“Somebody get me a football.” It materialised like magic; in his hand, it looked small. “Let me see you catch this.”
I ran out onto the field. Gibbs threw the football at me, and I caught it the way a nine-year-old girl would, fumbling instantly.
“Again,” Gibbs ordered. “Only this time, look the ball into your hands. Keep your eyes on it.”
The next couple of throws were a little better. I cleared my throat. “Mr Gibbs, I have to go. I’ll be late for my job.”
His face turned grim again. “Who’s your boss? Still that electronics guy?”
“Yes, sir. Willy Preuzer. He’s a good guy, but he expects me by four o’clock, and it’s way after three already.”
Gibbs walked off with one of the coaches, talking quietly. The other coach nodded and Gibbs turned stiffly back to me. “Give me your boss’s address, and then go shower.”
“Huh?” I answered cleverly.
“I need to talk to him.”
Believe it or not, it took that long for the penny to drop. When it drop, it dropped like a guillotine blade. “Uh, Mr Gibbs, do you have some idea that I should be playing football?”
“The address, Stevenson.”
I gave him the address and he told me he’d wait until I’d showered. Then we’d both go over to see Willy at the warehouse.
When I got out of the gym, I told Gibbs I had to take Pat home and that I’d meet him at the warehouse; he agreed. But when I found Pat and told her what was up, she said not to bother with giving her a lift. “You’ve obviously got a busy afternoon and evening ahead of you.”
“It’s really no trouble,” I insisted.
“Go on, go,” she said. But she didn’t look all that happy.
Willy and Gibbs were having a merry old chat over a cup of coffee when I got there. They made quite a contrast: the pink-faced little guy with his tonsure of white hair, and the black giant who seemed to fill up Willy’s office all by himself.
“So you’re turning into a jock,” Wily said. “Your Mr Gibbs tells me you’re running four-minute miles.”
“Not exactly,” I mumbled.
“Stevenson,” said Gibbs, “we’re trying to work something out so you’ll have time to practice with the team at least a couple of afternoons a week. Mr Preuzer thinks he can arrange it.”
“But Willy,” I protested, “I need all the work I can get. I still owe you a fortune for theᚓ” I almost mentioned the EEG in front of Gibbs, but bit my tongue in time. “-the gear and all,” I ended lamely.
“Don’t worry about it,” Willy said with a smile. “Listen, if it’s just Wednesdays and Thursdays you’re off, and maybe some Fridays when you’ve got an away game, I don’t mind. It’s just till Christmas anyway, right? Mondays and Tuesdays are always the busiest days. Besides, with Wes Powell out, what are we going to do against San Cristobal?”
I felt like banging my head against something nice and hard. Willy Preuzer, of all people, a closet high-school football fan!
Gibbs smiled at me. “I think this is going to work out just fine, Stevenson. Tomorrow in gym we’ll work on that throw, and do a little running. By Thursday you’ll be doing fine.” He got up and shook Willy’s hand. “Thank you, Mr Preuzer. I really appreciate your understanding. Would you like a couple of tickets to the game? Get ‘em at the gate - they’ll be waiting for you. And Stevensonᚓ”
“Yes, sir?” I answered dully.
“Don’t forget to bring in the biofeedback device tomorrow.”
“No, sir.”
That night at dinner, I was great company for Melinda: a bit like having the mummy of Rameses II propped up at the table. She finally couldn’t take it any more and clonked me on the head with her soup spoon.
“All right, what’s the matter?” she barked.
“I’ve got to play football,” I muttered.
“Well, you don’t have to sulk about it.”
“You don’t understand, Melinda. This is for real, in the game on Friday. I’ve got to be an offensive back.”
Melinda looked off into the distance, trying to decide if I was joking or plain barmy. “Why you?” she asked at last.
“I was showing off like an idiot in gym today, and Mr Gibbs saw me. So he had me run a lap, and I was pretty fast, so he went to Willy Preuzer and there I am.”
“I never knew you were athlete.”
