Tony and himself—they had formulated the methods which still governed the cultivation of telekinesis. Grant had discovered—the principles, but it was the successful results of the Anthony boy’s training which paved the way for others to learn. Yet Bee was different. No amount of tutoring could help her influence an object with her mind. Different, but not inferior, for Bee was a telepath. With intimates her conversation was most strange—much of it understood, yet left unspoken.
Grant was one of the intimates. Her silent sorrow would have found him at any distance, but now he tried to evade it, because Tony was gone and Woods had come over to face the reporters—and Slag.
“Mister Woods,” began one of the men, but the Commissioner raised a hand and turned to the giant player.
“You have had my personal warning, Slag. Do you think I will allow you to carry on your ugly career? Why, man, you’re lucky the courts have not ruled you a murderer!”
“It’s not my fault,” Slag said. “I didn’t try to smash him, honest. I don’t know my own strength, I guess.”
Bee’s reddened eyes stared at the man, and Grant whispered, “Darling, can you tell?”
“You know their minds are closed to me. I just feel ... something evil. I must get out of here. Please, Grant, take me away.”
Behind Slag the little blond man Teagle, manager and second of the professional, spoke up. “Like Slag says, Commissioner, it isn’t his fault. These fast-thinking players match him, get him all excited in the court, and then wonder why they get knocked down. They just don’t have the stuff to match a champ.”
“Slag is the only man ever warned to pull his shots,” agreed a reporter who was taking notes.
“Gentlemen!” Woods turned to Grant. “All of us here respect the opinion of Dr. Lane, who brought this sport into being and who is, in my estimation, its greatest exponent. I have consulted with him. If he is to retain any connection whatever with the game, he informs me, Slag must get out.”
There was silence. The men stared first at the florid-faced Commissioner, then at Grant.
“More than personal considerations are involved,” added Woods. “Slag’s brutal style of play, according to Dr. Lane, endangers the entire future of this grand sport.”
The black-robed player looked around for support. Little Teagle pushed in front of the Commissioner. “You mean that has-been,” he pointed at Grant, “is trying to get rid of my boy? It ain’t fair, I say. Even when he tries to take it easy, Slag has it tough. They’re scared, and won’t match us—even these amateurs. And yet look what we’ve done to pep the game up!”
“You may be right, Mister Teagle. All things considered, however, I feel the merit of Dr. Lane’s suggest—”
“Who is this Lane?” The little man’s face was fierce. “So he starts the game, and invents the ball, so what? They used to call him a champ, the master, but that’s a long time ago. Now that he’s out, he don’t like Slag coming up so strong. It kills him that he ain’t the best any more.”
“That will be all for tonight. In the morning I’ll have an official release ready.” The reporters were tense, anxious to miss nothing. “And, gentlemen, you have a good idea of the nature of that statement.”
“Wait! I’m telling you,” said Teagle. “We’ve tried to get a match with this Lane. Here it is, boys, the real truth. The guy wants Slag out because he’s scared to meet him. Right here and now we challenge him! And I bet he hasn’t got the guts to take us up.”
“I feel,” said Woods, “that a scientist like Dr. Lane should not be subjected to this ... this insolence.”
The reporters ran toward the exit, eager to call in this news break.
Grant said nothing. Aware of Bee’s feelings, he shot a look of contempt at Teagle and turned. Yet he knew, as they walked slowly away, that behind him were no feelings of good will. At best, the men awaited his next move—and until then suspended judgment.
In three days the city became for Grant Lane a savage jungle. The papers shrieked at him Teagle’s endless insults, Slag’s boastful challenge. Each statement by the Commissioner cleverly shifted more responsibility from Woods to himself, and the tragic end of yet another match was played down until it appeared that Slag, and not his opponent, was the injured party.
After all, was his crowd-convincing argument, did they jail professional fighters in the old days when one was killed? Just a little accident in the heat of fair contest; it was no more than that. Yet there was more, this time. People appeared unsatisfied, disapproving of Grant, as if he should offer himself as a sacrifice to their sympathy with Slag. The one time he went restlessly into the streets, they watched him sullenly, waiting....
He kept to his apartment after that, and studied furiously. No man could overcontrol an awake opponent in a direct shot—if the ball was all right. As the ball closed in, the approached player’s influence grew proportionately stronger, while his opponent’s lessened in inverse ratio. That was the reason Grant had originally declared the sport to be safe.
He interrupted his work only briefly for Tony’s funeral, and felt an obscure shame in facing Bee Anthony. Then the cellular organism of the sphere used in the game absorbed his attention again. It was an artificially nurtured nerve-center, a growth devised by himself, and seemed to offer the only possible answer. Perhaps this sub-life had acquired learning ability—the ability to act independently. It seemed absurd, and yet how much was really known of this highly irritable stuff called living matter?
Bee found him at his apartment the fourth morning. She seemed much more relaxed. “Tony hated useless grief,” she said. “I had to come here, Granny. I had to know that we might see the end of all this.”
“Yes.” Grant still felt a vague shame. “We’ll have to stop Slag short, before he adds any more victims.”
“Oh, it’s more than that! It’s the people, too, and the knowledge that more Slags may appear. If all the matches suddenly....” She broke off, frowning, as if uncertain whether to continue. “You see, Granny, Tony decided to play because of that. It wasn’t even the charities, really. The people distrust you. Not just because you were wrong, but because they are suspicious of any probing into the powers of mind. They prefer fantasy to scientific hypothesis, and now Slag’s triumphs....” She faltered, and unhappily twisted her face away.
“But Tony could have crushed Slag, too.”
“You know that was different. He had Slag hypnotized first. But Tony was awake when the ball struck!”
“You’re right, Bee. Frankly, I don’t know what the answer could be. I’m working on the core of the ball. There is a chance—”
“I’m sure it was something else! Granny, have you thought of the screen? There must have been a leak, or a failure. Think of that crowd, hoping for their hero. Suppose they subconsciously influenced the sphere, directed it at Tony.”
He thought of the mob’s reaction when Slag was helpless, and kept silent. It would be cruel to blast her one hope with nothing to offer in exchange.
“You think I’m wrong, but what else would it be? The ball couldn’t kill Tony by itself.” Then she was in tears. “I should have been there to stop it. He wouldn’t take a second—I begged him to let me—and I would have sensed any outside influence!”
Grant recognized the guilt feelings she was suffering from. He tried to give comfort, but suddenly she was a woman, proud and independent, and would not stay. Only at the door for one moment did she turn appealingly to him.
“Granny,