static—doesn’t even amplify the influence. In that case, I can only visualize such changes as natural radiation might bring about. No hope there for a recurrent pattern of change.”
“Learning ability—acquisition of power to act voluntarily—I thought the answer might be in that.”
“We’ll see. Might as well begin there, anyway. Get us a few of the balls, Lane, and I’m sure the staff will gladly try to help out.”
That evening Grant walked onto the court of the Colliseum and was made certain of the city’s anger toward him. Bee’s idea was worth testing, and he had brought with him some student telepaths, but the instant he appeared the crowd rose in a storm of fury. When the announcer requested spectators to direct the ball at Grant, their wrath gave way to cheers, and they concentrated hopefully on crushing him. But the screen held, the telepaths sensed no invading influence as Grant whirled the ball about the court, until in disgust he signaled for the screen to be deactivated.
Instantly the will of the crowd took hold. The sphere jerked erratically until concerted influence steadied it opposite Grant. Then it flashed into motion, a heavy, deadly missile, with all the mind power of a mob driving it murderously across the court at him.
He stopped it easily, six inches away.
Barker said, “No use seeking further. We may not know everything living organisms can do, but we can certainly tell what is beyond their power. The tests are conclusive.”
Lorms, the behaviorist, nodded his head.
For just an instant Grant felt confused, helpless. His original arguments for psychosport were proved valid, but the killings became even more inexplicable—they were logically impossible! And, somehow, that made him the criminal.
That left him only one thing to do.
It was humiliating to accept such a solution to his personal problem. He thought of Bee Anthony and nearly turned back. Only since the tragedy had he realized how changed was their relationship—and how important she was to him. Would she scorn his action, think him a slave to public pressure? Probably, but Grant forced his steps onward.
In the lobby of the Page-Horton, Bee caught him by the arm. “Since when,” she asked, “do you walk grimly past your friends?... No, Grant. Don’t bother to think up a story. I know where you are going.”
He wanted to chase her away—and to pull her close to him. But she glanced up and laughed. “You look so perplexed and silly. Professor Lorms called me, and of course I knew what you’d do.”
“Do you think,” said Grant, “that I should, Bee? Is it right?”
“Darling, fighting results from frustration and breeds even more frustration and anger. But somehow men get cornered until—well, they have to. Not Tony. He was a gay fool, tilting at windmills. Oh, Grant! I know you’re wrong, but you’re right, too, and inside I’m so glad!”
He wanted to erase the worry behind her gladness, to smother it with reassurance. They went up together to Slag’s suite. Teagle was at the door. “Glad to see you, Mahomet,” he said to Grant. “The contract’s all ready to sign. I guess you’ll want your cut for charity, eh?”
“You won’t, I suppose.”
“Not on your life. Excuse the double meaning, Miss.” He smirked at Bee. “I ask you, who’s going to match us after we knock this one off?”
Slag stared glumly from a chair, not even removing his hand from the glass beside him. “Practicing,” he said. “Getting into shape for our tussle, Doc. Like Teagle said, you had to come across.”
Grant took the papers from the manager, filled in the blanks and signed.
“Don’t talk much, this Doc Lane,” said Slag. “Should I show him, Teagle?”
“Sure thing. Watch this practice, Doc.”
The big man concentrated on the amber bottle beside him. Slowly, jerkily, it lifted—one inch, then two. Slag relaxed, and watched it ring as it fell to the table. “My job when I retire,” he said. “Got to pour it right into the glass. Pretty hot, eh?”
Grant gave no warning. The man’s trousers were deluged as the glass shattered in his hand. He leaped up cursing, and then moved quickly and with ugly purpose toward his visitors.
“Careful, boy,” warned Teagle. “There’s a dame present.”
For fifteen seconds Grant’s eyes were locked with Slag’s. He looked into their red-rimmed hatred, fought to see the depths of the man. Then, just before the other turned away, an unreasoning, unexpected emotion surged in Grant. It swept over and left him shaken, all in that instant.
The emotion was fear.
Out on the court it was anger he felt, anger at Slag, who stood opposite and bowed to the noisy throng, anger at Teagle, who chanted insults until ordered behind the second’s shield, at the spectators, packing the Colliseum in hopes of seeing a player maimed or killed—and Bee Anthony, even at Bee.
She had defied him, bribed her way in to act as his second, and had slipped behind the shield at his side of the court. In front of those jeering faces, it was out of the question to make her leave.
There was a roar as the ball dropped from the referee’s overhead bubble. Grant left it to Slag, let the man shoot crudely several times, and fought to calm himself. The shots were forceful, but easily stopped and returned. It was like Tony’s match, almost too slow at first. Until the players became absorbed, it was hopeless to attempt any kind of hypnotic effects with the ball.
Slag swung the sphere into rapid circles about the court. The crowd watched silently, as if impressed by the player’s control. To Grant it was absurd—he knew that any trained child could execute the movements. And yet, Tony must have felt so, too. But that was before—
The ball dropped on him like a hawk, and he almost laughed. To give the gasping crowd a thrill, he barely deflected the shot, and feigned amazement. Slag retrieved control.
Beneath the sudden amusement, Grant was uneasy. Slag had never won a real victory—never dazed or hypnotized an opponent before striking. All his triumphs rested on single, smashing thrusts. How was it possible? With such clumsy control, the professional could never set up a victory—yet the record stood. Grant could not fathom the problem. If the match went on forever, he could see no way for Slag to drop him. And if he quickly whirled Slag into dazed defeat, the real mystery might never be solved. His opponent would merely have suffered defeat in a match not even recognized by the Commission.
Now he could guess why Tony had played carelessly. It was not only victory that was sought. He had deluded himself in accepting such an irresponsible way out. The whole affair depressed him, knotted itself into mind-snaring tangles. The ball blurred again and he hardly cared, only ducking to let it splat against the shield behind him. A spurt of rage sent the sphere spinning back at Slag, but the other diverted it easily into a screen-hugging orbit.
Tony, Slag, Woods and Teagle—they seemed to merge confusedly in his mind. They stood, each in turn, at the door of an iron-barred cell. For Grant, there was no way out. Win or lose, live or die, he was doomed. The light dimmed in the cell. Just for an instant Bee appeared, her hair throwing off sparks of brilliance. She, too, faded out. Neither Bee the child, whom he did not love, nor Bee the woman, who did not love him, could save him. Before him gaped the bottomless pit of shame and penance. He had unloosed a monster on the world. He had to pay for that.
But first Grant had another debt to pay. He tried to throw off the depression, imagining as he did so a sob of joy in the disembodied Bee. He wrested the sweeping ball from Slag, even from the opposite end of the court. He spun it in wild orbits and compensated for the other’s furious thrusts. Faster and faster he circled it. Slag’s mind could not keep up the pace. The even swings acquired a jogging pattern, edged farther out—to within ten feet of Slag. A quick break lanced behind the man, out again, and then the sphere fell into helical loops, thrice differentiated