by Damon Knight
And Trager would sit in a dark room and recall how once the sound of his voice made her so very, very happy.
The streets of Gidyon are not the best places for lonely midnight walks. They are brightly lit, even in the darkest hours, and jammed with men and deadmen. And there are meathouses, all up and down the boulevards and the ironspike boardwalks.
Josie’s words had lost their power. In the meathouses, Trager abandoned dreams and found solace. The sensuous evenings with Laurel and the fumbling sex of his boyhood were things of yesterday; Trager took his meatmates hard and quick, almost brutally, fucked them with a wordless savage power to the inevitable perfect orgasm. Sometimes, remembering the theater, he would have them act out short erotic playlets to get him in the mood.
In the night. Agony.
He was in the corridors again, the low dim corridors of the corpse-handlers’ dorm on Skrakky, but now the corridors were twisted and tortuous and Trager had long since lost his way. The air was thick with a rotting grey haze and growing thicker. Soon, he feared, he would be all but blind.
Around and around he walked, up and down, but always there were more corridors, and all of them led nowhere. The doors were grim black rectangles without handles, locked to him forever; he passed them by without thinking, most of them. Once or twice, though, he paused before a door where light leaked around the frame. He would listen, and inside there were sounds, and then he would begin to knock wildly. But no one ever answered.
So he moved on, through the haze that got darker and thicker and seemed to burn his skin, past door after door after door, until he was weeping and his feet were tired and bloody. And then, off a way, down a long, long corridor that ran straight before him, he would see an open door. From it came light so hot and white it hurt the eyes, and music bright and joyful, and the sounds of people laughing. Then Trager would run, though his feet were raw bundles of pain and his lungs burned with the haze he was breathing. He would run and run and run until he reached the open door.
Only when he got there, it was his room, and it was empty.
Once, in the middle of their brief time together, they’d gone out into the wilderness and made love under the stars. Afterward she had snuggled hard against him, and he stroked her gently. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“About us,” Laurel said. She shivered. The wind was brisk and cold. “Sometimes I get scared, Greg. I’m so afraid something will happen to us, something that will ruin it. I don’t ever want you to leave me.”
“Don’t worry,” he told her, “I won’t.”
Now, each night before sleep came, he tortured himself with her words. The good memories left him with ashes and tears; the bad ones with a wordless rage.
He slept with a ghost beside him, a supernaturally beautiful ghost, the husk of a dead dream. He woke to her each morning.
He hated them. He hated himself for hating.
6. DUVALIER’S DREAM
Her name does not matter. Her looks are not important. All that counts is that she was, that Trager tried again, that he forced himself on and made himself believe and didn’t give up. He tried.
But something was missing. Magic?
The words were the same.
How many times can you speak them, Trager wondered, speak them and believe them, like you believed them the first time you said them? Once? Twice? Three times, maybe? Or a hundred? And the people who say it a hundred times, are they really so much better at loving? Or only at fooling themselves? Aren’t they really people who long ago abandoned the dream, who use its name for something else?
He said the words, holding her, cradling her and kissing her. He said the words, with a knowledge that was surer and heavier and more dead than any belief. He said the words and tried.
And she said the words back, and Trager realized that they meant nothing to him. Over and over again they said the things each wanted to hear, and both of them knew they were pretending.
They tried hard. But when he reached out, like an actor caught in his role, doomed to play out the same part over and over again, when he reached out his hand and touched her cheek—the skin was smooth and soft and lovely. And wet with tears.
7. ECHOES
“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Donelly, shuffling and looking guilty, until Trager felt ashamed for having hurt a friend.
He reached toward her cheek, and she turned away from him.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” Josie said, and Trager was sad. She had given him so much; he’d only made her guilty. Yes, he was hurt, but a stronger man would never have let her know.
He touched her cheek, and she kissed his hand.
“I’m sorry. I don’t,” Laurel said. And Trager was lost. What had he done, where was his fault, how had he ruined it? She had been so sure. They had had so much.
