours?”
“Excellent, I assure you.”
“But you’re not talking.” I gave him a grin that cost me a year off the end of my life.
“I’ve said what I intended.”
“I don’t believe you. You had canned lecture number three all ready to go. I can see it in your eyes.”
Roosevelt laughed—a genuine laugh. “Mr. Curlon, you’re a man after my own heart. I wish we could have met in another time at another place. We might have been friends, you and I.”
Neither of us said anything after that. I discovered I was counting off the seconds. It had been about twenty minutes now, maybe a little more. I realized one hand was sagging and brought it back up. Roosevelt smiled a faint smile. More time passed. I thought about things, then tried not to think about things. It occurred to me that the ancient Chinese had wasted a lot of time and effort designing iron maidens and chipping bamboo splinters. Torture was a sport you could play without equipment. And Roosevelt’s version was a double challenge, because the only one forcing me was me. I could quit now and laugh it off and call for the next round.
That was the catch. There’d be a next round—and one after that. And if I quit on the first, I’d quit sooner on the second, until I refused to meet his challenge—and that was what he wanted.
That was his swindle. To make me think that if I lost—I’d lost. But it wasn’t true. Losing was nothing. Only surrender counted.
And once I understood that, I felt better. The pain was like flaying knives, but it was just pain, something to be endured until it ended. I hitched my arms back up into line and stared across at him through the fading light…