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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6660950 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51232 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51232) diff --git a/old/51232-h.zip b/old/51232-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f1f12f5..0000000 --- a/old/51232-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/51232-h/51232-h.htm b/old/51232-h/51232-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 91cc3f3..0000000 --- a/old/51232-h/51232-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1113 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=us-ascii" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of Psychotennis, Anyone?, by Lloyd Williams. - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.caption {font-weight: bold;} - -/* Images */ -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -div.titlepage { - text-align: center; - page-break-before: always; - page-break-after: always; -} - -div.titlepage p { - text-align: center; - text-indent: 0em; - font-weight: bold; - line-height: 1.5; - margin-top: 3em; -} - -.ph1, .ph2, .ph3, .ph4 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; } -.ph1 { font-size: xx-large; margin: .67em auto; } -.ph2 { font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; } -.ph3 { font-size: large; margin: .83em auto; } -.ph4 { font-size: medium; margin: 1.12em auto; } - - - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Psychotennis, Anyone?, by Lloyd Williams - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Psychotennis, Anyone? - -Author: Lloyd Williams - -Release Date: February 16, 2016 [EBook #51232] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PSYCHOTENNIS, ANYONE? *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="355" height="500" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<h1>PSYCHOTENNIS, ANYONE?</h1> - -<p>By LLOYD WILLIAMS</p> - -<p>Illustrated by DAVID STONE</p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Galaxy Science Fiction November 1951.<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p class="ph3">If scientific advance changes our forms of courtship, can other<br /> -sports be far behind? Not when telekinesis is finally perfected!</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>Before them the ball took a savage turn toward the player in white. -Around Grant the crowd stood up and roared, and he felt suddenly tense -and doubting. Then the player ducked, the ball shot through above him -to smash against the court wall, and he controlled the rebound to send -the sphere once more into erratic, darting flight.</p> - -<p>"Again!" Grant felt his muscles suddenly relax with release of anxiety. -He turned to the girl. "Bee, I'm worried. It's not like Tony—does he -want to get killed? He should stop those shots, not dodge them. Are you -sure he's all right?"</p> - -<p>"Now, Granny." The girl kept her eyes fixed on the court. "Remember, -Tony took this match for charity. He wants the crowd to have a show, -that's all. He is in splendid shape."</p> - -<p>"No sleep," Grant went on worriedly. "I'm sure it must be that. If his -brain were alert, he'd control that ball until Slag went crazy. Without -sleep, you can't focus prop—"</p> - -<p>"Please, Granny, <i>stop</i>!" In that instant her throbbing mind touched -his, and he caught a glimpse of the alarm in her face. She, too, felt -that something was wrong. But she tugged at his sleeve and pointed -through the screen at the oval below. "Look!"</p> - -<p>Slag's feet were set wide apart, and his black-robed body stood square. -But his head had begun a sort of slow wobble, from side to side, as the -ball lanced in perihedral swings about the court.</p> - -<p>"Praise Allah!" whispered Grant. "A beautiful dance! Tony's thinking -that gangster, into a coma."</p> - -<p>The white player was in concentration, using his eyes only rarely in -shifting ever more complex movements to the sphere. Then the rhythmic -pattern had become a wild <i>corondo</i>, with Slag as its center, and the -dark figure stood hypnotized, with only spasmodic jerks of his brutal -features to mark the fear in his mind.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus.jpg" width="600" height="383" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>"Now," said Grant. His voice seemed loud in the awed silence of the -spectators. "Now, Tony! Call it a day!"</p> - -<p>"Just touch him," whispered Bee. "Don't hurt him, Tony."</p> - -<p>It was as if they had signaled the player, even through the tele-proof -screen. Gradually the wild swings of the ball slowed. It circled Slag -gently, dropped closer, and poised above him. Tony's mind was clearly -in full control of the sensitive sphere.</p> - -<p>In a seat behind Grant, an excited man suddenly yelled, "Thumbs -down, hard!" Obviously the crowd was ready to sacrifice its erstwhile -hero.</p> - -<p>Then—the ball moved, a small movement, and there was a roar. -Uninfluenced, the ball dropped and rolled to the center court, and Tony -stood in bewilderment as Slag shook himself awake.</p> - -<p>Grant leaped up and tried to push through to the box exit. Behind him, -Bee clung. "Granny, what will you do? What can you...."</p> - -<p>He shook her off and answered her with his mind as he struggled on. -"Stop them, that's what! End the match."</p> - -<p>"How? You know you cannot!"</p> - -<p>But he felt her mind cling at the hope, and sent back reassurance. "<i>I</i> -can. They may not like it, but <i>I</i> can stop these matches. Don't worry, -I'll get your brother safely out of there."</p> - -<p>She was relieved. Knowledge of his position—his relation to the -sport—he felt her memory produce the reasons. <i>Sport</i>, thought -Grant. <i>I invented a sport. Oh, Allah! What has my sport become?</i></p> - -<p>And then her mind shrieked at him, stabbed at his brain: "Tony—Tony -darling!"</p> - -<p>Dazedly he heard the moan and fought a path to the transparent screen. -Out on the court lay a white figure, outspread, and the ball rolled -slowly past the dripping head.</p> - -<p>"Too late!" sobbed Bee. "Too late! Tony...."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Somehow she was down there before Grant. He saw her, huddled over -Tony's body, as he finally reached an open gate in the domed screen. -On the opposite edge of the court, Psycho-sport Commissioner Woods was -in conversation with the referee, Harmon. A flash bulb glowed. Three -reporters looked at the fallen player and spoke casually to each other. -Towering above the group was Slag, staring down as if surprised.</p> - -<p>Grant went first to the Commissioner, who adopted a defensive attitude -immediately, throwing up his hands.</p> - -<p>"Don't jump on <i>me</i>, now. It seems I am helpless. Ask Harmon yourself. -There was nothing wrong that he could see."</p> - -<p>"That's nonsense," said Grant, "and you know it. No matter who it is, -a ball will not smash into an awake player. It simply cannot be done. -Even a novice can overcontrol his opponent at that range."</p> - -<p>"Right. It couldn't have happened." Sarcasm indicated the worry felt by -Woods. "Damn it, Lane, that's the way it is. Harmon watched like a hawk -in his bubble. The dome was sealed; not a single leak. Slag's second -crouched behind the shield and never moved. I personally supervised -Anthony's examination. He was in perfect condition. The only thing yet -to check is the ball, but the ball...."