E. S. P. Worm Page 11

  Beside me, Nancy shivered. “Frankenstein’s castle,” she said, impressed.

  I demurred. No Earthly castle could have been as fine as this.

  Crog piloted the vehicle straight up the cliffside. It crawled through an eye socket and dropped into a sinus cavity. Enormous guns crowded in on every side, dwarfing those of Lucifernia, so that there was barely a path between them and the ammunition conveyors. Hooded Strums watched the sky and landscape, and I knew that every cannon was loaded and primed. Very good.

  With a new, prancing step the vehicle walked through toothy portals, bypassed a dark passage leading downwards (the throat?) and took one of several maggot-galleries. At its end a large door raised and we went through a parking area. Crog braked, the machine settled, and the stairs pushed down. We unbuckled.

  “Harold, don’t you think—” Nancy began.

  NOT COMMUNICATE, FEMALE! Crog directed her. Good for him!

  She silenced. I dismounted from the stool, anxious to get to the Strumbermian higher councils and prove that Earthians were True Humanoids. Soon now!

  Nancy was inept with her straps, having difficulty getting loose. I ignored her. Too bad Flu hadn’t come along.

  Qumax wiggled loose and went to untangle Nancy. We got out and down and walked ahead of Crog. Down halls uncoated with gravite. Up steep stairs unequipped with moving belts or antigravity columns. The worm skidded on the slick of ice that covered some portions, and barely got over the stairs. Crog, naturally, had no trouble; Strums were strong humanoids who did not dissipate themselves with foolish luxuries.

  We stopped after traversing a labyrinth. We were at a room: three bare stone pallets, window overlooking the abyss, no heat, no decorations, a single feeding trough right above an elimination hole. Good accommodations. Crog shoved worm and female inside, but gestured me to accompany him.

  “Harold!” Nancy cried as I turned to leave.

  NOT COMMUNICATE, PRISONER!

  “I’m just going to prove that Earthians are True Humanoids,” I said, more for the worm’s benefit than hers.

  “Harold Prodkins,” the brat said, “you must not—”

  SILENCE, WORM!

  But the pesky Jamborang larva didn’t know when to quit. Harold Prodkins, you must not do this thing!

  Crog raised a finger and pointed at him. Qumax cringed as if struck. He rumpled out of the way. I shoved Nancy clear and went through the doorway. Crog slammed the solid stone door and shoved home the bolt, and we departed.

  PREPARE. NOW YOU MEET BIG SHOT COMMANDER PHUG. PROVE SELF TRUE HUMANOID.

  We ascended more stairs, then entered a large room with a high dome ceiling. In fact, it was a gravbop court, much larger than any I had seen before. There was a good-sized audience, mainly Strumbermians but including a few sexy Prunians and similar females. No less than thirty Strum leaders squatted around the edge of the wall. One had three stars on his forehead.

  Across the court was a diminutive Strum I guessed to be scarcely out of the toddling stage. I thought this youngster cute: a pale, sober ghoul with attractive gimlet eyes.

  Three Stars leaned forward and thought at me: I BIG SHOT COMMANDER PHUG. HAROLD PRODKINS, REPRESENTATIVE OF EARTH, YOU WISH JOIN STRUMBERMIANS? UNITE IN CRUSADE OF TRUE HUMANOIDS?

  I swallowed, suddenly uncertain. Why wasn’t I certain? “I don’t know,” I said.

  Commander Phug’s wine-red eyes bored at Crog. Crog evidently thought something back at him on closed circuit. I could sense, but not positively detect, a mind block.

  Crog gripped my shoulder gently, his fingers bending my collarbone only moderately and giving me a slight electric shock. YOU NEED PROVE SELF TO BIG SHOT COMMANDER, HAROLD PRODKINS. PROVE EARTHIANS TRUE HUMANOIDS.

  “By gravbop?” My mind reeled. If only I did not feel this weakling doubt!

  HOW ELSE HUMANOIDS PROVE SELVES? WE CIVILIZED!

  Well, that did make sense. But then I became confused again. “I’ve never—I mean, Earthians don’t have gravbop.”

  There was an ominous murmur and stomping of feet, and I realized that all the Strums were listening in to the dialogue and probably my private thoughts as well, and that I was showing reprehensible, almost buglike uncertainty.

