Away Games: Science Fiction Sports Stories

by Mike Resnick

  “Hurry!” he shouted. “The moon is rising!”

  “Now how could you possibly know that, sitting here in the back of the room?” I asked.

  “I know!” he said.

  I got up and walked over to the doorway and stuck my head out. “Well, son of a gun, the moon is out,” I said. “I don’t see your ladyfriend nowhere, though.”

  I turned back to face him, but Count Basil de Chenza Lupo wasn’t nowhere to be seen. In fact, there wasn’t no one in the room except the old waiter and an enormous wolf that must have wandered in through the kitchen door.

  “Well, I’ve heard of restaurants that got roaches,” I said, “and restaurants that got rats, but I do believe this is the first eatery I ever been to that was infested by wolves.” I turned to the waiter. “What happened to Basil?” I asked. “Did he go off to the necessary?”

  The waiter shook his head.

  “Then where is he?”

  The waiter pointed to the wolf.

  “I don’t believe I’m making myself clear,” I said. “I ain’t interested in no four legged critters with fleas and bad breath. Where is Basil?”

  The waiter pointed to the wolf again.

  “I don’t know why it’s so hard to understand,” I said. “That there is a wolf. I want to know what became of Basil.”

  The waiter nodded his head. “Basil,” he said, pointing at the wolf again.

  “You mean the wolf is named Basil, too?” I asked.

  The waiter just threw his hands up and walked out of the room, leaving me alone with the wolf.

  Well, I looked at the wolf for a good long while, and he looked right back at me, and as time went by it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen no other wolves in all my wanderings through Europe, and that some zoo ought to be happy to pay a healthy price for such a prime specimen, so I walked over kind of gingerly and let him smell the back of my hand, and when I was sure he wasn’t viewing me as a potential appetizer, I slipped my belt out of my pants and slid it around his neck and turned it into a leash.

  “You come along with me, Basil,” I said. “Tonight you can sleep in my hotel room, and tomorrow we’ll set about finding a properly generous and appreciative home for you.”

  I started off toward the door, but he dug his feet in and practically pulled my arm out of the socket.

  “Now Basil,” I said, jerking on the leash with both hands, “I ain’t one to abuse dumb animals, but one way or the other you’re coming with me.”

  He pulled back and whimpered, and then he snarled, and then he just went limp and laid down, but I was determined to get him out of there, and I started dragging him along the floor, and finally he whined one last time and got to his feet and started trotting alongside of me, and fifteen minutes later we reached the door of the Magyar Hotel. I had a feeling they had some policy or other regarding wild critters in the rooms, so I waited until the desk clerk went off to flirt with one of the maids, and then I opened the door and me and Basil made a beeline for the staircase, and reached the second floor without being seen. I walked on down the corridor until I came to my room, unlocked it, and shagged Basil into it. He looked more nervous and bewildered than vicious, and finally he hopped onto the couch and curled up and went to sleep, and I lay back down on the bed and drifted off while I was trying to figure out how many thousands of dollars a real live wolf was worth.

  Except that when I woke up, all set to take Basil the wolf off to the zoo, he wasn’t there. Instead, laying naked on the couch and snoring up a storm, was Basil the Count, with my belt still around his neck.

  I shook him awake, and he sat up, startled, and began blinking his eyes.

  “You got something highly personal and just a tad improbable that you want to confide in me, Brother Basil?” I said.

  “I tried to warn you,” he said plaintively. “I told you to leave, to hurry.”

  “You considered seeing a doctor about this here condition?” I said. “Or maybe a veterinarian?”

  He shook his head miserably. “It is a Gypsy curse,” he said at last. “There is nothing that can be done about it. I am a werewolf, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “And that’s why all them guys were running away from you at the station and looking askance at you on the street?”

  He nodded. “I am an outcast, a pariah among my own people.”

  “Yeah, well, I can see how it probably hampers your social life,” I opined.

  “It has hampered all aspects of my life,” he said unhappily. “I have seen so many charlatans and poseurs trying to get the curse removed that I am practically destitute. I cannot form a lasting relationship. I dare not be among strangers when the moon comes out. And some of the behavior carries over: you saw me at the dinner table last night.”

  “Well, it may have been a bit out of the ordinary,” I said soothingly, “but as long as you don’t lift your leg on the furniture, I don’t suppose anyone’s gonna object too strenuously. Especially since if they object at the wrong time of day, there’s a strong possibility they could wind up getting et.”

  “You are the most understanding and compassionate man I’ve ever met, Doctor Jones,” he said, “but I am at the end of my tether. I don’t know what to do. I have no one to turn to. Only these accursed Gypsies will tolerate my presence, because it amuses them. I think very soon I shall end it all.”

  At which point the Lord smote me with another of His heavenly revelations.

  “Seems to me you’re being a mite hasty, Brother Basil,” I said.

  “What is the use of going on?” he said plaintively. “I will never be able to remove the curse.”

  “First of all, you got to stop thinking of your condition as a curse,” I continued. “What if I was to show you how the werewolf business could be a blessing in disguise?”

  “Impossible!”