</p> - -<p>"You have it? Never mind, no ball invented could do that alone. Tony -could handle any ball, even without the new sensitive core. And in a -hundred games every day, they don't ever have this sort of accident."</p> - -<p>"Just when Slag plays." The Commissioner touched Grant's arm -helplessly. "The force of the man's mind must be terrible, Lane. He -must be a superman. But what am I going to do? If I outlaw him without -legal grounds...." He stopped, gulped nervously.</p> - -<p>"There may be no grounds from your point of view and theirs." Grant -gestured at the crowd struggling through the exits. "But there are from -mine. If I'm to remain Honorary President of the Association, Slag has -got to go. That's final!"</p> - -<p>Woods said, "Lane, you could stop this another way. If you don't, and -you put Slag out, they will think...." But Grant was already hurrying -over to Bee Anthony.</p> - -<p>More people joined the group and talk died away as uniformed men bent -down to the prone figure. Bee sobbed in Grant's arms. Her mind was -withdrawn, grieving, and he patted her awkwardly while he thought of -how much these young twins had come to mean to him in the years since -he began his research in metaphysics. Just children, they had seemed at -first. He had been young. Doctor Lane, graduate of '52 on fellowship, -and they were the kids he had worked with, who had shown remarkable -powers of the mind.</p> - -<p>Tony and himself—they had formulated the methods which still governed -the cultivation of telekinesis. Grant had discovered—the principles, -but it was the successful results of the Anthony boy's training -which paved the way for others to learn. Yet Bee was different. No -amount of tutoring could help her influence an object with her mind. -Different, but not inferior, for Bee was a telepath. With intimates -her conversation was most strange—much of it understood, yet left -unspoken.</p> - -<p>Grant was one of the intimates. Her silent sorrow would have found him -at any distance, but now he tried to evade it, because Tony was gone -and Woods had come over to face the reporters—and Slag.</p> - -<p>"Mister Woods," began one of the men, but the Commissioner raised a -hand and turned to the giant player.</p> - -<p>"You have had my personal warning, Slag. Do you think I will allow you -to carry on your ugly career? Why, man, you're lucky the courts have -not ruled you a murderer!"</p> - -<p>"It's not my fault," Slag said. "I didn't <i>try</i> to smash him, honest. I -don't know my own strength, I guess."</p> - -<p>Bee's reddened eyes stared at the man, and Grant whispered, "Darling, -can you tell?"</p> - -<p>"You know their minds are closed to me. I just feel ... something -<i>evil</i>. I must get out of here. Please, Grant, take me away."</p> - -<p>Behind Slag the little blond man Teagle, manager and second of the -professional, spoke up. "Like Slag says, Commissioner, it isn't his -fault. These fast-thinking players match him, get him all excited in -the court, and then wonder why they get knocked down. They just don't -have the stuff to match a champ."</p> - -<p>"Slag is the only man ever warned to pull his shots," agreed a -reporter who was taking notes.</p> - -<p>"Gentlemen!" Woods turned to Grant. "All of us here respect the opinion -of Dr. Lane, who brought this sport into being and who is, in my -estimation, its greatest exponent. I have consulted with him. If he is -to retain any connection whatever with the game, he informs me, Slag -must get out."</p> - -<p>There was silence. The men stared first at the florid-faced -Commissioner, then at Grant.</p> - -<p>"More than personal considerations are involved," added Woods. "Slag's -brutal style of play, according to Dr. Lane, endangers the entire -future of this grand sport."</p> - -<p>The black-robed player looked around for support. Little Teagle pushed -in front of the Commissioner. "You mean that has-been," he pointed at -Grant, "is trying to get rid of my boy? It ain't fair, I say. Even when -he tries to take it easy, Slag has it tough. They're scared, and won't -match us—even these amateurs. And yet look what we've done to pep the -game up!"</p> - -<p>"You may be right, Mister Teagle. All things considered, however, I -feel the merit of Dr. Lane's suggest—"</p> - -<p>"Who is this Lane?" The little man's face was fierce. "So he starts the -game, and invents the ball, so what? They used to call him a champ, -the <i>master</i>, but that's a long time ago. Now that he's out, he don't -like Slag coming up so strong. It kills him that he ain't the best any -more."</p> - -<p>"That will be all for tonight. In the morning I'll have an official -release ready." The reporters were tense, anxious to miss nothing. -"And, gentlemen, you have a good idea of the nature of that statement."</p> - -<p>"Wait! I'm telling you," said Teagle. "We've tried to get a match with -this Lane. Here it is, boys, the real truth. The guy wants Slag out -because he's scared to meet him. Right here and now we challenge him! -And I bet he hasn't got the guts to take us up."</p> - -<p>"I feel," said Woods, "that a scientist like Dr. Lane should not be -subjected to this ... this insolence."</p> - -<p>The reporters ran toward the exit, eager to call in this news break.</p> - -<p>Grant said nothing. Aware of Bee's feelings, he shot a look of contempt -at Teagle and turned. Yet he knew, as they walked slowly away, that -behind him were no feelings of good will. At best, the men awaited his -next move—and until then suspended judgment.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In three days the city became for Grant Lane a savage jungle. The -papers shrieked at him Teagle's endless insults, Slag's boastful -challenge. Each statement by the Commissioner cleverly shifted more -responsibility from Woods to himself, and the tragic end of yet -another match was played down until it appeared that Slag, and not his -opponent, was the injured party.</p> - -<p>After all, was his crowd-convincing argument, did they jail -professional fighters in the old days when one was killed? Just a -little accident in the heat of fair contest; it was no more than -that. Yet there <i>was</i> more, this time. People appeared unsatisfied, -disapproving of Grant, as if he should offer himself as a sacrifice -to their sympathy with Slag. The one time he went restlessly into the -streets, they watched him sullenly, waiting....</p> - -<p>He kept to his apartment after that, and studied furiously. No man -<i>could</i> overcontrol an awake opponent in a direct shot—if the ball was -all right. As the ball closed in, the approached player's influence -grew proportionately stronger, while his opponent's lessened in inverse -ratio. That was the reason Grant had originally declared the sport to -be safe.</p> - -<p>He interrupted his work only briefly for Tony's funeral, and felt an -obscure shame in facing Bee Anthony. Then the cellular organism of -the sphere used in the game absorbed his attention again. It was an -artificially nurtured nerve-center, a growth devised by himself, and -seemed to offer the only possible answer. <i>Perhaps this sub-life had -acquired learning ability—the ability to act independently.</i> It seemed -absurd, and yet how much was really known of this highly irritable -stuff called living matter?