Time Bomb And Zahndry Others Page 2

  And, as I watched Ernie getting better, my conscience started bothering me in the other direction, too. Namely: was it fair of me to turn Ernie loose on boxers who didn't know what they were up against? Just because the official rules didn't forbid 'porting—big surprise—that didn't mean it was ethical. It gave Ernie an unfair advantage, really, because I was pretty sure a boxer could watch Ernie's whiplash punch for a month from ringside without figuring out how to stop it. You had to actually get into the ring with him, and by then it was too late. Did I have a duty to the rest of the boxing world?

  The really maddening thing was that there was a clear way out of this mess. All I had to do was find some other way for Ernie to become successful and respected by using his 'porting talent. That's all. But I couldn't come up with one to save my life. Nothing in industry worked, and the professional-type jobs were even worse. I tried to find another sport that Ernie might go into, but he was too small for football or basketball and I couldn't see how 'porting would help any in baseball. All I could possibly come up with was the idea of letting some scientists study him to try and learn how he 'ported, and I knew Ernie wouldn't go for that.

  I finally gave up the effort. Ernie had at least twenty IQ points on me, and if he hadn't been able to find anything else to do with that 'porting trick in three years I figured I was probably wasting my time.

  Something had to give here, though. Much as I wanted to see one of my students become a real champ, I couldn't keep coaching Ernie if I didn't think it was good for him. It wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't good for my stomach, either. I made up my mind to nave another talk with him as soon as I got a good chance.

  —

  A day or two later I got my opening. Driving away from the school after classes on the way to do some errands, I saw Ernie walking along the road. Pulling alongside him, I called, "Where you heading, Ernie?"

  "Down to the river, Coach. I'm meeting Jenny there."

  Jenny Cooper was his latest girlfriend. She was a nice kid, except that she didn't care much for boxing. "I'm going that direction," I said. "Want a ride?"

  "Sure, thanks."

  He got in and we started up again. "What are you and Jenny going to do down there?" I asked him.

  He smiled. "She says that an Indian summer day like today is too good to waste, so we're going to have a picnic supper under the cliff."

  "Good idea," I agreed. "I wish I'd thought of that myself."

  "I wanted to go to the Club this afternoon," he continued. "But I guess I can skip one workout without softening up too much."

  I cleared my throat. "Actually, Ernie, I'd like to talk to you about that."

  It took me most of the five-mile trip to explain the conflict between what Ernie wanted and what I felt was good for him. He waited in silence until I had finished.

  "Are you telling me you won't help me train anymore, Coach Morrissey?" he asked.

  "If you're really determined to be a pro boxer, my coaching isn't going to help or hinder you much," I said. "I'll give you as much help as I can, Ernie, because it wouldn't be fair to you to do anything else. But I had to tell you all this so you'll understand if I'm not as fired up as I was a couple of months ago. Also, I guess I wanted to try one last time to talk you out of going pro."

  "Have you thought up anything else I can do with my 'porting?"

  It really hurt to say it. "No."

  "Then I got no choice. I'm going to be somebody, if it takes the rest of my life." He hesitated. "But if it's going to bother you that badly, I guess I could go on from here on my own. You've taught me a lot, Coach, and I won't forget it. Maybe I could work out by myself and spar with some of the guys at the Club or at school. No use giving you an ulcer over this."

  We had reached the dry goods store that I was going to, located with a few other small businesses right at the top of the hill that sloped downwards towards the river. "Would you like a ride the rest of the way?" I asked as an afterthought.

  He shook his head, pointed down the hill, "I'm meeting Jenny right under the cliff there."

  We both got out of the car and stood by my door. Another car went by me and pulled over fifty yards farther down the hill, parking right in front of Tom's butcher shop. Probably vacationers from one of the cabins down the road, I decided, seeing the trailer hitch and extra-large sideview mirrors. A man and woman got out and went into the shop, leaving a one- or two-year-old kid in a car seat in the front. I hoped they had set their parking brake; the hill was pretty steep.