  NO MATTER, Crog thought at me, and I could tell he was gruffly embarrassed for me. After all, I was his protégé. JUST FRIENDLY CIVILIZED CONTEST. NOMINAL. YOU NOT AGAINST CHAMPION—ONLY BEGINNER WHO NEVER BOPPED BEFORE.

  Still, ridiculously, I hesitated. “Can—can I refuse?”

  Again the swell of outrage. I was insulting the entire elite class of humanoids, and making a fool out of my sponsor Crog. Very bad form.

  REFUSE? THEN YOU NOT TRUE HUMANOID! WE TREAT EARTHIANS AS BUGS AND WORMS!

  I already had some notion what that meant. But was I hesitating because I didn’t approve of the system, or because I was a coward? Was I really opposed to killing or dying for a good cause?

  I made the only possible decision.

  “Where’s my opponent, Crog?”

  Crog indicated the youngster in the far court.

  “No, not him, Crog!” I cried. “Not this child!”

  “Yes, her,” Crog said. “Female name’s Ogue. Not matter if she damaged in head by gravbop. Breed just the same. Sooner, even.”

  I swallowed and tried desperately to think of some way out, and as always my mind tumbled over itself under the pressure and fell flat. I did not really want to—yet it looked to me as though I had no choice. While I was thinking, Crog left and returned with two gravbop poles.

  Some stupid holdover from a flabby former life made me say it. “Crog, I’ll gravbop, but not with this innocent little girl.”

  Crog glowered impressively. “You want adult Strumbermian, Mobile-Face? You want Crog? Crog champion!”

  Stunned, I watched the young Strum girl hefting poles identical to those I had. Surely I could prevent myself from hurting her if I wished. While if I bopped with Crog, I would get pasted to the wall. Besides, what had this toddler ever done for me?

  I took the gravbop poles and hefted them the way the young-ster had done. Each pole was about five feet long and tapered from an inch-wide butt to a blunt quarter-inch tip. They were flexible but not flimsy. Such an instrument, if swung sidewise against a body, would hurt; rammed endwise, it would possibly kill. I swung my pair back and forth a few times. The poles balanced naturally in my hands—almost as though they belonged there.

  The young female was waiting. I walked up to my side of the net. I raised my poles and the pole tips touched formally. The Strumbermian was the same height as I, but stockier.

  Again, something from my softer, less rational Earthian existence made me think to her: I’ll take it easy. I won’t hurt you, child.

  I’ll crack your foreign skull! she shot back.

  Then the small spinning ball was lowered from a box of Strumbermians. I eyed its floating descent and turned my attention to the box containing the tag-lights. They emerged: four. A whistle blew shrilly.

  Ogue moved with a speed and dexterity that were dazzling. Crack, crack, crack! the poles cracked. Feint, guard and thrust. Biff, bop, and my cheek stung. Whop! and I was stumbling backwards.

  With a head-ringing sense of unreality I watched the batted gravball sail over my side of the net. I moved to block it, but too late. It struck one of my tag-lights, and the globe died.

  Furiously I batted the ball back. It zipped over the net, not at all where I wanted it. Lazily, contemptuously, my opponent batted it back, straight for another tag-light.

  I intercepted it this time and tried for one of hers. Back and forth, back and forth. Running, leaping, bopping, I sweated. Neither of us could get a clear shot. Even in reduced gravity it was tiring.

  I tripped and missed the ball—and there went another of my tag-lights! I bopped back angrily, not even coming close to my opponent’s light.

  WHOP!

  My head wobbled on its hinges. I thought my right ear had been torn off. Feebly I bat
ted the ball that had just struck me.

  WHOP!

  The ball returned and struck me again. I had forgotten that all was fair in gravbop. I had been geared to intercept shots at my tag-lights, and had not guarded my head! I was down on my knees now, blood staining my cheek. Dizzily I saw my opponent run close to the net and reach a pole across. Horrified, I realized that she intended to brain me—and with that leverage, she could do it!

  Driven by a desperation I would not have believed, I blocked with a pole. But with a flick of her wrist, Ogue altered her swing and struck the floating gravball.

  BOP!

  That was the third of my tag-lights. But in striking the ball my adversary left an opening, and she was in range. I swung my raised pole.

  CRUNCH!

  Ogue collapsed against the net, bleeding from the ear. Emotionlessly, I raised the pole and brought it down hard on her forehead.