</p> - -<p>Bee found him at his apartment the fourth morning. She seemed much more -relaxed. "Tony hated useless grief," she said. "I had to come here, -Granny. I had to know that we might see the end of all this."</p> - -<p>"Yes." Grant still felt a vague shame. "We'll have to stop Slag short, -before he adds any more victims."</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's more than that! It's the people, too, and the knowledge that -more Slags may appear. If all the matches suddenly...." She broke off, -frowning, as if uncertain whether to continue. "You see, Granny, Tony -decided to play because of that. It wasn't even the charities, really. -The people distrust you. Not just because you were wrong, but because -they are suspicious of any probing into the powers of mind. They prefer -fantasy to scientific hypothesis, and now Slag's triumphs...." She -faltered, and unhappily twisted her face away.</p> - -<p>"But Tony could have crushed Slag, too."</p> - -<p>"You know that was different. He had Slag hypnotized first. But Tony -was awake when the ball struck!"</p> - -<p>"You're right, Bee. Frankly, I don't know what the answer could be. I'm -working on the core of the ball. There is a chance—"</p> - -<p>"I'm sure it was something else! Granny, have you thought of the -screen? There must have been a leak, or a failure. Think of that crowd, -hoping for their hero. Suppose they subconsciously influenced the -sphere, directed it at Tony."</p> - -<p>He thought of the mob's reaction when Slag was helpless, and kept -silent. It would be cruel to blast her one hope with nothing to offer -in exchange.</p> - -<p>"You think I'm wrong, but what else would it be? The ball couldn't kill -Tony by itself." Then she was in tears. "I should have been there to -stop it. He wouldn't take a second—I begged him to let me—and I would -have <i>sensed</i> any outside influence!"</p> - -<p>Grant recognized the guilt feelings she was suffering from. He tried -to give comfort, but suddenly she was a woman, proud and independent, -and would not stay. Only at the door for one moment did she turn -appealingly to him.</p> - -<p>"Granny, you're not going to play Slag!"</p> - -<p>"Do you want me to? Should I obey the roar of the mob? And look!" He -gestured at one of the papers, where a center-page box proclaimed, -'Commissioner Rules Out Lane-Slag Match.' "At thirty-seven they say I'm -too old to play."</p> - -<p>"Don't do it, Grant." He felt her conflicting, torn emotions. "Yet, the -funny thing is, I don't think I could live if they allow Slag to go on -and on."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Grant's apartment was ill-equipped for working with micro-organisms. -So, although preliminary study opened up no encouraging line of -experimentation, next day he transferred his work to the university -laboratories. He found his colleagues friendly—one had cheerfully -handled Grant's lectures during his absence—but reserved, as if they -suspected him to be guilty of some terrible sin, yet hoped he might -prove himself innocent.</p> - -<p>Barker, the bio-chemist, listened to his theory of the probability of -change in the nerve center of the ball. "I have not worked with these -cultures," he said. "You claim they are artificially produced solely -to provide a focal receptor for the controlling minds. Are the cells -non-reproductive?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. You see, the structure must be stable. Any mind can provide the -necessary power to move light objects short distances, but focusing -that power is the difficulty. Hence the sensitive core. The operator -can <i>sense</i> where to direct his will."</p> - -<p>Barker reflected a moment. "So the culture is purely static—doesn't -even amplify the influence. In that case, I can only visualize such -changes as natural radiation might bring about. No hope there for a -recurrent pattern of change."</p> - -<p>"Learning ability—acquisition of power to act voluntarily—I thought -the answer might be in that."</p> - -<p>"We'll see. Might as well begin there, anyway. Get us a few of the -balls, Lane, and I'm sure the staff will gladly try to help out."</p> - -<p>That evening Grant walked onto the court of the Colliseum and was made -certain of the city's anger toward him. Bee's idea was worth testing, -and he had brought with him some student telepaths, but the instant -he appeared the crowd rose in a storm of fury. When the announcer -requested spectators to direct the ball at Grant, their wrath gave -way to cheers, and they concentrated hopefully on crushing him. But -the screen held, the telepaths sensed no invading influence as Grant -whirled the ball about the court, until in disgust he signaled for the -screen to be deactivated.</p> - -<p>Instantly the will of the crowd took hold. The sphere jerked -erratically until concerted influence steadied it opposite Grant. Then -it flashed into motion, a heavy, deadly missile, with all the mind -power of a mob driving it murderously across the court at him.</p> - -<p>He stopped it easily, six inches away.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Barker said, "No use seeking further. We may not know everything living -organisms can do, but we can certainly tell what is beyond their power. -The tests are conclusive."</p> - -<p>Lorms, the behaviorist, nodded his head.</p> - -<p>For just an instant Grant felt confused, helpless. His original -arguments for psychosport were proved valid, but the killings became -even more inexplicable—they were logically impossible! And, somehow, -that made <i>him</i> the criminal.</p> - -<p>That left him only one thing to do.</p> - -<p>It was humiliating to accept such a solution to his personal problem. -He thought of Bee Anthony and nearly turned back. Only since the -tragedy had he realized how changed was their relationship—and how -important she was to him. Would she scorn his action, think him a -slave to public pressure? Probably, but Grant forced his steps onward.</p> - -<p>In the lobby of the Page-Horton, Bee caught him by the arm. "Since -when," she asked, "do you walk grimly past your friends?... No, Grant. -Don't bother to think up a story. I know where you are going."</p> - -<p>He wanted to chase her away—and to pull her close to him. But she -glanced up and laughed. "You look <i>so</i> perplexed and silly. Professor -Lorms called me, and of course I knew what you'd do."</p> - -<p>"Do you think," said Grant, "that I should, Bee? Is it right?"</p> - -<p>"Darling, fighting results from frustration and breeds even more -frustration and anger. But somehow men get cornered until—well, they -<i>have</i> to. Not Tony. He was a gay fool, tilting at windmills. Oh, -Grant! I know you're wrong, but you're right, too, and inside I'm so -glad!"</p> - -<p>He wanted to erase the worry behind her gladness, to smother it with -reassurance. They went up together to Slag's suite. Teagle was at the -door. "Glad to see you, Mahomet," he said to Grant. "The contract's all -ready to sign. I guess you'll want <i>your</i> cut for charity, eh?"</p> - -<p>"You won't, I suppose."</p> - -<p>"Not on your life. Excuse the double meaning, Miss." He smirked at -Bee. "I ask you, who's going to match us after we knock this one off?"</p> - -<p>Slag stared glumly from a chair, not even removing his hand from the -glass beside him. "Practicing," he said. "Getting into shape for our -tussle, Doc. Like Teagle said, you had to come across."