by Hank Davis
While Helga nodded down at me with what I sensed as a certain rational skepticism, I took my chance for an examination of our new client. She was more than just tall. She wore a scanty halter of Lincoln green that revealed breasts like alpine slopes, shoulders wide enough to support a world, and tattooed arms the size of my thighs. Her matching green skirt, shockingly short, ended high up on thighs as sturdy and powerful as the fabled oaks of Earth. Waldo is a substantial man and his recent dieting efforts had been a disaster, but I have to say that next to Helga Svensen he resembled a sun-starved weed.
Her mind was still on the contract. She flourished the offending document and said, “And this bit is nothing like the usual agreement. ‘Article Seventeen. Any bona fide member of a participating team, such representative or representatives to be termed hereinafter collectively the contestant, may enter into single combat with the dragon. Should the contestant slay or otherwise defeat the dragon, the contestant will win the Grand Prize; should the dragon slay the contestant, all prize money already won by the contestant will be forfeited. In the event of the simultaneous death of both dragon and contestant, the dragon will be deemed the winner.’”
“Sounds clear enough to me,” Waldo said. “You kill the dragon and survive, you win big. What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s too generous.” Helga wore her hair in long, golden plaits. They swayed about her plump pink cheeks as she shook her head. “They offer a Grand Prize at every tournament, and nobody has won one in five years—which is how long Joustin’ Time has been in business. But the prize has never been for dragon-slaying, which isn’t too hard. That’s the other reason I’m here. I want a sneak preview of the dragon.” She glanced at a massive left wrist seeking a nonexistent watch. “What time is it?”
“Nine-forty-five,” Waldo said.
“Then he’ll be there. Come on—quietly, now.”
She opened a small door at the back of the room, lowered her head, and squeezed through. About to follow her into a dark and narrow corridor, I hesitated and turned to Waldo.
“Is this going to be safe? I mean, a dragon…”
“Oh, I’m sure we can trust Helga. Come on.” He ducked through.
Was this really Waldo Burmeister, a man nervous in the presence of toy poodles and somnolent cats? I followed him, wondering about his interaction with Helga Svensen before I arrived.
I didn’t wonder long because other concerns took center stage. The dark corridor ran for about fifteen meters and ended in a great, dimly lit chamber. I couldn’t see much at first, but a smell like a mixture of ammonia and sulfur made my nostrils wrinkle. I heard a whisper ahead of me, answered in Helga’s soft baritone. She handed something to a dark figure who at once slipped away into the gloom.
Helga turned to me and Waldo. “Right, we’re promised five minutes. Let’s take a peek.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to. As my eyes adjusted, a shape was coming into focus by the far wall. It was hunched and enormous, at least seven feet high and thirty feet long. I saw scaled legs like tree trunks ending in feet equipped with gleaming talons, a wrinkled body the size of an upturned rowing boat, a long, barbed tail, and a crocodile head. As I watched, two pairs of batlike wings on each side of the body moved slowly up and down in a breathing rhythm. The whole thing was absolutely terrifying.
“Strange,” Helga said in a puzzled voice. “Looks just like the dragon they used in the last tournament. I killed that one myself, with a spear thrust to one of its hearts—but there was no Grand Prize offered for doing it. What game are the crooks at Joustin’ Time playing now? I wonder if there’s something in the contract that says you can’t wear armor when you fight the dragon?”
She made no effort to keep her voice down and the dragon heard her. The barrel-sized head with its great jaws turned in our direction. Green eyes blinked open.
Waldo stayed at Helga’s side, but I began to back away nervously.
“It’s all right,” Helga said. “You’re quite safe, because it’s chained up. You can see the fetters on each leg and around the body.”
While she was still speaking, a roaring sound filled the air. Two roiling clouds of blue flame emerged from the dragon’s nostrils and streaked in our direction. They narrowly missed Waldo and Helga, came close enough to me to singe my trousers, and incinerated the leather briefcase that I was holding. I dropped the smoking debris as Helga said, “So that’s it!”
