Mike Resnick - Birthright

“I didn't know Olympians had any emotions,” said a Lodin XI reporter sarcastically. “Sure they do, sure they do,” jabbered Hailey. “They're just too professional to show ‘em, that's all.” “Mr. Hailey,” said a space-suited chlorine-breather, using his T-pack, “just exactly what does Mr. Tinsmith hope to prove by all this?”

“I'm glad you asked that question, sir,” said Hailey. “Very glad indeed. It's something I'm sure a lot of your viewers have wondered about. Well, let me put the answer this way: Big John Tinsmith is an Olympian, with all that that implies. He took his vows four years ago, swore an oath of total abstinence from sexual congress, alcoholic stimulants, detrimental narcotics, and tobacco. As a member of the cult

of the Olympians, his job is identical to that of his brethren: to travel the length and breadth of the galaxy

as an ambassador of Man's goodwill and sportsmanship, challenging native races to those physical contests in which they specialize.”

“Then why haven't any Olympians challenged a Torqual to a wrestling match?” came a question. “As I was saying,” continued Hailey, “the natives of Emra IV pride themselves on their fleetness of foot. Foot racing is their highest form of physical sport, and so—” “It wouldn't have to do with the face that the Torqual go twelve hundred pounds of solid muscle, would it?” persisted the questioner.

“Well, we hadn't wanted to make it public, but Sherif Ibn ben Iskad has challenged Torqual to put up its champion for a match next month.”

“Sherif Iskad!” whooped a human reporter. “Now, that is news! Iskad's never lost, has he?” “No Olympian has,” said Hailey. “And now that that's settled, I'll get back to the subject. Big John Tinsmith will be running against the very finest that Emra IV has to offer, and I guarantee you're going to see...”

On and on Hailey droned, answering those questions that appealed to him, adroitly ducking those that he didn't care for. Finally, fifteen minutes before post time, he cleared the room again and turned to Tinsmith. “How do you feel, kid?”

“Fine,'’ said Tinsmith, who hadn't moved a muscle. “Herb!” snapped Hailey. “Lock and bolt the door. No one comes in for ten minutes.” The trainer's assistant secured the door, and Hailey pulled out a small leather bag from beneath the rubbing table. He opened it, pulled out a number of syringes, and began going over the labels on a score or more of small bottles.

“Adrenalin,” he announced, shooting a massive dose into Tinsmith's arm. “Terrain looked a little rough too. Better have a little phenylbutazone.'’ One dose was inserted into each calf. “Something to make you breathe the air a little easier ... here, this'll ease the heat a bit ... yep, that's about it. Getting sharp?” Tinsmith moved for the first time, sitting up on the edge of the table, his long, lean legs dangling a few inches above the polished floor. He took two deep breaths, exhaled them slowly, and nodded. “Good,” said Hailey. “Personally, I was against this race. I think it's a little soon for you yet. But Olympians can't say no, so we stalled as long as we could and then agreed to it.” Tinsmith lowered himself to the floor, knelt down, and began tightening his shoes. “Now, this guy's fast, make no bones about it,” said Hailey. “Damned fast. He'll knock off the first mile in under three minutes, which means you'll be so far back you probably won't be able to see him. But the Emrans are short on staying power. Figure he'll get the second mile in three and a half, the third in three and three-quarters. Save your kick until then. It's four miles and eighty yards. If you run like you trained, you ought to pull even with him a good quarter mile from the finish.” Hailey chuckled. “Won't that be something, though! Have that bastard pull out by hundreds of yards and then nip him at the wire just when every goddamn alien from here to the Rim thinks an Olympian has finally gone and got himself beat. Sheer beauty, I call it!”

“Ready,” said Tinsmith, turning to the door.

“Just remember, kid,” said Hailey. “No Olympian has ever lost. You represent the race of Man. All of its prestige rides on your shoulders. The first time one of you gets beat, that's the day the Olympians disband.”

“I know,” said Tinsmith tonelessly.

Hailey opened the door. “Want me to go with you? Give you a little company till you reach the track?” “Olympians walk alone,” said Tinsmith, and went out the door. He strode through a long, narrow, winding passageway, and a few minutes later reached the floor of the massive stadium. The air was hot, oppressive. He took a deep breath, decided that the shot was working, and walked out to where the throng in the stands could see him. They jeered.

Showing and feeling no emotion, looking neither right nor left, he walked to where his opponent was awaiting him. The Emran was humanoid in type. He stood about five feet tall, and had huge, powerful legs. The thighs, especially, were knotted with muscle, and the feet, though splayed, looked extremely efficient. His skin was red-bronze, and both body and head were totally without hair. Tinsmith glanced at the Emran's chest: It seemed to have no greater lung capacity than his own. Next his gaze went to the Emran's nose and mouth. The former was large, the latter small, with a prominent chin. That meant there'd be no gasping for air through his mouth during the final mile; if he got tired, he'd stay that way. Satisfied, and without a look at any other part of the Emran nor any gesture of greeting, he stood at the starting line, arms folded, eyes straight ahead. One of the officials walked over and offered him a modified T-pack, for it was well known that Olympians spoke no language not native to their home worlds. He shook his head, and the official shrugged and walked away.

Another Emran began speaking through a microphone, and the loudspeaker system produced a series of tinny echoes from all across the stadium. There were rabid cheers, and Tinsmith knew they had announced the name of the homeworld champion. A moment later came the jeers, as he heard his own name hideously mispronounced. Then the course of the race was mapped—thrice around the massive stadium on a rocky track—and finally the ground rules were read. A coin was flipped for the inside position. Tinsmith disdained to call it, but the Emran did, and lost. Tinsmith walked over to his place on the starting line. As he stood there, crouching, awaiting the start of the race, he glanced over at the Emran and studied him briefly. He was humanoid enough so that Tinsmith could see the awful tension and concentration painted vividly on his already-sweating face. And why not? He was carrying a pretty big load on his shoulders, too. He was the fleetest speedster of a race of speedsters. The Emran, aware of Tinsmith's gaze, looked at him and worked his mouth into what passed for a smile. Tinsmith stared coldly back at him, expressionless.

He had nothing against this being, nor any of his past opponents, just as Iskad had nothing against all the beings he had destroyed with his muscle, just as the brilliant Kobernykov had nothing against the

hundreds of beings he had defeated at the gameboards. He didn't want to cause this opponent the shame

of defeat before this vast audience of his peers. But Olympians had no choice but to win. If any Olympian, anywhere, lost, the myth they were building about Man's invincibility would be shattered, and they would be just one more race of talented competitors on the gamefields of the galaxy. And that, he knew, was unacceptable. More than that, it was unthinkable.

It was not for the adulation of Man that the Olympians competed. That was a side benefit, and an occasionally bothersome one. They lived only to hear the jeers of the other races when they stepped onto the field, a little less vocal at each successive event, and to hear them diminish throughout a contest until there was a respectful silence, perhaps mixed with awe, at the conclusion. The awe was not for the individual Olympian, but the race he represented, which was as it should be. There was no time for further reflection, for the race began and the Emran sprinted out to a quick lead. Tinsmith tried briefly to keep up with him, then fell into stride, his long, lean legs eating up the ground with an effortless pace. For the first quarter mile he breathed through his nostrils, testing the efficacy of the stimulants; then, satisfied, he resumed his normal method of breathing, one gulp of air to every three strides.