PSYCHOTENNIS, ANYONE?
By LLOYD WILLIAMS
Illustrated by DAVID STONE
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction November 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
If scientific advance changes our forms of courtship, can other
sports be far behind? Not when telekinesis is finally perfected!
Before them the ball took a savage turn toward the player in white.Around Grant the crowd stood up and roared, and he felt suddenly tenseand doubting. Then the player ducked, the ball shot through above himto smash against the court wall, and he controlled the rebound to sendthe sphere once more into erratic, darting flight.
"Again!" Grant felt his muscles suddenly relax with release of anxiety.He turned to the girl. "Bee, I'm worried. It's not like Tony—does hewant to get killed? He should stop those shots, not dodge them. Are yousure he's all right?"
"Now, Granny." The girl kept her eyes fixed on the court. "Remember,Tony took this match for charity. He wants the crowd to have a show,that's all. He is in splendid shape."
"No sleep," Grant went on worriedly. "I'm sure it must be that. If hisbrain were alert, he'd control that ball until Slag went crazy. Withoutsleep, you can't focus prop—"
"Please, Granny, stop!" In that instant her throbbing mind touchedhis, and he caught a glimpse of the alarm in her face. She, too, feltthat something was wrong. But she tugged at his sleeve and pointedthrough the screen at the oval below. "Look!"
Slag's feet were set wide apart, and his black-robed body stood square.But his head had begun a sort of slow wobble, from side to side, as theball lanced in perihedral swings about the court.
"Praise Allah!" whispered Grant. "A beautiful dance! Tony's thinkingthat gangster, into a coma."
The white player was in concentration, using his eyes only rarely inshifting ever more complex movements to the sphere. Then the rhythmicpattern had become a wild corondo, with Slag as its center, and thedark figure stood hypnotized, with only spasmodic jerks of his brutalfeatures to mark the fear in his mind.
"Now," said Grant. His voice seemed loud in the awed silence of thespectators. "Now, Tony! Call it a day!"
"Just touch him," whispered Bee. "Don't hurt him, Tony."
It was as if they had signaled the player, even through the tele-proofscreen. Gradually the wild swings of the ball slowed. It circled Slaggently, dropped closer, and poised above him. Tony's mind was clearlyin full control of the sensitive sphere.
In a seat behind Grant, an excited man suddenly yelled, "Thumbsdown, hard!" Obviously the crowd was ready to sacrifice its erstwhilehero.
Then—the ball moved, a small movement, and there was a roar.Uninfluenced, the ball dropped and rolled to the center court, and Tonystood in bewilderment as Slag shook himself awake.
Grant leaped up and tried to push through to the box exit. Behind him,Bee clung. "Granny, what will you do? What can you...."
He shook her off and answered her with his mind as he struggled on."Stop them, that's what! End the match."
"How? You know you cannot!"
But he felt her mind cling at the hope, and sent back reassurance. "Ican. They