the final top contestant was given last of all. But during the trials, every competitor formed a rough idea of his or her chances by direct comparison with the opposition. It was easy to be wrong by five places, but errors larger than that were unlikely. Deep inside, a competitor knew if he were down in ninetieth place. Even so, hope always remained. But as the names gradually were announced, and twenty-fourth, twenty-third, and twenty-second position was taken, most contestants were filled with an increasing gloom, panic, or wild surmise. Could they possibly have placed so high? Or, more likely, were they already eliminated?
The announcements went on steadily, slowly, relentlessly. Twentieth position. Seventeen. Fourteen.
Number ten had been reached: Wilmer. He was a tall, thin youth whose head was completely hairless. Either he shaved it daily, or he was prematurely bald. He was always hungry and always awake. The rest of them had joked about it — Wilmer cheated, he refused to go to sleep until everyone else had nodded off. Then he slept faster than other people, which wasn’t fair. Wilmer took it all good-naturedly. He could afford to. Needing hours less sleep than the others, he could spend more time preparing for the next trial.
Now he lay back on the stones and closed his eyes. He had always said that when this stage of the trials was over he would sleep for ten days solid. The list advanced to number five. It was Sy. The dark-haired youth appeared to be as cool as ever, with no visible sign of pleasure or relief. He was standing with his head slightly inclined, cradling his weak left elbow in his right hand and not looking at anyone else.
Peron felt his own stomach tightening. He had passed the positions he expected to occupy, now he was in a region where only his wildest hopes had taken him. Number four: Elissa. She whooped with delight. Peron knew he should feel pleased, but he had no room in him now for pleasure. He clasped his hands tightly together to stop their shaking, and waited. The display was static, never changing. The colosseum seemed to be full of a terrible silence, though he knew the crowd must be cheering wildly.
Number three. The letters went up slowly. P-e-r-o-n o-f T-u-r-c-a-n-t-a. He felt his lungs relax in a long, tortured gasp. He had been unconsciously holding his breath for many seconds. He had done it! Third place. Third place! No one from his region had ever placed so high, not in four hundred years of Planetfest games.
Peron heard the rest of the results, but they scarcely registered. He was overwhelmed with pleasure and relief. Some part of his mind puzzled when the second place winner, Kallen, was announced, because he hardly recognized the name. He wondered how they could have passed through so many difficult trials together without ever having spoken to each other. But everything — the crowd, the colosseum, the other contestants — seemed miles away, mirages in the bright yellow sunlight.
The last name appeared, and there was a final huge roar from the crowd. Lum! Lum of Minacta had won first place! No one would begrudge him his triumph, but he would be a sad disappointment to all the parents who urged their sons and daughters to live good lives so that they could be the winner of the Games. Who would want to be a winner, if it meant growing up big, meaty, and coarse-looking like this year’s?
There was a commotion at the end of the line. Two of the girls near to Lum had given him a hug, then tried to lift him onto their shoulders to carry him forward in triumph toward the crowd. After a few moments it became obvious that he was too heavy. Lum leaned forward, grabbed one girl in each arm and lifted them up. They perched, one on each shoulder, as he strode forward to the barricade. He held up his hands and did a quick pirouette, while the crowd went berserk.
“Come on, misery.” The voice came from Peron’s side. It was Elissa, who grabbed his arm as he turned to face her. “You look as though you’re going to sleep. Let’s get in and celebrate — we’re winners! We should act like it.” Before he could object she was dragging him forward to join the others. The party was beginning. Winners and losers, everyone had magically recovered from their fatigue. Now that the contest was over, and the bets had been decided, the crowd would treat them all as winners. Which they were. They had survived the most gruelling tests that Planetfest could provide. And now they would celebrate until Cassay went down in the sky, until only the feeble red light of Cassby was left to lead them to their dormitories.