  “You willing to bet five thousand dollars on that?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

  “You see,” I said, “the problem is that you ain’t never really examined yourself when the moon is out. You ain’t simply a werewolf, but you happen to be a damned fine looking werewolf.”

  “So what?”

  “On my way into town, I passed an arena that holds a dog show every Saturday. The sign said that the prize money was ten thousand dollars.”

  “You just said five,” he pointed out.

  “Well, me and the Lord have got to have a little something to live on, too,” I said.

  “What makes you think a wolf can win a dog show?” he said dubiously.

  “Why don’t you just concentrate on being a handsome, manly type of critter and let me worry about the rest of it?” I said.

  Well, we argued it back and forth for the better part of the morning, but finally he admitted that he didn’t see no better alternatives, and he could always commit suicide the next week if things didn’t work out, and I went off to buy a leash and some grooming equipment at the local pet store, and then stopped by the arena for an entry form. I didn’t know if he had an official werewolf name or not, so I just writ down Grand International Champion Basil on the form, and let it go at that.

  The biggest problem I had the next two days was finding a vet who was open at night, so I could get Basil his rabies and distemper shots, but finally I convinced one to work late for an extra fifty dollars, which I planned to deduct from Basil’s share of the winnings, since the shots didn’t do me no good personally, and then it was Saturday, and we just stuck around the hotel until maybe five in the afternoon, Basil getting more and more nervous, and finally we walked on over to the arena.

  Basil’s class was scheduled to be judged at seven o’clock, but as the hour approached it began to look like the moon wasn’t going to come out in time, and since I didn’t want us to forfeit all that money by not showing up on time, I quick ran out into the alley, grabbed the first couple of cats I could find, and set ’em loose in the arena. The newspaper the next morning said that t
he ruckus was so loud they could hear it all the way over in Szentendre, which was a little town about forty miles up the road, and by the time everything had gone back to normal Basil was about as far from normal as Hungarian counts are prone to get, and I slipped his leash on him and headed for the ring.

  There were three other dogs ahead of us, and after we entered the ring the judge came over and look at Basil.

  “This is a class for miniature poodles,” he said severely. “Just what kind of mongrel is that?”

  “You know this guy, Basil?” I asked.

  Basil nodded.

  “He one of the ones who’s mean to you when you walk through town?”

  Basil growled an ugly growl.

  “Basil?” said the judge, turning white as a sheet.

  Basil gave him a toothy grin.

  “Now, to answer your question,” I said, “this here happens to be a fully growed miniature poodle what takes umbrage when you insults its ancestry.”

  The judge stared at Basil for another couple of seconds, then disqualified the other three dogs for not looking like him and handed me a blue ribbon.

  Well, to make a long story short, old Basil terrorized the judges in the next three classes he was in and won ’em all, and then the ring steward told me that I had five minutes to prepare for the final class of the day, where they would pick the best dog in the show and award the winner the ten thousand dollars.

  Suddenly Basil started whining up a storm. I couldn’t see no ticks or fleas on him, and he couldn’t tell me what was bothering him, but something sure was, and finally I noticed that he was staring intently at something, and I turned to see what it was, and it turned out to be this lovely looking lady who was preparing to judge the Best in Show class.

  “What’s the problem, Basil?” I asked.

  He kept whining and staring.

  “Is it her?”

  He nodded.

  I racked my mind trying to figure out what it was about her that could upset him so much.

  “She’s been mean to you before?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “She’s got something to do with the Gypsies who cursed you?”

  He shook his head again.

  “I can’t figure out what the problem is,” I said. “But what the hell, as long as we let her know who you are, it’s in the bag.”

  He pointed his nose at the ceiling and howled mournfully.

  “She’s from out of town and doesn’t know you’re a werewolf?” I asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  He whimpered and curled up in a little ball.

  “Will the following dogs please enter the ring?” said the announcer. “Champion Blue Boy, Champion Flaming Spear, Champion Gladiator, Champion Jericho, and Grand International Champion Basil.”

  Well, we didn’t have no choice but to follow these four fluffy little dogs into the ring. The judge just stared at us for a minute with her jaw hanging open, and I figured we were about to get booted out, but then she walked over and knelt down and held Basil by the ears and peered into his face, and then she stood up and stepped back a bit and stared at him some more, and finally she walked over to me and said, “This is the most handsome, rugged, masculine dog I have ever seen. I have a female I’d love to breed to him. Is he for sale?”

  I told her that I was just showing him for a friend, and that she’d have to speak to the Count de Chenza Lupo about it later. She scribbled down her address, and it turned out that she was staying three rooms down the hall from me at the Hotel Magyar.

  Finally she examined the other four dogs briefly and with obvious disinterest, and then she announced that Grand International Champion Basil was the best dog in this or any other show and had won the ten thousand dollars.

  Well, Basil and me stuck around long enough to have a bunch of photos taken for the papers and then high tailed it back to the hotel, where we waited until daylight and he became Count Basil again and we divvied up the money. Then he walked down the hall to talk to the judge about selling himself to her, and he came back half an hour later with the silliest grin on his face and announced that he was in love and she didn’t mind in the least that he was a werewolf and all was right with the world.