  She fell all the way to the floor. She had been careless, and now was paying the consequence. I struggled to my feet and made for the gravball.

  Bop, and I missed the tag-light I had aimed for. I retrieved the ball with a pole-flip and tried again. Again I missed. Have to lead, I thought—as in wing-shooting or Solar Pool.

  I shot and missed four times in a row. Each time the ball either bounced back to my side, or slowly drifted within range of my cue. The gravite seemed to be tilted, in effect, making it roll in mid-air toward the net. Though why the players weren’t affected. . . .

  On the sixth try I succeeded in hitting a tag-light. I felt a surge of self-confidence. I was finally getting the hang of it.

  One down and three to go—for me. But now Ogue was dragging herself upright. I bopped her down again and went about my business.

  Four more shots got me another of her tag-lights. Three more got the third. One more shot . . . and I connected with the last of Ogue’s lights.

  A mental cheer went up. I felt triumph. I was an expert gravbopper and a big hairy-chested True Humanoid! I looked at Ogue and saw how well I had downed her. She might grow up to breed, but that was about all.

  But I had not really put this on the proper footing yet. The importance of Earth had been underrated. She should not have to join the Humanoid movement on the Strumbermians’ terms; she should negotiate from a position of power.

  Crog had acted all along as if I were a weakling, barely able to establish myself on the gravbop court. And Phug had gone along with that. Imagine—pitting me against a female child! Me, an expert Solar Pool player, and now a pretty good gravbopper as well! Why, with a little more practice I could be as good as any of them.

  Hell, I was that good right now.

  Big Shot Leader Crog! I challenged boldly.

  YES MOBILE FACE?

  You want a deciding contest—you and me?

  That put him on notice! WHAT STAKES, MOBILE FACE?

  “You defeat me in full gravbop contest and I’ll pledge Earth to support the crusade. I defeat you”—let’s see, I wanted this to hurt—”and you’ll release all prisoners from the Comet’s Tail and provide passage to a neutral world where we can contact Jamborango, and”—now what would really tie it up?—”and extend apologies to all concerned and make reparations to the worms and bugs for the inconvenience.”

  Crog gaped at me.

  “Deal, Stoneface?”

  DEAL! DEAL! DEAL! commanded the audience. IS CONTEST! IS CONTEST! Boy, were they mad!

  Three-star Phug raised a large hand. TOMORROW WE HOLD MATCH—HAROLD PRODKINS VERSUS BIG SHOT LEADER CROG IN STAKED CONTEST. EIGHT TAG-LIGHTS, OTHER PRISONERS WITNESS.

  Crog smiled. Mentally.

  Looking at his horrible supertoothed countenance I had an abrupt letdown. Suddenly I didn’t feel like a True Humanoid at all. I felt like the conned sucker who wakes to find himself the Judas goat.

  Chapter 11

  Qumax rumpled agitatedly across the floor of our new quarters. His worm-head turned and his dark eyes flashed. “You are a fool, Harold Prodkins!” he said and thought.

  “Am I, Qumax?” I mumbled from my pallet. He was probably right, but I didn’t like to have a mere larva point it out. I watched the back of Nancy’s blonde head as she stood staring out at a sickish orange sunrise. I hadn’t told her about yesterday. It had seemed best not to rush it.

  “Yes! It’s an old Strumbermian trick. First they raise their victim’s confidence—then they get the fool to challenge. Believe me, Harold Prodkins, an Earthian hasn’t a chance against a Strumbermian gravbop champion.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Certain.”

  “Do you take me for a coward? Do you think Earth would stand a better chance against the Strumbermians than I will in gravbop? Do you prefer the chance in war?”

  “There is NO chance for you in gravbop. You made a deal with the Strumbermians; it will be they who keep it for you. You’ve just pledged your planet to their crusade!”

  Somehow that prospect seemed much worse than it had a day ago. At the time it had not seemed unreasonable that Earth be allied to Strumbermia, suppressing the vermin of the galaxy. Now I wondered why I had not considered the intellectual factors, which would have thrown the balance the other way. “What makes you think I can’t at least manage to get myself killed?”

  “Harold!” Nancy interjected.