“I’m not, for crying out loud. I guess I’m just kind of getting my coordination together after all the growing I’ve been doing.”
“And you were so fast that Mr Gibbs wants to put you in as a back?”
“Even though I catch like a wimp, and I know next to nothing about football except that it can cripple even a big tough guy like Gibbs.”
As an appeal for pity, this was a flop.
“I think it’s terrific,” Melinda beamed. She settled back in her chair, looking at me with a new respect I found absolutely insulting.
“You know even less than I do about football,” I retorted bitterly.
“Well, I’ll start learning. And I’ll be there on Friday.”
“To see me get trampled into a pulp. Some of those guys on San Cristobal, they look like trees they’re so big.”
“What does Pat think about this?”
“I don’t know. I told her a little about it, but she didn’t say much.”
“She coming over tonight?”
“No. I’ve got some things to do up in my room, to get the biofeedback device working right for tomorrow.”
“Okay. I’ve got to go to the office this evening; I’ll see you when I get home.” Melinda shared an office with a couple of other architects; she went in at odd times, rarely more than once a week.
“Sure. I’ll clean up the kitchen.”
“I should hope so. A back, huh? Gee, I think that’s neat.”
Neat. I couldn’t believe it. My own mother. She’d probably turn up at the game in a Terry High sweater, a little pleated skirt, and a couple of pompoms.
Once she was gone, I washed up quickly and headed upstairs. It was getting dark already. I changed from jeans and a light brown shirt into black wool trousers and a dark blue sweater. Black gloves and a balaclava cap completed the outfit. Even though it was uncomfortably warm in such a get-up, I made myself stay inside the room until darkness was complete outside. Meanwhile, I practised lifting, moving back and forth across the room with my legs tucked under me tailor-style. When I felt ready, I turned off the bedroom light, opened the window, and lifted.
The window was on the east side of the house, concealed both from the street and from the next-door neighbours by a huge willow whose drooping branch hung within inches of the glass. I didn’t even step on the sill, but simply angled up and out, brushing through the branches and out into the cold night air.
Las Estacas Street was deserted and dark. The neighbours, inside their brightly lit rooms, would see only their own reflections if they looked outside. Gaining confidence, I pulled the balaclava down over my face to minimise the chance of being spotted (a pale face or hand can really stand out in the dark), lifted clear of the willow, and rose to a height of about a hundred feet.
That was some feeling. The Effect was just as strong as it ever was in my room, with my bed safely below me. Something more than the chill of the evening pierced through my sweater, though, and made me shiver. I was outside, with nothing at all overhead and a long distance to fall if anything went wrong. But looking down at the rooftops and streetlights was exhilarating. The town looked like a model-train village. I went east, still climbing at a steady rate, and headed for the lightless safety of the foothills.
My learning curve was almost as steep as my climb. I discovered that the Effect could push me quite briskly against air resistance; if I wanted to, I could travel in a standing position. But the wind in my face and the flapping of my clothes were uncomfortable and distracting, so I tilted into the horizontal with my head in the direction of travel.
Superman must have kn
own something I didn’t: when I extended my arms in front of me, the wind shoved them around and nearly dislocated my shoulders. I tried folding my arms across my chest, and finally just shoved my hands in my trouser pockets to minimise air resistance, and kept my face down.
And what did it feel like, to fly like a rocket through the night sky with my hands in my pockets?
It felt wonderful.
My altitude was perhaps two hundred feet; the top of the Bank of California tower, off downtown, seemed just about level with me. Down below, the streets of the east side slid by quickly. I saw a car and tried to match speeds with it, but it was too uncomfortable: the wind made my eyes water.
I was now balancing myself between two forces - the Effect, and ordinary aerodynamics. If I tilted head-down too much, the wind shoved me down farther; once I flipped over completely in a somersault. If I raised my head and shoulders a bit, the same thing happened and I found myself flying feet-first to glory.
