Farley had been impressed. “So you have hidden talents,” he’d told her.
“They’re not hidden at all,” she had replied. “You just need the time to experience them.”
Time.
Farley glanced down at her hand on his, the feel of it new and yet familiar.
He saw Commander Vanden sitting farther down the row, ramrod straight and scowling. The guy’s face would crack if he changed expression, Farley thought.
The commander spotted him, and Farley gave a slow, grave salute. Vanden’s frown deepened, but he only nodded curtly and turned to say something to Grobe, who sat beside him, consulting an unfolded com panel.
Yesterday’s final planning session with the commander and his advisers had yielded Farley everything he could have wanted. The science boys had gone into the expected technical, highly theoretical, and largely incomprehensible detail about what the vortex was, and how and where Farley should re-enter it—assuming he had an aircraft to re-enter it with. That part would be determined tomorrow morning when Farley and his crew set out on foot for the Redoubt with weapons, armor, supplies, and a team of six Dome troops.
The crew had whooped and hollered when Farley gave them the news. He could not have been happier himself, except for one detaiclass="underline" One of those six troops would be Wennda. At the meeting he had tried to object, and the commander had quashed it out of hand. “If I didn’t have any say in the matter,” he’d told Farley, “I highly doubt you will, either.”
“And once again the Typhons take the field—man, you never thought you’d hear that line in here.
“Coming up to hit is Plavitz. He moonlights as the navigator on our aircraft, so he’s probably the biggest reason why we’re here with you today.”
Plavitz twisted in his batting stance to glare at Shorty. But the crowd cheered, unaware of the announcer’s intended irony. The cheering thawed Plavitz, and he doffed an imaginary cap and bowed to the crowd.
“On the mound Yone gets the sign from Garrett … aaaand here comes the pitch. Ball, low and outside. Quite an arm on this brand-new pitcher; they must spend a lot of time throwing things at each other in the Redoubt.
“Yone sets … and here comes the throw. It’s a high-fly hit to left center field! Lang goes back—followed by Arshall at third, Pohl at shortstop, and Ryner at first. It’s an exodus from the infield! Lang staggers back and makes the catch! From the look on his face, he’s just as surprised as we are.
“So that’s one out here at the top of the third, in what is without a doubt the best ball game ever played here in sunny Future Dome Field as Samay steps to the plate. I hear she can really make a fork lift over there in Fabrication. Sorry about that one, folks; the only fork I ever lifted had pie on the end of it.
“Samay’s got a lot of choke on that bat, very uneven stance. Yone throws—and Samay jumps out of the box as a fastball rockets past the plate, strike one! Now Daybreakers catcher Broben calls time from the bench.”
“He’s trying to kill me,” Samay told Broben as he approached her. “He’s from the Redoubt, you know.”
“He’s not trying to kill you,” Broben said. “He’s putting it right across the plate. Here, look.” He stepped close behind her and put his hands over her hands holding the metal bat, conscious of Garrett grinning in his crouch behind home plate. He moved Samay’s arms in a practice swing. “Swing it like that and blam, it’s outta here.”
She frowned at the artificial sky. “That would be impressive, all right,” she said.
“Broben at the plate now, showing his left fielder the old baseball adage that it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.”
Broben scowled at Shorty. “I’m just trying to get her to first base,” he called.
“You’ve already got her way past that,” yelled Everett from the bench.
Broben turned toward the bench and held a fist up to Everett. The big waist-gunner grinned and showed both palms.
“And third baseman Everett yields the call.”
Broben turned back and glared down at Garrett. “Tell that whiz-kid pitcher of yours to lay off the heat,” he snapped. “That’s an order.”
Garrett saluted with his glove and shrugged at Yone on the mound.
“Yone gets the sign…. And here comes an underhand pitch that you’d have to call off-speed. Samay closes her eyes and swings—oh, it’s a rocket comebacker to Yone!”
The ball bounced off Yone’s glove and into center field. On the third-base line, Broben did a funny little dance and made a shooing motion. “Go, Sammy, go! First base, honey! Shake a leg!” He ran to her and set his hands on her hips and pushed her into motion. Samay trotted to first base and kept going. The baseman, Ryner, snagged her arm and reeled her back. “I think you’re supposed to stop here,” he said as the anemic throw from center field rolled by behind him.
All of Farley’s crew put their hands over their heads.
“Second!” Broben yelled. “Go to second!”
“He said stay here!” she yelled back.
“He’s on the other team!” Broben called.
Samay frowned but began strolling toward second as Ryner’s teammates yelled for him to get the damn ball, for the love of Mike. On second, Boney took pity on Samay and left his position to take her by the arm and lead her to the bag.
“And Typhons second baseman Boney Mullen gives the assist. I have a note here that the gang listening over in Filtration wants a clearer explanation of that last play. Fellas, I’m here to tell you that it can’t be done.
“Up to the plate now is center fielder Berne, the big Dome brain who works on the Dome’s big brains. Yes, I really said that. Give him a hand, folks; he’s one of the reasons we aren’t playing in the dark today.
“Pitcher Yone looks serious after giving up that last hit. Here comes the throw. Up-and-in fastball, strike one.
“Berne gives Yone the stink eye. Yone goes into his windup. My money’s on the heater—oh, and Berne connects! It’s going…. It is going…. It is … off the sky and left for the Dome’s first-ever home run! Man, that hit nearly ruined three p.m. for the next eight years! It’s good for two Daybreaker runs, and the crowd goes wild as the local boy makes good on Super Sun Day.”
Farley cheered along with everyone else as Berne trotted heavily around the bases. That was one hell of a hit. Samay jogged across the plate and Jerry took her up in a huge hug. Berne stopped before the plate, red-faced and sweating, and looked at the crowd. He seemed surprised to see them cheering. He gave a little wave, took a deep breath, jumped up, and landed squarely on home plate. The crowd shot to its feet.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Wennda asked.
“Are you kidding?” said Farley. “Fixing the sun’s one thing, but if you really want people to love you, hit a homer.”
Wennda nodded uncertainly and resumed clapping. Farley laughed. Just another sunny day in the park.
He looked to see if the commander had cracked any semblance of a smile and was unsurprised to see him still seated, scowling as Grobe said something into his ear.
Farley frowned. Vanden was looking even more pissed off than usual.