  I read in the paper that the other dog owners were so outraged about losing to a wolf that they tore the building down, and with the dog shows canceled for the foreseeable future I couldn’t see no reason to stick around, so I bid Hungary farewell and decided to try my luck in Paris, where I’d heard tell that the sinners were so thick on the ground you could barely turn around without making the real close acquaintanceship of at least a couple of ’em.

  I never saw old Basil again, but a few months later I got a letter from him. He’d married his lady judge and left Budapest for good, and was living on her country estate managing her kennel—and he added a proud little postscript that both his wife and her prize female were expecting.

  ***

  Best in Show

  Author’s Note: Masquerade Competition

  This one was commissioned by DragonCon for an anthology of stories set at the convention. I got to have a lot of fun with some of my friends—I don’t think Eric Flint has forgiven me yet—and since convention masquerades are competitions, that makes them a sport, at least for the duration of this collection.

  You expect a lot of things at DragonCon: great panels, a phenomenal dealers’ room, enjoyable parties, gorgeous girls in skimpy costumes, elevators that never work. But the one thing you never really expect to see is a dragon. Admit it.

  The first twenty people who saw it in line at Registration thought it was a costume. A very big costume. The 21st was Eric Flint, whose keen science fiction writer’s mind knew instantly that it was a real dragon. Eric spent the next ten minutes trying to convert it to socialism.

  Finally the dragon was first in line.

  “Name?” said the bored female fan behind the desk, not looking up.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “Bellwether.”

  “Well, maybe,” she replied. “I think it may rain, though.”

  “No,” said the dragon. “My name is Bellwether.”

  “Are you pre-registered?”

  “Certainly.”

  She looked through the list that was laid out before her.

  “I don’t find you listed here.”

  “I sent in my entry fee months ago,” said Bellwether.

  “Entry fee?” she repeated. “Don’t you mean your dues?”

  “Certainly not. I am entered in the Light Green Fire-Breathing Adolescent Class, limit twelve tons.”

  The girl finally looked up from her paperwork. “You’re the best dragon I’ve seen all year,” she said admiringly. “Anne McCaffrey would be proud.” She handed Bellwether a badge. “Here. Even if you’re not registered, I couldn’t keep a costume like this out of the masquerade.”

  “I am not wearing a costume!” snapped Bellwether, twins streams of smoke rushing out of its nostrils.

  “Too bad,” she said. “You’d have won the masquerade hands down. If you had any hands, that is.”

  Bellwether stared at her for a moment. “Are you suggesting that this isn’t the 386th Annual Pan-Galactic Dragon Show?”

  “Yeah, I think you could say that.”

  “But I’ve been training for months!” whined Bellwhether. “I even lost three thousand pounds getting in shape! I haven’t eaten a knight in three weeks! I’ve even declared peace on any judges named St. George!”

  “I’m not up to coping with this,” said the fan. “You want to talk to a science fiction writer. They deal with this foolishness all the time.”

  “Where would I find one?” asked Bellwhether plaintively.

  “Oh, they’re all over. There’s one walking by right now—the one in the kilt.”

  “Will he be able to help?”

  She shook her head. “That’s John Ringo. He eats dragons for breakfast. You don’t wa
nt to mess with him.” She paused thoughtfully. “I’d direct you to Mike Resnick, but he’s always surrounded by so many gorgeous groupies that you’ll never be able force your way through them.” Suddenly she pointed. “There’s Eric Flint. He’s an international bestseller as well as an editor.”

  “I spoke to him before. He wants me to run for President.”

  “As a third party candidate?”

  “An eighth party. He says the first seven are corrupt capitalist swine.”

  “Maybe you should just walk around and see if you can find any writers or editors to help you. Or possibly Don Maitz will put you on the cover of a book.”

  “It sounds painful,” said Bellwether.

  “He just uses paint,” she said reassuringly.

  “With lead in it?” asked Bellwether nervously.

  “Look, I’d love to sit here all day and talk to you, but the line behind you is getting restless, and you never know what restless fans will do, except that it’s bound to be diverting, loud, and possibly illegal. Run along, and good luck to you.”

  Bellwether thanked her, and started looking around. “When I find the travel agent who sent me here,” it muttered, “he’s toast. Burnt toast.”

  A pudgy fan (though no more than 400 pounds; like Bellwether he’d been dieting) approached the dragon.

  “Let me guess,” said the fan. “You’re from Pern.”

  “Actually, I’m from Beta Leporis IV,” answered Bellwether.

  “What do you call your costume?”

  “I’m not wearing a costume?”

  “That’s the real you?”

  “Yes.”

  “If that’s not a costume, why aren’t you wearing any pants?”

  Bellwether hated questions like that, especially when the only answer was an embarrassed “I forgot”, so it wandered off, down an escalator, through a long tunnel, and into another hotel.

  “Dealer’s room is on the second floor,” said a guard.

  “Why do I want a dealers room?” asked Bellwether.

  “They’re sticking you out front to draw a crowd, aren’t they?” The guard studied Bellwether for a moment. “Doesn’t it get hot under there?”