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  “The Teroni would ultimately win, but not without first absorbing some devastating losses.” “Then why are we in Ramor's system rather than Teron's?” asked Barnes. “Because,” said Hermione, “it would appear that Ramor is in greater need of a big brother with muscle. Neither system has been willing to trade with Man for centuries, and both have some agricultural goods and rare earths that we need. My orders, which are delightfully vague, are simply to open up a line of trade with one or both of them. How I do so is my own business.” “And have you any ideas based on what we know?” “Indeed I do,” said Hermione. “In your considered opinion, how do their military ships stack up to this one?”

  “No contest,” came the quick reply. “According to our readout, it would take about twenty of them just to put a dent in us.”

  “And you consider there to be little or no difference between the Ramorian ships and those of the Teroni?”

  “In structure, they're totally different,” said Barnes. “In capabilities, they're two sides of the same coin.” “Now, as I understand it,” said Hermione, “the Teroni have a fleet of some fifty-five military ships, while the Ramorians have thirty-two.”

  “In that case,” said Barnes, “neither has enough to adequately defend its own system against an all-out attack by the other. Sooner or later, one of the ships would have to get through.” “I agree,'’ said Hermione. “Which is why they've limited their skirmishes to the mining colonies. It seems to be an unspoken rule of the game that massive attacks and massive retaliations are to be avoided at all costs. Tell me: How many Teroni ships are in the area of the Ramorian moons right now?” “Sixteen that we've been able to spot; possibly one or two more.”

  “That ought to be enough,” mused Hermione. Then: “Would you please open up a line of communication

  with Ramor for me?'’

  A few moments later she was conversing with a man who, if not the head of the Ramorian planetary government, was at least authorized to speak for that personage. “The shipHaiti , out of Deluros VIII, race of Man, bids you welcome,” said Hermione. “We bid theHaiti welcome,” came the reply, “and respectfully request its purpose.” “Too long have our races lived in mutual isolation,” said Hermione, being very careful that she allowed for no misinterpretation of her Galactic-O. “We humbly suggest that the time has come for our races to renew our brotherhood and open our space routes to free trade once again. As a gesture of our goodwill, we bear a cargo consisting of machines that will synthesize artificial fabrics, which we know that your miners will value highly. We ask nothing in return except the right of free trade with you.” “I am afraid that is out of the question,” replied the Ramorian. “Centuries ago our people had a taste of what free trade with Man means, and the memory of it still stings bitterly. You will not be molested, but you are forbidden to land on any world in our system. We appreciate your gesture of friendship, but we cannot and will not accept this or any other inducement to reopen any form of commerce with Deluros VIII or any other planet housing the race of Man.” Hermione cut the communication off, then turned to Barnes. “Ma'am?”

  “I think the time has come for a more forceful gesture,” she said. “You say there are sixteen Teroni ships attacking the moons of the fifth planet. Can we destroy about a dozen of them without any great risk to ourselves?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then have the crew do so, and chase the Teroni survivors out of this system in the general direction of their home planet.”

  TheHaiti reached the beleaguered moons in a matter of minutes. With no warning whatsoever it blasted five Teroni ships out of existence before they even knew it was among them.

  With theHaiti's speed, maneuvering power, and defenses, the remainder of the job was just a mop-up action. Its armaments—the end product of an arms race that had existed since the first caveman discovered the first femur bone—were devastating, and a few moments’ time saw it chasing the four surviving ships back toward Teron.

  “Is there any way we can fake a disabling hit to theHaiti ?” asked Hermione. “Right now?” asked Barnes.

  “Well, before the Teroni are beyond sight and sensor range. Then have the ship limp back to Ramor just fast enough so that they can't overhaul it.”

  The pilot did as Barnes instructed, and the Teroni returned to their home planet with the false knowledge

  that theHaiti wouldn't be able to do too much damage until repairs were made. Before long, Hermione was once again in communication with the Ramorian spokesman. “The shipHaiti, out of Deluros VIII, race of Man, sends you greetings and felicitations.” “Our position remains unchanged,” was the terse reply. “We do not doubt your sincerity,” said Hermione. “But to prove our own goodwill toward all the people of Ramor, we have recently engaged a number of Teroni ships in the vicinity of the moons of your fifth planet.”