</p> - -<p>Grant took the papers from the manager, filled in the blanks and signed.</p> - -<p>"Don't talk much, this Doc Lane," said Slag. "Should I show him, -Teagle?"</p> - -<p>"Sure thing. Watch this practice, Doc."</p> - -<p>The big man concentrated on the amber bottle beside him. Slowly, -jerkily, it lifted—one inch, then two. Slag relaxed, and watched it -ring as it fell to the table. "My job when I retire," he said. "Got to -pour it right into the glass. Pretty hot, eh?"</p> - -<p>Grant gave no warning. The man's trousers were deluged as the glass -shattered in his hand. He leaped up cursing, and then moved quickly and -with ugly purpose toward his visitors.</p> - -<p>"Careful, boy," warned Teagle. "There's a dame present."</p> - -<p>For fifteen seconds Grant's eyes were locked with Slag's. He looked -into their red-rimmed hatred, fought to see the depths of the man. -Then, just before the other turned away, an unreasoning, unexpected -emotion surged in Grant. It swept over and left him shaken, all in that -instant.</p> - -<p>The emotion was fear.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Out on the court it was anger he felt, anger at Slag, who stood -opposite and bowed to the noisy throng, anger at Teagle, who chanted -insults until ordered behind the second's shield, at the spectators, -packing the Colliseum in hopes of seeing a player maimed or killed—and -Bee Anthony, even at Bee.</p> - -<p>She had defied him, bribed her way in to act as his second, and had -slipped behind the shield at his side of the court. In front of those -jeering faces, it was out of the question to make her leave.</p> - -<p>There was a roar as the ball dropped from the referee's overhead -bubble. Grant left it to Slag, let the man shoot crudely several times, -and fought to calm himself. The shots were forceful, but easily stopped -and returned. It was like Tony's match, almost too slow at first. Until -the players became absorbed, it was hopeless to attempt any kind of -hypnotic effects with the ball.</p> - -<p>Slag swung the sphere into rapid circles about the court. The crowd -watched silently, as if impressed by the player's control. To Grant -it was absurd—he knew that any trained child could execute the -movements. And yet, Tony must have felt so, too. But that was before—</p> - -<p>The ball dropped on him like a hawk, and he almost laughed. To give -the gasping crowd a thrill, he barely deflected the shot, and feigned -amazement. Slag retrieved control.</p> - -<p>Beneath the sudden amusement, Grant was uneasy. Slag had never won a -<i>real</i> victory—never dazed or hypnotized an opponent before striking. -All his triumphs rested on single, smashing thrusts. How was it -possible? With such clumsy control, the professional could never set up -a victory—yet the record stood. Grant could not fathom the problem. If -the match went on forever, he could see no way for Slag to drop him. -And if he quickly whirled Slag into dazed defeat, the real mystery -might never be solved. His opponent would merely have suffered defeat -in a match not even recognized by the Commission.</p> - -<p>Now he could guess why Tony had played carelessly. It was not only -victory that was sought. He had deluded himself in accepting such an -irresponsible way out. The whole affair depressed him, knotted itself -into mind-snaring tangles. The ball blurred again and he hardly cared, -only ducking to let it splat against the shield behind him. A spurt of -rage sent the sphere spinning back at Slag, but the other diverted it -easily into a screen-hugging orbit.</p> - -<p>Tony, Slag, Woods and Teagle—they seemed to merge confusedly in his -mind. They stood, each in turn, at the door of an iron-barred cell. For -Grant, there was no way out. Win or lose, live or die, he was doomed. -The light dimmed in the cell. Just for an instant Bee appeared, her -hair throwing off sparks of brilliance. She, too, faded out. Neither -Bee the child, whom he did not love, nor Bee the woman, who did not -love him, could save him. Before him gaped the bottomless pit of shame -and penance. He had unloosed a monster on the world. He had to pay for -that.</p> - -<p>But first Grant had another debt to pay. He tried to throw off the -depression, imagining as he did so a sob of joy in the disembodied Bee. -He wrested the sweeping ball from Slag, even from the opposite end of -the court. He spun it in wild orbits and compensated for the other's -furious thrusts. Faster and faster he circled it. Slag's mind could not -keep up the pace. The even swings acquired a jogging pattern, edged -farther out—to within ten feet of Slag. A quick break lanced behind -the man, out again, and then the sphere fell into helical loops, thrice -differentiated by harmonic variations, and swept wide around the court.</p> - -<p>Somehow Slag's distress gave Grant no pleasure. Defeat seemed to face -him everywhere; he read it in his opponent's twisted features, even in -the futile effort to withdraw attention from the ball. <i>It's no good</i>, -he thought. <i>I have failed all along.</i></p> - -<p>Savagely he worked the sphere. He would do it quickly. There was no -use expecting Tony's fate. The ball darted again for Slag and this -time there could be no interference. It became pure mathematics, the -motion, complicated far beyond Tony's simple <i>corondo</i>, a flashing -three-dimensional blur of color. He could not keep it up. The -concentration brought an invading blackness to his mind. Somewhere -there was a dull roar, and he felt as if his own mind were cracking. -His nerves quivered to put an end to it, to touch Slag with the ball. -Slowly, cautiously, he brought the sphere down....</p> - -<p>Slag was not there!</p> - -<p>He gaped. His eyes suddenly found the crumpled heap across the court, -and relief swept ever him. The man was beaten, in a state of collapse, -and there was nothing more Grant could do.</p> - -<p>"Grant!" Bee screamed. "Oh, no! Grant darling, look up!"</p> - -<p>Her radiance was almost blinding. He half-twisted to reach her, and -then his eyes caught it—the ugly sheen of the fast-growing ball. -Desperately he turned, and it shifted in unison. Then she shrieked -once more, despairingly, and he threw himself flat, arms outstretched, -toward her.</p> - -<p>The ball's speed was so great that it shattered to pieces against the -shield behind him.</p> - -<p>From back of the barrier ran Bee. She crouched beside him, and her -enveloping warmth lifted the evil spell from his mind. The loud -confusion of the crowd burst upon him, he saw the referee's swiftly -lowering bubble. He was in control of himself, thanks to Bee's -interference, and could act on the knowledge so dangerously gained.</p> - -<p>"The murderer!" Grant pulled Bee up with him. "We've got him!"</p> - -<p>Opposite them, Slag still lay on the court.</p> - -<p>"I don't see how he did it," Grant said bewilderedly.</p> - -<p>"Not Slag—<i>him</i>!" She pointed out the small, running figure.</p> - -<p>Teagle battered vainly at a gate. The still-active screen held him -back, and the man's face was a despairing white grimace. Then Grant was -upon him, and took him by the throat.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Woods paced the dressing room, still confused. "I begin to see," he -said, "but what can I do with the two of them?"