She sounded delighted as she went on, “It’s a real first. They’ve talked about flame-breathing dragons in the games for years, but they never worked. The last one got the hiccups and blew itself to bits during the opening ceremonies.”
“You plan to fight that thing?” I said, as I tried to remember what had been in my briefcase. The only thing I was sure of was a sandwich.
“Not me.” Helga gave a booming laugh, reached down, and patted out the glowing remnants of my case with one enormous bare hand. “Not now that I know what it can do. I’m not crazy, you know! This time I’ll just do the jousting and the hand-to-hand combat. I always do well with those.”
I could believe that, even without a survey of the competition. As she bent over, sinews like ship’s cables sprang into view in her arms and legs.
“But you’ll see for yourself,” she went on, “at the tournament. Now, I got what I came for, and I have to be going. Lots to do!” She led the way out of the dragon chamber and dumped a sheaf of papers into my hand as we reentered the front room. “Here’s the contract. After what Waldo told me about you and your fine-print reading, I know you’ll find a way around all the weasel-wording. See you at the royal games!”
She was gone, with a flash of bare limbs and the swirl of air that denoted the presence of a large moving mass. I turned on Waldo. “At the games? What did you tell her? What did you agree to?”
He wasn’t looking at me. He was staring raptly after Helga.
“Isn’t she the most gorgeous thing you ever saw in your life?” he said. “Those blue eyes, that perfect complexion. Did you see those cute dimples? On her face, too. It seems a shame to take payment for services from someone so wonderful.”
Waldo’s little weakness. He was smitten—again. It was time to tear up the contract, give back the fee, find a plausible excuse for non-performance, and make sure that we didn’t go within a million miles of Helga Svensen and the Joustin’ Time tournament.
Why didn’t I follow my own sound instincts? Because our landlord had told me that he would wait at our office for payment and if he didn’t get it he was going to crack my skull? Because when Waldo was in love, nothing in the known universe could prevent the romance from running its natural or unnatural course? Because Waldo was holding in his hand Helga’s check for our services, more money than we had seen in months?
Yes, certainly. All of those.
But also because, after meeting Helga, I could see no way that anyone else in the games had a prayer of beating her. She was a shoo-in, an absolute cert. When we had paid the rent, a fair amount of Helga’s fee would be left over. Back her to win at the jousting, take those winnings with reverse odds that she would decline to fight the dragon (there is no substitute for inside information), and watch our initial investment compound to the skies…
I could see it, I could feel it, already I could taste the celebratory champagne.
As I was saying, every man has his little weakness.
* * *
Until forty years ago, Vesta was a nowhere place. Plenty of volatiles and a few hundred kilometers across, but still with surface gravity so low you could spit at escape velocity.
The gravity generators changed all that. Now Vesta, like much of the Asteroid Belt, was prime real estate. Add in the Vestans’ liberal laws toward physical violence, and the Paladindrome had become one of the system’s top sports venues.
Waldo, of course, wanted nothing better when we arrived at the ’drome than to seek out the divine Helga. I left him at the competitors’ enclosure and set off on my own l
ittle excursion. I had called up the general plan of the Paladindrome on our trip from the Moon, and found that during the first half of the royal games the sword fighting, archery, and jousting would be the main attractions. They were all to take place on a central strip of beaten earth within the main oval of the ’drome, a straightway two hundred meters long and about fifty meters wide. All around the interior of the oval, temporary structures were being installed to support special needs. At this end of the strip were the armorers’ tents, the stables, the silversmiths, the food concessions, the sideshows, and the competitors’ private enclosure. I noticed that the dragon had his own awning and cage just beyond the end of the jousting strip, right next to the competitors.
I also noticed that, although occasionally goaded by employees of Joustin’ Time, the dragon did not belch fire. It did not, in fact, do much of anything. Someone must be keeping the beast high on tranquilizers and low on methane until the second half of the games.