  “And?” The radio didn't record it, but Hermione had a strong suspicion that there was a long gulp in there somewhere.

  “And we achieved a stunning triumph for the people of Ramor. We flew no colors, so the glory of victory will be credited solely to your planetary government. We trust you will accept this as a further proof of our friendship, and—”

  “Did you destroy them all?” came the imperative question. “Let me consult my figures,” said Hermione, smiling as she allowed the Ramorian spokesman to sweat for an extra minute. “No,” she said at last. “But twelve Teroni ships were totally demolished with absolutely no Ramorian casualties. Four ships did indeed escape, but we have doubtless secured your mining colonies for the foreseeable future.” “You're sure four of them escaped?”

  “Yes,” said Hermione calmly. “We could have hunted them down, but how else would the tyrants of Teron know that they may no longer harass our Ramorian friends with impunity?” Something resembling a groan came across the radio. “And now, to further show our goodwill, theHaiti will return to Deluros VIII, and will never again trespass into Ramorian space until such time as you, our brethren, actively pursue a trading treaty. We bid you farewell, and earnestly wish that your Deity may smile upon you.” She cut communications, and was not surprised to note an immediate attempt to reopen them. “Wait!” came the Ramorian's frantic supplication. “You can't leave our system now!” “Why not?” asked Hermione innocently. “We realize that it will doubtless take you time to consider all the implications of our act of brotherhood. We are prepared to wait until you come to us freely and openly. It is not Man's way to apply force of any type.” “But what if the Teroni return? They still outnumber us!” “Why would they return?” asked Hermione sweetly. “Not only did we teach them new respect for the forces of Ramor, but they have never previously launched an all-out attack on you.”

  “They were never so blatantly provoked before,” said the Ramorian bitterly.

  “I feel,” said Hermione, “that your worries are needless. After all, I am certain that the four Teroni survivors were too far away to tell that our ship was severely crippled.” “Please explain yourself!” came the desperate demand. “As we were pursuing the survivors, a chance shell exploded against our hull, crippling us. But I'm sure the Teron could not have seen it happen. After all, they were some ten million miles away when it occurred.”

  “Their sensing devices have a range of twice that distance!” said the Ramorian. “Now they'll know that it is safe to retaliate against us! They can be here in less than two days!” “I'm so sorry!” exclaimed Hermione. “The repairs required to make our ship totally efficient again would take less than half a day, but I fear the journey to Deluros VIII, in our present condition, will consume almost a year. If only there were some other place where we might make repairs...” “Please stand by,” said the Ramorian. The radio went dead for a few minutes, then came on again. “I have been instructed to inform you that you will be permitted to make your repairs on Ramor, or in orbit about us if that is more convenient to you.” “How charitable of you,” said Hermione. “However, I realize that we have blunde
red and caused you considerable mental and emotional distress by our meddling. Therefore, I feel it would be unfair to impose on you any further. No, we will follow our original plan and return to Deluros VIII, to repair the ship and await your decision about the reopening of trade.” “But the Teroni will destroy us!”

  “Surely you overestimate them,” said Hermione. “However, if you were to consider an immediate trading treaty, we would, as a further gesture of brotherhood, remain in your star system until such time as the Teroni are convinced that Ramor is virtually invincible.” Hermione leaned back, shut her eyes, and smiled. It was too bad, she decided, that neither the Ramorians nor Galactic had an analog word for “blackmail.” Within two hours, Hermione Chatham-Smythe, ambassador-at-large, and the premier of Ramor's planetary government had affixed their signatures to a treaty that once again allowed Man to deal commercially with the inhabitants of the Ramorian system. After sending the news on to Deluros VIII, Hermione invited the pilot and Commodore Barnes up to her suite for a brandy.

