“They sure seem to be having fun, don’t they?”
It was Sam. He had come up behind me.
I sighed. “They won’t, once your amusement center gets built. Or Hornsby’s condo complex.”
Sam squinted up at the kites. Beyond them I could see the curve of the habitat: the long solar window running the length of the structure, the landscaped hills and winding bicycle paths. What had originally been neat little villages was already growing into sprawling towns. There was still a good deal of green space, but it was dwindling. And you had to belong to an official team to use any of it; you had to show up at a specific time and compete in organized leagues where parents screamed in vicarious belligerence, teaching their kids that winning is more important than playing, outdoing the other guy more important than having fun.
“I used to play a pretty good third base.”
We both turned, and there was Bonnie McDougal. She was nearly my height; much taller than Sam. But he grinned up at her, his eyes alight with what I thought was obvious lust.
“Instead of reconvening the meeting,” Sam said, “why don’t we settle this business with a baseball game!”
McDougal and I both said, “A baseball game?”
“Sure, why not? Isn’t it better out here in the sunshine than in that dusty old meeting room?”
“It’s not a dusty old room,” McDougal protested.
“Sam,” I pointed out, “how can we settle a three-way tie with a ball game?”
He looked at me as though I had missed the point entirely. “Because, oh noble sportsman, I’ve decided to withdraw my application. It’s you against Hornsby now.”
“Withdraw… ?” I turned to McDougal. “Can he do that?”
She nodded at me and smiled at Sam, all at the same time. “He certainly can. But it will call for a new vote of the board.”
“Vote, schmote,” Sam said. “Let’s play ball!”
So that’s how we got to the bottom of the ninth, the White Sox ahead of us, 14-13, two out, and Sam coming up to bat.
I was standing on first, trying to get my breathing back to normal after running out my infield hit. Funny how quickly the body falls out of condition. I’d been an athlete all my life, and now I was puffing after digging hard for ninety lousy feet.
All my life. I’d been one of those kids: Little League, high school football, basketball and baseball in college, all the while my father hounding me, pushing me, trying to make me into the star he’d never been. I’d almost made it, too; had a tryout with the real Chicago White Sox, back in Old Chicago, before Lake Michigan drowned ancient old Comiskey Park in the greenhouse floods.
My dad was dead by then, killed in an auto wreck, driving to see me play against Notre Dame. Still I pursued his dream. And I’d almost been good enough to make it. Almost. Instead, after half a lifetime batting around the minor leagues, I finally came up to New Chicago to take up a career counseling kids who were having trouble adjusting to living off-Earth.
Well, anyway, there I was at first base, with Sam coming up to bat. Bonnie McDougal was creeping in from third, expecting another bunt, wearing a tattered old glove she’d borrowed from one of the kids. Nostrum was grinning hugely; he was enjoying himself so much I thought maybe he’d forget about bonfires. The rest of the Zoning Board was waiting for Sam to step up to the plate.
“What’re you waiting for?” yelled grouchy old Arrant. He was playing first base for the Sox; didn’t have to move much, and the throws he missed were our best offensive weapon, so far.
“Just what are you doing?” Hornsby demanded. He was the catcher for the Sox, looking even more ridiculous than before in a borrowed chest protector that barely covered his big belly and a mask that scrunched his face into a mass of wrinkles.
Sam was standing off to the side of home plate (my old cap), the game’s one and only carbon-fiber bat leaning against his hip, tapping away at his pocket computer, oblivious to their complaints.
“Play ball!” McDougal yelled in from third.
“Play ball!” the other White Sox began to holler. Even the crowd started chanting, “Play ball! Play ball!”
I was wondering what the devil Sam was doing with that computer of his. Checking the stock market? Making reservations for his flight back to Selene City? What?
At last he tucked the tiny machine back into his pants pocket and stepped up to the plate, gripping the bat right down at the end, ready to swing for the fences. Except that we didn’t have any fences, just a few kids way out in center field flying kites and playing tag.
Nostrum looked down at Hornsby behind the plate. They didn’t have any signals. Nostrum couldn’t throw anything except a medium-fast straight pitch. No curve, no change-up. I’d walloped two of them for home runs; he’d been lucky to get me to chop a grounder to short here in the bottom of the ninth.
Nostrum kicked his foot high and threw. I lit out for second base. Sam swung mightily and missed by a foot. I didn’t even have to slide into second; there was no way Hornsby could get a throw down there ahead of me.
“Hey, that’s not fair!” Nostrum yelled. “Stealing bases isn’t fair.”
“It’s part of the game,” I said, standing on second, puffing.
“Not this game,” Nostrum hollered, stamping around, red in the face.
If Sam was right, Nostrum had been one of my two votes. I didn’t want to antagonize him. Still, this game was supposed to decide whether I won the zoning decision or Hornsby did. So I stood on second base (Sam’s expensive coat) and folded my arms across my chest.
“We’re playing baseball,” I said. “Nobody said stealing bases was a no-no.”
“Nobody stole a base until now!” Nostrum shouted.
I could see he was getting really sore. Bonnie McDougal trotted over from third base to him. Hornsby came up from home. Even crabby old Arrant creaked over toward the mound from first base.
“Why don’t we make a rule that stealing bases is prohibited from now on,” McDougal said gently, “but since Mr. Christopher stole second before the rule went into effect, he can stay on second base.”
Arrant shrugged. Hornsby nodded. Nostrum glared at me for a moment, but then broke into a sheepish grin.
“Aw, all right,” he said.
“Is that all right with you, Mr. Christopher?” McDougal asked me.
I saw Sam, back near home plate, nodding so hard I thought his eyeballs would fall out.
“Okay,” I said, still standing on Sam’s coat.
Hornsby squeezed his face back into the catcher’s mask, but not before saying, “Okay, now can we get this game over with?”
But Sam was playing with his pocket computer again. The crowd began to chant “Play ball!” again, and Sam put the thing away and stepped up to the plate with a sly smile on his face.
Nostrum threw. I stayed on second. Sam swung mightily and missed again.
“Strike two!” Hornsby crowed. One more strike and we were dead.
Sam seemed unconcerned. I realized that both his swings had been terrible uppercuts, as if he was trying to blast the ball out of sight.
“Never mind the home run, Sam!” I yelled to him. “Just make contact with the ball!”
Nostrum cackled at that. He cranked up and threw his hardest. Sam swung, another big uppercut.
And popped the ball up into a monumental infield fly. I took off from second: with two outs, you run like hell no matter where the ball’s hit. But while I was heading for third I craned my neck to see where the ball was going.
Up and up, higher and higher. It seemed to hang up there, floating like a little round cloud. As I raced around third I saw Hornsby throw off his mask and stagger toward Nostrum. McDougal was coming in from third base, also staring up into the cloud-free sky. Even Arrant and the wild-armed kid shortstop were converging toward the pitcher.