Birthright

“They were never so blatantly provoked before,” said the Ramorian bitterly.

“I feel,” said Hermione, “that your worries are needless. After all, I am certain that the four Teroni survivors were too far away to tell that our ship was severely crippled.” “Please explain yourself!” came the desperate demand. “As we were pursuing the survivors, a chance shell exploded against our hull, crippling us. But I'm sure the Teron could not have seen it happen. After all, they were some ten million miles away when it occurred.”

“Their sensing devices have a range of twice that distance!” said the Ramorian. “Now they'll know that it is safe to retaliate against us! They can be here in less than two days!” “I'm so sorry!” exclaimed Hermione. “The repairs required to make our ship totally efficient again would take less than half a day, but I fear the journey to Deluros VIII, in our present condition, will consume almost a year. If only there were some other place where we might make repairs...” “Please stand by,” said the Ramorian. The radio went dead for a few minutes, then came on again. “I have been instructed to inform you that you will be permitted to make your repairs on Ramor, or in orbit about us if that is more convenient to you.” “How charitable of you,” said Hermione. “However, I realize that we have blundered and caused you considerable mental and emotional distress by our meddling. Therefore, I feel it would be unfair to impose on you any further. No, we will follow our original plan and return to Deluros VIII, to repair the ship and await your decision about the reopening of trade.” “But the Teroni will destroy us!”

“Surely you overestimate them,” said Hermione. “However, if you were to consider an immediate trading treaty, we would, as a further gesture of brotherhood, remain in your star system until such time as the Teroni are convinced that Ramor is virtually invincible.” Hermione leaned back, shut her eyes, and smiled. It was too bad, she decided, that neither the Ramorians nor Galactic had an analog word for “blackmail.” Within two hours, Hermione Chatham-Smythe, ambassador-at-large, and the premier of Ramor's planetary government had affixed their signatures to a treaty that once again allowed Man to deal commercially with the inhabitants of the Ramorian system. After sending the news on to Deluros VIII, Hermione invited the pilot and Commodore Barnes up to her suite for a brandy.

“Where to next ma'am?” asked the pilot. “It's been quite a long time since we've established a reciprocal trade agreement with any chlorine-breathers in this sector. I'm sure that, given time, we can convince our Teroni brethren of our friendship and good intentions. Don't you agree?” She smiled sweetly and took a sip from her delicate longstemmed glass.

7: THE OLYMPIANS

...Like the Pony Express, which earned a place in human history far surpassing the importance of its accomplishments in its eleven-month lifetime, so did the cult of the Olympians receive an amount of publicity totally out of proportion to its achievements during its brief, twenty-two month existence. This in no way is meant to denigrate those romantic idols of the early Democracy, for at that time Man needed all the heroes he could get, and certainly no group ever filled that need with the zest and flourish of the Olympians...

—Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement ...Perhaps worthy of a passing mention are the Olympians,

for it is doubtful that any other segment of humanity so accurately mirrored Man's incredible ego, his delight in humiliating other races, and... —Origin and History of the Sentient Races, Vol. 8 There were fifty thousand beings in the stadium, and countless billions more watching via video. And every last one of them shared the same goal: to watch him go crashing down to defeat. “Big moment's coming up!” said Hailey, who slapped life into his legs as he lay, face down, on the rubbing table. “Today's the day we'll show ‘em, big fella.” He stared dead ahead, unmoving. “You hope,” he said. “I know,” said Hailey. “You're a Man, kid, and Men don't lose. Ready to meet the press yet?” He nodded.

The door was unlatched, and a flood of reporters, human and nonhuman, pressed about him. “Still think you're going to take him, Big John?” He nodded. Olympians were known for their reticence. They had managers to answer questions. “It's one hundred and thirty degrees out there,” said another. “Not much oxygen, either.” He simply stared at the reporter. No question had been asked, so he offered no answer. “Boys,” said Hailey, stepping in front of him, “you know Big John's got to get emotionally up for this, so shoot your questions at me. I'll be happy to answer any of them.” He flashed a confident grin at one of the video cameras.