  “Where to next ma'am?” asked the pilot. “It's been quite a long time since we've established a reciprocal trade agreement with any chlorine-breathers in this sector. I'm sure that, given time, we can convince our Teroni brethren of our friendship and good intentions. Don't you agree?” She smiled sweetly and took a sip from her delicate longstemmed glass.

  7: THE OLYMPIANS

  ...Like the Pony Express, which earned a place in human history far surpassing the importance of its accomplishments in its eleven-month lifetime, so did the cult of the Olympians receive an amount of publicity totally out of proportion to its achievements during its brief, twenty-two month existence. This in no way is meant to denigrate those romantic idols of the early Democracy, for at that time Man needed all the heroes he could get, and certainly no group ever filled that need with the zest and flourish of the Olympians...

  —Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement ...Perhaps worthy of a passing mention are the Olympians,

  for it is doubtful that any other segment of humanity so accurately mirrored Man's incredible ego, his delight in humiliating other races, and... —Origin and History of the Sentient Races, Vol. 8 There were fifty thousand beings in the stadium, and countless billions more watching via video. And every last one of them shared the same goal: to watch him go crashing down to defeat. “Big moment's coming up!” said Hailey, who slapped life into his legs as he lay, face down, on the rubbing table. “Today's the day we'll show ‘em, big fella.” He stared dead ahead, unmoving. “You hope,” he said. “I know,” said Hailey. “You're a Man, kid, and Men don't lose. Ready to meet the press yet?” He nodded.

  The door was unlatched, and a flood of reporters, human and nonhuman, pressed about him. “Still think you're going to take him, Big John?” He nodded. Olympians were known for their reticence. They had managers to answer questions. “It's one hundred and thirty degrees out there,” said another. “Not much oxygen, either.” He simply stared at the reporter. No question had been asked, so he offered no answer. “Boys,” said Hailey, stepping in front of him, “you know Big John's got to get emotionally up for this, so shoot your questions at me. I'll be happy to answer any of them.” He flashed a confident grin at one of the video cameras.

  “I didn't know Olympianshad any emotions,” said a Lodin XI reporter sarcastically. “Sure they do, sure they do,” jabbered Hailey. “They're just too professional to show ‘em, that's all.” “Mr. Hailey,” said a space-suited chlorine-breather, using his T-pack, “just exactly what does Mr. Tinsmith hope to prove by all this?”

  “I'm glad you asked that question, sir,” said Hailey. “Very glad indeed. It's something I'm sure a lot of your viewers have wondered about. Well, let me put the answer this way: Big John Tinsmith is an Olympian, with all that that implies. He took his vows four years ago, swore an oath of total abstinence from sexual congress, alcoholic stimulants, detrimental narcotics, and tobacco. As a member of the cult

  of the Olympians, his job is identical to that of his brethren: to travel the length and breadth of the galaxy

  as an ambassador of Man's goodwill and sportsmanship, challenging native races to those physical contests in which they specialize.”

  “Then why haven't any Olympians challenged a Torqual to a wrestling match?” came a question. “As I was saying,” continued Hailey, “the natives of Emra IV pride themselves on their fleetness of foot. Foot racing is their highest form of physical sport, and so—” “It wouldn't have to do with the face that the Torqual go twelve hundred pounds of solid muscle, would it?” persisted the questioner.

  “Well, we hadn't wanted to make it public, but Sherif Ibn ben Iskad has challenged Torqual to put up its champion for a match next month.”

  “Sherif Iskad!” whooped a human reporter. “Now, thatis news! Iskad's never lost, has he?” “No Olympian has,” said Hailey. “And now that that's settled, I'll get back to the subject. Big John Tinsmith will be running against the very finest that Emra IV has to offer, and I guarantee you're going to see...”

  On and on Hailey droned, answering those questions that appealed to him, adroitly ducking those that he didn't care for. Finally, fifteen minutes before post time, he cleared the room again and turned to Tinsmith. “How do you feel, kid?”

  “Fine,'’ said Tinsmith, who hadn't moved a muscle. “Herb!” snapped Hailey. “Lock and bolt the door. No one comes in for ten minutes.” The trainer's assistant secured the door, and Hailey pulled out a small leather bag from beneath the rubbing table. He opened it, pulled out a number of syringes, and began going over the labels on a score or more of small bottles.