He touched her cheek, and she wept.
How many times can you speak them, his voice echoed, speak them and believe them, like you believed them the first time you said them?
The wind was dark and dust-heavy; the sky throbbed painfully with flickering scarlet flame. In the pit, in the darkness, stood a young woman with goggles and a filtermask and short brown hair and answers. “It breaks down, it breaks down, it breaks down, and they keep sending it out,” she said. “Should realize that something is wrong. After that many failures, it’s sheer self-delusion to think the thing’s going to work right next time out.”
8. TRACER, COME OF AGE
The enemy corpse is huge and black, its torso rippling with muscle, a product of years of exercise, the biggest thing that Trager has ever faced. It advances across the sawdust in a slow, clumsy crouch, holding the gleaming broadsword in one hand. Trager watches it from his chair above one end of the fighting area. The other corpsemaster is careful, cautious.
His own deadman, a wiry blond, stands and waits, a morning-star trailing down in the blood-soaked arena dust. Trager will move him fast enough and well enough when the time is right. The enemy knows it, and the crowd.
The black corpse suddenly lifts its broadsword and scrambles forward in a run, hoping to use reach and speed to get its kill. But Trager’s corpse is no longer there when the enemy’s measured blow cuts the air where he had been.
Sitting comfortably above the fighting pit ’ down in the arena, his feet grimy with blood and sawdust, Trager ’ the corpse snaps the command ’ swings the morningstar—and the great studded ball drifts up and around, almost lazily, almost gracefully. Into the back of the enemy’s head, as he tries to recover and turn. A flower of blood and brain blooms swift and sudden, and the crowd cheers.
Trager walks his corpse from the arena, then stands to receive applause. It is his tenth kill. Soon the championship will be his. He is building such a record that they can no longer deny him a match.
She is beautiful, his lady, his love. Her hair is short and blond, her body very slim, graceful, almost athletic, with trim legs and small hard breasts. Her eyes are bright green, and they always welcome him. And there is a strange erotic innocence in her smile.
She waits for him in bed, waits for his return from the arena, waits for him eager and playful and loving. When he enters, she is sitting up, smiling for him, the covers bunched around her waist. From the door he admires her nipples.
Aware of his eyes, shy, she covers her breasts and blushes. Trager knows it is all false modesty, all playing. He moves to the bedside, sits, reaches out to stroke her cheek. Her skin is very soft; she nuzzles against his hand as it brushes her. Then Trager draws her hands aside, plants one gentle kiss on each breast, and a not-so-gentle kiss on her mouth. She kisses back, with ardor; their tongues dance.
They make love, he and she, slow and sensuous, locked together in a loving embrace that goes on and on. Two bodies move flawlessly in perfect rhythm, each knowing the other’s needs. Trager thrusts, and his other body meets the thrusts. He reaches, and her hand is there. They come together (always, always, both orgasms triggered by the handler’s brain
), and a bright red flush burns on her breasts and earlobes. They kiss.
Afterward, he talks to her, his love, his lady. You should always talk afterward; he learned that long ago.
“You’re lucky,” he tells her sometimes, and she snuggles up to him and plants tiny kisses all across his chest. “Very lucky. They lie to you out there, love. They teach you a silly shining dream and they tell you to believe and chase it and they tell you that for you, for everyone, there is someone. But it’s all wrong. The universe isn’t fair, it never has been. You run after the phantom, and lose, and they tell you next time, but it’s all rot, all empty rot. Nobody ever finds the dream at all; they just kid themselves, trick themselves so they can go on believing. It’s just a clutching lie that desperate people tell each other, hoping to convince themselves.”
But then he can’t talk anymore, for her kisses have gone lower and lower, and now she takes him in her mouth. And Trager smiles at his love and gently strokes her hair.
Of all the bright cruel lies they tell you, the crudest is the one called love.
