Ihjel gave the doctors exactly one day before he went to the
hospital. Brion wasn't dead, though there had been some doubt about
that the night before. Now, a full day later, he was on the mend and
that was all Ihjel wanted to know. He bullied and strong-armed his
way to the new Winner's room, meeting his first stiff resistance at
the door.
"You're out of order, Winner Ihjel," the doctor said. "And if you
keep on forcing yourself in here, where you are not wanted, rank or
no rank, I shall be obliged to break your head."
Ihjel had just begun to tell him, in some detail, just how slim his
chances were of accomplishing that, when Brion interrupted them
both. He recognized the newcomer's voice from the final night in
the barracks.
"Let him in, Dr. Caulry," he said. "I want to meet a man who thinks
there is something more important than the Twenties."
While the doctor stood undecided, Ihjel moved quickly around him and
closed the door in his flushed face. He looked down at the Winner in
the bed. There was a drip plugged into each one of Brion's arms. His
eyes peered from sooty hollows; the eyeballs were a network of red
veins. The silent battle he fought against death had left its mark.
His square, jutting jaw now seemed all bone, as did his long nose
and high cheekbones. They were prominent landmarks rising from the
limp greyness of his skin. Only the erect bristle of his
close-cropped hair was unchanged. He had the appearance of having
suffered a long and wasting illness.
"You look like sin," Ihjel said. "But congratulations on your
victory."
"You don't look so very good yourself--for a Winner," Brion snapped
back. His exhaustion and sudden peevish anger at this man let the
insulting words slip out. Ihjel ignored them.
But it was true; Winner Ihjel looked very little like a Winner, or
even an Anvharian. He had the height and the frame all right, but it
was draped in billows of fat--rounded, soft tissue that hung loosely
from his limbs and made little limp rolls on his neck and under his
eyes. There were no fat men on Anvhar, and it was incredible that
a man so gross could ever have been a Winner. If there was muscle
under the fat it couldn't be seen. Only his eyes appeared to still
hold the strength that had once bested every man on the planet to
win the annual games. Brion turned away from their burning stare,
sorry now he had insulted the man without good reason. He was too
sick, though, to bother about apologizing.
Ihjel didn't care either. Brion looked at him again and felt the
impression of things so important that he himself, his insults, even
the Twenties were of no more interest than dust motes in the air. It
was only a fantasy of a sick mind, Brion knew, and he tried to shake
the feeling off. The two men stared at each other, sharing a common
emotion.
The door opened soundlessly behind Ihjel and he wheeled about,
moving as only an athlete of Anvhar can move. Dr. Caulry was halfway
through the door, off balance. Two men in uniform came close behind
him. Ihjel's body pushed against them, his speed and the mountainous
mass of his flesh sending them back in a tangle of arms and legs. He
slammed the door and locked it in their faces.
"I have to talk to you," he said, turning back to Brion.
"Privately," he added, bending over and ripping out the communicator
with a sweep of one hand.
"Get out," Brion told him. "If I were able--"
"Well, you're not, so you're just going to have to lie there and
listen. I imagine we have about five minutes before they decide to
break the door down, and I don't want to waste any more of that.
Will you come with me offworld? There's a job that must be done;
it's my job, but I'm going to need help. You're the only one who can
give me that help.
"Now refuse," he added as Brion started to answer.
"Of course I refuse," Brion said, feeling a little foolish and
slightly angry, as if the other man had put the words into his
mouth. "Anvhar is my planet--why should I leave? My life is here and
so is my work. I also might add that I have just won the Twenties.
I have a responsibility to remain."
"Nonsense. I'm a Winner, and I left. What you really mean is you
would like to enjoy a little of the ego-inflation you have worked so
hard to get. Off Anvhar no one even knows what a Winner is--much
less respects one. You will have to face a big universe out there,
and I don't blame you for being a little frightened."
Someone was hammering loudly on the door.
"I haven't the strength to get angry," Brion said hoarsely. "And
I can't bring myself to admire your ideas when they permit you to
insult a man too ill to defend himself."
"I apologize," Ihjel said, with no hint of apology or sympathy in
his voice. "But there are more desperate issues involved than your
hurt feelings. We don't have much time now, so I want to impress you
with an idea."
"An idea that will convince me to go offplanet with you? That's
expecting a lot."
"No, this idea won't convince you--but thinking about it will.
If you really _consider_ it you will find a lot of your illusions
shattered. Like everyone else on Anvhar, you're a scientific
humanist, with your faith firmly planted in the Twenties. You accept
both of these noble institutions without an instant's thought. All
of you haven't a single thought for the past, for the untold
billions who led the bad life as mankind slowly built up the good
life for you to lead. Do you ever think of all the people who
suffered and died in misery and superstition while civilization
was clicking forward one more slow notch?"
"Of course I don't think about them," Brion retorted. "Why should I?
I can't change the past."
"But you can change the future!" Ihjel said. "You owe something
to the suffering ancestors who got you where you are today. If
Scientific Humanism means anything more than just words to you,
you must possess a sense of responsibility. Don't you want to try
and pay off a bit of this debt by helping others who are just as
backward and disease-ridden today as great-grandfather Troglodyte
ever was?"
The hammering on the door was louder. This and the drug-induced
buzzing in Brion's ear made thinking difficult. "Abstractly, I of
course agree with you," he said haltingly. "But you know there is
nothing I can do personally without being emotionally involved. A
logical decision is valueless for action without personal meaning."
"Then we have reached the crux of the matter," Ihjel said gently.
His back was braced against the door, absorbing the thudding blows
of some heavy object on the outside. "They're knocking, so I must be
going soon. I have no time for details, but I can assure you upon my
word of honor as a Winner that there is something you can do. Only
you. If you help me we might save seven million human lives. That
is a fact."
The lock burst and the door started to open. Ihjel shouldered it
back into the frame for a final instant.
"Here is the idea I want you to consider. Why is it that the people
of Anvhar, in a galaxy filled with warring, hate-filled, backward
planets, should be the only ones who base their entire existence
on a complicated series of games?"