</p> - -<p>"Stop worrying." Grant was curt. "You can do nothing. The law will take -Teagle, and without him Slag is just another bum."</p> - -<p>"He never knew," marveled Bee. "Slag never knew how he won."</p> - -<p>"I am to blame." Grant thought of the surging fear Teagle had directed -in him at Slag's hotel. "I should have known that telepsychical -phenomena could be used as a weapon. The man is a freak. He couldn't -influence the ball, but communicated overpowering emotion—without even -seeing his subjects—from behind his shield. The victims committed -suicide, just as I nearly did before Bee...."</p> - -<p>"What did you feel—a so-called called death wish?" asked Woods. "No -matter. Not seeing Slag collapse, he overplayed his hand."</p> - -<p>"Slag's being unconscious merely provided an anti-climax," said Grant. -"There was a more important factor added this time. And if you don't -mind, Woods, I have an apology to make in private to my one and only -second."</p> - -<p>"Not just the only one, darling," said Bee. "But your permanent, -till-death-do-us-part second! Right?"</p> - -<p>"Right!" Grant said.</p> - -<p>"That's the only thing tonight," said Woods, "of which I officially -approve."</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Psychotennis, Anyone?, by Lloyd Williams - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PSYCHOTENNIS, ANYONE? *** - -***** This file should be named 51232-h.htm or 51232-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/2/3/51232/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Psychotennis, Anyone? - -Author: Lloyd Williams - -Release Date: February 16, 2016 [EBook #51232] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PSYCHOTENNIS, ANYONE? *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - PSYCHOTENNIS, ANYONE? - - By LLOYD WILLIAMS - - Illustrated by DAVID STONE - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Galaxy Science Fiction November 1951. - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - - - - If scientific advance changes our forms of courtship, can other - sports be far behind? Not when telekinesis is finally perfected! - - -Before them the ball took a savage turn toward the player in white. -Around Grant the crowd stood up and roared, and he felt suddenly tense -and doubting. Then the player ducked, the ball shot through above him -to smash against the court wall, and he controlled the rebound to send -the sphere once more into erratic, darting flight. - -"Again!" Grant felt his muscles suddenly relax with release of anxiety. -He turned to the girl. "Bee, I'm worried. It's not like Tony--does he -want to get killed? He should stop those shots, not dodge them. Are you -sure he's all right?" - -"Now, Granny." The girl kept her eyes fixed on the court. "Remember, -Tony took this match for charity. He wants the crowd to have a show, -that's all. He is in splendid shape." - -"No sleep," Grant went on worriedly. "I'm sure it must be that. If his -brain were alert, he'd control that ball until Slag went crazy. Without -sleep, you can't focus prop--" - -"Please, Granny, _stop_!" In that instant her throbbing mind touched -his, and he caught a glimpse of the alarm in her face. She, too, felt -that something was wrong. But she tugged at his sleeve and pointed -through the screen at the oval below. "Look!" - -Slag's feet were set wide apart, and his black-robed body stood square. -But his head had begun a sort of slow wobble, from side to side, as the -ball lanced in perihedral swings about the court. - -"Praise Allah!" whispered Grant. "A beautiful dance! Tony's thinking -that gangster, into a coma." - -The white player was in concentration, using his eyes only rarely in -shifting ever more complex movements to the sphere. Then the rhythmic -pattern had become a wild _corondo_, with Slag as its center, and the -dark figure stood hypnotized, with only spasmodic jerks of his brutal -features to mark the fear in his mind. - -"Now," said Grant. His voice seemed loud in the awed silence of the -spectators. "Now, Tony! Call it a day!" - -"Just touch him," whispered Bee. "Don't hurt him, Tony." - -It was as if they had signaled the player, even through the tele-proof -screen. Gradually the wild swings of the ball slowed. It circled Slag -gently, dropped closer, and poised above him. Tony's mind was clearly -in full control of the sensitive sphere. - -In a seat behind Grant, an excited man suddenly yelled, "Thumbs -down, hard!" Obviously the crowd was ready to sacrifice its erstwhile -hero. - -Then--the ball moved, a small movement, and there was a roar. -Uninfluenced, the ball dropped and rolled to the center court, and Tony -stood in bewilderment as Slag shook himself awake. - -Grant leaped up and tried to push through to the box exit. Behind him, -Bee clung. "Granny, what will you do? What can you...." - -He shook her off and answered her with his mind as he struggled on. -"Stop them, that's what! End the match." - -"How? You know you cannot!" - -But he felt her mind cling at the hope, and sent back reassurance. "_I_ -can. They may not like it, but _I_ can stop these matches. Don't worry, -I'll get your brother safely out of there." - -She was relieved. Knowledge of his position--his relation to the -sport--he felt her memory produce the reasons. _Sport_, thought -Grant. _I invented a sport. Oh, Allah! What has my sport become?_ - -And then her mind shrieked at him, stabbed at his brain: "Tony--Tony -darling!" - -Dazedly he heard the moan and fought a path to the transparent screen. -Out on the court lay a white figure, outspread, and the ball rolled -slowly past the dripping head. - -"Too late!" sobbed Bee. "Too late! Tony...." - - * * * * * - -Somehow she was down there before Grant. He saw her, huddled over -Tony's body, as he finally reached an open gate in the domed screen. -On the opposite edge of the court, Psycho-sport Commissioner Woods was -in conversation with the referee, Harmon. A flash bulb glowed. Three -reporters looked at the fallen player and spoke casually to each other. -Towering above the group was Slag, staring down as if surprised. - -Grant went first to the Commissioner, who adopted a defensive attitude -immediately, throwing up his hands. - -"Don't jump on _me_, now. It seems I am helpless. Ask Harmon yourself. -There was nothing wrong that he could see." - -"That's nonsense," said Grant, "and you know it. No matter who it is, -a ball will not smash into an awake player. It simply cannot be done. -Even a novice can overcontrol his opponent at that range." - -"Right. It couldn't have happened." Sarcasm indicated the worry felt by -Woods. "Damn it, Lane, that's the way it is. Harmon watched like a hawk -in his bubble. The dome was sealed; not a single leak. Slag's second -crouched behind the shield and never moved. I personally supervised -Anthony's examination. He was in perfect condition. The only thing yet -to check is the ball, but the ball...." - -"You have it? Never mind, no ball invented could do that alone. Tony -could handle any ball, even without the new sensitive core. And in a -hundred games every day, they don't ever have this sort of accident." - -"Just when Slag plays." The Commissioner touched Grant's arm -helplessly. "The force of the man's mind must be terrible, Lane. He -must be a superman. But what am I going to do? If I outlaw him without -legal grounds...." He stopped, gulped nervously. - -"There may be no grounds from your