  "Sounds like everybody else in town is down there already," Ernie commented.

  "Yeah," I agreed. Even from here the soft roar of a crowd was easy to hear. "Better hope Jenny's got a place staked out." I looked down the hill, but I couldn't see anyone, of course. The way the engineers had built the road, it followed the hill for a few hundred yards and then made a sharp turn to the left. It was to make the grade safer, I guess, because right after the road turned the hill got suddenly steeper all the way down to the riverbank: the "cliff" Ernie had mentioned. It wasn't really much of a cliff, as cliffs go, but it was the closest thing to one for a hundred miles and everyone called it that. But because of the slope it wasn't possible to see the riverbank from here.

  "Well, I guess I'll be seeing you, Coach," Ernie said after an awkward silence.

  "Look, think it over, will you?" I urged. "I don't want you to think you have to cut out of the team completely just because of me."

  "It's okay, I'll—"

  He broke off suddenly, gripping my arm tightly, his eyes wide as he stared down the hill. I turned to look.

  The car with the fancy mirrors was rolling down the hill. Already it was picking up speed.

  Maybe Ernie saw the kid in the car. Maybe he heard the crowd beneath the cliff, or maybe he was thinking of Jenny. Probably it was all three. But before I could break the shock that had glued me to the blacktop, Ernie was off like a rocket, tearing after that car with all the speed he could muster.

  And not only all the speed. He was 'porting, too, all but invisible gaining himself an extra foot of distance every two seconds. Not much, but every bit was worth something.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the car's owners come out of the butcher shop. Her scream and his curse as they saw what was happening finally got my feet moving, and the three of us took off down the hill. I don't know what they were thinking, but I knew we didn't have a hope in hell of catching that car. What I did know was that I was suddenly terrified for Ernie.

  Another few seconds, and Ernie had reached the car. He didn't waste time trying to open the door, but instead put one hand on the edge of the roof and the other hand on the mirror and vaulted onto the mirror's support posts. Twisting into a crazy sort of fetal position with his legs hooked around the mirror posts, he reached through the open window and grabbed the wheel.

  I wanted to swear, but I needed all my breath for running. The car was starting to turn now, but only slowly, and it was already dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. I couldn't see how Ernie could get it turned in time, and if he couldn't he was going to go through the guardrail with it. There was no way he could drop off from that position without killing himself. A horrible thought flashed through my mind, that Ernie wouldn't have done something this suicidal if he hadn't been depressed by my talk with him. I silently cursed myself and tried to speed up.

  The car was well into the curve now, but Ernie almost had the wheels turned enough. For a second I thought he was going to make it. Then the car slammed into the guardrail.

  The woman running behind me gasped. Ernie's legs flailed a bit as the jolt threatened to throw him off, but he managed to hang on. The car had apparently bounced off the rail, because it was still on the road, and as I watched it bounced against the barrier two more times. Then, incredibly, it was solidly on blacktop again. The wheels were still turned, though, and as the road straightened out the car kept turning. It crossed both lanes and nosed into the ditch on the side away from the cliff.
There, finally, it stopped, throwing Ernie off.

  I didn't even glance into the car to see if the kid was all right, but headed straight to Ernie. He looked up at me out of a face dripping with sweat and smiled weakly. Then he fainted.

  —

  The hospital couldn't find anything except bruises on Ernie, but he was so exhausted they insisted on keeping him there overnight. I got in to see him about ten minutes after visiting hours started that evening. Jenny Cooper was already there, sitting by his bed and holding his hand, talking quietly with him.

  "Coach Morrissey!" he said when he saw me at the door. "C'mon in."

  "How are you doing?" I asked, pulling a chair to the foot of his bed.

  "Great. A little tired is all."

  "I can imagine," I said, thinking of all the 'porting he had done. "I guess everybody in town knows what you did today, Ernie. You're a real hero."

