[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction September 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It takes sportsmanship to make a ball team ...
and foul play to get a backward race civilized!
Bill Bradley shooed away the group of Quxas that had surged over
the first-base line. With broad grins on their flat, piebald faces,
they moved away--in the wrong direction, of course--and squatted
in a smiling semicircle around Pat Reed, who was playing third.
This was bad, because Reed was a fifty-fifty player: It was an even
chance whether he got the ball or the ball got him. One of the
half-domesticated thrags broke loose and cantered across the outfield
with its peculiar five-legged gait. In the hubbub, Ray Bush stole
second. Nobody seemed to notice.
Sighing heavily, Bill returned to the mound and whiplashed in a fast
one, tight across the letters. The hitter got only a small piece of it;
a pop fly sauntered toward left field. Judging it to a nicety, Gust
Mustas came racing in, evaded a tethered thrag, leaped a hole some Quxa
had dug and forgotten, and made a shoestring catch, retiring the side.
The Quxas cheered deliriously.
Bill trotted off the mound. For a moment, the thrill of the game held
him. This was the way things should be: The feel of smoothly flowing
muscles, the thudding sound of horsehide hitting a leather glove, the
weight of a bat in your hands in your first ball game after clambering
over and scrabbling in an unexplored planet for fourteen months.
Then he caught sight of Candace Mathews, walking among the pneuma-huts
that served as the outpost camp for the expedition. Gloom enveloped him
again, surrounding him like a dank fog.
* * * * *
For fourteen long months, Bill had feasted on the memory of Candy
Mathews, on his recollection of her turquoise eyes and cascading brown
hair, on the remembrance of her soft lips on his last night under the
four moons of Vensor III.
Today she had arrived with the seventy-odd men and women who comprised
the appraisal unit, the final group of the planet's explorers. He had
looked forward like a schoolboy to her coming. And, like a schoolboy,
he had suffered black despair when his dreams were shattered.
For the Candy Mathews who got off the shuttlebug at Camp Outpost was
not the Candy Mathews who had said soft words on Vensor III. She was,
instead, a self-assured young woman, somehow harder, who felt only an
indifferent tolerance toward a tall young man named Bill Bradley, and
an all-consuming, hero-worshipping infatuation for a newcomer, a dapper
walking brain, Vance Montgomery, one of the council's smart boys, with
the title of planet evaluator.
"He's simply wonderful," she had said. And the joy of life had gone out
of Bill Bradley.
The appraisal group brought in athletic equipment and Bill's men
spontaneously declared a holiday, their first on the planet. Baseball
was the order of the afternoon and they shanghaied a not unwilling Bill
to pitch. He should, he knew, be laying out reports for Montgomery to
study. He did not particularly want to be with Montgomery.
Bill sat on the xetal log that served as a bench.
One Quxa was bent over, examining first base. He made a colorful sight.
The first baseman slapped him jovially on the loin cloth to move him.
The owner of the thrag caught up to it and was struggling manfully
to lead it away. The five-legged beast defied his efforts, rearing
and dragging him. A dozen Quxas stood nearby. Their sympathies were
obviously with their fellow-Quxa, but they made no move to help him.
Reed was on the bench next to Bill. He had come in with the appraisal
group.
"Your vivid friends," he said, cocking a thumb at the Quxas, "don't
appear too bright."
"They're smart enough," said Bill. "Almost as intelligent as we are.
It's just that they've never risen above a herd culture."
"Look," said Reed. "I'm a silviculturist. Give me a hunk of wood and I
can tell how long it took to grow, what it's good for, where it can be
raised and how much board and profit can be made out of it. But this
kind of talk throws me. Try another wave-length."
"Socially, they're like the seals or penguins back on Earth. They like
to gather in groups. The things they can do individually, they do
well. But they don't know how to help each other. That's beyond them."
"Don't understand the meaning of cooperation?"
"The word isn't even in their language. I've seen forty of them
standing around, fretting and stewing, while the horals killed off one
of their fellows."
"What are horals?"
"The other dominant life-form here. Nasty brutes, like big upright ants
with tentacles. Stand about as high as my chest. Most malignant things
I've seen. One Quxa can handle any horal, maybe even two or three. But
the horals hunt in packs. Good-by Quxa."
"Killing them off, are they?"
"This is the last big concentration the Quxas have left. In another
hundred years, there'll be no more Quxas."
* * * * *
They looked again at the natives. The Quxas were something to
see--human in form, although somewhat shorter than Earthmen; their
skins were blotched and dashed with patches of vivid colors.
Antiquarians talked of their resemblance to the ancient circus clowns,
a likeness furthered by their broad, flat faces and habitual grins.
"Sort of hate to see them disappear," Bill said glumly. "They're happy,
good-natured creatures. In their whole race, I know only one who's
mean. We've done our best to help them. But if they won't cooperate
even in a matter of life and death, what incentive can you offer them?"
An elbow dug into him.
"Up to the platter, dream boy," said Gust Mustas. "A hit means two
runs."
Selecting a bat, Bill made his way to the plate. In the middle
distance, Vance Montgomery emerged from a hut. Candy went to him
eagerly, put a hand on his arm. A deep rage engulfed Bill.
The first pitch was a curve that failed to break. As it came fatly over
the plate, Bill swung angrily. The ball rocketed up and away, past the
infield, over the head of the desperately running left-fielder and
dropped toward a sure home run.
