The Science Fiction anthology - Andre Norton

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Johnny’s ‘copter had been parked.

      A light shone through the leaves. It was still there.

      “Johnny!”

      John Osborne Drake was putting his suitcase into the rear of the ‘copter.

      “What is it, Ric?” he asked in a friendly voice without turning.

      It would be impossible to ask him to change his mind. Alcala found a rock, raised it behind Syndrome Johnny’s back. “I know I’m being anti-social,” he said regretfully, and then threw the rock away.

      His fist was enough like stone to crush a skull.

      Before them the ball took a savage turn toward the player in white. Around Grant the crowd stood up and roared, and he felt suddenly tense and doubting. Then the player ducked, the ball shot through above him to smash against the court wall, and he controlled the rebound to send the sphere once more into erratic, darting flight.

      “Again!” Grant felt his muscles suddenly relax with release of anxiety. He turned to the girl. “Bee, I’m worried. It’s not like Tony—does he want to get killed? He should stop those shots, not dodge them. Are you sure he’s all right?”

      “Now, Granny.” The girl kept her eyes fixed on the court. “Remember, Tony took this match for charity. He wants the crowd to have a show, that’s all. He is in splendid shape.”

      “No sleep,” Grant went on worriedly. “I’m sure it must be that. If his brain were alert, he’d control that ball until Slag went crazy. Without sleep, you can’t focus prop—”

      “Please, Granny, stop!” In that instant her throbbing mind touched his, and he caught a glimpse of the alarm in her face. She, too, felt that something was wrong. But she tugged at his sleeve and pointed through the screen at the oval below. “Look!”

      Slag’s feet were set wide apart, and his black-robed body stood square. But his head had begun a sort of slow wobble, from side to side, as the ball lanced in perihedral swings about the court.

      “Praise Allah!” whispered Grant. “A beautiful dance! Tony’s thinking that gangster, into a coma.”

      The white player was in concentration, using his eyes only rarely in shifting ever more complex movements to the sphere. Then the rhythmic pattern had become a wild corondo, with Slag as its center, and the dark figure stood hypnotized, with only spasmodic jerks of his brutal features to mark the fear in his mind.

      “Now,” said Grant. His voice seemed loud in the awed silence of the spectators. “Now, Tony! Call it a day!”

      “Just touch him,” whispered Bee. “Don’t hurt him, Tony.”

      It was as if they had signaled the player, even through the tele-proof screen. Gradually the wild swings of the ball slowed. It circled Slag gently, dropped closer, and poised above him. Tony’s mind was clearly in full control of the sensitive sphere.

      In a seat behind Grant, an excited man suddenly yelled, “Thumbs down, hard!” Obviously the crowd was ready to sacrifice its erstwhile hero.

      Then—the ball moved, a small movement, and there was a roar. Uninfluenced, the ball dropped and rolled to the center court, and Tony stood in bewilderment as Slag shook himself awake.

      Grant leaped up and tried to push through to the box exit. Behind him, Bee clung. “Granny, what will you do? What can you....”

      He shook her off and answered her with his mind as he struggled on. “Stop them, that’s what! End the match.”

      “How? You know you cannot!”

      But he felt her mind cling at the hope, and sent back reassurance. “I can. They may not like it, but I can stop these matches. Don’t worry, I’ll get your brother safely out of there.”

      She was relieved. Knowledge of his position—his relation to the sport—he felt her memory produce the reasons. Sport, thought Grant. I invented a sport. Oh, Allah! What has my sport become?

      And then her mind shrieked at him, stabbed at his brain: “Tony—Tony darling!”

      Dazedly he heard the moan and fought a path to the transparent screen. Out on the court lay a white figure, outspread, and the ball rolled slowly past the dripping head.

      “Too late!” sobbed Bee. “Too late! Tony....”

      Somehow she was down there before Grant. He saw her, huddled over Tony’s body, as he finally reached an open gate in the domed screen. On the opposite edge of the court, Psycho-sport Commissioner Woods was in conversation with the referee, Harmon. A flash bulb glowed. Three reporters looked at the fallen player and spoke casually to each other. Towering above the group was Slag, staring down as if surprised.

      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

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