Planetfest was over for another four years. Few people ever stopped to think that the final winner had not yet been selected. The last trials took place off-planet, away from the publicity, far away where no announcements were made. The contestants knew the truth: a tougher, unknown phase still lay ahead, where the only prize would be knowledge of victory. But the cash prizes, the celebrations by whole provinces, the public applause, and the generous family pensions were not based on off-planet results. So to most of the inhabitants of Pentecost — to almost everyone but the finalists themselves — the planetary games were over for another four years.
And Lum’s name, Lum of Minacta, stood above all others.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I’m sure you feel you’ve been through a lot. Well, it’s my job to tell you that hard times are just beginning. Take a word from Eliya Gilby, you’ve seen nothing. Compared with the off-planet tests, the crappy Planetfest games are for kiddies.”
The speaker was a thin, gray-haired man dressed in the black leather and glittering brass of a System Guard. His face wore a sardonic smile that could be read equally as pity, contempt, or dyspepsia. He was unable to stand still as he spoke. He paced in front of the silent group, and all the time his hands were also in motion, pulling at his belt, adjusting his collar, or rubbing at bloodshot eyes.
The Planetfest winners who made up his audience were in much better shape. The offers of drinks, drugs, and stimulants from the celebrating well-wishers had been numerous, but years of preparation for the trials had taught the contestants self-control. And a quiet sleep until almost midday, without having to plan for the next trial, had been a restorative and a luxury. They looked at each other as the guard was speaking, and exchanged secret smiles. Captain Gilby was in terrible condition. He had refused no offers of free drinks, by the look of it. There was no doubt that he was hungover — and badly — from a night’s long revelry.
Captain Gilby moved his head from side to side, very slowly. He grunted, sighed, and cleared his throat. “Bloody hell. All right, here we go. It’s my job to try to explain the Fifty Worlds to you. But I can tell you now, there’s no real way you’ll know what they’re like until you’ve been there for yourself. Take my word for it, I’ve made six trips off-planet, with six lots of you winners, all over the Cass system. And everybody tells me when they see the real thing that my pictures are useless. And I agree. But my bosses won’t listen to that, so today that’s what you get. Pictures. They won’t give you more than a faint idea, but they’re all you’ll have until next week.”
He sniffed, bent forward slowly and carefully, and lifted up a large, flat case. “Let’s take a look at a few pictures of Barchan, close-in to Cassay. There’s a hell-hole for you, if you want my opinion. I suppose it’s too much to hope that any of you already know something about it?”
Wilmer looked around him, then raised a tentative hand. “I do.”
Gilby stared at him. “Do you now? Mind telling me how, since that sort of knowledge shouldn’t be public down on Pentecost.”
“My uncle was a Planetfest winner, twelve years ago. Last year I asked him about the off-planet trials.”
“Before you even started on the first round for Planetfest! Cocky little bastard, aren’t you? So tell us all about Barchan.”
“Sand dunes, just like the picture shows. Primitive vegetable life, no animals, not much atmosphere. And hot as blazes except at the poles. Hot as melted lead.” Wilmer hesitated, then added: “Not my choice for a trial. If it’s held there it will mean hotsuits all the time.”
“Now then, no trying to influence the others,” said Gilby mildly. While Wilmer had been talking a tray of hot drinks had arrived, and the captain was eyeing it longingly. “But the rest of what you say is right enough. Hot enough to boil your balls off in two minutes, if your suit fails. And if you have balls. Barchan is only a hundred and twenty million kilometers from Cassay. Let’s look at another one, a bit farther out. This is Gimperstand. Know anything about it?” Gilby was holding up two pictures. One showed a space view of a greenish-brown ball, the other a lush jungle of incredibly tangled vines. Wilmer shook his head, and no one else seemed ready to speak.
“And you probably don’t want to. It’s officially Gimperstand, but the unofficial name we have for it is Stinker. And it deserves it. There’s an atmosphere. It’s a little thin, but in principle it’s breathable. I’ve tried it. Two breaths make you run off and puke. It’s something one of the vines releases, and it makes night-lapper shit smell like honeysuckle. A real stinkeroo. One whiff of it will knock you flat.”
He held the pictures out delicately at armslength, then dropped them back into the case.
