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Page 12


  Smyth threw off the smoking glove, sniffed the air, then sucked his fingers.

  "Well, that didn't work."

  He turned away, drew in a deep breath, then went back into his laboratory. There was immediately the whir of a powerful draft sucking up fumes.

  "Hm-m-m," said Banner looking thoughtfully at the partly opened door.

  Smyth reappeared, unrolling what looked like a small coil of bell wire. He tacked a loop to the door frame, then, still unrolling wire, went back into the laboratory. Wisps of smoke were still trailing out around the top of the door, but this didn't seem to slow him down. He came out, cut the loop, stripped the insulation off the two ends, pounded in another tack, and hammered it flat to hold the two wires. Then he bent the ends of the wires, so they wouldn't touch—yet.

  Hommel cleared his throat.

  "Ah . . . Dr. Smyth . . . I wonder if perhaps . . . a little more theoretical consideration of the thermodynamics of the reaction—?"

  "Theoretical considerations be damned," said Smyth. "The only way we're going to find out is to try it and see what products we get."

  He raised his left arm over his head, shielding one ear with his shoulder, and the other with his fingers, then he touched the bare ends of the two wires together.

  BOOM!

  The building jumped.

  Cracks shot up the wall.

  There was a heavy shattering crash from overhead.

  As the roar died away, the smash and tinkle of breaking glass could be heard throughout the building.

  Smyth shoved the door slightly open, and a grayish cloud poured out. He wafted some of the fumes in his direction, and sniffed cautiously.

  His face lit in a triumphant smile.

  "That saves some time!"

  He pulled the door shut, and headed toward the stockroom.

  Hommel turned to Banner, "How is this an improvement? We were better off with theorists!"

  "We've overshot the mark again. This stuff is too strong."

  "There's a threshold effect. If you don't use enough, you get no result you can detect."

  A small crowd was gathering in the hall to see what was going on. Banner separated Peabody from the pack.

  "Peabody, my boy," said Banner, "we've got this last problem pretty well licked, thanks to your antidote. But there's still one little loose end that we've got to take care of."

  Peabody looked apprehensive.

  "What's that, sir?"

  Banner shook his head.

  "Now we need an antidote for the antidote."

  SCIENCE AT WORK

  Interesting Times

  Alex Bohlen, bioprogrammer for Xpert Systems Implants, sat a few yards from the boxing ring and watched Reinhardt Magnusgarten climb through the ropes. In the seat to Bohlen's right, even as the crowd around them let out its roar of approval, Ed Norton, implant surgeon, gave a grunt of disgust.

  "That SOB can't stop clowning."

  Bohlen noted Magnusgarten's nose-thumbing gesture across the ring toward Bisbee, the champion.

  Bohlen shook his head. "The implant doesn't affect his natural ebullience."

  "Ebullience? The guy thinks he's unbeatable. When they weighed in, he laughed in Bisbee's face."

  Around them, the shouts of the crowd were rising to a new pitch, and Bohlen listened wonderingly:

  "Okay, Maggie! Kill the bastard!"

  "Magic Garden! You're in the Garden, boy! You've made it! Hey, hey! Magic Garden!"

  "Come on, Maggie! Show him! We're all champs now!"

  "One round, Maggie!"

  Bohlen leaned toward Norton. "Are all these people crazy?"

  "I don't think they are. But I think Magnus may be."

  In the ring, Magnusgarten had shrugged off his robe to reveal a large pale physique, and, as the crowd gave a roar of laughter, he patted his none too muscular midsection. He then danced somewhat tipsily around in his corner, and Norton suddenly sprang to his feet, to shout to the trainer, who shook his head and leaned over the ropes to answer:

  "Just the usual! You know Maggie!"

  Norton sat down, and Bohlen said, "What was that?"

  "I thought Magnus might be drunk. Tab says he's just horsing around, as usual."

  "That's a relief, at least."

  "There's a lot riding on this. Magnus could show a little seriousness."

  "That would be nice. But he's done all right so far."

  "Sure. Against second-rates. Strictly thanks to the implant."

  "True."

  In the ring, an official, arms raised, was trying to quiet the crowd. The crowd chanted back, "Fight! Fight! Kill him, Maggie! Fight! Fight! Kill him, Maggie! Fight! Fight! Kill him, Maggie!"

  Someone tugged at Bohlen's left sleeve. He turned, to smile at a pretty blonde girl in the seat beside him.

  "Bo," she said, "I'm scared."

  "I told you you might not like it. But don't worry. It's always like this. A lot of noise and emotion. It's just the way it always is."

  She shook her head. "I don't mean that. I'm afraid for Magnus. He can't possibly stand up to that man."

  Bohlen followed her gaze, to see the two fighters in the center of the ring, right hands outstretched. The contrast jarred him. There in the blaze of the lights was the champion, Bisbee, a light sheen of sweat over powerful muscles, plainly trained to the peak of condition, his face blank, his gaze alert. He had a look of power and lightning reflexes.

