“Too rough,” Hulk called back. “I’rn getting out of here!”
They wound through the elaborate rock gardens of a sports-loving Citizen: the so-called outdoor sports of hunting, camping, canoeing, hiking, wildlife photography. There were no people participating; all was reserved for the lone delight of the owner. At one point the track passed between an artificial cliff and a waterfalclass="underline" a nice effect. Farther along, a variable beam of light played across them, turning the region into a rainbow delight. Then down the main street of another Citizen’s metropolis replica: skyscraper buildings on one-tenth scale, still almost too tall to fit within the dome.
At the next refreshment station a wamer flared: FIELD DEFICIENCY, the sign advised. DETOUR AHEAD.
“They warned us,” Stile said, taking a bottle from Sheen and flashing her a smile in passing. He remained in fine fettle, enjoying the run.
Hulk grabbed his own bottle, which seemed to be of a different type than before. He didn’t use it immediately, but ran on for a short while in silence. When they were safely beyond the station, he exclaimed: “Detour, hell! This is a set route, not a garden path to be switched every time some Citizen has a party. This is a challenge leading to the Tourney. I mean to push on through.”
Intriguing notion. If they ignored the detour, would they be able to defy the whim of some Citizen with impunity? Few serfs ever had the chance! “Could be trouble,” Stile warned.
“I’ll risk it.” And Hulk passed the plainly marked detour and followed the original marathon track.
That forced Stile to stay on that track too, because a detour could add kilometers to the route, in effect putting him behind enough to disqualify him. Had that been Hulk’s plan? To get ahead, take the main track, while Stile innocently took the detour and penalized himself? But that would mean that Hulk had known about this detour beforehand—and Stile had been the one to put the marathon on the grid.
A good competitor, though, kept abreast of all the options. Had Stile not been busy in Phaze, he would have known about the detour himself, and played accordingly. Well, he had kept pace with the giant, and foiled that particular ploy. But he did not much like this development. Detours, despite Hulk’s complaint, were usually set for good reason.
Stile finished his drink and tossed the bottle in the bin. Hulk had hardly started his, and was carrying it along in his hand. Of course he could take as long as he wished; Stile preferred not to have any encumbrance longer than necessary.
They passed through a force-field wall, into an inter-dome tunnel. This was where the deficiency was. Stile felt it immediately; it was cold here, and some of the air had leaked out. His breathing became difficult; there was not enough oxygen to sustain him long at this level of exertion. He had become partially acclimatized to it in the course of his travels to and from Phaze, but that wasn’t enough. Yet Hulk, perhaps drawing on reserves within his gross musculature, forged on.
If the field malfunction extended far. Stile would be in trouble. And Hulk knew it. Suddenly the race had changed complexion! Had Hulk anticipated this so far as to practice running in outerdome air? Was that why he had started with so much confidence? Stile’s sup-posed strength had become his weakness, because of his opponent’s superior research and preparation. If Hulk beat him, it would be because he had outplayed Stile in his area of strength: awareness of the hidden nuances of particular situations. He had turned the tables with extraordinary finesse, allowing Stile to lead himself into the trap.
Stile began to fall behind. He had to ease off, lest he faint; he had to reduce his oxygen consumption. He saw Hulk’s back moving ever onward. Now Hulk was imbibing of his bottle, as if in no difficulty at all. What a show of strength! The lack of oxygen had to be hurting his lungs too, but he still could drink as he ran blithely on.
If the field malfunction extended for several kilometers, Hulk just might open up the necessary lead, and win by forfeit. Or, more likely. Hulk would win by forcing Stile to give up: endurance of another nature. Stile simply could not keep the pace.
He slowed to a walk, gasping. Hulk was now out of sight. Stile tramped on. There was another force-field intersection ahead. If that marked the end of the mal-function-It did not. He entered a large tool shop. Robots worked in it, but human beings had been evacuated. The whole dome was low on oxygen.
Stile felt dizzy. He could not go on—yet he had to.
The dome was whirling crazily about him as he ran. Ran? He should be walking! But Hulk was already through this dome, maybe back in oxygen-rich air, building up the critical lead while Stile staggered. . . .
A cleaning robot rolled up. “Refreshment—courtesy of Sheen,” it said, extending a bottle.
Not having the present wit to question this oddity, Stile grabbed the bottle, put it to his mouth, squeezed.
Gas hissed into his mouth. Caught by surprise, he inhaled it, choking.
Air? This was pure oxygen?
Stile closed his lips about it, squeezed, inhaled. He had to guide his reflexes, reminding himself that this was not liquid. Oxygen—exactly what he needed! No law against this; he was entitled to any refreshment he wanted, liquid or solid—or gaseous. So long as it was not a proscribed drug.
“Thank you, Sheen!” he gasped, and ran on. He still felt dizzy, but now he knew he could make it.
Soon the oxygen gave out; there could not be much in a squeeze bottle. He wondered how that worked; perhaps the squeeze opened a pressure valve. He tossed it in a disposal hopper and ran on. He had been re-charged; he could make it to breathable territory now.
He did. The next field intersection marked the end of the malfunction. Ah, glorious reprieve!
But he had been weakened by his deprivation of oxygen, and had lost a lot of ground. Hulk must have taken oxygen too—that was it! That strange bottle he had nursed! Oxygen, hoarded for the rough run ahead! Clever, clever man! Hulk had done nothing illegal or even unethical; he had used his brains and done his homework to outmaneuver Stile, and thereby had nearly won his race right there. Now Stile would have to catch up—and that would not be easy. Hulk was not yet two kilometers ahead, for Stile had received no notification of forfeit; but he might be close to it. Hulk was surely using up his last reserves of strength to get that lead, in case Stile made it through the malfunction.
But if Hulk did not get the necessary lead, and Stile gained on him, he still had to catch and pass him. There were about thirty kilometers to go. Could he endure? He had been seriously weakened.
He had to endure! He picked up speed, forcing his body to perform. He had a headache, and his legs felt heavy, and his chest hurt. But he was moving.
The track continued through the domes, scenic, varied—but Stile had no energy now to spare for appreciation. His sodden brain had to concentrate on forcing messages to his legs: lift-drop, lift-drop . . . drop . . . drop. Every beat shook his body; the impacts felt like sledgehammer blows along his spinal column. Those beats threatened to overwhelm his consciousness. They were booming through his entire being. He oriented on them, hearing a melody rising behind those shocks. It was like the drumming of Neysa’s hooves as she trotted, and the music of her harmonica-horn came up around the discomfort, faint and lovely. Excruciatingly lovely, to his present awareness. His pain became a lonely kind of joy.
Beat—beat—beat. He found himself forming words to that rhythm and tune. Friendship, friendship, friend- ship, friendship. Friendship for ever, for ever, for ever, for ever. Friendship for ever, uniting, uniting, uniting. Friendship forever uniting us both, both, both. Neysa was his friend. He started singing the improvised tune mostly in his head, for he was panting too hard to sing in reality. It was like a line of verse Fanapestic tetra-meter, or four metric feet, each foot consisting of three syllables, accented on the third. But not perfect, for the first foot was incomplete. But pattern scansion tended to be too artificial; then the pattern conflicted with what was natural. True poetry insisted on the natural. The best verse, to his way of thinking, was accent verse, whose only rhythmic requirement was an established number of accents to each line. Stile had, in his own poetic endeavors, dispensed with the artificiality of rhyme; meter and meaning were the crucial elements of his efforts. But in the fantasy frame of Fhaze his magic was accomplished by rhyme. His friendship for the unicorn—