  “Adrenalin,” he announced, shooting a massive dose into Tinsmith's arm. “Terrain looked a little rough too. Better have a little phenylbutazone.'’ One dose was inserted into each calf. “Something to make you breathe the air a little easier ... here, this'll ease the heat a bit ... yep, that's about it. Getting sharp?” Tinsmith moved for the first time, sitting up on the edge of the table, his long, lean legs dangling a few inches above the polished floor. He took two deep breaths, exhaled them slowly, and nodded. “Good,” said Hailey. “Personally, I was against this race. I think it's a little soon for you yet. But Olympians can't say no, so we stalled as long as we could and then agreed to it.” Tinsmith lowered himself to the floor, knelt down, and began tightening his shoes. “Now, this guy's fast, make no bones about it,” said Hailey. “Damned fast. He'll knock off the first mile in under three minutes, which means you'll be so far back you probably won't be able to see him. But the Emrans are short on staying power. Figure he'll get the second mile in three and a half, the third in three and three-quarters. Save your kick until then. It's four miles and eighty yards. If you run like you trained, you ought to pull even with him a good quarter mile from the finish.” Hailey chuckled. “Won't that be something, though! Have that bastard pull out by hundreds of yards and then nip him at the wire just when every goddamn alien from here to the Rim thinks an Olympian has finally gone and got himself beat. Sheer beauty, I call it!”

  “Ready,” said Tinsmith, turning to the door.

  “Just remember, kid,” said Hailey. “No Olympian has ever lost. You represent the race of Man. All of its prestige rides on your shoulders. The first time one of you gets beat, that's the day the Olympians disband.”

  “I know,” said Tinsmith tonelessly.

  Hailey opened the door. “Want me to go with you? Give you a little company till you reach the track?” “Olympians walk alone,” said Tinsmith, and went out the door. He strode through a long, narrow, winding passageway, and a few minutes later reached the floor of the massive stadium. The air was hot, oppressive. He took a deep breath, decided that the shot was working, and walked out to where the throng in the stands could see him. They jeered.

  Showing and feeling no emotion, looking neither right nor left, he walked to where his opponent was awaiting him. The Emran was humanoid in type. He stood about five feet tall, and had huge, powerful legs. T
he thighs, especially, were knotted with muscle, and the feet, though splayed, looked extremely efficient. His skin was red-bronze, and both body and head were totally without hair. Tinsmith glanced at the Emran's chest: It seemed to have no greater lung capacity than his own. Next his gaze went to the Emran's nose and mouth. The former was large, the latter small, with a prominent chin. That meant there'd be no gasping for air through his mouth during the final mile; if he got tired, he'd stay that way. Satisfied, and without a look at any other part of the Emran nor any gesture of greeting, he stood at the starting line, arms folded, eyes straight ahead. One of the officials walked over and offered him a modified T-pack, for it was well known that Olympians spoke no language not native to their home worlds. He shook his head, and the official shrugged and walked away.

  Another Emran began speaking through a microphone, and the loudspeaker system produced a series of tinny echoes from all across the stadium. There were rabid cheers, and Tinsmith knew they had announced the name of the homeworld champion. A moment later came the jeers, as he heard his own name hideously mispronounced. Then the course of the race was mapped—thrice around the massive stadium on a rocky track—and finally the ground rules were read. A coin was flipped for the inside position. Tinsmith disdained to call it, but the Emran did, and lost. Tinsmith walked over to his place on the starting line. As he stood there, crouching, awaiting the start of the race, he glanced over at the Emran and studied him briefly. He was humanoid enough so that Tinsmith could see the awful tension and concentration painted vividly on his already-sweating face. And why not? He was carrying a pretty big load on his shoulders, too. He was the fleetest speedster of a race of speedsters. The Emran, aware of Tinsmith's gaze, looked at him and worked his mouth into what passed for a smile. Tinsmith stared coldly back at him, expressionless.