Then a curious thing happened. One of the Quxas darted away from the
gabbling group along the foul line, his short legs churning over the
uneven ground. As the ball sank, he dove, plucked it out of the air
with one broad hand, turned a somersault and came up with it, grinning.
It was an impossible catch and the Earthmen joined the Quxas in
applause. Still clinging to the ball, the Quxa made little bobbing bows
of acknowledgment.
"Throw it in!" shouted Bill. The Quxa stood motionless. "Throw it in,
Adlaa!" Bill urged. He went through a throwing motion.
The Quxa nodded comprehension. He went into a violent wind-up. His left
foot came up, his upper body went back, his right arm snapped in an
arc. The ball flew from his hand, straight and fast.
In the wrong direction, of course.
The pack of Quxas pelted after it, shouting, picked it up and threw
again. To his surprise, Bill found himself pounding after them, bawling
fruitless pleas, aware that he looked foolish, but, in his rage, not
caring. He closed in on them on the fifth throw and his fingertips
touched the ball. He succeeded only in deflecting it. There was a dull
_thunk_ and the game was over. The ball had struck Vance Montgomery,
planet evaluator, squarely in the left eye.
Three things were said then to Bill Bradley.
One was by Montgomery as he handed back the ball. "I was not aware,
Bradley, that the job of camp leader entailed joining the rowdyism of
the native races."
One was by Candy Mathews, hopping with anger. "You're a barbarian, Bill
Bradley. Monty might have been badly hurt."
The third was by a clot of Quxas, crowding eagerly. "Play ball!
Billbrad, more play ball!"
To the first two, Bill did not reply. To the Quxas, he said one word,
"Nuts!" and dolefully followed Montgomery into the headquarters hut.
* * * * *
In spite of his natural prejudice against Montgomery, Bill was forced
into a reluctant admiration for the way the man worked.
Montgomery's task was to recommend whether the planet should be marked
for immediate colonization, placed on a reserve list for future
expansion, or be left strictly alone as unworthy of occupancy. He tore
through Bill's reports like a small child through a bag of jellybeans.
His questions, if pompous, were pointed.
Within twenty-four hours, ready to leave for the main camp, he called a
conference.
He stood before the group, as dapper as a man can be with a rainbow
bruise under one eye, complacently listening to the resonance of his
own voice. Beside him, Candy nodded worshipful agreement. Bill grumped
in a corner.
For a full forty-five minutes, Montgomery outlined additional data he
wanted gathered. His voice was faintly chiding, implying by its tone
that anybody but a dolt would have obtained the information long ago.
"And now," he said, "we come to the question of the humanoid denizens
of this planet--the so-called Quxas." He fingered his black eye. "Many
persons might conclude that the Quxas are not worth saving; and in
themselves, they are not. However, my preliminary conclusions--based,
unfortunately, on insufficient data--lead me to believe that this
planet will be used for colonization in about five hundred years. It
would be very convenient then to have a dominant life-form friendly to
the galactic humans and capable of being integrated with the colonists.
Some method of preserving the Quxas must therefore be worked out. In
this, the advance group has failed lamentably."
He paused, glanced around triumphantly.
"How do I propose to achieve this? By a historical method. What do
nations do when they are in peril? They call upon a single man, place
themselves under him and let him lead them out. When the ancient
western civilization was in its greatest danger after the fall of Rome,
the people gathered around the strong men, made them kings and dukes
and earls, and were saved from barbarism.
"I shall do the same for the Quxas. The Quxas shall have a king."
His eyes sought out Bill.
"My acquaintance here has been short. I must rely on advice. Bradley,
whom would you recommend as king of the Quxas?"
"Well," said Bill slowly, "Moahlo is the most intelligent. He's
good-natured and kindly. He has a lot of artistic ability. Some of his
carvings are being taken back for the Galactic Folk Museum."
"An artist!" said Montgomery in disgust. "Well, let's have a look at
him."
* * * * *
Moahlo was finishing a figurine near one of the meandering paths that
the Quxas had worn by habit, not design. A bemused group of natives
looked on admiringly.
Down the path came Ratakka, the biggest of the Quxas, his shoulders
proudly back, his face set in the truculent scowl. Bill knew and
disliked him, and apprehensively felt sure the peaceful scene would be
destroyed. Alone of an amiable, tolerant race, Ratakka was perpetually
ill-tempered, the rankling product of Lord knew what alien genetic
accident or trauma.
Ratakka found his path obstructed by the carving. Callously, he brought
his foot down on the delicate figurine, crushing it to splinters.
Moahlo sprang up in gentle protest. Ratakka gave him the back of a
meaty hand that knocked him off his feet. Two spectators indicated
disapproval. Ratakka smashed their heads together and strode on.
"To save a culture, Bradley," said Montgomery, who had watched the
brutal display with admiration, "you need strength, not delicacy or
feeling. That man shall be king of the Quxas."
He ran after Ratakka.
The members of the outpost staff looked at Bill in dismay. He shrugged
sadly and walked out of the headquarters hut. At the doorway, Adlaa was
waiting for him with the same old plea.
"Play ball?" he begged. "More play ball, Billbrad?"
In his despondent mood, Bill did not care.
"All right. I'll throw the ball to you and you throw it back to me."
"Quxas not do that."
"It's just as much fun to throw the ball in one direction as in any
other direction," Bill explained patiently. "Unless you throw it back,
forget it--no play ball."