Philip Dick - The Science Fiction Anthology

Grant went first to the Commissioner, who adopted a defensive attitude immediately, throwing up his hands.

“Don’t jump on me , now. It seems I am helpless. Ask Harmon yourself. There was nothing wrong that he could see.”

“That’s nonsense,” said Grant, “and you know it. No matter who it is, a ball will not smash into an awake player. It simply cannot be done. Even a novice can overcontrol his opponent at that range.”

“Right. It couldn’t have happened.” Sarcasm indicated the worry felt by Woods. “Damn it, Lane, that’s the way it is. Harmon watched like a hawk in his bubble. The dome was sealed; not a single leak. Slag’s second crouched behind the shield and never moved. I personally supervised Anthony’s examination. He was in perfect condition. The only thing yet to check is the ball, but the ball....”

“You have it? Never mind, no ball invented could do that alone. Tony could handle any ball, even without the new sensitive core. And in a hundred games every day, they don’t ever have this sort of accident.”

“Just when Slag plays.” The Commissioner touched Grant’s arm helplessly. “The force of the man’s mind must be terrible, Lane. He must be a superman. But what am I going to do? If I outlaw him without legal grounds....” He stopped, gulped nervously.

“There may be no grounds from your point of view and theirs.” Grant gestured at the crowd struggling through the exits. “But there are from mine. If I’m to remain Honorary President of the Association, Slag has got to go. That’s final!”

Woods said, “Lane, you could stop this another way. If you don’t, and you put Slag out, they will think....” But Grant was already hurrying over to Bee Anthony.

More people joined the group and talk died away as uniformed men bent down to the prone figure. Bee sobbed in Grant’s arms. Her mind was withdrawn, grieving, and he patted her awkwardly while he thought of how much these young twins had come to mean to him in the years since he began his research in metaphysics. Just children, they had seemed at first. He had been young. Doctor Lane, graduate of ‘52 on fellowship, and they were the kids he had worked with, who had shown remarkable powers of the mind.

Tony and himself—they had formulated the methods which still governed the cultivation of telekinesis. Grant had discovered—the principles, but it was the successful results of the Anthony boy’s training which paved the way for others to learn. Yet Bee was different. No amount of tutoring could help her influence an object with her mind. Different, but not inferior, for Bee was a telepath. With intimates her conversation was most strange—much of it understood, yet left unspoken.

Grant was one of the intimates. Her silent sorrow would have found him at any distance, but now he tried to evade it, because Tony was gone and Woods had come over to face the reporters—and Slag.

“Mister Woods,” began one of the men, but the Commissioner raised a hand and turned to the giant player.

“You have had my personal warning, Slag. Do you think I will allow you to carry on your ugly career? Why, man, you’re lucky the courts have not ruled you a murderer!”

“It’s not my fault,” Slag said. “I didn’t try to smash him, honest. I don’t know my own strength, I guess.”

Bee’s reddened eyes stared at the man, and Grant whispered, “Darling, can you tell?”

“You know their minds are closed to me. I just feel ... something evil . I must get out of here. Please, Grant, take me away.”

Behind Slag the little blond man Teagle, manager and second of the professional, spoke up. “Like Slag says, Commissioner, it isn’t his fault. These fast-thinking players match him, get him all excited in the court, and then wonder why they get knocked down. They just don’t have the stuff to match a champ.”

“Slag is the only man ever warned to pull his shots,” agreed a reporter who was taking notes.

“Gentlemen!” Woods turned to Grant. “All of us here respect the opinion of Dr. Lane, who brought this sport into being and who is, in my estimation, its greatest exponent. I have consulted with him. If he is to retain any connection whatever with the game, he informs me, Slag must get out.”

There was silence. The men stared first at the florid-faced Commissioner, then at Grant.

“More than personal considerations are involved,” added Woods. “Slag’s brutal style of play, according to Dr. Lane, endangers the entire future of this grand sport.”

The black-robed player looked around for support. Little Teagle pushed in front of the Commissioner. “You mean that has-been,” he pointed at Grant, “is trying to get rid of my boy? It ain’t fair, I say. Even when he tries to take it easy, Slag has it tough. They’re scared, and won’t match us—even these amateurs. And yet look what we’ve done to pep the game up!”

“You may be right, Mister Teagle. All things considered, however, I feel the merit of Dr. Lane’s suggest—”

“Who is this Lane?” The little man’s face was fierce. “So he starts the game, and invents the ball, so what? They used to call him a champ, the master , but that’s a long time ago. Now that he’s out, he don’t like Slag coming up so strong. It kills him that he ain’t the best any more.”

“That will be all for tonight. In the morning I’ll have an official release ready.” The reporters were tense, anxious to miss nothing. “And, gentlemen, you have a good idea of the nature of that statement.”

“Wait! I’m telling you,” said Teagle. “We’ve tried to get a match with this Lane. Here it is, boys, the real truth. The guy wants Slag out because he’s scared to meet him. Right here and now we challenge him! And I bet he hasn’t got the guts to take us up.”

“I feel,” said Woods, “that a scientist like Dr. Lane should not be subjected to this ... this insolence.”

The reporters ran toward the exit, eager to call in this news break.

Grant said nothing. Aware of Bee’s feelings, he shot a look of contempt at Teagle and turned. Yet he knew, as they walked slowly away, that behind him were no feelings of good will. At best, the men awaited his next move—and until then suspended judgment.

In three days the city became for Grant Lane a savage jungle. The papers shrieked at him Teagle’s endless insults, Slag’s boastful challenge. Each statement by the Commissioner cleverly shifted more responsibility from Woods to himself, and the tragic end of yet another match was played down until it appeared that Slag, and not his opponent, was the injured party.

After all, was his crowd-convincing argument, did they jail professional fighters in the old days when one was killed? Just a little accident in the heat of fair contest; it was no more than that. Yet there was more, this time. People appeared unsatisfied, disapproving of Grant, as if he should offer himself as a sacrifice to their sympathy with Slag. The one time he went restlessly into the streets, they watched him sullenly, waiting....

He kept to his apartment after that, and studied furiously. No man could overcontrol an awake opponent in a direct shot—if the ball was all right. As the ball closed in, the approached player’s influence grew proportionately stronger, while his opponent’s lessened in inverse ratio. That was the reason Grant had originally declared the sport to be safe.

He interrupted his work only briefly for Tony’s funeral, and felt an obscure shame in facing Bee Anthony. Then the cellular organism of the sphere used in the game absorbed his attention again. It was an artificially nurtured nerve-center, a growth devised by himself, and seemed to offer the only possible answer. Perhaps this sub-life had acquired learning ability—the ability to act independently. It seemed absurd, and yet how much was really known of this highly irritable stuff called living matter?