  "Yeah," he said slowly. "You know, Coach, this isn't really how I expected it to be."

  "Oh?" I thought I understood.

  "No. I guess I always thought it would be the greatest thing in the world to have everybody telling me what a great guy I was. It's funny, but it doesn't seem all that important anymore. I was feeling good about what happened long before anybody started telling me I was a hero."

  "It's like I told you a long time ago: what matters isn't the name but the guy who wears it. When you start feeling good about yourself, it doesn't matter a whole lot what anybody else thinks about you. Well, most anybody, I mean," I added, smiling at Jenny. She smiled back.

  "Yeah." Ernie was silent for a moment. "Coach, will you be mad if I drop out of the boxing team? I know you were hoping I'd fight in the Golden Gloves tourney, but—well, I'd like to spend more time on my schoolwork. And besides, Jenny thinks boxing's too dangerous."

  "If it's what you really want, Ernie, go ahead. I hope you'll come in and say hello when you can, though."

  He grinned. "Sure thing."

  "Good. Well, I guess I'll leave you two alone." I headed toward the door, but then turned back. "Oh, by the way, I talked to Chief Dobbs earlier. He told me that car hit the guardrail pretty hard those three times. Says it was a miracle you didn't go through it and over the cliff."

  Jenny tightened her grip on Ernie's hand, but he just smiled slightly. "I believe in miracles, Coach. Don't you?"

  "Sure do," I said, and in my mind's eye I could see Ernie clinging to that car, "porting it an inch at a time, six inches a second, backing it away from that edge. And I looked into Ernie's face and saw the peace and self-respect that was finally there. Ernie Lambert was a real somebody, and for the first time in his life he knew it. "Sure do," I repeated.

  —

  I still hear from Ernie a couple of times a year. He and Jenny are married and have two kids, and he's a CPA out in Denver. He doesn't box anymore, but plays some amateur baseball now and then, and Jenny tells me he's pretty good at it. It seems he's got this weird little jerk of some kind that he puts in the middle of each pitch. It drives the batters crazy.

  As for me, I'm keeping my eyes open. Somewhere in this world there has to be someone else who can 'port like Ernie, and the guy just might be big enough and mean enough to become a real heavyweight pro.

  I can always hope, anyway.

  Raison D'etre

  Something has happened. Something is different.

  I try to understand. There are pressures on me at various places; other things are inside me. In front of me, through the thick wall, I see my work. All is as usual.

  But something has changed. What?

  I do not understand. But I did not understand the last time, either.

  The last time?

  Yes... yes—this has happened before. Somehow I know that I have felt this way once before... and once more before that. To know of something that is not now is strange. I do not understand it, and it frightens me. Fear, too, is new to me. What is happening?

  The thought comes suddenly: I am aware.

  For a long time I wonder about this, but cannot understand how this is different. Then, unexpectedly, comes another new discovery. Something inside me happens, which makes some of the pressures on me harder—and suddenly I can see in a brand new way!

  I am startled so much that, for the first time, I stop working. This is wrong, I know, and I try to begin again, but this new sight is so different that I cannot concentrate. Finally, I simply give up, despite the deep longing I have to continue. I must understand this new sight.

  It is, I quickly learn, much more limited than my normal sight. It can only be used in one direction at once, and things it shows me are not like what I see normally. They are dark, indistinct, and flat. Some are not even there; I cannot see my work moving along in front of me, no matter how I try.

  It seems wrong that I should have two sights when one is so weak. But even as I wonder at this an exciting thought comes to me; perhaps, just as the normal sight shows me things the new one cannot, the new one can show things the normal cannot. And if so, perhaps I can discover them.

  Eagerly, using both sights, I begin to search. The hunger within me to return to work is still strong, but I try to ignore it.

  —

  Operations Chief Ted Forester was across the control room, looking at the power monitors, when Vic O'Brian made the laconic announcement.