  “That would lose the match,” Qumax said relentlessly. “Haven’t you learned anything yet? Do you think getting your brains knocked out will change anything? Lots of people get killed in gravbop. Strumbermians play to WIN!”

  “So do I!” I said. “And I’m going to—someway.” Nancy turned from the window and its unearthly view. “I know you gravbopped last night,” she said. “Qumax told me while it was happening.”

  So not all my dizziness had been from blows to the head! The worm had been snooping, maybe interfering!

  “It’s not just your lack of skill—” the brat said insultingly.

  “What, then?”

  “The nature of the Strumbermians. Adults can release energy from their fingers—electrical energy.”

  I peered at the overgrown cabbage worm. No, he wasn’t hoaxing me. Suddenly I understood why the Strums pointed fingers so frequently, and why I had felt a shock when touched by one. Like electric eels, they generated current to make an effective close-range weapon.

  “Crog can use this energy in gravbop?” But I knew even as I asked. Anything went in gravbop, so long at it was inherent in the player and situation. Devians had used their reach, Strumbermians could use their electricity. What could a man use?

  “The range is quite short, Harold Prodkins. About three of the Strum’s body-lengths. But if you come closer—”

  “Hm. That big court is about a hundred feet—fifty per side. That gives me some maneuvering room. . . .”

  “More like eighty feet, forty per side. Over half of which is open to Crog’s charge. If you stay in the back fifteen feet, you may be able to stay alive, if you duck the beanballs. Provided Crog wants you alive.”

  “No, it won’t be easy,” I admitted. I looked at the composition soles and heels of my shoes and wondered if these would be any help as insulators. Possibly, and then again, possibly not. I couldn’t be certain whether this really was electricity, despite what Qumax said. It might be something else that followed different rules.

  “Why did you do it, Harold?” Nancy asked me softly.

  I looked at her and wondered how I could ever have imagined her to be attractive. Small bulges in front, pale head of hair, moderate hips, disgustingly mature face. And no tail!

  But attractive or not, she did deserve some explanation. She was, after all, still technically my assistant, and she did mean well. So I set out to clarify my motives—

  And found that I could not come across with anything that sounded good in words or specific thoughts. Odd.

  *

  Three hours into cold daylight we were taken to the court. Fifteen minutes later I was facing Crog across the gravbop net, armed
with the twin poles. I peered past his bulky, blocky frame as I waited for the whistle. Nancy perched on a stool beside Big Shot Commander Phug, her head averted. Qumax lay nearby, eyes bright and staring at me. They expected me to lose, I knew. It was for that they had been brought here.

  Crog and I touched poles. We who are about to die salute you, I thought at the audience, and wondered why I bothered. First whistle blew and the small ball lowered. Eight tag-lights flashed on either side.

  The fighting whistle sounded. Crog swung his poles. I ducked and dropped flat, rolling back out of reach. I figured he wouldn’t use his finger-charge right away; he’d wait until he needed it. But all the same, I was going to get out of range and stay out.

  I heard the bop of cue striking ball.

  Clasping only one of my poles, I rolled over and over across the gravcourt. A pole banged down behind me, scraping skin off my left shoulder; Crog had a long reach. Ahead, the gravball put out one of my tag-lights.

  I got my pole up and stopped the ball. I could not afford to let it drift to the center. I rose to my feet, moved behind the ball and lifted my pole in both hands. Gently I tapped the spinning sphere until it floated just at shoulder height. I stepped back, raised the pole, and sighted down it as though it were a Solar Pool cue.

  This was just like Solar Pool, in fact, I told myself. The nearest tag-light was the Venus sphere, the ball—the cueball. I had played such a game many times; in fact, I had once contemplated entering a world tournament, back on Earth, for the Solar Pool championships. But Freddy had squelched that. It wasn’t that he had lacked confidence in my ability (though he did); it was that it would have looked trivial on his political record. A pool-playing cousin.

  I drew back the pole and aimed the ball at the light. I took a deep breath and expelled half. Careful now. Careful. I had done this easily yesterday. This cue was straight and true, just a trifle heavy.

  The Venus sphere floated and bobbed in a manner no Venus sphere should ever do. Yet I had compensated automatically as I put out Ogue’s final light. There, now, the sphere’s motion was carrying it toward me. It was a setup for a Solar Pool champ. Or a hopeful champ. Shoot, I told myself, and my practiced muscles reacted accordingly.