Away Games: Science Fiction Sports Stories (14 page)

“You are the most understanding and compassionate man I’ve ever met, Doctor Jones,” he said, “but I am at the end of my tether. I don’t know what to do. I have no one to turn to. Only these accursed Gypsies will tolerate my presence, because it amuses them. I think very soon I shall end it all.”

At which point the Lord smote me with another of His heavenly revelations.

“Seems to me you’re being a mite hasty, Brother Basil,” I said.

“What is the use of going on?” he said plaintively. “I will never be able to remove the curse.”

“First of all, you got to stop thinking of your condition as a curse,” I continued. “What if I was to show you how the werewolf business could be a blessing in disguise?”

“Impossible!”

“You willing to bet five thousand dollars on that?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“You see,” I said, “the problem is that you ain’t never really examined yourself when the moon is out. You ain’t simply a werewolf, but you happen to be a damned fine looking werewolf.”

“So what?”

“On my way into town, I passed an arena that holds a dog show every Saturday. The sign said that the prize money was ten thousand dollars.”

“You just said five,” he pointed out.

“Well, me and the Lord have got to have a little something to live on, too,” I said.

“What makes you think a wolf can win a dog show?” he said dubiously.

“Why don’t you just concentrate on being a handsome, manly type of critter and let
me
worry about the rest of it?” I said.

Well, we argued it back and forth for the better part of the morning, but finally he admitted that he didn’t see no better alternatives, and he could always commit suicide the next week if things didn’t work out, and I went off to buy a leash and some grooming equipment at the local pet store, and then stopped by the arena for an entry form. I didn’t know if he had an official werewolf name or not, so I just writ down Grand International Champion Basil on the form, and let it go at that.

The biggest problem I had the next two days was finding a vet who was open at night, so I could get Basil his rabies and distemper shots, but finally I convinced one to work late for an extra fifty dollars, which I planned to deduct from Basil’s share of the winnings, since the shots didn’t do me no good personally, and then it was Saturday, and we just stuck around the hotel until maybe five in the afternoon, Basil getting more and more nervous, and finally we walked on over to the arena.

Basil’s class was scheduled to be judged at seven o’clock, but as the hour approached it began to look like the moon wasn’t going to come out in time, and since I didn’t want us to forfeit all that money by not showing up on time, I quick ran out into the alley, grabbed the first couple of cats I could find, and set ’em loose in the arena. The newspaper the next morning said that the ruckus was so loud they could hear it all the way over in Szentendre, which was a little town about forty miles up the road, and by the time everything had gone back to normal Basil was about as far from normal as Hungarian counts are prone to get, and I slipped his leash on him and headed for the ring.

There were three other dogs ahead of us, and after we entered the ring the judge came over and look at Basil.

“This is a class for miniature poodles,” he said severely. “Just what kind of mongrel is
that
?”

“You know this guy, Basil?” I asked.

Basil nodded.

“He one of the ones who’s mean to you when you walk through town?”

Basil growled an ugly growl.

“
Basil
?” said the judge, turning white as a sheet.

Basil gave him a toothy grin.

“Now, to answer your question,” I said, “this here happens to be a fully growed miniature poodle what takes umbrage when you insults its ancestry.”

The judge stared at Basil for another couple of seconds, then disqualified the other three dogs for not looking like him and handed me a blue ribbon.

Well, to make a long story short, old Basil terrorized the judges in the next three classes he was in and won ’em all, and then the ring steward told me that I had five minutes to prepare for the final class of the day, where they would pick the best dog in the show and award the winner the ten thousand dollars.

Suddenly Basil started whining up a storm. I couldn’t see no ticks or fleas on him, and he couldn’t tell me what was bothering him, but something sure was, and finally I noticed that he was staring intently at something, and I turned to see what it was, and it turned out to be this lovely looking lady who was preparing to judge the Best in Show class.

“What’s the problem, Basil?” I asked.

He kept whining and staring.

“Is it
her
?”

He nodded.

I racked my mind trying to figure out what it was about her that could upset him so much.

“She’s been mean to you before?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“She’s got something to do with the Gypsies who cursed you?”

He shook his head again.

“I can’t figure out what the problem is,” I said. “But what the hell, as long as we let her know who you are, it’s in the bag.”

He pointed his nose at the ceiling and howled mournfully.

“She’s from out of town and doesn’t know you’re a werewolf?” I asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

He whimpered and curled up in a little ball.

“Will the following dogs please enter the ring?” said the announcer. “Champion Blue Boy, Champion Flaming Spear, Champion Gladiator, Champion Jericho, and Grand International Champion Basil.”