point of view and theirs." Grant -gestured at the crowd struggling through the exits. "But there are from -mine. If I'm to remain Honorary President of the Association, Slag has -got to go. That's final!" - -Woods said, "Lane, you could stop this another way. If you don't, and -you put Slag out, they will think...." But Grant was already hurrying -over to Bee Anthony. - -More people joined the group and talk died away as uniformed men bent -down to the prone figure. Bee sobbed in Grant's arms. Her mind was -withdrawn, grieving, and he patted her awkwardly while he thought of -how much these young twins had come to mean to him in the years since -he began his research in metaphysics. Just children, they had seemed at -first. He had been young. Doctor Lane, graduate of '52 on fellowship, -and they were the kids he had worked with, who had shown remarkable -powers of the mind. - -Tony and himself--they had formulated the methods which still governed -the cultivation of telekinesis. Grant had discovered--the principles, -but it was the successful results of the Anthony boy's training -which paved the way for others to learn. Yet Bee was different. No -amount of tutoring could help her influence an object with her mind. -Different, but not inferior, for Bee was a telepath. With intimates -her conversation was most strange--much of it understood, yet left -unspoken. - -Grant was one of the intimates. Her silent sorrow would have found him -at any distance, but now he tried to evade it, because Tony was gone -and Woods had come over to face the reporters--and Slag. - -"Mister Woods," began one of the men, but the Commissioner raised a -hand and turned to the giant player. - -"You have had my personal warning, Slag. Do you think I will allow you -to carry on your ugly career? Why, man, you're lucky the courts have -not ruled you a murderer!" - -"It's not my fault," Slag said. "I didn't _try_ to smash him, honest. I -don't know my own strength, I guess." - -Bee's reddened eyes stared at the man, and Grant whispered, "Darling, -can you tell?" - -"You know their minds are closed to me. I just feel ... something -_evil_. I must get out of here. Please, Grant, take me away." - -Behind Slag the little blond man Teagle, manager and second of the -professional, spoke up. "Like Slag says, Commissioner, it isn't his -fault. These fast-thinking players match him, get him all excited in -the court, and then wonder why they get knocked down. They just don't -have the stuff to match a champ." - -"Slag is the only man ever warned to pull his shots," agreed a -reporter who was taking notes. - -"Gentlemen!" Woods turned to Grant. "All of us here respect the opinion -of Dr. Lane, who brought this sport into being and who is, in my -estimation, its greatest exponent. I have consulted with him. If he is -to retain any connection whatever with the game, he informs me, Slag -must get out." - -There was silence. The men stared first at the florid-faced -Commissioner, then at Grant. - -"More than personal considerations are involved," added Woods. "Slag's -brutal style of play, according to Dr. Lane, endangers the entire -future of this grand sport." - -The black-robed player looked around for support. Little Teagle pushed -in front of the Commissioner. "You mean that has-been," he pointed at -Grant, "is trying to get rid of my boy? It ain't fair, I say. Even when -he tries to take it easy, Slag has it tough. They're scared, and won't -match us--even these amateurs. And yet look what we've done to pep the -game up!" - -"You may be right, Mister Teagle. All things considered, however, I -feel the merit of Dr. Lane's suggest--" - -"Who is this Lane?" The little man's face was fierce. "So he starts the -game, and invents the ball, so what? They used to call him a champ, -the _master_, but that's a long time ago. Now that he's out, he don't -like Slag coming up so strong. It kills him that he ain't the best any -more." - -"That will be all for tonight. In the morning I'll have an official -release ready." The reporters were tense, anxious to miss nothing. -"And, gentlemen, you have a good idea of the nature of that statement." - -"Wait! I'm telling you," said Teagle. "We've tried to get a match with -this Lane. Here it is, boys, the real truth. The guy wants Slag out -because he's scared to meet him. Right here and now we challenge him! -And I bet he hasn't got the guts to take us up." - -"I feel," said Woods, "that a scientist like Dr. Lane should not be -subjected to this ... this insolence." - -The reporters ran toward the exit, eager to call in this news break. - -Grant said nothing. Aware of Bee's feelings, he shot a look of contempt -at Teagle and turned. Yet he knew, as they walked slowly away, that -behind him were no feelings of good will. At best, the men awaited his -next move--and until then suspended judgment. - - * * * * * - -In three days the city became for Grant Lane a savage jungle. The -papers shrieked at him Teagle's endless insults, Slag's boastful -challenge. Each statement by the Commissioner cleverly shifted more -responsibility from Woods to himself, and the tragic end of yet -another match was played down until it appeared that Slag, and not his -opponent, was the injured party. - -After all, was his crowd-convincing argument, did they jail -professional fighters in the old days when one was killed? Just a -little accident in the heat of fair contest; it was no more than -that. Yet there _was_ more, this time. People appeared unsatisfied, -disapproving of Grant, as if he should offer himself as a sacrifice -to their sympathy with Slag. The one time he went restlessly into the -streets, they watched him sullenly, waiting.... - -He kept to his apartment after that, and studied furiously. No man -_could_ overcontrol an awake opponent in a direct shot--if the ball was -all right. As the ball closed in, the approached player's influence -grew proportionately stronger, while his opponent's lessened in inverse -ratio. That was the reason Grant had originally declared the sport to -be safe. - -He interrupted his work only briefly for Tony's funeral, and felt an -obscure shame in facing Bee Anthony. Then the cellular organism of -the sphere used in the game absorbed his attention again. It was an -artificially nurtured nerve-center, a growth devised by himself, and -seemed to offer the only possible answer. _Perhaps this sub-life had -acquired learning ability--the ability to act independently._ It seemed -absurd, and yet how much was really known of this highly irritable -stuff called living matter? - -Bee found him at his apartment the fourth morning. She seemed much more -relaxed. "Tony hated useless grief," she said. "I had to come here, -Granny. I had to know that we might see the end of all this." - -"Yes." Grant still felt a vague shame. "We'll have to stop Slag short, -before he adds any more victims." - -"Oh, it's more than that! It's the people, too, and the knowledge that -more Slags may appear. If all the matches suddenly...." She broke off, -frowning, as if uncertain whether to continue. "You see, Granny, Tony -decided to play because of that. It wasn't even the charities, really. -The people distrust you. Not just because you were wrong, but because -they are suspicious of any probing into the powers of mind. They prefer -fantasy to scientific hypothesis, and now Slag's triumphs...." She -faltered, and unhappily