«You’re a bunch of lollipops. A good punch in the ribs and you roll over and bark. Maybe there’ll be some of you on the team next year and maybe there won’t. But if there are, I want you to remember that when we go up to Mars I intend to bring back that trophy if I have to steal it. And if I don’t, I’ll stop the ship midway and dump you all out. And then jump out myself.»
But this didn’t mean much. For Coach Snelling, ace of the Earth coaches, had said the same thing, in substance, to Earth teams after each Martian game for the last twenty years.
Tantalizing shadows, queer, alien shadows flitted in the ground glass of the outré machine. Alexis Androvitch held his breath and watched. The shadows took form, then faded, but they had held tangible shape long enough for Alexis to glimpse what he wished to see, a glimpse that filled him with a supreme sense of triumph.
The first step was completed. The second would be harder, but now that the first was accomplished—now that he really had some proof of his theories—progress would be faster.
Alexis snapped off the machine and stepped to a bowl. There he washed his hands. Shrugging into a coat, he opened the door and trudged up the steps to the street above.
On the avenue he was greeted by the raucous cries of the auto-newsstands, «Earth loses 19-0 … Read all about it … Extra … Extra …» repeating over and over the words recorded on the sound film within them.
Customers placed coins in the slot, shoved a lever, and out came a paper with huge purple headlines and natural-color photo reproductions of the game.
The vari-colored neon street lamps flicked on. Smoothly operating street machines slid swiftly down the broad, glassy pavement. Overhead purred the air-lane traffic.
From somewhere came the muffled sound of the Drylands war cry as the Martians continued their celebration of victory.
Alexis Androvitch walked on, unmindful of the war cries, of the blaring newsstands. He was not interested in athletics. He was on his way to a garden to enjoy a glass of beer and a plate of cheese.
Rush Culver, Wisconsin ’45, was struggling with calculus. Exams stared him in the face and Rush freely admitted that he was a fool for having chosen math instead of zoology. Somehow or other he wasn’t so bright at figures.
It was late. The other fellows in the house were asleep hours ago. A white moon painted the windows of the house opposite in delicate silver squares and rectangles. A night wind sighed softly in the elms outside. A car raced up State Street and the old clock in the music hall tower tolled out the hour with steady beat of bell.
Rush mopped his brow and dug deeper into his book.
He failed to hear the door of his room open softly and close again. He did not turn about until he heard the scuff of feet on the floor.
A tall stranger stood in the room.
Rush looked at him with something of disgust. He was dressed in purple shorts and a semi-metallic shirt that flashed and glinted in the soft rays of the desk lamp. His feet were shod in sandals. His head was verging on the bald and his face was pale, almost as if he had resorted to face powder.
«Just home from a masquerade?» asked Rush.
The stranger did not answer at once, but stood silently, looking at the student.
When he did speak, his voice was soft and slurred and his English carried an accent Rush could not place.
«You will pardon the intrusion,» the stranger said. «I did not wish to disturb you. I merely wanted to know if you are Rush Culver, fullback for the Wisconsin football team.»
«I have a good mind to lay one on you,» said Rush with feeling. «Almost three o’clock in the morning and me wrestling with math. Want to know if I’m Rush Culver. Want my autograph, maybe?»
The stranger smiled. «I hardly understand,» he said. «I know nothing of autographs. But you are having trouble. Maybe I can help.»
«If you can, brother,» declared Rush, «I’ll lend you some clothes so you can get home without being pinched. The cops in this town are tough on students.»
The stranger walked forward, picked up the book, glanced at it and threw it aside. «Simple,» he said. «Elementary. This problem.»
He bent over and ran a finger down the work sheet. His words came softly, in measured cadence.
«It is this way … and this way … and this way—»
Rush stared. «Say, it’s simple,» he chortled. «But it never was explained to me that way before. I can see how it goes now.»
He rose from the chair and confronted the stranger.
«Who are you?» he asked.
Hap Folsworth snarled through his cigar at Jimmy Russell.
«So you came back empty-handed,» he growled. «You, the demon reporter for the Evening Rocket. In the name of double-dipped damnation, can’t you ever do anything? I send you out on a simple errand. ‘Just run over to Coach Snelling,’ says I, ‘and get the line-up for the Earth team’. Any office boy could do that. And you come back without it. All you had to do was ask the coach for it and he would hand it to you.»
Jimmy snarled back. «Why, you space-locoed tramp,» he roared, «if it’s as simple as that, go down and get it yourself. If you ever lifted yourself out of that easy chair and found out what was happening, instead of sitting there thinking up wisecracks, you might call yourself a newspaperman. I could have told you a week ago there was something screwy about this Earth team. All sorts of rumors floating around. How much news have we printed about it? How much has Morning Space-Ways and the Evening Star printed about it? But you sit here and look wise and tell the world that Snelling is just using some high-powered psychology to get the Martians’ goat. Making it appear he has some new material or some new plays. Say, that old buzzard hasn’t had a new play since the first spaceship blew up.»
Hap snorted and rescued the cigar. He jabbed a vicious forefinger at the reporter.
«Listen,» he yelled. «I was a newsman when you were still in diapers. I’ll lay you five to one I can call up Snelling and have him agree to give us a list of players.»
Silently Jimmy picked up the visaphone set and handed it to Hap.
The sports-writer set the dial for the field-house wave length. A face appeared in the glass.
«Let me speak to the coach,» said Hap.
The glass went dead as the connection was shifted. The face of Coach Snelling appeared.
«—Say, coach…,» said Hap. But that was as far as he got.
«Listen, Hap,» said the coach, «I’m a friend of yours. I like you. You’ve said some nice things about me when the wolves were out after my hide. If I had anything to tell anyone, I’d tell it to the Evening Rocket. But I haven’t anything to tell anyone. I want you fellows to understand that. And if you send any more of those high-powered reporters of yours around I’ll just naturally kick them out on their faces. That’s a promise.»
The phone went dead.
Jimmy laughed at the bewildered stare in Hap’s eyes.
«Pay up,» he demanded.
The coach’s office was empty and Jimmy was glad of that. It fitted in with his plans.
He hadn’t liked the nasty light in the chief’s eyes when he had been told to get a list of the Earth’s new team. Nothing about how he was to get it. No suggestions at all, although it was understood that it couldn’t be gotten directly from the coach. Presumably some other means of obtaining it would have to be worked out.