Gradually I got myself organised again, and by trial and error learnt the proper angle to assume for a given speed. Once I got the hang of it, it was possible to lift much faster, and I really began to travel. Reaching the highway to the hills, I caught up with a car that seemed to be going well beyond the fifty-five mile speed limit; then I passed it, cackling softly to myself inside my balaclava. I boosted my speed higher, higher, until the wind was howling in my ears and my trouser cuffs flapped madly around my ankles.
I sneezed, which destabilised me a bit and made my nose run. Trying to blow my nose, I took my hands out of my pockets - and my trousers promptly slid down around my ankles.
“Hey!” I shouted stupidly, and started to slow myself down. It took a lot longer than I expected, but at last I was hovering; I reached down and pulled my pants up, shivering and giggling. Somehow the silliness of it all sobered me up a bit, and I decided to head for home at a more reasonable speed - with my hands in my pockets no matter how much my nose ran.
It was an uneventful trip back, though I was beginning to feel the cold. The lights of Santa Teresa grew closer and brighter. I had a bad minute or two when I found myself completely disoriented, unable to make sense of the lights and streets below me, until I recognised the 7-Eleven on Coronado Boulevard; after that, navigation was dead easy. I dropped gently toward our house, slid through the window, and turned on the lights. I had been gone just under an hour.
Thoughtfully, I changed back into jeans and checked out the biofeedback device. It told me my blood pressure was a little high, but I brought it down in less than two minutes. Then I went downstairs and gave Marcus his nightly dog biscuit.
When Melinda got home a few minutes later, I was sitting at the kitchen table, demolishing a bowl of chocolate ice cream and reading a science-fiction novel.
“Hi,” she said. “Quiet night?”
“Pretty quiet,” I said.
* * *
The next morning I took the biofeedback device to school. Pat was already in the lab, studying for a quiz.
“All set,” I said, plunking the device down on the counter of our lab station.
“Great.” She didn’t look up.
“Hey - is something wrong?”
“I’m sore at you.”
“What for?”
“You’re not being honest with me.”
“What d’you mean, not beingᚓ”
“You told me you had some experiment or other to do at home, but when I called, there wasn’t any answer.”
“Well, uhᚓ”
“Look, I don’t really care what you’re doing, but I really hate being lied to.”
People were drifting into the lab, and ostentatiously staying clear of us - but within earshot. The Awkward Squad was never strong on tact.
“Pat, I wasn’t lying,” I hissed. “I had to go out for about an hour. That was part of the experiment, for Pete’s sake.”
“And just what was this mysterious experiment, Dr Stevenson?”
“I can’t tell you yet.”
“Sure. What’s the matter - afraid I can’t keep a secret?”
“Patᚓ” I tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away. “I’m sorry, really sorry, if it looks like I don’t trust you. But it’s - this is - it’s just something I’m not ready to tell anybody yet. Not you, or Melinda, or Gibbs or anybody.”
She didn’t say anything, but went back to her book. I didn’t know what to do. On the other hand, I knew she’d grown up feeling betrayed and deserted by everyone she ever cared about, and she must figure I was running true to form. And on the third hand, I knew that if Pat were keeping secrets from me, I’d probably react the same way: I can’t stand not knowing things that other people know.
At that point Gibbs arrived like a deus ex machina to put an end to my protestations. We demonstrated the biofeedback device, with each of us lowering our blood pressure, and got a B+ for the project - down from an A because we’d taken so long. Since that was my fault, not Pat’s, I felt really guilty; with that burden added to my lack of study, I flunked the quiz with a resounding thud.
Matters got rapidly worse. Gibbs had been pulling strings like a mad puppeteer, and just before lunch he told me to eat in a hurry and get out to the field; I was going to spend the whole afternoon learning how to play football.
