by John Shirley
The old fools had no idea of the way free-fall football was catching on throughout the system, although he’d tried to explain it to them God knows how many times. The Belt sport should be an integral part of any self-respecting recreational program. And, on Earth, that meant you had to have a gravity grid. He’d planned on installing it beneath the stadium, but now—
The door to his office slid open with a soft hum. Hill looked up and frowned, snapping off the console. An agitated Jack De Angelis stepped through.
“What is it now?” Hill snapped.
“Uh, Rog, there’s a guy here I think you better talk to,” De Angelis replied. “He wants to enter a team in the City Football League.”
“Registration closed on Tuesday,” Hill said. “We’ve already got twelve teams. No room for any more. And why the hell can’t you handle this? You’re in charge of the football program.”
“This is a special case,” De Angelis said.
“Then make an exception and let the team in if you want to,” Hill interrupted. “Or don’t let them in. It’s your program. It’s your decision. Must I be bothered with every bit of trivia in this whole damned department?”
“Hey, take it easy, Rog,” De Angelis protested. “I don’t know what you’re so steamed up about. Look, I—hell, I’ll show you the problem.” He turned and went to the door. “Sir, would you step in here a minute,” he said to someone outside.
Hill started to rise from his seat, but sank slowly back into the chair when the visitor appeared in the doorway.
De Angelis was smiling. “This is Roger Hill, the director of the Starport Department of Recreation,” he said smoothly. “Rog, let me introduce Remjhard-nei, the head of the Brish’diri trade mission to Earth.”
Hill rose again, and offered his hand numbly to the visitor. The Brish’dir was squat and grotesquely broad. He was a good foot shorter than Hill, who stood six four, but he still gave the impression of dwarfing the director somehow. A hairless, bullet-shaped head was set squarely atop the alien’s massive shoulders. His eyes were glittering green marbles sunk in the slick, leathery gray skin. There were no external ears, only small holes on either side of the skull. The mouth was a lipless slash.
Diplomatically ignoring Hill’s openmouthed stare, Remjhard bared his teeth in a quick smile and crushed the director’s hand in his own. “I am most pleased to meet you, sir,” he said in fluent English, his voice a deep bass growl. “I have come to enter a football team in the fine league your city so graciously runs.”
Hill gestured for the alien to take a seat, and sat down himself. De Angelis, still smiling at his boss’s stricken look, pulled another chair up to the desk for himself.
“Well, I—” Hill began, uncertainly. “This team, is it a—a Brish’diri team?”
Remjhard smiled again. “Yes,” he answered. “Your football, it is a fine game. We of the mission have many times watched it being played on the 3-V wallscreens your people were so kind as to install. It has fascinated us. And now some of the half-men of our mission desire to try to play it.” He reached slowly into the pocket of the black-and-silver uniform he wore, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
“This is a roster of our players,” he said, handing it to Hill. “I believe the newsfax said such a list is required to enter your league.”
Hill took the paper and glanced down at it uncertainly. It was a list of some fifteen Brish’diri names, neatly spelled out. Everything seemed to be in order, but still—
“You’ll forgive me, I hope,” Hill said, “but I’m somewhat unfamiliar with the expressions of your people. You said—half-men? Do you mean children?”
Remjhard nodded, a quick inclination of his bulletlike head. “Yes. Male children, the sons of mission personnel. All are aged either eight or nine Earth seasons.”
Hill silently sighed with relief. “I’m afraid it’s out of the question, then,” he said. “Mr. De Angelis said you were interested in the City League, but that league is for boys aged eighteen and up. Occasionally we’ll admit a younger boy with exceptional talent and experience, but never anyone this young.” He paused briefly. “We do have several leagues for younger boys, but they’ve already begun play. It’s much too late to add another team at this point.”
