Short Fiction · The Cosmic Bluff (2/3)

I knew what he was thinking. If I was killed in the arena, he’d be back in the running for Suzi. I growled, “What the kert do you mean by that, Wilde?”

Suzi placed her hands over her ears. “Please, Jak, your language.”

Alger Wilde said indignantly, “Yes, what the hell is the idea talking that way before Suzi?”

I said disgustedly, “I’ll be a makron”⁠—she covered her ears there, too⁠—“if I understand how you two figure. I say kert and you’re shocked. Five seconds later Wilde says hell, an ancient word meaning practically the same thing, and it’s all right.”

Wilde said indignantly, “It’s an entirely different matter. Hell is now a scholarly word, and quite acceptable. Of course, in ancient times it wasn’t and when a cultivated person wished to use a strong expletive he said Hades, which was still a more ancient word meaning the same thing. Using the scholarly expression made it all right.”

“I give up,” I said and turned to Suzi. “Let’s get out of here. I want to talk to you.”

She said demurely, “Yes, dear.”

I grunted a goodbye to Wilde and arose. There was applause again and the autorch started blaring “The Solar System Forever” as we left.

“You could get awfully tired of music like that,” I said.

Suzi said, “Not me, Jak.”

The usually crowded street outside the I.V.S. Building was curiously empty, but I didn’t pay much attention. I was trying to figure out some way of talking Suzi into marrying me before the fight, so it was several minutes before I noticed what was out of whack.

A hundred yards before us, a hundred yards behind us, and across the street, were several scores of white uniformed officers, Solar League police, clearing the pedestrians, and even vehicular traffic from our way.

I started to say, “What goes on here any⁠—”

But Suzi looked at me soulfully and said, “Your guard of honor, Jak. There’s been some talk that the Centaurians might try to get at you before the meet.”

To quote one of Suzi’s favorite primitive exclamations, Oh, Brother.

“Look,” I said. “I can’t talk to you in front of all this. I feel like a parade. Let’s go into a theatre, take a box and have this out.”

Suzi wasn’t disagreeing with anything today.

We entered the theatre and made our way as quietly as possible toward a soundproof box where we could be alone.

Suddenly, the three dimensional figures on the stage faded, the lights went on and the autorch started blaring that confounded tune again. Everyone in the theatre turned, spotted us and arose and began whistling and clapping.

I winced, but Suzi seemed to be in her glory. I hurried her along and we entered the enclosed box where at least we couldn’t hear them after I’d turned off the sound device.

Finally, the lights went out again. Instead of resuming the play, however, we had a flash of the face of the President of Terra. He spoke very seriously, very earnestly⁠—and I had to sit through it after Suzi had switched on the sound again. He pointed out at some length that we all must maintain faith and calm and hold in our hearts the image of the champion of the Solar System, our own Terran Gladiator, Jak Dempsi.

The President’s face faded and was replaced with a still of mine.

The audience rose to a man, faced our box and applauded like crazy. I had a sneaking suspicion that the show wasn’t going to go on as long as Suzi and I were there.

I said, “Let’s get out of here before that autorch⁠—” but I was too late. It started blaring “The Solar System Forever” before we reached the door. Everybody was singing too, which made it worse. I hadn’t known before that it had words.

Otherwise, it was a successful evening. Particularly after I convinced the Solar System League officers that there was no need for around a dozen of them to be stationed in my apartment. I told them that they could patrol the corridors, my roof, and the street outside to their hearts’ content, but my apartment was out. The officer in charge took another look at Suzi and evidently decided I was probably right⁠—there are things more important than personal safety.

The rest of the evening was spent by Suzi proving that she still loved me. She offered some excellent evidence. Anyway, it satisfied me.⁠ ⁠…

I was awakened again the next morning by Mari Nown who, as he had the morning before, was waving a sheet of newspaper before my eyes. This could grow into a very unpleasant habit.

But at least he wasn’t hopping this time. In fact, he seemed quite pleased with himself.

I turned over on my other side and growled, “Go away, I was having a beautiful dream about Suzi.”

He whistled happily, “I’ve done it for you, Jak. Everything’ll be fine now.”

“That’s good,” I began sleepily, but then I sat upright in bed, with quick suspicion. “You’ve done what?” I grabbed the newspaper from his hand. It read, “Champ’s Manager reveals he has Venusian Elephantiasis.”

I stared at it and then at him. “What in kert is Venusian Elephantiasis, and where’d you get the idea I have it?”

He shrilled proudly, “I had to do a lot of research. It’s one of the few diseases left in the system that’s incurable. So rare, for one thing.”

