Timothy Zahn: Time Bomb And Zahndry Others

"If it means that much to you, I'll keep working with you," I said after a minute of hard thought. "But I want you to keep an open mind about other possibilities, okay?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. And... please don't tell anyone about my 'porting, all right?"

"I promise. See you tomorrow?"

"Sure thing. Good night. Coach. And thanks for listening."

I thought about it all the way home and for most of that evening. Ernie was right: I couldn't come up with a single solitary job where 'porting something an inch at a time would be worth doing. It was slower than walking and no good for going through walls or working in tight places. I didn't know how much other stuff he could move with him when he 'ported—he told me later he could move practically anything as long as he was touching it—but even that didn't help any. It would be faster to jack up a ton of steel or whatever and roll it on wheels instead of 'porting it around. Especially since he couldn't 'port things upwards.

I didn't get to sleep until after two, and when I woke up the next morning I felt almost hung over, I was so tired. Diane told me I had muttered in my sleep all night and had rolled around so much I'd almost pushed her out of bed. She wanted to know what was wrong, but of course I couldn't tell her. She didn't like that much.

Most of the rest of the day was pretty hazy, but I managed to get through my classes somehow. I woke up enough to spend a good hour in the Club with Ernie and the other guys.

—

Now that I knew how much Ernie wanted to be a pro boxer, I could see the quiet sort of determination he took into the ring with him, and that grit paid off in the next month or so as he moved towards becoming a really top-notch fighter. His speed and strength increased, and his reflexes got so good that he almost didn't have to 'port anymore. Which was just as well, since the other guys were learning how to handle his whiplash punch, even though they didn't know how he did it. Actually, Ernie's style was even deadlier now that he didn't have to 'port because you could never tell whether that extra inch would show up or not. It raised hell with your timing.

All the other guys were getting better, too, which didn't surprise me any, because if they could handle Ernie they could handle anybody. At least one of them was good enough already to go to the Golden Gloves and give a good account of himself, and the others weren't very far behind. As their coach, I should have been happy. But I wasn't.

That talk I'd had with Ernie all those weeks ago was still bugging me. The more I got to know him, the more I liked the kid and the less I liked the idea of him going pro. Sure, he was good, but at a hundred thirty-five pounds he was only a lightweight, and he would never be more than a middleweight unless he did a lot of growing in the next few years. A good middleweight could make money, all right, but it was the big heavyweight champs that got most of the publicity that Ernie seemed to want so badly. He stood a far better chance of winding up disillusioned than famous, it seemed to me. And I hated to see him go through something like that. He was too smart, too polite—hell, he was just too nice for that.

And, as I watched Ernie getting better, my conscience started bothering me in the other direction, too. Namely: was it fair of me to turn Ernie loose on boxers who didn't know what they were up against? Just because the official rules didn't forbid 'porting—big surprise—that didn't mean it was ethical. It gave Ernie an unfair advantage, really, because I was pretty sure a boxer could watch Ernie's whiplash punch for a month from ringside without figuring out how to stop it. You had to actually get into the ring with him, and by then it was too late. Did I have a duty to the rest of the boxing world?

The really maddening thing was that there was a clear way out of this mess. All I had to do was find some other way for Ernie to become successful and respected by using his 'porting talent. That's all. But I couldn't come up with one to save my life. Nothing in industry worked, and the professional-type jobs were even worse. I tried to find another sport that Ernie might go into, but he was too small for football or basketball and I couldn't see how 'porting would help any in baseball. All I could possibly come up with was the idea of letting some scientists study him to try and learn how he 'ported, and I knew Ernie wouldn't go for that.

I finally gave up the effort. Ernie had at least twenty IQ points on me, and if he hadn't been able to find anything else to do with that 'porting trick in three years I figured I was probably wasting my time.

Something had to give here, though. Much as I wanted to see one of my students become a real champ, I couldn't keep coaching Ernie if I didn't think it was good for him. It wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't good for my stomach, either. I made up my mind to nave another talk with him as soon as I got a good chance.

—

A day or two later I got my opening. Driving away from the school after classes on the way to do some errands, I saw Ernie walking along the road. Pulling alongside him, I called, "Where you heading, Ernie?"

"Down to the river, Coach. I'm meeting Jenny there."

Jenny Cooper was his latest girlfriend. She was a nice kid, except that she didn't care much for boxing. "I'm going that direction," I said. "Want a ride?"

"Sure, thanks."

He got in and we started up again. "What are you and Jenny going to do down there?" I asked him.

He smiled. "She says that an Indian summer day like today is too good to waste, so we're going to have a picnic supper under the cliff."

"Good idea," I agreed. "I wish I'd thought of that myself."

"I wanted to go to the Club this afternoon," he continued. "But I guess I can skip one workout without softening up too much."

I cleared my throat. "Actually, Ernie, I'd like to talk to you about that."

It took me most of the five-mile trip to explain the conflict between what Ernie wanted and what I felt was good for him. He waited in silence until I had finished.

"Are you telling me you won't help me train anymore, Coach Morrissey?" he asked.

"If you're really determined to be a pro boxer, my coaching isn't going to help or hinder you much," I said. "I'll give you as much help as I can, Ernie, because it wouldn't be fair to you to do anything else. But I had to tell you all this so you'll understand if I'm not as fired up as I was a couple of months ago. Also, I guess I wanted to try one last time to talk you out of going pro."

"Have you thought up anything else I can do with my 'porting?"

It really hurt to say it. "No."

"Then I got no choice. I'm going to be somebody, if it takes the rest of my life." He hesitated. "But if it's going to bother you that badly, I guess I could go on from here on my own. You've taught me a lot, Coach, and I won't forget it. Maybe I could work out by myself and spar with some of the guys at the Club or at school. No use giving you an ulcer over this."

We had reached the dry goods store that I was going to, located with a few other small businesses right at the top of the hill that sloped downwards towards the river. "Would you like a ride the rest of the way?" I asked as an afterthought.

He shook his head, pointed down the hill, "I'm meeting Jenny right under the cliff there."

We both got out of the car and stood by my door. Another car went by me and pulled over fifty yards farther down the hill, parking right in front of Tom's butcher shop. Probably vacationers from one of the cabins down the road, I decided, seeing the trailer hitch and extra-large sideview mirrors. A man and woman got out and went into the shop, leaving a one- or two-year-old kid in a car seat in the front. I hoped they had set their parking brake; the hill was pretty steep.