It was so bad, I almost enjoyed it as a form of penance. I rapidly discovered that anything I thought I knew about football from occasional games watched on the tube was wrong. It’s a completely different game from what you see on TV or from the stands: everything happens too fast, and everyone is trying hard to wreck one person: the guy with the ball. Gibbs and the other coaches pulled together a couple of teams from the regular gym class, mostly to give me practice in being swarmed all over. I was feeling too self-conscious to lift at first, so they knocked me on my arse time and again before I could get away with the ball.
At one point, as I picked myself up, the thought crossed my mind to just carry on like this for an hour or so more, until Gibbs decided he’d made a mistake. Then he’d say thanks but forget it, and send me home. It struck me as the most brilliant yet obvious inspiration I’d ever had, and a sure-fire way to keep from being clobbered for the next six weeks.
I wish I could say that my loyalty to John Gibbs, my dedication to Terry High, and my own self-respect kept me from chickening out. Actually, what happened was that I got a break as the scratch football team broke up at the end of the period. The next period was the last of the day, and among the new recruits for the next teams was good old Jason Murphy. He ambled over to me, smirking and flexing his muscles.
“Word is you’re a turkey,” Jason announced. “I dunno what you were on yesterday, mutant, but today you’re going to get your arse kicked.”
“You watch your mouth or I’ll get my girlfriend to beat you up again.”
I said it loud enough for some of the other guys to hear, and they laughed right on cue. Jason’s smirk turned into a hammy frown.
“You watch your mouth,” said the master of repartee, and slouched off.
So it wasn’t loyalty or dedication or anything noble that got me going that afternoon: it was hatred and contempt, plus a solid chunk of fear about what Jason would do if he got his hands on me.
Gibbs set up a scrimmage and talked to me for a minute about how to take the ball from the quarterback and then run like hell. I nodded, thinking more about whether I’d be able to hang on to the ball when it was passed to me.
We went into the play, I got the ball and managed not to fumble it, and Jason came through the line with his wiry, hairy legs pumping. His lips were skinned back from his teeth, as if he thought displaying his fangs would scare me. As a matter of fact, it did.
I took off to my right, and Jason shifted to intercept. Just before he reached me, I lifted and spun. I was still touching the ground, of course, but the Effect whirled me around and away and launched me down the field. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed Jason nose-diving into the turf. Then I darted away
from a couple of other tackles, outran my own blockers, and covered sixty yards in not much time. The guys on my team set up a cheer, and I came strutting back.
“That’s more like it, Stevenson!” Gibbs called. “Okay, you people,” he shouted to Jason’s team, “you look like Thanksgiving Day on the turkey farm. Don’t you let him outrun you. Now let’s go through it again.”
This time Jason came on a little more cautiously, waiting to see which way I’d break. I loped around the right side while Jason and two or three other guys closed in. Another burst of speed and I was clear.
The third time, Jason came on faster than I expected, and I was a little slow. Just as I was getting up speed, he was right in my path, diving for my knees. I suppose I could have lifted right over him, but only by going higher than any normal person could. So I cranked up the Effect and crashed right into him.
My left knee, pumping up, caught him on the shoulder and flipped him over and out of the way. The shock was hard, harder than I’d expected, and for a second I was afraid I’d broken my kneecap. But the way ahead was clear, so I went on down the field again. When I turned around, a crowd had gathered around Jason; he was still lying on his back on the grass.
Uh-oh. I had sudden fantasies of Jason crippled for life and suing me for millions. Or Jason dead, and his parents suing me for even more. But by the time I got there he was sitting up, doing a really fine goldfish imitation while Gibbs checked him out.
“Doesn’t look like you broke anything, Murphy. Just got the wind knocked out of you. What did you think you were doing anyway, tackling like that with no protection? You could’ve hurt Stevenson, too.” Gibbs glanced over at me.
“I’m okay, sir. I just banged my knee into him kind of hard, I guess.”
“Feel okay?”
“Yessir. Jason, you okay?” I enquired insincerely.
“Yah… yah.” He struggled to his feet, held up by a couple of other guys. Gibbs sent him off to change and check in with the school first-aid office. As he shuffled off the field, the monster in my basement let out a contented growl.
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