I was still half asleep. I shook my head.

He said, “Don’t you get it? You won’t have to fight now. You can retire from the arena, as undefeated champ, and make a top notch living for the rest of your life endorsing⁠—”

I jumped out of the bed and dashed to the telo, but even before I could reach it it glowed on and Suzi’s face, cold as a winter day on Pluto, was there.

Her eyes seemed to focus about three feet beyond my head and she said, “Jak Dempsi, you’re a phony. A cheap, petty, cowardly phony. Venusian Elephantiasis, indeed!” Her voice dripped scorn. “I never want to hear from you again.”

“Suzi, wait a minute. I can explain,” I yelled. “My manager⁠—” But the screen had died.

I spun on him, but he wasn’t at the side of the bed where I’d seen him last. Instead he was over at the Viziscreen, the glee gone from his chicken-like face, and anxiety beginning to become evident.

He shrilled, “They can’t do this to me. We’re being robbed!”

I started for him, my fingers stretched out like claws. Here was one Mercurian Bouncer who was going to have his neck wrung, like the fowl he resembled.

Something in his attitude stopped me. I came up beside him and growled, “What now, you makron?”

He pointed at the news sheet which had recorded the item.

“Forty-three thousand Solar System scientists working on cure for Venusian Elephantiasis.”

He shrilled despairingly, “They’ll have you cured in days.”

I snorted, “Especially since I haven’t got it in the first place. Listen, what gave you the idea I wanted to get out of this fight, anyway? I’m not afraid⁠—”

He started hopping at that. “You’re not afraid! You’re too stupid, too conceited to be afraid. I’m afraid, understand? I’m your manager; I know how good a gladiator you are, and I’m afraid. I’m afraid first that you’ll get killed and I’ll lose the best thing I’ve ever had, but even more than that I’m afraid that this Solar System isn’t going to be fit to live in after you lose this fight and the Centaurians take over.”

I growled truculently, “I can whip anybody in the Solar System and I can whip⁠—”

He flung two of his wing-arms up in despair. “We have Slabers, we have fast moving Spidermen, we have four armed Martians; but who do we get to represent us in the most important gladiatorial fight in history? A second-rate, inflated, balloon headed⁠—”

“Hey.⁠ ⁠…” I protested indignantly.

But he’d stopped of his own accord and clicked his heels in the Mercurian version of snapping of fingers in sudden inspiration.

“Look,” he whistled. “If they can put forty-three thousand scientists to work figuring out a way to cure a disease they think you have, why can’t they put ten times that number⁠—a thousand times⁠—to work on some new weapons you can use against this Centaurian makron?”

I scowled at him, not getting it. “You know better than that. In the arena the only weapons allowed are primitive ones, swords, spears, battle axes, boomerangs⁠—”

“Yes, yes,” he shrilled excitedly, beginning to hop again. “But this is different. They⁠—the Centaurians⁠—don’t know that.” He clicked his heels together again. “It’s the solution! We’ll devise, in the next month, some sure thing weapon. You can’t lose!”

But I was worried more about Suzi than about the fight. I growled at him, “I don’t need anything but my short sword. All I want to be sure about is that I’m in that fight, see? If I’m not I’ll never see⁠—”

But he was already darting for the door.

Well, within the week the scientists had “cured” me of the disease that Mari Nown had dreamed up. I was scheduled for the fight again.

But no word from Suzi. And no way of getting in touch with her. I tried everything, but Suzi just wasn’t having any of me.

We started my training, and it became more or less of an Earth-wide secret that the scientists were fixing me up with some secret weapons which would guarantee the victory. Most of the sportswriters who came to the training camp were tight lipped and disapproving about it⁠—not quite playing the game, you know⁠—but the governmental big shots who were trembling in their boots over the Centaurian threat, made it clear that anything was going to go to insure Solar System victory. So the reporters didn’t print the stories they might have.

Except for Suzi.

Evidently the word got back to her about the weapons I was learning to use, and she let loose at me in her column. Nothing that the Centaurians would understand, of course, but the digs were there. She made it pretty clear that Jak Dempsi was a phony and that only with the use of unsportsmanlike weapons would he consent to go into the arena at all.

She had some nasty comebacks, because sentiment was running pretty high throughout the League planets, and anybody saying a word against the Champ was apt to find himself mobbed. They were frightened, understand? The whole Solar System was frightened, and they couldn’t bear the thought that I was less than their saviour.

But Suzi kept it up. She was the only sports reporter in the system who dared point out what they were all probably feeling.

