Аллен Стил - Arkwright

“You don’t think he’s going to strike out, do you?” Maggie asked.

Nat thought it over. Campbell was older than almost everyone else out on the field, but he had the physique of someone who’d spent too much time at a desk. Just before Sam Moskowitz had talked him into coming down from the bleachers to take a turn at bat for the home team, he’d been smoking a cigarette from a long ivory holder. Just the way he held the bat was proof that this was the first time he’d played ball in many years, perhaps even since grade school.

“Probably,” he replied, keeping his voice low. Maggie quietly laughed, and Nat gave himself points for saying something funny. He’d been disappointed to have taken the El all the way out to Queens just to find that most of the authors had gone to Brooklyn instead, but the fact that the Legion of Tomorrow had come out for the ball game made up for it.

Well, no … he had to admit, it wasn’t just the Legion he was glad to see again but Maggie Krough in particular. She looked good this afternoon, in tan cotton slacks and a sleeveless light-blue shirt that showed off her figure. The way other fans kept glancing in their direction made him realize that he was fortunate to be sitting beside her, even if he did have share her with the two other guys.

“Strike two!”

Campbell didn’t swear this time, but the expression on his face hinted his regret at letting himself get pulled into this.

“I think you may be right,” Maggie said, and Nat was about to add something when she glanced past him. “Oh, thank you, George, that’s very kind of you.”

Nat looked around to see George Hallahan return from a nearby pushcart with a couple of ice-cream cones. “My pleasure,” he said as he carefully handed the chocolate one to Maggie, keeping the vanilla for himself. “Sorry, Nat,” he said as he sat down beside them. “Only have two hands.”

“You mean you can’t grow another one?” Nat asked.

“Not even at the science fiction softball game.” George shifted his fedora to the back of his head as he licked the top of his cone. “Speaking of which, what have I missed?”

Nat hadn’t been keeping track of the game. He gazed over at the scoreboard. It was being tended by the kid from California he’d met the other day—his name was Bradbury, he’d learned this morning, Ray Bradbury—and he’d looked like he was getting ready to change the number of Os in the Visitors box from two to three. “Queens is up seventeen to seven,” he said, “but I don’t think they helped themselves very much by pulling Campbell out of the bleachers to bat an inning.”

“Well.” George shrugged. “As I said, it’s supposed to be a science fiction game.”

Nat gazed at the convention members with whom he’d traveled to the Meadows. None of the writers he’d seen Sunday morning were here; besides Campbell, the only author he recognized was Ross Rocklynne, who apparently hadn’t heard that most of his colleagues were in Brooklyn. He wondered why Campbell had bothered to show up. Good public relations with the fans, he supposed. After all, they were the ones who bought the magazine. All the same, he expected that Campbell would quietly excuse himself once he’d met his obligation as a celebrity player and head down to Brooklyn to meet with his authors.

Still, the setting was scientifictional enough. Out past right field, beyond the low fence that bordered the diamond, lay the World’s Fair. The Perisphere and the Trylon towered above the pavilions, reflecting pools, and promenades of the fairgrounds, symbols of the fantastic world that awaited everyone if only they could pull themselves out of the Depression and, with any luck, avoid getting into another European war. When the game was over, everyone was supposed to go over there to have dinner and watch the Fourth of July fireworks, the last official activity of the World’s Science Fiction Convention. Nat had already visited the fair, but he was looking forward to going again—this time, he hoped, with Maggie on his arm.

If she didn’t find someone else instead.

The sudden crack of the bat brought his attention back to the field. Campbell had managed to hit the ball on his third try. It sailed up and over third base, describing a parabolic trajectory that carried it well into left field. Campbell had dropped the bat and was leisurely jogging toward first, confident that he’d just scored a home run; meanwhile, the Queens player who’d been on second was already sprinting for third, intent on rounding the bases and getting home.

Harry Skinner was playing left field for the Panthers, and until now it appeared that he wasn’t going to do much out there except work on his tan. But Campbell’s fly ball was a gift sent special delivery. Harry barely had to strain himself as he ran forward to catch it, and Campbell had just received the bad news from the first baseman when Harry hurled the ball to second, where his teammate got it in his glove just in time to tag the Cometeer trying to get back to where he’d started.

“Oh yeah!” Maggie nearly dropped her ice cream as she shot to her feet. “Go, Harry! Forward the Legion!”

Harry must have heard her above the uproar of disapproval from the Queens fans, who outnumbered the Philly contingent nearly two to one, because he grinned and waved to her. Nat tried not to be jealous, but he had to admit that, if Harry was his rival for Maggie’s attention, he’d just scored a few points. And he looked good too, stripped down to his undershirt, his muscles shining with sweat. Nat had already figured that Harry was a working-class kid; his build was proof that he didn’t spend his days in a shoe store.

The double play brought a sudden end to the fourth inning, and Harry sauntered in with the rest of his team. On the way, he walked past Sam. Nat saw him say something to the convention chairman, who this afternoon was doubling as captain of the Queens Cometeers; he couldn’t make out the words, but Sam cast him an angry glare, which Harry took with a smug grin.

“What did you just say to him?” Nat asked when Harry joined them.

“I just asked if he’d found something to do with all those pamphlets.” Harry was still smiling. “I don’t think he can take a joke.”

Nat and George shared an upraised eyebrow. It was bad enough that Sam had been forced to extend his amnesty to the teenager who’d openly challenged him in the convention hall just the other day. But Harry had also rubbed it in by volunteering to play for the Panthers. So even though the Philly club was being trounced by the Queens team, Harry was finding a way to get revenge.

There was a lot of that sort of thing going on today. It wasn’t hard to tell that there was a rivalry between the two fan clubs, and although they’d had dinner together last night at the Wyndham Restaurant—those who could afford the $1 banquet ticket, that is—the conflict between the Futurians and New Fandom was making itself felt on the ball field. In just the first few innings, players had traded sides, rules had been bent, and accusations of cheating had been made. Perhaps this was why most of the writers had fled to Brooklyn: the smart ones like Isaac Asimov wanted to keep above the fray, while the out-of-towners like Jack Williamson didn’t want to get mixed up in what was essentially a turf battle among unruly East Coast teenagers.

“You’re certainly tempting fate, aren’t you?” Maggie asked, a wry smile on her face. She nodded toward John Campbell, who was wiping his face with a towel as he chatted with some fans. “I mean, he might remember who it was who stopped him from getting a homer.”

Harry stopped grinning. He gave Campbell a worried look. “I dunno … you think I ought to go over and apologize?”