RULES OF MOOPSBALL
Three hundred twenty-four people? Moopsball hammers? Garbage-can lids? Don't laugh too soon.
Gary Cohn
Moopsball is a contact sport played by up to three hundred and twenty-four people, divided into two teams, for three days, on a field more than ten times the size of a football field.
Each team is made up of the following players: ten shields ten hoops ten flingers twenty cavalrymen four lieutenants five buglers one standard bearer one wizard one captain
In addition, each team is allowed up to one hundred noncombatants, support personnel: camp followers, wives, husbands, cooks, medics, dogs, turkeys, etc. There are also fifty-one referees.
THE FIELD
SO
The field is five hundred yards long and two hundred fifty yards wide. It is a rectangle of mixed terrain, preferably a golf-course fairway sort of area. White lines mark its borders. In addition, there are several other lines, arranged thus:
In the center of the two-hundred-fifty-yard line stands a pedestal five feet tall.
In the center of each of the one-yard lines are the goals. These are transparent tubes of tinted plastic, two feet in diameter, four feet tall, unbreakable. The half-circle around the goal post has a fifty-yard diameter.
THE TEAMS
Each person in Moopsball, including noncoms, carries as a sidearm a soft plastic bat approximately twelve inches long.
In addition, each of the various combatants earlier mentioned is armed according to type, as follows:
Shields. Each shield is armed with a Moops-ball hammer—a long plastic mallet with a collapsible accordion-shaped head made of soft plastic. There are several products of this sort on the market, the best known being the Marx Sock-It-to-Me Mallet. Each shield also carries a shield of soft plastic; plastic garbage can covers do very well.
Hoops. Each hoop carries a Moopsball hammer and a flexible plastic hoop, three feet in diameter.
Flingers. Each flinger carries three Frisbies, one strapped for use as a buckler, in addition to the hammer.
Guardians. These are the goalies, the only combatants without hammers. Each guardian must weigh over two hundred pounds. Each is armed with a pugil-stick—a sort of giant Q; Tip, five feet long, with a mass of padding at either end of a flexible plastic staff.
Cavalry. Each cavalryman carries a hammer and a lance. The lance is a foot longer than the pugil-stick; it is padded only at one end. Cavalrymen are mounted on “wheelie-bikes” or “moto-bikes,” highly maneuverable bicycles designed for off-road riding.
Officers. Officers can chose any armament described above except that of the guardians, and at least two of the five officers must be mounted.
Buglers. Each bugler is assigned to an officer. Those assigned to mounted officers are also mounted. They carry hammers and long plastic horns that go “Blaaati”
Standard bearer. The standard bearer carries the team colors at the end of a seven-foot staff. He is armed with a hammer. He is assigned to the captain at all times, and if the captain is mounted, then so is the standard bearer.
The wizard. The wizard is the only active player not on the field during play. He remains behind the lines, muttering his magics, attempting to put the whammy on the opposing team from afar by use of appropriate spells and incantations; his major concern is his opposite number. The psychic battle of sorcerers plays a vital role in the game. To aid in this, the wizard is allowed three nubile assistants of any sex. He creates his own style, be it staid and stately Merlin or feathered, gibbering shaman.
THE BALL
The moopsball is a soft, bounceless ball about the size of a grapefruit. In a pinch a real grapefruit will serve, although somewhat lacking in durability. At the beginning of the game it sits on the pedestal at center field.
REFEREES
Each referee carries two shields, to be used to separate combatants in the event of serious altercations. Referees are present to maintain a semblance of order. Players are expected to whale away at each other with their weapons, but punching, kicking, grappling or other forms of unarmed combat are strictly prohibited. Two violations bring immediate disqualification and assignment to latrine duty. There are no substitutions.