The great trouble in the training was that we hadn’t the vaguest idea of what the Centaurians looked like. Their tremendous ship, several times the size of the greatest of ours, hovered motionlessly over Krishna-Krishna, the Venusian capitol city, but thus far not one of them had been spotted. They communicated with us, blank-screened, and we had nothing to go on to decide whether or not they were humanoid, or even if they were air breathers, although the latter would seem likely if they wished to colonize the Solar System since all our life forms are based on oxygen.

The only thing was to provide me with several weapons, one each for the various different types of creature our Centaurians might be. In fact, it was only by dint of argument that I was allowed to take my short sword with me into the arena when the day finally arrived. The managers who’d had my training in hand wanted to use the space and weight the sword would take up to carry another half dozen atomic grenades.

I growled at them. “Listen, if these grenades are going to work⁠—and how the kert they could possibly fail to work, I don’t know⁠—one of them will do the job. I’ll take my sword along if only for a good luck charm; I’ve never been in an arena without it yet.”

And I added sarcastically, “This is going to be some fight, this is. I feel like a murderer.”

I kept the sword.

Needless to say, the amphitheatre was packed. Tens of thousands must have pauperized themselves for fare to Venus and for the highly priced seats. But whatever the cost, the stands were packed beyond belief. And, of course, throughout the system every man, woman and child, every brim, mador and loet, every⁠—but you get the idea. Every intelligent living thing in the Solar System was glued to his viziscreen.

And above the arena floated the Centaurian ship, silent, sinister.

There were no preliminaries. That would have been too much.

Instead, when the moment of conflict arrived, I came out into the arena⁠—staggered, might have been the better word. I had a burden of weapons that was just about all I could carry.

When the stands first saw me enter, they came to their feet and began a cheer that should have echoed and reechoed⁠—but didn’t. It died almost before it began. When they saw my equipment, the cheer faltered, then died in shame.

They realized, those citizens from all over the Solar System, what was happening. The stakes were too high. The Solar System was trading honor for security. Instead of being armed with the traditional sword or spear, battleaxe or boomerang, I was laden with the most deadly devices our scientists could develop.

As I said, the cheers died almost before they began.

Maybe I flushed a little. I don’t know. But I tightened my jaw. At least they didn’t boo. Everyone in the stands knew the issue; however he writhed in shame there must be no indication to the Centaurians that we weren’t playing the game, that we weren’t living up to our own rules.

I stood, my back to the judge’s stand, and waited. To the left was the sports box, and I could make out Suzi, even at that distance. Her face was expressionless.

A great helicopter suddenly and deftly detached itself from the Centaurian ship and gracefully swooped down. It was beautifully handled, settling to the opposite side of the arena as gently as a butterfly.

A large door in its side opened, the Centaurian emerged, and a gasp from the stands went up; a gasp louder than the cheer that had originally greeted me.

Of all Solar System intelligent life forms, Jupiter’s Slaber is by far the largest, and, for that reason, that and its natural armor shell, Jupiter had been winning the Interplanetary Meets two out of three times for centuries.

But this hulking brute made the Slaber seem a babe in arms. It resembled somewhat a six legged turtle, roughly twice the size of a Terran elephant. It had two lobster-like claws and four other limbs.

Evidently, it had decided to end the battle as quickly as possible, because without either salute or warning it headed for me, the dust churning up behind it as it came. Its legs were short but fantastically fast. They seemed a blur of speed and before I had got over the surprise of its appearance it was halfway across the arena toward me.

A shout, almost a moan, of warning went up from the stands, and suddenly those citizens of the Solar System were no longer ashamed of the weapons I carried, no longer contemptuous of my honor.

I grasped my atomic grenade from its hook on my belt, dropped the projectile thrower to the ground to give my arm free play, and threw.

Half the total acreage of the arena went up in a gust of dirt, dust, gravel and colored smoke. Seconds later I had been thrown prostrate by the blast. Probably half the amphitheatre’s occupants had been similarly treated, and how many blast casualties might have been among them, I couldn’t know.

But at least, I thought, the fight was over and I’d done the Solar League’s dirty work for it. I’d never be able to hold up my head again in a circle of gladiators, but the System was safe.

I came to my feet and turned to go.

A shout, incredulous, unbelieving, arose from the stands, drowning out the cries of those wounded by the blast of my grenade.

I spun and stared.

Crawling laboriously over the lip of the crater my grenade had caused was the Centaurian. One of his many limbs seemed limp and useless, and his shell was battered and begrimed, but he was still alive, and not too much the worse for wear.

When it got to level ground again it seemed to pause momentarily, seeking me out.