  And there was Magnusgarten, large, but more lightly built, his muscles less developed, pale, slightly pudgy, a silly faintly nasty grin on his face as he said something to the champion.

  By some freak of acoustics, Bohlen caught the words.

  Norton swore. "What did the overconfident ass do now?"

  Bohlen shook his head. "He said, 'Sweet dreams,' to Bisbee."

  "Great. He thinks the implant's magic. He doesn't know the difference between the second-rates he fought to get here and the champion of the world. How could I be so stupid?"

  "You? What did you do?"

  Norton shook his head. "I bet on him."

  Bohlen grinned. "On Magnus?"

  Norton nodded. "And it wasn't pennies."

  The crowd was shouting and laughing. The girl said in a low voice, "Oh, Magnus." Bohlen turned to reassure her. There was a bell. A huge shout went up. Bohlen looked around.

  Bisbee was in the center of the ring, his muscular arms raised to shield his head as Magnus with incredible speed landed blows to the champion's arms, shoulders, and when Bisbee tried to strike back, to his briefly uncovered head. When Bisbee turned, as if to get away, Magnus was already there, blocking him, smashing at Bisbee's well covered head and body.

  The crowd screamed, "Maggie! Maggie! You've got him!"

  The girl was on her feet with everyone else, clutching Bohlen's arm.

  Norton was shouting with the rest of them. "Put him down, Maggie! Put him down!"

  Magnusgarten hit Bisbee again and again. Bisbee kept backing and turning, keeping his head well covered. Magnusgarten hit him on the biceps, the shoulders, landed a blow to the midsection. Suddenly, Bisbee lashed out, and his punch missed, pulling him a little off-balance. Magnusgarten hit him to the eyes, and again to the eyes. Bisbee covered his face with his gloves, the sweat running down his well muscled body.

  Magnusgarten laughed, stepped close, said something to Bisbee, then stepped easily around the big muscular fighter, and smashed him in the side.

  As Bisbee retreated across the ring, Magnusgarten followed, hit the upraised arms, then the midsection. Bisbee covered himself with gloves, forearms, and elbows. Magnusgarten hit him. Bisbee gave with the punches.

  Norton said, "Damn it! Why won't he go down?"

  The big crowd fell silent. For several moments there was nothing but the sound of the blows. Then, from somewhere to the rear came an elderly, somewhat cracked male voice:

  "Keep it up, Champ! He's wearing out!"

  The bell rang.

  Magnusgarten, breathing h
ard, sank onto his stool. Bisbee, the champion, sat down and leaned back. His eyes were puffed, and blood trickled from a cut in his lip.

  Norton said uneasily, "This is the first fight to go a full round."

  Bohlen said, "Well—Bisbee is the champ."

  "I don't like the looks of it. Magnus acts tired already."

  Bohlen leaned close to Norton's ear. "Remember the program."

  Norton nodded, but said moodily, "If there had been more strength in Magnus's blows, Bisbee would be down by now."

  "He's no weakling. He's hurt Bisbee. You can see that."

  "I know he's no weakling. But he doesn't do his part. Tab has to train him playing games and he has to do it between parties. Magnus throws the whole burden on other people."

  "The reporters love it. So does the crowd."

  "That won't help him if Bisbee connects."

  There was the sound of the bell.

  Magnusgarten came unsteadily to his feet. He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, looking across the ring at Bisbee.

  The champion, hands partly raised, stalked warily across the ring.

  The cracked voice called from the back, "Watch him, Champ! He's not that bushed!"

  The champion's guard jerked up higher.

  At the same instant, Magnusgarten pivoted. Bisbee reeled back, hands in front of his face. Magnusgarten laughed, stepped aside, struck Bisbee's gloves as if to knock his guard down, hit him in the side, in the elbows, hit the raised gloves, smashed Bisbee in the ear, struck again to the head, where the upraised arms soaked up the force of the blows, smashed him on the biceps, again on the biceps, as if to lacerate the muscles, to destroy Bisbee's power of defense—

  Bisbee backed, moved with the blows, covered himself, retreated around the ring as Magnus advanced.

  The crowd screamed for action. Time and again, Magnusgarten lashed out, breathing hard, and the champion slipped away.

  Among the shouts of "Yellow!" "Coward!" "Come on and fight!" came a cracked voice, "That's it, Champ! Wear him down!"

  The bell finally rang.

  A shout went up.

  Norton sat back. "My God!"

  From the rear of the arena, as the shouting died down, came the cracked voice, "He's slowing, Champ. Next round, push him a little."

  Norton twisted in his seat. "Who is that? Damn it, I wish he'd shut up!"

  The girl said, "Is it true?"

  Bohlen looked at her anxious face. "Is what true?"

  "Is Magnus tired?"

  "He's bound to be a little tired."

  "But doesn't the—the chip—the implant—It makes him an expert, doesn't it?"