twisted her face away. - -"But Tony could have crushed Slag, too." - -"You know that was different. He had Slag hypnotized first. But Tony -was awake when the ball struck!" - -"You're right, Bee. Frankly, I don't know what the answer could be. I'm -working on the core of the ball. There is a chance--" - -"I'm sure it was something else! Granny, have you thought of the -screen? There must have been a leak, or a failure. Think of that crowd, -hoping for their hero. Suppose they subconsciously influenced the -sphere, directed it at Tony." - -He thought of the mob's reaction when Slag was helpless, and kept -silent. It would be cruel to blast her one hope with nothing to offer -in exchange. - -"You think I'm wrong, but what else would it be? The ball couldn't kill -Tony by itself." Then she was in tears. "I should have been there to -stop it. He wouldn't take a second--I begged him to let me--and I would -have _sensed_ any outside influence!" - -Grant recognized the guilt feelings she was suffering from. He tried -to give comfort, but suddenly she was a woman, proud and independent, -and would not stay. Only at the door for one moment did she turn -appealingly to him. - -"Granny, you're not going to play Slag!" - -"Do you want me to? Should I obey the roar of the mob? And look!" He -gestured at one of the papers, where a center-page box proclaimed, -'Commissioner Rules Out Lane-Slag Match.' "At thirty-seven they say I'm -too old to play." - -"Don't do it, Grant." He felt her conflicting, torn emotions. "Yet, the -funny thing is, I don't think I could live if they allow Slag to go on -and on." - - * * * * * - -Grant's apartment was ill-equipped for working with micro-organisms. -So, although preliminary study opened up no encouraging line of -experimentation, next day he transferred his work to the university -laboratories. He found his colleagues friendly--one had cheerfully -handled Grant's lectures during his absence--but reserved, as if they -suspected him to be guilty of some terrible sin, yet hoped he might -prove himself innocent. - -Barker, the bio-chemist, listened to his theory of the probability of -change in the nerve center of the ball. "I have not worked with these -cultures," he said. "You claim they are artificially produced solely -to provide a focal receptor for the controlling minds. Are the cells -non-reproductive?" - -"Yes. You see, the structure must be stable. Any mind can provide the -necessary power to move light objects short distances, but focusing -that power is the difficulty. Hence the sensitive core. The operator -can _sense_ where to direct his will." - -Barker reflected a moment. "So the culture is purely static--doesn't -even amplify the influence. In that case, I can only visualize such -changes as natural radiation might bring about. No hope there for a -recurrent pattern of change." - -"Learning ability--acquisition of power to act voluntarily--I thought -the answer might be in that." - -"We'll see. Might as well begin there, anyway. Get us a few of the -balls, Lane, and I'm sure the staff will gladly try to help out." - -That evening Grant walked onto the court of the Colliseum and was made -certain of the city's anger toward him. Bee's idea was worth testing, -and he had brought with him some student telepaths, but the instant -he appeared the crowd rose in a storm of fury. When the announcer -requested spectators to direct the ball at Grant, their wrath gave -way to cheers, and they concentrated hopefully on crushing him. But -the screen held, the telepaths sensed no invading influence as Grant -whirled the ball about the court, until in disgust he signaled for the -screen to be deactivated. - -Instantly the will of the crowd took hold. The sphere jerked -erratically until concerted influence steadied it opposite Grant. Then -it flashed into motion, a heavy, deadly missile, with all the mind -power of a mob driving it murderously across the court at him. - -He stopped it easily, six inches away. - - * * * * * - -Barker said, "No use seeking further. We may not know everything living -organisms can do, but we can certainly tell what is beyond their power. -The tests are conclusive." - -Lorms, the behaviorist, nodded his head. - -For just an instant Grant felt confused, helpless. His original -arguments for psychosport were proved valid, but the killings became -even more inexplicable--they were logically impossible! And, somehow, -that made _him_ the criminal. - -That left him only one thing to do. - -It was humiliating to accept such a solution to his personal problem. -He thought of Bee Anthony and nearly turned back. Only since the -tragedy had he realized how changed was their relationship--and how -important she was to him. Would she scorn his action, think him a -slave to public pressure? Probably, but Grant forced his steps onward. - -In the lobby of the Page-Horton, Bee caught him by the arm. "Since -when," she asked, "do you walk grimly past your friends?... No, Grant. -Don't bother to think up a story. I know where you are going." - -He wanted to chase her away--and to pull her close to him. But she -glanced up and laughed. "You look _so_ perplexed and silly. Professor -Lorms called me, and of course I knew what you'd do." - -"Do you think," said Grant, "that I should, Bee? Is it right?" - -"Darling, fighting results from frustration and breeds even more -frustration and anger. But somehow men get cornered until--well, they -_have_ to. Not Tony. He was a gay fool, tilting at windmills. Oh, -Grant! I know you're wrong, but you're right, too, and inside I'm so -glad!" - -He wanted to erase the worry behind her gladness, to smother it with -reassurance. They went up together to Slag's suite. Teagle was at the -door. "Glad to see you, Mahomet," he said to Grant. "The contract's all -ready to sign. I guess you'll want _your_ cut for charity, eh?" - -"You won't, I suppose." - -"Not on your life. Excuse the double meaning, Miss." He smirked at -Bee. "I ask you, who's going to match us after we knock this one off?" - -Slag stared glumly from a chair, not even removing his hand from the -glass beside him. "Practicing," he said. "Getting into shape for our -tussle, Doc. Like Teagle said, you had to come across." - -Grant took the papers from the manager, filled in the blanks and signed. - -"Don't talk much, this Doc Lane," said Slag. "Should I show him, -Teagle?" - -"Sure thing. Watch this practice, Doc." - -The big man concentrated on the amber bottle beside him. Slowly, -jerkily, it lifted--one inch, then two. Slag relaxed, and watched it -ring as it fell to the table. "My job when I retire," he said. "Got to -pour it right into the glass. Pretty hot, eh?" - -Grant gave no warning. The man's trousers were deluged as the glass -shattered in his hand. He leaped up cursing, and then moved quickly and -with ugly purpose toward his visitors. - -"Careful, boy," warned Teagle. "There's a dame present." - -For fifteen seconds Grant's eyes were locked with Slag's. He looked -into their red-rimmed hatred, fought to see the depths of the man. -Then, just before the other turned away, an unreasoning, unexpected -emotion surged in Grant. It swept over and left him shaken, all in that -instant. - -The emotion was fear. - - * * * * * - -Out on the court it was anger he felt, anger at Slag, who stood -opposite and bowed to the noisy throng, anger at Teagle, who chanted -insults until ordered