Well, we didn’t have no choice but to follow these four fluffy little dogs into the ring. The judge just stared at us for a minute with her jaw hanging open, and I figured we were about to get booted out, but then she walked over and knelt down and held Basil by the ears and peered into his face, and then she stood up and stepped back a bit and stared at him some more, and finally she walked over to me and said, “This is the most handsome, rugged, masculine dog I have ever seen. I have a female I’d love to breed to him. Is he for sale?”

I told her that I was just showing him for a friend, and that she’d have to speak to the Count de Chenza Lupo about it later. She scribbled down her address, and it turned out that she was staying three rooms down the hall from me at the Hotel Magyar.

Finally she examined the other four dogs briefly and with obvious disinterest, and then she announced that Grand International Champion Basil was the best dog in this or any other show and had won the ten thousand dollars.

Well, Basil and me stuck around long enough to have a bunch of photos taken for the papers and then high tailed it back to the hotel, where we waited until daylight and he became Count Basil again and we divvied up the money. Then he walked down the hall to talk to the judge about selling himself to her, and he came back half an hour later with the silliest grin on his face and announced that he was in love and she didn’t mind in the least that he was a werewolf and all was right with the world.

I read in the paper that the other dog owners were so outraged about losing to a wolf that they tore the building down, and with the dog shows canceled for the foreseeable future I couldn’t see no reason to stick around, so I bid Hungary farewell and decided to try my luck in Paris, where I’d heard tell that the sinners were so thick on the ground you could barely turn around without making the real close acquaintanceship of at least a couple of ’em.

I never saw old Basil again, but a few months later I got a letter from him. He’d married his lady judge and left Budapest for good, and was living on her country estate managing her kennel—and he added a proud little postscript that both his wife and her prize female were expecting.

***

Best in Show

Author’s Note: Masquerade Competition

This one was commissioned by DragonCon for an anthology of stories set at the convention. I got to have a lot of fun with some of my friends—I don’t think Eric Flint has forgiven me yet—and since convention masquerades are competitions, that makes them a sport, at least for the duration of this collection.

You expect a lot of things at DragonCon: great panels, a phenomenal dealers’ room, enjoyable parties, gorgeous girls in skimpy costumes, elevators that never work. But the one thing you never really expect to see is a dragon. Admit it.

The first twenty people who saw it in line at Registration thought it was a costume. A very
big
costume. The 21
^st
was Eric Flint, whose keen science fiction writer’s mind knew instantly that it was a real dragon. Eric spent the next ten minutes trying to convert it to socialism.

Finally the dragon was first in line.

“Name?” said the bored female fan behind the desk, not looking up.

“Yes.”

“What
is
it?”

“Bellwether.”

“Well, maybe,” she replied. “I think it may rain, though.”

“No,” said the dragon. “My
name
is Bellwether.”

“Are you pre-registered?”

“Certainly.”

She looked through the list that was laid out before her.

“I don’t find you listed here.”

“I sent in my entry fee months ago,” said Bellwether.

“Entry fee?” she repeated. “Don’t you mean your dues?”

“Certainly not. I am entered in the Light Green Fire-Breathing Adolescent Class, limit twelve tons.”

The girl finally looked up from her paperwork. “You’re the best dragon I’ve seen all year,” she said admiringly. “Anne McCaffrey would be proud.” She handed Bellwether a badge. “Here. Even if you’re not registered, I couldn’t keep a costume like this out of the masquerade.”

“I am not wearing a costume!” snapped Bellwether, twins streams of smoke rushing out of its nostrils.

“Too bad,” she said. “You’d have won the masquerade hands down. If you had any hands, that is.”

Bellwether stared at her for a moment. “Are you suggesting that this
isn’t
the 386
^th
Annual Pan-Galactic Dragon Show?”

“Yeah, I think you could say that.”

“But I’ve been training for months!” whined Bellwhether. “I even lost three thousand pounds getting in shape! I haven’t eaten a knight in three weeks! I’ve even declared peace on any judges named St. George!”

“I’m not up to coping with this,” said the fan. “You want to talk to a science fiction writer. They deal with this foolishness all the time.”

“Where would I find one?” asked Bellwhether plaintively.

“Oh, they’re all over. There’s one walking by right now—the one in the kilt.”

“Will he be able to help?”

She shook her head. “That’s John Ringo. He eats dragons for breakfast. You don’t want to mess with him.” She paused thoughtfully. “I’d direct you to Mike Resnick, but he’s always surrounded by so many gorgeous groupies that you’ll never be able force your way through them.” Suddenly she pointed. “There’s Eric Flint. He’s an international bestseller as well as an editor.”

“I spoke to him before. He wants me to run for President.”

“As a third party candidate?”

“An eighth party. He says the first seven are corrupt capitalist swine.”

“Maybe you should just walk around and see if you can find any writers or editors to help you. Or possibly Don Maitz will put you on the cover of a book.”

“It sounds painful,” said Bellwether.

