Timothy Zahn: Time Bomb And Zahndry Others

That was strange.

Now my curiosity was aroused. Moving the reels by hand, I got the film set to the frame just before the jerk. I took a good look at where Ernie's fist was in relation to the background and then moved the film one more frame.

No doubt about it, that fist had moved. But, then, it moved in every frame. Naturally. So what was the jerk I kept seeing? I puzzled over those two frames for several minutes before it finally hit me.

Ernie's whole body had moved forward a little. His whole body, even his feet, which looked to be solidly planted in the canvas.

Now that struck me as a little strange, because you can't just move forward without leaving your feet on the ground to push with. I figured I must be missing something, so I took a look at the other shots I'd got of Ernie punching or ducking. Every one of them, the same way. He'd be here in one picture and there in the next. Not much, maybe a couple of inches or less each time, but enough to see if you were looking for it.

I puzzled over it for the rest of the evening, but couldn't come up with a good answer. Maybe Ernie could give me one.

—

"What did you want to see me about, Coach?"

"Sit down, Ernie. The rest of the guys gone?"

He nodded, sweat still trickling down his face from the workout I'd just put them through. Pulling the single guest chair in the office close to my desk, he sank into it.

"Ernie," I said, "I have a small confession to make. Remember how you didn't like the videotape camera we used a couple of weeks ago? Well, I figured it was just some kind of stage fright that was bothering you. So yesterday I hooked up my movie camera without telling anybody and got some film of you sparring with Jess."

Ernie had quit breathing. After a little while he seemed to notice that and took a careful breath. His face—well, scared didn't really fit it. Maybe wary did.

I went on, "I'm a little puzzled by something on that film. That little whiplash jerk in your punches looks sort of strange. I thought you might explain it to me."

"Gee, Coach, I jist swing an' m' body does the rest." He seemed to realize his English was slipping and stopped for a second. "I guess I don't really think about what I'm doing," he finished.

I shook my head. "Sorry, Ernie, but that won't wash. Whatever it is you do, you know about it, or else you wouldn't have stopped doing it when the other camera was on you."

He looked like a cornered animal. "You wouldn't understand," he muttered. "You'd think I was a—a freak."

"Try me. Look, if I'm going to coach you properly, I have to know all about you. If you want, I'll give you my word I won't tell anybody else."

For a long time he just sat there, looking down at his hands folded tightly in his lap. "All right," he said at last. "Coach, have you ever heard of teleportation?" When I shook my head, he went on, "You read about it sometimes in those science fiction books. It's when you go from one place to another, like, in no time at all."

"All kinds of crazy stuff in those books. So?"

"Well, that's what I do. I can 'port about an inch at a time, and I do it when I'm hitting or ducking a punch. It's just enough distance to throw off the other guy's timing, usually."

I just sat there, wondering if he was putting me on. He must have seen that in my face somehow, because his eyes started looking wary again. "You don't believe me," he muttered.

"How about giving me a demonstration?" I suggested. "How fast did you say you could... teleport?"

"I can move an inch at a time, but I can do it five or six times a second if I need to." He stood up, pushed the chair against the wall, and faced me across the table. "What direction do you want me to go? Front, back, or sideways?"

I stood up, too, so I could watch his feet. "How about going a couple of feet to the left and then a foot backwards? Any more and you might wind up going through a wall."

"Can't. If there's anything solid in my way I can't 'port in that direction. I can't go up, either, and going down makes me real hot." He took a deep breath. "Here goes."

It was the damnedest thing I'd ever seen. You know those cartoons on TV that they make by taking a picture of something, moving it a little, and taking another picture? Well, it was just like watching one of them. Ernie sort of jolted his way around the room without ever moving his feet—in the usual way, I mean. It was really weird to watch him doing it.

When he was finished he pulled the chair over again and sat down, looking suddenly very tired. I sat down, too. My legs felt just a little weak. "How did you ever learn how to do that?" I asked.

"I don't know, Coach," he shrugged. "One day when I was thirteen I just... did it, I guess, and from then on it was easy."

"So you've been doing this for, what, three years now? Does your family or anyone else know about it?"

"No. At first I was just... I was just too scared to tell anyone. It took me months to find out the name for it, even, and when I found out that people thought it was a make-believe sort of thing, I figured I'd better keep my mouth shut about it. I did try to tell my brother once, but he wouldn't listen. I don't know, maybe my family knows but just won't talk about it."

That I could understand. "I'm a little surprised you're willing to risk boxing," I said. "I mean, this teleporting thing has got to be in your brain somewhere. You get hit too hard in the head and you might lose it."

"Coach, I wouldn't be boxing at all if I couldn't 'port. I figure I might be able to get to be a pro now."

That startled me. I had had no idea he was that serious about the sport. "Ernie, pro boxing isn't for you. It's a hard way to earn a living, and there are a lot of crooks to watch out for. Besides, with your brains and that wild talent of yours you shouldn't have any trouble making it in life."

" 'Wild talent,' huh?" Suddenly Ernie looked bitter. "Coach, what do you think I can do with my 'porting that'll make me any money?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean this is the most useless 'talent' that anybody's ever seen. There's just nothing I can do with it. Except fight."

"Aw, come on. There must be hundreds of things..." My voice trailed off as I tried to think of somewhere 'porting would come in handy. "Well, look, just because I can't think of something off the top of my head doesn't mean there isn't anything."

He shook his head. "I've been thinking about it for three years, Coach. It's really useless."

"Okay, suppose that's true. There's still no reason you should have to fight for a living. I know you're good in math and some of your business classes. Accounting, or something, would be a good job for a guy like you. Pays pretty good, too."

"No," Ernie sat up a little straighter in his chair. There was a glint in his eye. "I don't want to be some—some cog in a big company somewhere. I want to be somebody." He leaned across my desk, half defiant, half pleading, his usual polite reserve gone. "Coach, I've been nobody all my life. I've been pushed around and looked down on and treated like garbage, and I'm tired of it. I'm gonna make a name for myself. People are gonna call me 'sir,' not 'boy,' and they're gonna treat me with respect. I'm gonna be somebody!"

He was almost shouting, and must have suddenly realized it, because he quit talking and settled back in his chair.

"The only kind of respect that's worth having is the kind you have to earn," I said. "And as for being somebody, Ernie, it's not the name that counts but the guy who wears it. There are a lot of guys on assembly lines who are better men than any pro boxer that ever lived."

Ernie shook his head slowly. "I wish you could understand, Coach. But I'm going to be a pro anyway. If you don't want to help me, I... guess I just have to do it on my own."