“Pardon, Director Hill, but I think you misunderstand,” Remjhard said. “A Brish’diri male is fully mature at fourteen Earth years. In our culture, such a person is regarded as a full adult. A nine-year-old Brish’dir is roughly equivalent to an eighteen-year-old Terran male in terms of physical and intellectual development. That is why our half-men wish to register for this league and not one of the others, you see.”
“He’s correct, Rog,” De Angelis said. “I’ve read a little about the Brish’diri, and I’m sure of it. In terms of maturity, these youngsters are eligible for the City League.”
Hill threw De Angelis a withering glance. If there was one thing he didn’t need at the moment, it was a Brish’diri football team in one of his leagues, and Remjhard was arguing convincingly enough without Jack’s help.
“Well, all right,” Hill said. “Your team may well be of age, but there are still problems. The Rec Department sports program is for local residents only. We simply don’t have room to accommodate everyone who wants to participate. And your home planet is, as I understand, several hundred light-years beyond the Starport city limits.” He smiled.
“True,” Remjhard said. “But our trade mission has been in Starport for six years. An ideal location due to your city’s proximity to Grissom Interstellar Spaceport, from which most of the Brish’diri traders operate while on Earth. All of the current members of the mission have been here for two Earth years, at least. We are Starport residents, Director Hill. I fail to understand how the location of Brishun enters into the matter at hand.”
Hill squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, and glared at De Angelis, who was grinning. “Yes, you’re probably right again,” he said. “But I’m still afraid we won’t be able to help you. Our junior leagues are touch football, but the City League, as you might know, is tackle. It can get quite rough at times. State safety regulations require the use of special equipment. To make sure no one is injured seriously. I’m sure you understand. And the Brish’diri . . . ”
He groped for words, anxious not to offend. “The—uh—physical construction of the Brish’diri is so different from the Terran that our equipment couldn’t possibly fit. Chances of injury would be too great, and the department would be liable. No. I’m sure it couldn’t be allowed. Too much risk.”
“We would provide special protective equipment,” Remjhard said quietly. “We would never risk our own offspring if we did not feel it was safe.”
Hill started to say something, stopped, and looked to De Angelis for help. He had run out of good reasons why the Brish’diri couldn’t enter the league.
Jack smiled. “One problem remains, however,” he said, coming to the director’s rescue. “A bureaucratic snag, but a difficult one. Registration for the league closed on Tuesday. We’ve already had to turn away several teams, and if we make an exception in your case, well—” De Angelis shrugged. “Trouble. Complaints. I’m sorry, but we must apply the same rule to all.”
Remjhard rose slowly from his seat, and picked up the roster from where it lay on the desk. “Of course,” he said gravely. “All must follow the regulations. Perhaps next year we will be on time.” He made a formal half-bow to Hill, turned, and walked from the office.
When he was sure the Brish’dir was out of earshot, Hill gave a heartfelt sigh and swiveled to face De Angelis. “That was close,” he said. “Christ, a Baldy football team. Half the people in this town lost sons in the Brish’diri War, and they still hate them. I can imagine the complaints.” Hill frowned. “And you! Why couldn’t you just get rid of him right away instead of putting me through that?”
De Angelis grinned. “Too much fun to pass up,” he said. “I wondered if you’d figure out the right way to discourage him. Th
e Brish’diri have an almost religious respect for laws, rules, and regulations. They wouldn’t think of doing anything that would force someone to break a rule. In their culture, that’s just as bad as breaking a rule yourself.”
Hill nodded. “I would have remembered that myself if I hadn’t been so paralyzed at the thought of a Brish’diri team in one of our leagues,” he said limply. “And now that that’s over with, I want to talk to you about that gravity grid. Do you think there’s any way we could rent one instead of buying it outright? The Council might go for that. And I was thinking . . . ”
A little over three hours later, Hill was signing some equipment requisitions when the office door slid open to admit a brawny, dark-haired man in a nondescript gray suit.
“Yes?” the director said, a trifle impatiently. “Can I help you?”