“He just uses paint,” she said reassuringly.

“With lead in it?” asked Bellwether nervously.

“Look, I’d love to sit here all day and talk to you, but the line behind you is getting restless, and you never know what restless fans will do, except that it’s bound to be diverting, loud, and possibly illegal. Run along, and good luck to you.”

Bellwether thanked her, and started looking around. “When I find the travel agent who sent me here,” it muttered, “he’s toast.
Burnt
toast.”

A pudgy fan (though no more than 400 pounds; like Bellwether he’d been dieting) approached the dragon.

“Let me guess,” said the fan. “You’re from Pern.”

“Actually, I’m from Beta Leporis IV,” answered Bellwether.

“What do you call your costume?”

“I’m not wearing a costume?”

“That’s the
real
you?”

“Yes.”

“If that’s not a costume, why aren’t you wearing any pants?”

Bellwether hated questions like that, especially when the only answer was an embarrassed “I forgot”, so it wandered off, down an escalator, through a long tunnel, and into another hotel.

“Dealer’s room is on the second floor,” said a guard.

“Why do I want a dealers room?” asked Bellwether.

“They’re sticking you out front to draw a crowd, aren’t they?” The guard studied Bellwether for a moment. “Doesn’t it get hot under there?”

“Under where?”

“Never mind. I know you method actors—you always stay in character.”

“I don’t suppose you know where the ring is,” asked Bellwether.

“Probably in the jewelry shop.”

“I mean the show ring.”

“Beats the hell out of me,” admitted the guard. “They tell us that a bunch of crazies are gonna overrun the place, and then they never give us specifics. I’d complain to the union, if we had one.”

Bellwether left him Eric Flint’s card, and then went off to find the dealers room. As he slowed down to approach the staircase to the second floor—when you have twelve legs to you have to be very careful on staircases—he was aware that a small feminine hand was rubbing his shoulder. He swung his long neck around until he was face-to-face with a woman who seemed to belong to the hand.

“Yes?” he said, remembering his manners.

“I didn’t ask you anything,” said Josepha Sherman.

“I thought you were trying to get my attention.”

“No,” she said. “I just love petting horses.”

“Have you had your glasses checked lately?” he asked.

“You’re the most horse-like thing in the building,” she said. “Well, except for Bill Fawcett, who bears an uncanny facial resemblance to Rex the Wonder Horse, but he only has two legs.”

“I am not a horse.”

“This is DragonCon,” said Josepha. “You can’t always choose. It’s not your fault that you’re not Secretariat.”

“Big deal,” Bellwether shot back. “You’re not Margaret Meade, either.”

“And you’re not Big Brown!” snapped Josepha.

“And you’re not Catherine Zeta-Jones!” snarled Bellwether.

“And you’re not Man o’ War!” yelled Josepha.

“Did someone mention war?” asked David Weber, emerging from the dealers room.

“Only in passing,” said Bellwether.

David turned to Josepha. “Is this dragon bothering you?”

“I haven’t decided,” she replied.

“Well, I’m not one to brag,” bragged David, “but I know sixty-three sure-fire attacks and ninety-four unstoppable counters that are guaranteed to bring any dragon to its knees.” He stared at Bellwether. “Which is a lot of knees, when you consider it.”

Josepha thanked him, explained that it wasn’t Bellwether’s fault that it wasn’t Seattle Slew, and went off to find Mike Resnick and worshipfully ask for his autograph.

“So,” said David, “if you’re not here to conquer us, what
are
you here for?”

“I guess you’d call it a kind of beauty contest.”

“You’re a judge, right?”

“You have two more guesses,” said Bellwether in annoyed tones.

“Why don’t you forget all this anyway?” suggested David. “Shouldn’t you be out chasing lady dragons?”

“I’m only 168 years old,” said Bellwether mournfully. “They won’t give the time of day to a kid like me. Besides,” it added, “I haven’t decided whether to be a male or a female.”

“You mean it’s not arbitrary?” asked David, surprised.

“Look at that bearded giant over there,” said Bellwether, pointing to Harry Turtledove. “Was having hair all over his face arbitrary?”

“No, but being 7 feet 3 inches was,” noted David. “So was being a man instead of a woman.”

“What’s
wrong
with being a woman?” demanded a voice from behind them, and they both turned to find themselves confronting Toni Weisskopf. It took a moment to identify her, as she wasn’t wearing the formal ermine robe and jewel-studded platinum crown that went with being the Publisher of Baen Books, though of course she wore the 34-carat diamond ring signifying her role as Editor-in-Chief, if only so supplicants bearing manuscripts would know what to kiss once they finished with her feet.

“Nothing’s wrong with being a woman,” said Bellwether nervously. “Some of my best friends are girls.”

“
All
of my best friends are women,” added David devoutly.