A deceptive practice, but it was working. Competitors strolled up, examined and occasionally poked the dragon with a mace or the blunt end of a pike, and at once went off to sign up for the great Slay-the-Dragon event.
The scene was colorful and chaotic, and it seemed likely to become more so once the tournament actually started. The competitors might be all female, but the workers and hangers-on were not. I saw a woman arguing furiously with an artificer wearing a cloth apron. As I walked by she ripped off her metal breast plate and threw it to the ground.
“Look at ’em,” she screamed. “Look what it’s doing to ’em. What do you think you are, a lemon squeezer? How am I supposed to fight for three days inside that thing?”
He growled back, “That’s the size you told me.” He reached a blackened hand toward her exposed anatomy. “If I was to hammer the metal out right here—”
“Touch that and you’re dead!”
I averted my gaze and walked on. My own interests lay at the other end of the jousting strip, a part of the oval where you would find the seamier side of the tournament.
The first section I reached was home to the drinking tents. Judging from the sounds that came out of them they were already doing a thriving business. Fifty yards farther on, in the Free-For-All, I was accosted half a dozen times by beauties of every sex. I politely refused their service, including that of a woman who somehow realized that I was a lawyer and offered me “a contingency-basis go as a professional courtesy.” Their advances were mildly annoying—but not nearly as irritating as what I found when I came to Bettors’ Row. There I learned that shopping for odds would not be possible at the tournament. Joustin’ Time controlled every betting station!
When you have no choice, you do what you have to. I went to one of the terminals and entered the name, Helga Svensen. The reply came back, No such competitor.
It was preposterous. I knew for a fact that she was competing in the jousting—I had seen, read, and approved her entry form. It took assistance from a cheerful lady bettor wearing a hat with the printed motto, THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEBT, to help me out.
“Helga Svensen,” she said. “Oh, she fights in these games as the Warrior Queen. She’s very good, but me, I fancy the Iron Maiden. More tricky.”
I was already making a complex cascade bet for heats, semifinals, and final on the Warrior Queen, with a double on jousting and a parallel reverse bid for no dragon, so I didn’t listen to her very closely. I vaguely pitied the Iron Maiden if she had to face Helga, and went on with my bet. A bet, I might add, at lousy odds. Joustin’ Time not only controlled this part of the action, the odds that they offered guaranteed a substantial fraction of the stake for themselves. Also, to limit their possible losses they put a ceiling on bet rollover at eighty percent of winnings.
Even so, when you roll eighty percent of winnings back each time into a new stake, the total return grows fast. I made a note of the final payout and decided that Waldo and I were going to be rich. Of course, Helga had to win, but that was a foregone conclusion.
As I was receiving my bet confirmation, my neighbor nudged me. “Want to change your mind? That’s the Iron Maiden over there.”
Four terminals down, placing a bet of her own, stood an enormous black-haired woman. Studying her powerful frame I felt a moment of doubt. I stepped closer, made a point-by-point physical comparison from her bare toes to her braided crown, and was reassured. The Iron Maiden was big, no doubt about it; but Helga could take her.
My detailed inspection was unfortunately subject to misinterpretation. The Iron Maiden smiled down at me and clasped my arm in a powerful hand.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” she said in a strong Scots accent. “You’re a sweet-looking wee man. If you’re interested in me you should speak up, an’ we could find a private game of our own. I bet you never played ‘hide the scepter.’ You’d make a fine royal prince.”
I made unintelligible gobbling noises, retrieved my arm, and fled to the relative safety of the wild animal show.
A wasted opportunity to play the prince, get close to Helga’s top competition, learn her strengths and weaknesses, and adjust my bet accordingly?
You must be joking. It’s moments like this that prove I’m not a compulsive gambler.
