Part 18 (2/2)
”Earth is the one exception I've been able to find. The Deneb planet heads the list, then comes North America. After that, the planet of a star I never heard of. In fourth place is the Soviet Union.”
”I'll be d.a.m.ned,” said Temple. ”Well, okay. Mind if I store that away for future reference? I've got another question. What kind of--uh, games do we play?”
”You name it. Mental contests. Scientific problems to be worked out with laboratories built to our specifications. Emotional problems with scores of men driven neurotic or worse every year. Problems of adaptability. Responses to environmental challenge. Stamina contests.
Tests of strength, of endurance. Tests to determine depths of emotion.
Tests to determine objectivity in what should be an objective situation. But the way everything is organized it's almost like a giant-sized, never ending Olympic Games, complete with some c.o.c.keyed sports events too, by the way.”
”With all the pageantry, too?”
”No. But that's another story.”
”Anyway, what I saw _was_ a foot-race! And sorry, Jase, but I have another question.”
Jason shrugged, spread his hands wide.
”How come all this talk about rotation? It isn't possible, not with a fifty century gap.”
”I know. They just let us in on that little deal a couple of years ago. Till then, we didn't know. We thought it was distance only. In time, after all this was over, we could go home. That's what we thought,” Jason said bitterly. ”Actually, it's twice five thousand years. Five to come here, five to return. Ten thousand years separate us from the Earth we know, and even if we could go home, that wouldn't be going home at all--to Earth ten thousand years in the future.
”Oh, they had us hoodwinked. Afraid we might say no or something. They never mentioned the length or duration of the trip. I don't understand it, none of us do and we have some top scientists here. Something to do with suspended animation, with contra-terrene matter, with teleportation, something about latent extra-sensory powers in everyone, about the ability to break down an object--or a creature or a man--to its component atoms, to reverse--that's the word, reverse--those atoms and send them spinning off into s.p.a.ce as contra-terrene matter.
”It all boils down to putting a man in a machine on Mars, pulling a lever, materializing him here five thousand years later.” Jason smiled with only a trace of humor, ”Any questions?”
”About a thousand,” said Temple. ”I--”
Something buzzed on Jason's desk and Temple watched him pick up a microphone, say: ”Co-ordinator speaking. What's up?”
The voice which answered, clear enough to be in the room with them and without the faintest trace of mechanical or electrical transfer, spoke in a strange, liquid-syllabled language Temple had never heard. Jason responded in the same language, with an apparent ease which surprised Temple--until he remembered that his brother had always had a knack of picking up foreign languages. Maybe that was why he held the Co-ordinator's job--whatever it was he co-ordinated.
There was fluency in the way Jason spoke, and alarm. The trouble-lines etched deeply on his face stood out sharply, his eyes, if possible, grew more intense. ”Well,” he said, putting the mike down and staring at Temple without seeing him, ”I'm afraid that does it.”
”What's the trouble?”
”Everything.”
”Anything I can do?”
”Item. The Superboys have discovered that Earth has two contingents here--us and the Soviets. They're mad. Item. Something will be done about it. Item. Soviet Russia has made a suggestion, or that is, its people here. They will put forth a champion to match one of our own choosing in the toughest grind of all, something to do with responding to environmental challenge, which doesn't mean a h.e.l.l of a lot unless you happen to know something about it. Shall I go on?”
And, when Temple nodded avidly. ”We automatically lose by default. One of the rules of that particular game is that the contestant must be a newcomer. It's the sort of game you have to know nothing about, and incidentally, it's also the sort of game a man can get killed at.
Well, the Soviets have a whole contingent of newcomers to pick from.
We don't have any. As the Superboys see it, that's our own tough luck.
We lose by default.”
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