GARB
Each combatant wears a uniform in the team colors, consisting of a jersey, shorts, knee socks, sneakers and a hardhat. Officers wear feathered helmets. The captain’s helmet is plumed. All male combatants must wear groin protectors and female combatants must wear chest protectors. A small pouch is worn by each player, containing beef jerky, chocolate, salt tablets, Band-aids, etc.
Referees wear white shorts and jerseys. The head referee wears a gray derby.
THE PLAY
Moopsball requires three days to be played. A weekend beginning with a Friday is the best time. Activities begin in the predawn hours, with the gathering of forces.
Each team meets at a designated location two miles from the field of play, along with half the refereeing squad. A marching formation is ordered, with noncombatants at the rear, and a forced march to the field takes place. Referees, using an agreed-upon system, grade the teams on discipline, fierceness of demeanor, formation, etc. Small touches, such as bagpipers, can count substantially.
The teams, hereafter called Team A and Team B, arrive at their respective ends of the field in the early morning and set up camp, starting ten yards behind their one-yard lines. The camp will be judged. When the camps are completed, both teams assemble on the field of battle.
Battle formations begin at the two-hundred-yard lines and may extend back to the one-yard line. Guardians are confined to the goal areas, which no other member of the same team is allowed to enter.
Movement of all players other than guardians is unrestricted.
Formations must be set up by 11 A.M. to allow a full hour for war cries and the hurling of epithets across the hundred-yard no-man’s-land. These will be graded. It is a time for the uttering of mighty oaths, and each wizard is allowed an incantation at the head of his team.
As noon draws closer the wizards retreat behind the lines, officers confirm signals with buglers, and all the players rattle their weapons.
At one minute of noon the head referee steps out onto the field at the two-hundred-fifty-yard line and removes his hat. Staring at the second hand of his watch, he holds his hat at arm’s length. At precisely noon he lets it fall.
The play begins at the drop of the hat. Team A and Team B charge the ball, howling.
The object of the game is to bring the ball to the other team’s goal and ram it down the tube, and to smash anyone who gets in your way. The ball can be conveyed downfield in any manner. It can be thrown, kicked, dribbled, air-dribbled, carried; but it cannot remain in any player’s hand for more than five seconds.
Teamwork is important, as is an awareness of the strengths and limitations of the different weapons. The hoop, for example, is especially effe
ctive against cavalry. A cavalry wedge can break a large defensive infantry formation, and that wedge need consist of only three cavalrymen. A flinger is at a severe disadvantage when closing with a shield. The prudent commander must know his army.
NIGHTTIME ACTIVITIES
Nights are filled with feasting and drunken revelry. During the game, the support personnel have been preparing a huge repast and a raucous party. Referees will circulate among the camps, taking notes. In this partying as in all other things, the teams must strive to outdo one another.
Various games may be played to while away the night. Some suggestions:
Pick-a-tent. A warrior, armed only with a hammer, stands in the center of a fifteen-foot circle facing three tents.
In one tent there are three nubile wenches, a hot bath, a steak dinner and a soft bed. But in each of the tents there waits an opponent or opponents. In one there may be a fully armed guardian; in another, two hoops or two shields. These opponents come out smoking when the contestant chooses their tent, and set upon him. The contestant must fight until he or his opponent is driven from the circle. If he wins, he throws open the tent flap to claim his prize. If he has chosen wrongly, he may try once again.
One-on-one. This is a basic challenge match, in a circle, the object being to force the opponent out of the circle.
Inquisition. During the day prisoners will probably have been taken. A prisoner is taken when an opposing player is surrounded and disarmed, or is forced across the one-yard line into the enemy camp, or surrenders for reasons of his own. The prisoners are confined to a compound. They are not allowed to try to escape unless they can come by weapons. Once armed, they can make the attempt.
Inquisition is played by the Wizard, a jailer, a prisoner, and a referee. These four cloister themselves in a tent. The referee takes notes. The jailer watches.
The Wizard asks the prisoner simple yes-or-no questions in an attempt to gain useful information, such as the key to the team’s bugle code or battle strategy.