Toni stared at Bellwether. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for the masquerade?”

“I’m here for the show.”

“The show?” repeated Toni. “That’s in the next hotel down the row. “I think they’re playing
The Vampire Strikes Back
right now.”

“The
Dragon
show,” Bellwether clarified.

“You must mean the Pern exhibit,” said Toni. “It’s down on the lower level somewhere.”

“I’m not interested in dirty books,” said the dragon.

“
Pern,”
repeated Toni.

“Damned Southerners,” muttered Bellwether. It was turning to descend the stairs when it noticed a huge line in the dealer’s room, and decided anyone that popular with science fiction fans, who were clearly far above average in intelligence and sophistication, would be able to answer all its questions (well, those not concerning certain fantasies it had about lady dragons), or at least be able to point the direction to the dragon ring.

An hour and a half later Bellwether made it to the head of the line and found itself facing Kevin Anderson.

“Where’s your book?” asked Kevin.

“I don’t have one.”

“Well, what
do
you want me to autograph? I’ll sign anything except ladies’ unmentionables; that’s Resnick’s department.”

“I just want to ask you some questions,” said Bellwether.

“Sure,” said Kevin. “Anything you want to know about
Dune
, I’m your man.”

“It isn’t about
Dune
.”

“Okay, the Seven Suns, then?”

“No.”

“L. Ron Hubbard?”

“It has nothing to do with books.”

“Oh, my movie producer status,” said Kevin knowingly. “I can tell you for the record that Paris Hilton and I are just good friends, and I don’t know how those photos of Pam Anderson and me got on the web.”

“Where’s the ring?” demanded Bellwether.

“I told you,” said Kevin. “We’re just good friends.”

“The
show
ring!”

“Show ring, show ring,” repeated Kevin, lowering his head and frowning. Suddenly he looked up. “You mean that cheap imitation diamond I bought for Lindsay Lohan? Well, what do you expect? I’m a producer now. I can’t give real rings to every gorgeous starlet who throws herself at me, so some of them are going to get show rings.”

“Stop understanding me so fast,” said Bellwether. “I am here to compete in the Annual Pan-Galactic Dragon Show.”

“Good luck,” said Kevin. “If they film it, maybe we’ll run it in the trailer to
Wiggleworms of Dune
.”

Bellwether realized it wasn’t going to get the answer it sought, and left the dealers room, heading to the staircase.

“Still giving you a hard time, are they?” asked a familiar voice.

The dragon turned and found itself facing Eric Flint.

“It’s very frustrating,” admitted Bellwether.

“It certainly is,” agreed Eric. “Us dragons have got to organize.”

Bellwether cast him what it imagined was a withering glare, but which in fact merely looked myopic, and proceeded down the stairs to the lower level. When he turned left, a number of fans barred his way.

“You want to go to the right,” explained one of them.

“How do you know?” asked Bellwether.

“You’re entered in the competition, aren’t you?”

“So I
am
on the right world!” exclaimed Bellwether happily. “Where do I go?”

“See that big double door?” said the fan. “Go right through it. And good luck.”

“Thanks,” said the dragon.

“And watch out for Conan and Barbarella,” added the fan. “They’re your main competition.”

“How old is Conan?”

“I dunno. Maybe 22.”

“22?” laughed Bellwether. “Why, he’s still wet from the yolk!”

“You’re yolking, right?” said the fan, guffawing at his own pun.

“How about this Barbarella?” persisted Bellwether.

“How about her?”

“How are her scales?”

“I suppose she can hit E above high C with the best of ’em,” said the fan.

“I’m not making myself pellucid,” said the dragon.

“Don’t,” said the fan.

“Don’t be pellucid?”

“Right. There was a great Mahars of Pellucidar group last year, and then came in third.”

“Well, thank you for all the advice,” said Bellwether, hoping it had time to sort it out before it was due in the ring.

“Happy to help,” said the fan. “And give my best to Annie Mac.”

“Annie Mac?”

“Anne McCaffrey. She’s one of the judges. I figured you knew. Otherwise, why come as a dragon?”

“I couldn’t come as anything else,” said Bellwether.

“Just passionate about those Pern books, eh? Damn! If I’d known there’d be something like you here, I’d have brought my Dragonrider costume and we’d go as a team. How could we lose at a DragonCon?”

“Hey, fella,” said another fan, “you’re blocking the way. Are you going to the competition or not?”

“I’m on my way,” said Bellwether, heading off toward the double doors. It reached them, passed through them, and found itself surrounded by perhaps a hundred fans. Most wore elaborate costumes, and a handful of pretty girls
almost
wore them.

“Oh, hell!” said one of the girls. “It’s not enough that there’s a great Conan and a gorgeous Barbarella. Now we have to beat a ten-ton dragon!”