Eric Russell: Now Inhale

“Win or lose?”

“The result makes no difference. He is executed regardless of whether he is the winner or the loser.”

“Sounds crazy to me,” said Taylor frowning.

“It would, being an alien,” replied the warder. “But surely you’ll agree that a person facing death is entitled to a little bit of consideration if only the privilege of putting up a last minute fight for his life.”

“A pretty useless fight.”

“That may be. But every minute of delay is precious to the one concerned.” The warder rubbed hands together appreciatively. “I can tell you that nothing is more exciting, more thrilling than a person’s death-match against a clever player.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. You see, he cannot possibly play in normal manner. For one thing, his mind is obsessed by his impending fate while his opponent is bothered by no such burden. For another, he dare not let the other win —and he dare not let him lose, either. He has to concentrate all his faculties on preventing a decisive result and prolonging the game as much as possible. And, of course, all the time he. is mentally and morally handicapped by the knowledge that the end is bound to come.”

“Bet it gives you a heck of a kick,” said Taylor.

The warder sucked his lips before smacking them. “Many a felon have I watched playing in a cold sweat with the ingenuity of desperation. Then at last the final move. He has fainted and rolled off his chair. We’ve carried him out as limp as an empty sack. He has come to his senses on his knees facing a crowd waiting for the first twist.”

“It isn’t worth the bother,” decided Taylor. “No player can last long.”

“Usually they don’t but I’ve known exceptions, tough and expert gamesters who’ve managed to postpone death for four or five days. There was one fellow, a professional alizik player, who naturally chose his own game and contrived to avoid a decision for sixteen days. He was so good it was a pity he had to die. A lot of video-watchers were sorry when the end came.”

“Oh, so you put these death-matches on the video?”

“It’s the most popular show. Pins them in their chairs, I can tell you.”

“Hm-m-m!” Taylor thought a bit, asked, “Suppose this video-star had been able to keep the game on the boil for a year or more, would he have been allowed to do so?”

“Of course. Nobody can be put to death until he has completed his last game. You could call it a superstition, I suppose. What’s more, the rule is that he gets well fed while playing. If he wishes he can eat like a king. All the same, they rarely eat much.”

“Don’t they?”

“No—they’re so nervous that their stomachs refuse to hold a square meal. Occasionally one of them is actually sick in the middle of a game. When I see one do that I know he won’t last another day.”

“You’ve had plenty of fun. in your time,” Taylor offered.

“Quite often,” the warder admitted. “But not always. Bad players bore me beyond description. They give the video-watchers the gripes. They start a game, fumble it right away, go to the strangling-post and that’s the end of them. The greatest pleasure for all is when some character makes a battle, of it.”

“Fat chance I’ve got. I know no Gombarian games and you people know no Terran ones.”

“Any game can be learned in short time and the choice is yours. Naturally you won’t be permitted to pick one that involves letting you loose in a field without your irons. It has to be something that can be played in this cell. Want some good advice?”

“Give.”

“This evening an official will arrive to arrange the contest after which he will find you a suitable partner. Don’t ask to be taught one of our games. No matter how clever you may try to be your opponent will be better because he’ll be handling the familiar while you’re coping with the strange. Select one of your own planet’s games and thus give yourself an advantage.”

“Thanks for the suggestion. It might do me some good if defeat meant death—but victory meant life.”

“I’ve told you already that the result makes no difference,”

“There you are then. Some choice, huh?”

“You can choose between death in the morning and death the morning after or even the one after that.” Getting up from the bench, the warder walked out, closed the grille, said through the bars, “Anyway, I’ll bring you a book giving full details of our indoor games. You’ll have plenty of time to read it before the official arrives.”

“Nice of you,” said Taylor. “But I think you’re wasting your time.”

Left alone, Wayne Taylor let his thoughts mill around. They weren’t pleasant ones. Space scouts belonged to a high-risk profession and none knew it better than themselves. Each and every one cheerfully accepted the dangers on the ages-old principle that it always happens to the other fellow, never to oneself. But now it had happened and to him. He ran a forefinger around the inside of his collar which felt a little tight.

When he’d dived through the clouds with two air-machines blasting fire to port and starboard he had pressed alarm button D. This caused his transmitter to start flashing a brief but complicated number giving his co-ordinates and defining the planet as enemy territory.

Earlier and many thousands of miles out in space he had reported his intention of making an emergency landing and identified the chosen world with the same co-ordinates. Button D, therefore, would confirm his first message and add serious doubts about his fate. He estimated that between the time he’d pressed the button and the time he had landed the alarm-signal should have been transmitted at least forty times.

Immediately after the landing he’d switched the delayed-action charge and taken to his heels. The planes were still buzzing around. One of them swooped low over the grounded ship just as it blew up. It disintegrated in the blast. The other one gained altitude and circled overhead, directing the search. To judge by the speed with which troops arrived he must have had the misfortune to have dumped himself in a military area full of uniformed goons eager for blood. All the same, he’d kept them on the run for six hours and covered twenty miles before they got him. They’d expressed their disapproval with fists and feet.

Right now there was no way of telling whether Terran listening-posts had picked up his repeated D-alarm. Odds were vastly in favor of it since it was a top priority channel on which was kept a round-the-clock watch. He didn’t doubt for a moment that, having received the message, they’d do something about it.

The trouble was that whatever they did would come too late. In this very sector patrolled the Macklin, Terra’s latest, biggest, most powerful battleship. If the Macklin happened to be on the prowl, and at her nearest routine point, it would take her ten months to reach Gombar at maximum velocity. If she had returned to port, temporarily replaced by an older and slower vessel, the delay might last two years.

Two years was two years too long. Ten months was too long. He could not wait ten weeks. In fact it was highly probable that he hadn’t got ten days. Oh, time, time, how impossible it is to stretch it for a man or compress it for a ship.

The warder reappeared, shoved a book between the bars. “Here you are. You have learned enough to understand it.”

“Thanks.”

Lying full length on the bench he read right through it swiftly but comprehensively. Some pages he skipped after brief perusal because they described games too short, simple and childish to be worth considering. He was not surprised to find several games that were alien variations of ones well-known upon Terra. The Gombarians had playing cards, for instance, eighty to a pack with ten suits.