behind the second's shield, at the spectators, -packing the Colliseum in hopes of seeing a player maimed or killed--and -Bee Anthony, even at Bee. - -She had defied him, bribed her way in to act as his second, and had -slipped behind the shield at his side of the court. In front of those -jeering faces, it was out of the question to make her leave. - -There was a roar as the ball dropped from the referee's overhead -bubble. Grant left it to Slag, let the man shoot crudely several times, -and fought to calm himself. The shots were forceful, but easily stopped -and returned. It was like Tony's match, almost too slow at first. Until -the players became absorbed, it was hopeless to attempt any kind of -hypnotic effects with the ball. - -Slag swung the sphere into rapid circles about the court. The crowd -watched silently, as if impressed by the player's control. To Grant -it was absurd--he knew that any trained child could execute the -movements. And yet, Tony must have felt so, too. But that was before-- - -The ball dropped on him like a hawk, and he almost laughed. To give -the gasping crowd a thrill, he barely deflected the shot, and feigned -amazement. Slag retrieved control. - -Beneath the sudden amusement, Grant was uneasy. Slag had never won a -_real_ victory--never dazed or hypnotized an opponent before striking. -All his triumphs rested on single, smashing thrusts. How was it -possible? With such clumsy control, the professional could never set up -a victory--yet the record stood. Grant could not fathom the problem. If -the match went on forever, he could see no way for Slag to drop him. -And if he quickly whirled Slag into dazed defeat, the real mystery -might never be solved. His opponent would merely have suffered defeat -in a match not even recognized by the Commission. - -Now he could guess why Tony had played carelessly. It was not only -victory that was sought. He had deluded himself in accepting such an -irresponsible way out. The whole affair depressed him, knotted itself -into mind-snaring tangles. The ball blurred again and he hardly cared, -only ducking to let it splat against the shield behind him. A spurt of -rage sent the sphere spinning back at Slag, but the other diverted it -easily into a screen-hugging orbit. - -Tony, Slag, Woods and Teagle--they seemed to merge confusedly in his -mind. They stood, each in turn, at the door of an iron-barred cell. For -Grant, there was no way out. Win or lose, live or die, he was doomed. -The light dimmed in the cell. Just for an instant Bee appeared, her -hair throwing off sparks of brilliance. She, too, faded out. Neither -Bee the child, whom he did not love, nor Bee the woman, who did not -love him, could save him. Before him gaped the bottomless pit of shame -and penance. He had unloosed a monster on the world. He had to pay for -that. - -But first Grant had another debt to pay. He tried to throw off the -depression, imagining as he did so a sob of joy in the disembodied Bee. -He wrested the sweeping ball from Slag, even from the opposite end of -the court. He spun it in wild orbits and compensated for the other's -furious thrusts. Faster and faster he circled it. Slag's mind could not -keep up the pace. The even swings acquired a jogging pattern, edged -farther out--to within ten feet of Slag. A quick break lanced behind -the man, out again, and then the sphere fell into helical loops, thrice -differentiated by harmonic variations, and swept wide around the court. - -Somehow Slag's distress gave Grant no pleasure. Defeat seemed to face -him everywhere; he read it in his opponent's twisted features, even in -the futile effort to withdraw attention from the ball. _It's no good_, -he thought. _I have failed all along._ - -Savagely he worked the sphere. He would do it quickly. There was no -use expecting Tony's fate. The ball darted again for Slag and this -time there could be no interference. It became pure mathematics, the -motion, complicated far beyond Tony's simple _corondo_, a flashing -three-dimensional blur of color. He could not keep it up. The -concentration brought an invading blackness to his mind. Somewhere -there was a dull roar, and he felt as if his own mind were cracking. -His nerves quivered to put an end to it, to touch Slag with the ball. -Slowly, cautiously, he brought the sphere down.... - -Slag was not there! - -He gaped. His eyes suddenly found the crumpled heap across the court, -and relief swept ever him. The man was beaten, in a state of collapse, -and there was nothing more Grant could do. - -"Grant!" Bee screamed. "Oh, no! Grant darling, look up!" - -Her radiance was almost blinding. He half-twisted to reach her, and -then his eyes caught it--the ugly sheen of the fast-growing ball. -Desperately he turned, and it shifted in unison. Then she shrieked -once more, despairingly, and he threw himself flat, arms outstretched, -toward her. - -The ball's speed was so great that it shattered to pieces against the -shield behind him. - -From back of the barrier ran Bee. She crouched beside him, and her -enveloping warmth lifted the evil spell from his mind. The loud -confusion of the crowd burst upon him, he saw the referee's swiftly -lowering bubble. He was in control of himself, thanks to Bee's -interference, and could act on the knowledge so dangerously gained. - -"The murderer!" Grant pulled Bee up with him. "We've got him!" - -Opposite them, Slag still lay on the court. - -"I don't see how he did it," Grant said bewilderedly. - -"Not Slag--_him_!" She pointed out the small, running figure. - -Teagle battered vainly at a gate. The still-active screen held him -back, and the man's face was a despairing white grimace. Then Grant was -upon him, and took him by the throat. - - * * * * * - -Woods paced the dressing room, still confused. "I begin to see," he -said, "but what can I do with the two of them?" - -"Stop worrying." Grant was curt. "You can do nothing. The law will take -Teagle, and without him Slag is just another bum." - -"He never knew," marveled Bee. "Slag never knew how he won." - -"I am to blame." Grant thought of the surging fear Teagle had directed -in him at Slag's hotel. "I should have known that telepsychical -phenomena could be used as a weapon. The man is a freak. He couldn't -influence the ball, but communicated overpowering emotion--without even -seeing his subjects--from behind his shield. The victims committed -suicide, just as I nearly did before Bee...." - -"What did you feel--a so-called called death wish?" asked Woods. "No -matter. Not seeing Slag collapse, he overplayed his hand." - -"Slag's being unconscious merely provided an anti-climax," said Grant. -"There was a more important factor added this time. And if you don't -mind, Woods, I have an apology to make in private to my one and only -second." - -"Not just the only one, darling," said Bee. "But your permanent, -till-death-do-us-part second! Right?" - -"Right!" Grant said. - -"That's the only thing tonight," said Woods, "of which I officially -approve." - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Psychotennis, Anyone?, by Lloyd Williams - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PSYCHOTENNIS, ANYONE? *** - -***** This file should be named 51232.txt or 51232.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/2/3/51232/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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