The dark-haired man flashed a government ID as he took a seat. “Maybe you can. But you certainly haven’t so far, I’ll tell you that much. My name’s Tomkins. Mac Tomkins. I’m from the Federal E. T. Relations Board.”
Hill groaned. “I suppose it’s about that Brish’diri mess this morning,” he said, shaking his head in resignation.
“Yes,” Tomkins cut in at once. “We understand that the Brish’diri wanted to register some of their youngsters for a local football league. You forbade it on a technicality. We want to know why.”
“Why?” said Hill incredulously, staring at the government man. “Why? For God’s sakes, the Brish’diri War was only over seven years ago. Half of those boys on our football teams had brothers killed by the Bulletbrains. Now you want me to tell them to play football with the subhuman monsters of seven years back? They’d run me out of town.”
Tomkins grimaced, and looked around the room. “Can that door be locked?” he asked, pointing to the door he had come in by.
“Of course,” Hill replied, puzzled.
“Lock it then,” Tomkins said. Hill adjusted the appropriate control on his desk.
“What I’m going to tell you should not go beyond this room,” Tomkins began.
Hill cut him off with a snort. “Oh, come now, Mr. Tomkins. I may be only a small-time sports official, but I’m not stupid. You’re hardly about to impart some galaxy-shattering top secret to a man you met a few seconds ago.”
Tomkins smiled. “True. The information’s not secret, but it is a little ticklish. We would prefer that every Joe in the street doesn’t know about it.”
“All right, I’ll buy that for now. Now what’s this all about? I’m sorry if I’ve got no patience with subtlety, but the most difficult problem I’ve handled in the last year was the protest in the championship game in the Class B Soccer League. Diplomacy just isn’t my forte.”
“I’ll be brief,” Tomkins said. “We—E. T. Relations, that is—we want you to admit the Brish’diri team into your football league.”
“You realize the furor it would cause?” Hill asked.
“We have some idea. In spite of that, we want them admitted.”
“Why, may I ask?”
“Because of the furor if they aren’t admitted.” Tomkins paused to stare at Hill for a second, then apparently reached a decision of some sort and continued. “The Earth-Brishun War was a ghastly, bloody deadlock, although our propaganda men insist on pretending it was a great victory. No sane man on either side wants it resumed. But not everyone is sane.”
The agent frowned in distaste. “There are elements among us who regard the Brish’diri—or the Bulletbrains, or Baldies, or whatever you want to call them—as monsters, even now, seven years after the killing has ended.”
“And you think a Brish’diri football team would help to overcome the leftover hates?” Hill interrupted.
“Partially. But that’s not the important part. You see, there is also an element among the Brish’diri that regards humans as subhuman-vermin to be wiped from the galaxy. They are a very virile, competitive race. Their whole culture stresses combat. The dissident element I mentioned will seize on your refusal to admit a Brish’diri team as a sign of fear, an admission of human inferiority. They’ll use it to agitate for a resumption of the war. We don’t want to risk giving them a propaganda victory like that. Relations are too strained as it is.”
“But the Brish’dir I spoke to—” Hill objected. “I explained it all to him. A rule. Surely their respect for law—”
“Remjhard-nei is a leader of the Brish’diri peace faction. He personally will defend your position. But he and his son were disappointed by the refusal. They will talk. They already have been talking. And that means that eventually the war faction will get hold of the story and turn it against us.”
“I see. But what can I do at this point? I’ve already told Remjhard that registration closed Tuesday. If I understand correctly, his own morality would never permit him to take advantage of an exception now.”
Tomkins nodded. “True. You can’t make an exception. Just change the rule. Let in all the teams you refused. Expand the league.”
Hill shook his head, wincing. “But our budget—it couldn’t take it. We’d have more games. We’d need more time, more referees, more equipment.”
Tomkins dismissed the problem with a wave of his hand. “The government is already buying the Brish’diri special football uniforms. We’d be happy to cover all your extra costs. You’d get a better recreational program for all concerned.”