“I didn't know Olympianshad any emotions,” said a Lodin XI reporter sarcastically. “Sure they do, sure they do,” jabbered Hailey. “They're just too professional to show ‘em, that's all.” “Mr. Hailey,” said a space-suited chlorine-breather, using his T-pack, “just exactly what does Mr. Tinsmith hope to prove by all this?”

“I'm glad you asked that question, sir,” said Hailey. “Very glad indeed. It's something I'm sure a lot of your viewers have wondered about. Well, let me put the answer this way: Big John Tinsmith is an Olympian, with all that that implies. He took his vows four years ago, swore an oath of total abstinence from sexual congress, alcoholic stimulants, detrimental narcotics, and tobacco. As a member of the cult

of the Olympians, his job is identical to that of his brethren: to travel the length and breadth of the galaxy

as an ambassador of Man's goodwill and sportsmanship, challenging native races to those physical contests in which they specialize.”

“Then why haven't any Olympians challenged a Torqual to a wrestling match?” came a question. “As I was saying,” continued Hailey, “the natives of Emra IV pride themselves on their fleetness of foot. Foot racing is their highest form of physical sport, and so—” “It wouldn't have to do with the face that the Torqual go twelve hundred pounds of solid muscle, would it?” persisted the questioner.

“Well, we hadn't wanted to make it public, but Sherif Ibn ben Iskad has challenged Torqual to put up its champion for a match next month.”

“Sherif Iskad!” whooped a human reporter. “Now, thatis news! Iskad's never lost, has he?” “No Olympian has,” said Hailey. “And now that that's settled, I'll get back to the subject. Big John Tinsmith will be running against the very finest that Emra IV has to offer, and I guarantee you're going to see...”

On and on Hailey droned, answering those questions that appealed to him, adroitly ducking those that he didn't care for. Finally, fifteen minutes before post time, he cleared the room again and turned to Tinsmith. “How do you feel, kid?”

“Fine,'’ said Tinsmith, who hadn't moved a muscle. “Herb!” snapped Hailey. “Lock and bolt the door. No one comes in for ten minutes.” The trainer's assistant secured the door, and Hailey pulled out a small leather bag from beneath the rubbing table. He opened it, pulled out a number of syringes, and began going over the labels on a score or more of small bottles.

“Adrenalin,” he announced, shooting a massive dose into Tinsmith's arm. “Terrain looked a little rough too. Better have a little phenylbutazone.'’ One dose was inserted into each calf. “Something to make you breathe the air a little easier ... here, this'll ease the heat a bit ... yep, that's about it. Getting sharp?” Tinsmith moved for the first time, sitting up on the edge of the table, his long, lean legs dangling a few inches above the polished floor. He took two deep breaths, exhaled them slowly, and nodded. “Good,” said Hailey. “Personally, I was against this race. I think it's a little soon for you yet. But Olympians can't say no, so we stalled as long as we could and then agreed to it.” Tinsmith lowered himself to the floor, knelt down, and began tightening his shoes. “Now, this guy's fast, make no bones about it,” said Hailey. “Damned fast. He'll knock off the first mile in under three minutes, which means you'll be so far back you probably won't be able to see him. But the Emrans are short on staying power. Figure he'll get the second mile in three and a half, the third in three and three-quarters. Save your kick until then. It's four miles and eighty yards. If you run like you trained, you ought to pull even with him a good quarter mile from the finish.” Hailey chuckled. “Won't that be something, though! Have that bastard pull out by hundreds of yards and then nip him at the wire just when every goddamn alien from here to the Rim thinks an Olympian has finally gone and got himself beat. Sheer beauty, I call it!”

“Ready,” said Tinsmith, turning to the door.

“Just remember, kid,” said Hailey. “No Olympian has ever lost. You represent the race of Man. All of its prestige rides on your shoulders. The first time one