* * *
Joustin’ Time may be run by a bunch of mercenary rogues, but one reason for their success is that they attend to details. The opening ceremony was a pageant in itself, flags flying bravely in the (artificial) breeze, heraldic trumpets blaring, false sun high in the ’drome’s false blue sky, real hawthorn trees blooming all around the oval, and pipers in full regalia marching up and down. The final event of the opening was a massed parade of the competitors, four hundred brawny women kicking up the dust, strutting along clad in bright metal and little else. Had Waldo not been already in love, I think he would have died of a surfeit. As it was, he and I stood together among the spectators and agreed that even in such company Helga stood out for her size, power and vitality.
The first event was the individual sword fights. I have no taste for combat, and the sight of blood makes me weak at the knees. I took a stroll. I had to go all the way to the outer perimeter of the Paladindrome before the bloodthirsty howls and screams of the warriors behind me faded into the background. When I reached the wall it was a shock to look beyond the ’drome and see the surface of Vesta curving rapidly away, a stark and barren jumble of boulders, shadowed cliffs, and a handful of busy mining robots. The builders of the ’drome had made a wise choice when they decided that the area within would be as flat as the surface of Earth and as little like the Asteroid Belt as possible. I stood for a long time, the scenes in front of and behind me a thousand years apart.
When I returned, the tag-team sword fights were finishing and the dusty surface was being sprayed with water in preparation for the archery contests. I checked the scoreboards, keeping a wary eye open for off-the-mark practice arrows. As I had hoped and anticipated, Helga was performing magnificently. She had ripped through the heats, semifinals, and finals in short order, and stood in first place. Our winnings had already rolled over into her next event. Since Helga scorned all forms of entertainment involving no contact with the adversary, she had skipped the archery. I did the same, heading past the archers toward the tent where Helga should be preparing herself for the jousting.
At the end of the field I found the Iron Maiden in my path, grimy and sweaty and sitting cross-legged on the grass. I would have ignored her, but she was having none of that.
“Now then, my prince,” she said, as I was walking past. “I’ve a bone to pick with you. You led me on before. You didn’t tell me that you were sweet on Helga.”
I had to stop at that. “Helga Svensen? I’m not sweet on her. Whatever made you think that?”
“I saw you during the parade. You hardly took your eyes off her.”
“That’s because I put a bet on her.” I felt obliged to add, “And you’re mixing me up with my partner, Waldo. He has this thing for her, he’s the one w
ho watches her all the time.”
“No more than natural. She’s a beautiful woman an’ a very worr-thy opponent, an’ she deserves a lot of respect.” The Iron Maiden rose to her knees. “So you’re not her feller, then. What’s your name?”
“Henry. Henry Carver.”
“An’ I’m Flora McTavish. I think you an’ me could be guid friends.” She turned and leaned her body forward away from me. “For a start, would you grab my cuirass?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She pointed to a sort of leather breastplate sitting on the ground a few feet in front of her. “My cuirass. I canna quite reach it from here. Aye, and my greaves and cuish sitting next to it, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s time I got my things together and went over to the competitors’ area.”
The bits and pieces she asked for weighed a ton, and I wished that the designers of Vesta’s local gravity control had cut a few corners. Flora took the armor from me one-handed and with no sign of effort. “Will ye be seeing Helga an’ your friend, then?”
“I’m on my way there now.”
“Then mebbe ye can give her this, as my tribute to a great competitor.” She reached into her generous cleavage and pulled out a silver flask. “Pure malt whiskey, thirty-five years old an’ wi’ a taste to make a dead man dance.”
I was more than happy to have a reason to escape. The flask went into my pocket and I was away. Flora called something about getting together later, but I paid little attention. I was looking ahead, seeking Helga’s colors among hundreds of others.
I didn’t see them. What I did see was Waldo, sitting simpering outside one of the tents.
“Where’s Helga?” I said as I came up to him.
He nodded toward the flap. “Inside. She’s putting her armor on—and she promised that after the jousting I can help her to take it off.”
“This is from one of her friends.” I held out the flask of whiskey. “I’ll just give it to her.”