  As Bohlen hesitated, Norton leaned across him to snarl, "The bastard won't train, that's the trouble. The implant steps up his coordination. It gives him skill he wouldn't have. But he thinks it's magic and he doesn't train."

  "But couldn't the implant make him train?"

  Norton glanced at Bohlen. "How about it?"

  Bohlen hesitated. "Maybe some day. So far, we can't do anything for motivation. I never even thought of the problem." He frowned at Norton. "Did you?"

  "I thought if we got someone big and strong, who knew the rudiments, who'd take the risk of the surgery, and if we could get the chip implanted—I thought that would do it."

  "That's what I thought."

  The bell rang.

  Bisbee, his guard well up, cautiously crossed the ring.

  Magnusgarten, breathing hard, his hands down, stood, legs slightly trembling, in his corner.

  The thin cracked voice called, "Test him a little, Champ!"

  Bisbee's left hand lashed out.

  Magnusgarten moved his head and body just a little, slipped the blow, and brought up both hands. The champion's right smashed solidly into Magnusgarten's midsection. Magnusgarten went back on the ropes, bounced off, and as Bisbee swung a right that missed, the cracked voice yelled, "Cover, Champ!" Magnusgarten's fists flashed out to Bisbee's briefly unprotected head. The blows were solid, coordinated, and one followed another so fast Bohlen wasn't sure whether there had been three, four, or half-a-dozen.

  Bisbee went down. The sound brought the crowd to its feet and silence to the arena.

  Bohlen reached in his hip pocket, and brought out a handkerchief. He mopped his face and brow. "Close."

  The girl said wonderingly, admiringly, "I never thought Magnus could do it!"

  The worshipful tone irritated Bohlen, but he clamped his jaws shut. Norton, sweat running down his face, looking as if he had been in the ring himself, leaned across Bohlen to speak in a low voice.

  "Magnus hasn't done a damned thing! Every move he's made has been programmed. I did the surgery, Bo here programmed the chip. The rest of the team sweated right along with us. And now the lazy bastard is supposed to get all the credit? When you see him, tell him to train! He could have lost this fight!"

  There was an indrawn breath from the crowd. Bohlen turned back to look in the ring.

  Magnusgarten, blood running from his nose and lip, leaning painfully on the ropes, stared as Bisbee stood up and the referee stepped back.

  It suddenly dawned on Bohlen that the champion had stayed down for the count of nine voluntarily. Bisbee's face looked puffed around the eyes, and his lip was cut and swollen, but his movements showed no weakness.

  The wondering murmur of the crowd sounded like the sea washing up on a long flat beach, and Bohlen thought of the turn of the tide.

  Then the bell signaled the end of the round.

  Norton leaned over to Bohlen. "Now what?"

  Bohlen drew a deep breath. He kept his voice low. "The chip can judge the visual images, and give the commands to Magnus's muscles. If Bisbee knocks out Magnus's vision, or if Magnus's strength gives out, there isn't much the chip can do."

  "Then it's up to Magnus?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "The champ's been soaking up punishment since the fight started. Magnus is worn to a thread dishing it out. This can't go on. Bisbee's going to connect. What good will the chip do then?"

  "If the chip gets no input, it has him cover. That's all it can do."

  "Then when it comes to the final settlement, it's up to Magnus?"

  Bohlen frowned. "I'm not sure I follow. Magnus can override the implant any time. But I don't know what good that will do. We picked Magnus because he was a promising fighter. But the skills in that chip are distilled from every first-rate boxer we could get to cooperate. The only people who could hope to equal it would be first-rate champions themselves: Sullivan. Dempsey. Louis."

  "And Bisbee?"

  "Maybe. Especially since Magnus is out of shape."

  The bell rang, and Bohlen looked up to see Bisbee come out of his corner, and Magnus, with a look of doom, motionless, hands down, still in his corner. Bohlen glanced at the girl. Tears were running down her cheeks.

  Bohlen bent over, ignoring the ring.

  "Are you in love with Magnus?"

  She nodded hopelessly.

  From the back of the arena came the cracked voice.

  "Paste him around, Champ. Wear him down."

  Norton turned around.

  "Who in hell is that?"

  Bohlen forced himself to watch.

  Bisbee had moved close. Bohlen now saw an unexpected display of skill as Magnusgarten tied up Bisbee, robbed his punches of most of their force, took the heavy blows on his arms instead of his head, blocked, turned, weaved, slipped the blows, gasped for breath, wincing with the force of the punches that did get through, spending the round soaking up punishment and dealing out in return nothing that was any real threat to the champion. Finally, the bell rang.

  Norton sank down in his seat. "I thought Magnus was done. But he's still alive. What now?"

  Bohlen shook his head.

  Norton said, "He's more worn out than when the round started. Bisbee looks fresher."

  "I'm afraid Magnus is just a sparring partner to him now. But he's on his feet. He could still win."

/>   "Bisbee batters him on the arms. What happens when he gets Magnus so numb and arm-weary he can't cover himself?"