  "Glitch in Number Twenty-Seven. Bad one."

  Forester was at his shoulder in four strides. The indicator was indeed flashing red; the data were already appearing on the screen. "Damn," Forester muttered under his breath, scanning the numbers.

  "Not puttin' out a damn thing," O'Brian commented with thinly veiled disgust. "This is the fourth time in three weeks he's drifted off-mark."

  "I can count," Forester said shortly, aware that the other two operators had suspended their chitchat and were listening silently. "Have you tried a booster yet?"

  "Don't figure it'll do much good this time." O'Brian tapped at a number on the screen. "He's got all he oughta need already. I figure it's just time to terminate this one; he's nothin' but trouble."

  Forester kept his temper firmly in check even as the first twinges of anxiety rumbled through his ulcer. "Let's not go off the deep end right away. We'll try a booster first—double strength."

  He waited in silence as O'Brian adjusted the setting and pressed the proper button. "Nothin'," the operator said.

  "Give it a minute," Forester said, eyes on the radiation readouts from the conveyer by Twenty-Seven's position. Come on, he urged silently, and for a moment the numbers crept upward. But it didn't last; in fits and jerks the readings slid back down, until only the normal radiation of nuclear waste was registering.

  Forester let out a long breath that was half snort, half sigh. Reaching over O'Brian's shoulder, he tapped for Twenty-Seven's bio data. Respiration, normal; heartbeat up two or three counts—

  "Hey, the little bugger's tryin' to move," O'Brian said, sounding both surprised and indignant.

  Sure enough, the restraint sensors were registering slight, intermittent pressures. "Yeah. I guess we'd better take a look," Forester said, steeling himself as O'Brian flipped a switch and the closed-circuit monitor came to life.

  Strapped, wired, and tubed in place, Number Twenty-Seven lay in the soft confines of his form-fit cubicle/cradle. His face with its cleft lip, slanting eyes, and saddle-shaped nose was turned toward the camera. Forester's stomach churned, as it always did when he looked at one of Project Recovery's forty-nine Spoonbenders. Why the hell do I stick with this damned. Project? he wondered for the billionth time—and for the billionth time the same answer came: Because if I don't, people like O'Brian will be in charge.

  "I don't see anything obvious," Forester said after a moment. "You'd better give Kincaid a call."

  "We could try a restart first," the operator suggested.

  Restart—shorthand for cutting off the Spoonbender's oxygen for a minute to put him to sleep, in the hope that whatever made him stop work woul
d be gone when he turned the air back on. One of the more gruesome euphemisms in a project that thrived on them. "No, we're going to do some thinking before we push any more buttons. You'd better get Doc Barenburg down here, too." If he's sober, he added to himself; the doctor's off-duty habits were well known.

  O'Brian turned away. Forester's gaze drifted back to the TV screen... and suddenly he stiffened, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth.

  "What's wrong?" O'Brian, phone in hand, spun around.

  Forester pointed at the screen. "Look! His eyes are open!"

  O'Brian's response was a startled obscenity. Turning back, he started dialing.

  —

  The overpowering urge to go back to work has passed, and I am able again to ignore it if I try hard enough. It is still wrong, though—I know this even though I don't really understand what "wrong" means. There is much I don't understand.

  My new sight is less and less interesting. I have used it everywhere I can, and it still shows me nothing I cannot otherwise see. Why then does it exist?

  Before I can wonder further, something new catches my attention. Movement/flow begins in one of the boxes I can see, the same movement/flow that I see in some of the small things attached to me and also the things by my work. What is different is that I cannot ever remember this one box doing this.

  (Again I am knowing something that is not now. This time it does not frighten me, though I still do not understand it.)

  The movement/flow continues. I reach up and touch the box, and I see that the movement/flow continues away from it. I wonder about this, and after much thought I touch one of the things attached to me and follow along it to the place where my new sight ends. Here, too, I feel the movement/flow continuing on.