Hill still looked doubtful. “Well . . . ”
“Moreover,” Tomkins said, “we might be able to arrange a government grant or two to bolster other improvements in your program. Now how about it?”
Hill’s eyes sparkled with sudden interest. “A grant? How big a grant? Could you swing a gravity grid?”
“No problem,” said Tomkins. A slow grin spread across his face.
Hill returned the grin. “Then, mister, Starport’s got itself a Brish’diri football team. But oh, are they going to scream!” He flicked on the desk intercom. “Get Jack De Angelis in here,” he ordered. “I’ve got a little surprise for him.”
The sky above Starport Municipal Stadium was bleak and dreary on a windy Saturday morning a week later, but Hill didn’t mind it at all. The stadium force bubble kept out the thin, wet drizzle that had soaked him to the bones on the way to the game, and the weather fitted his mood beautifully.
Normally, Hill was far too busy to attend any of his department’s sporting events. Normally everyone was too busy to attend the department’s sporting events. The Rec Department leagues got fairly good coverage in the local newspaper, but they seldom drew many spectators. The record was something like four hundred people for a championship game a few years ago.
Or rather, that was the record, Hill reminded himself. No more. The stadium was packed today, in spite of the hour, the rain, and everything else. Municipal Stadium was never packed except for the traditional Thanksgiving Day football game between Starport High and its archrival, Grissom City Prep. But today it was packed.
Hill knew why. It had been drilled into him the hard way after he had made the damn-fool decision to let the Brish’diri into the league. The whole city was up in arms. Six local teams had withdrawn from the City League rather than play with the “inhuman monsters.” The office switchboard had been flooded with calls daily, the vast majority of them angry denunciations of Hill. A city council member had called for his resignation.
And that, Hill reflected glumly, was probably what it would come to in the end. The local newspaper, which had always been hard-line conservative on foreign affairs, was backing the drive to force Hill out of office. One of its editorials had reminded him gleefully that Starport Municipal Stadium was dedicated to those who had given their lives in the Brish’diri War, and had screamed about “desecration.” Meanwhile, on its sports pages, the paper had taken to calling the Brish’diri team “the Baldy Eagles.”
Hill squirmed uncomfortably in his seat on the fifty-yard line, and prayed silently that the game would begin. He could feel the angry stares o
n the back of his neck, and he had the uneasy impression that he was going to be hit with a rock any second now.
Across the field, he could see the camera installation of one of the big 3-V networks. All five of them were here, of course; the game had gotten planetwide publicity. The newsfax wires had also sent reporters, although they had seemed a little confused about what kind of a story this was. One had sent a political reporter, the other a sportswriter.
Out on the stadium’s artificial grass, the human team was running through a few plays and warming up. Their bright-red uniforms were emblazoned with KEN’S COMPUTER REPAIR in white lettering, and they wore matching white helmets. They looked pretty good, Hill decided from watching them practice, although they were far from championship caliber. Still, against a team that had never played football before, they should mop up.
De Angelis, wearing a pained expression and a ref’s striped shirt, was out on the field talking to his officials. Hill was taking no chances with bad calls in this game. He’d made sure the department’s best men were on hand to officiate.
Tomkins was also there, sitting in the stands a few sections away from Hill. But the Brish’diri were not. Remjhard wanted to attend, but E. T. Relations, on Hill’s advice, had told him to stay at the mission. Instead, the game was being piped to him over closed circuit 3-V.
Hill suddenly straightened in his seat. The Brish’diri team, which called itself the Kosg-Anjehn after a flying carnivore native to Brishun, had arrived, and the players were walking slowly out onto the field.
There was a brief instant of silence, and then someone in the crowd started booing. Others picked it up. Then others. The stadium was filled with the boos. Although, Hill noted with relief, not everyone was joining in. Maybe there were some people who saw things his way.
The Brish’diri ignored the catcalls. Or seemed to, at any rate. Hill had never seen an angry Brish’dir, and was unsure how one would go about showing his anger.