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ROBERT GROSSBACHA FEEL FOR THE GAMEIT WAS A STRANGE COMbination, businessman and speculator, collector, lover ofbaseball. Everyone at the convention had all the elements to some degree, butCurran knew it was a question of which motivation was dominant. If he could findthat out, intuit it somehow, discern it, he might get an edge in the bidding.He tried to keep his face impassive during the Lull, tried to stop the fingerson his left hand from tapping the side of his chair, tried to suppress thesweating, the throat clearing, the swallowing, the dozens of silent, auto-nomicbetrayals of anxiety. The competition had to believe he was in control, calm,cold-blooded, ruthlessly relaxed enough to do whatever was necessary to get TheDuke. Whatever was necessary.He hadn't expected it, none of them had. Only twenty minutes earlier he'd beenwalking through the aisles, his mood a mixture of condescension and nostalgia.You found all kinds here, from the wide-eyed kid collectors offering individualpacks of Elston Darnell's at five New Yen each, to hard core (and hard surface)wheeler-dealers, looking for a quick score on a case of 21st century Ki Fu's ora half dozen "specially preserved" Dwight Gooden's. A hobbyist's tendercompulsion expanded (and perverted) to unfeeling commercial carnivore.Conventions of this kind had spread across six terrestrial continents and threelunar colonies, and there was even talk that, next year, there'd be one onCeres. It seemed like any place you had ten thousand people, regardless ofwhether there was any external atmosphere, two hundred were in the business.Of course, baseball was only one category. There were basketball players andfootball players and actors and politicians. Hell, if you were intellectual,there were even novelists and scientists -- but somehow the sound of "I'll tradeyou two Norman Mailers for a Stephen Hawking," just didn't feel right to Curran.For him, as for so many others, it was baseball that somehow remained special.Baseball, after all, had been first, starting with the tributes two centuriesearlier, silver emulsions on cardboard, packaged with chewing gum andmemorializing the ancient greats: Ty Cobb and Dizzy Dean, Joe D., Willie, Oisk,Aaron, Clemente, Mickey --And The Duke.He couldn't believe it when he heard it. He'd just paused at a station manned bya thirtyish woman hawking "mint condition" Rip Repulski's, when the announcementcame over the PA. "There will be an auction in the green room beginning in tenminutes. Among the players available is the Brooklyn Dodgers' Duke Snider, to besold as a singleton."Curran had been lightheaded, the funk lasting even through the auction's openingrounds. He'd been searching for The Duke for years, and now, out of the blue,here it was within his grasp. He'd emerged from his reverie only when thebidding had hit 40 thousand New Yen and the number of bidders had dropped tofour. Quickly, Curran had upped the stakes, punching in 53 thousand New Yen andforcing out all but the final two before the Lull.He knew one of the remaining players vaguely, a paunchy, sour faced man namedRabinall, whom he'd briefly spoken to at a convention in Nuevo Miami in theearly 2140's. Rabinall had wanted to buy a Whitey Lockman from him, but Curranhad demurred at the last moment, stubbornly refusing to come down a final notchin price. Speculator, he'd thought. Bottom-liner. In-and-outer, with no feel forthe game. Of course, it was quite irrational. The other bidder, a woman, was amystery.Curran wondered: Had either of them ever played the actual sport, as he had?Were they holo fanatics, as he was, watching game after game, present and past,day after night, losing his wife, his kids, his job--until that became his job?Had they paid a hundred extra New Yen for the old baseball stats to be installedin their neuroplants, so that they could tell you, as he could, George Shuba'sbatting average in 1953, or Tiamo Victor's ERA in 2089?Probably not . . . and probably better off for it.The bidding was about to resume. Why the hell did it have to be live and notover holo? But, of course, that was the idea -- smell your competition sweat.Feel his/her tension. Taste it in the air."I have a bid for 59K," announced the crisp synthetic voice of the auctioneer.Curran looked at his screen. It was Rabinall. Curran had a decision to make, atactic to decide on, and it had to be done quickly. He had an absolute upperspending limit of 75K. He was a moderately wealthy man, but he'd been investingheavily in his collection -- all right, not investing, indulging -- but the factwas he'd reached the very farthest edge of his credit. And so it came down to amatter of game psychology. Did he go right to the precipice at once,demonstrating thereby to the remaining bidders a cavalier fearlessness inspiraling the stakes . . . or did he methodically just top the other offers foras long as he could, hopefully projecting a kind of implacable persistence andsaving what could be a significant amount of money?He punched in 75K. And waited."Going once at 75K," said the auctioneer. A blue square appeared at the woman'sposition on the screen. She'd dropped out."Going twice . . ." said the auctioneer.Curran could barely breathe. He had it, it was his, he'd finally --Inside Rabinall's red square, a number came up: 80K. A nearly inaudible whimperescaped Curran's lips. It was over. Finito. He punched in his blue square,inhaled, and dazedly stood up. "Sold for 80K,"he heard the auctioneer intone,from what sounded like a great distance. He was surprised to see the womanapproaching."Too bad," she said. She was a blonde, not bad looking, impossible to tell (asit always was) if she'd ever been reconstructed."Win some, lose some," he noted stupidly."You know him?" she asked, tilting her chin in the direction of Rabinall, whowas collecting his boxed Duke from the machine."Not really," said Curran. "He once tried to buy a Whitey Lockman from me, butthat's about it." He paused. "You?""Sold him a Monte Irvin last year at Sao Paulo. Were you at that one?""I only go to eight a year. I missed Sao Paulo.""He made quite a splash there. Took home a Willie Mays, if I recall correctly.""Willie Mays?" Something began to jell in Curran's mind, a complex chain ofneurons lost some inter-synaptic resistance. Whitey Lockman, Monte Irvin, WillieMays . . . . He rubbed his eyes, and was not all that amazed to find Rabinallstanding next to him."You still want The Duke," said the fleshy man, his tone flat and certain.He held the precious container in his pudgy hands."Yes," said Curran shakily."And you know what I'm after."Curran inhaled. "You're collecting . . . Giants. New York Giants of thenineteen-fifties."Rabinall lifted an eyebrow. Curran had misjudged him. Misjudged him entirely.There was passion here, and quite beyond the financial."Trade," said Rabinall."You haven't found another Lockman," ventured Curran, and he knew immediately hewas correct. "So what is it, Whitey for the Duke?""Don't be absurd," said Rabinall. "The two weren't remotely comparable players.Check the stats. Check the market." He paused, pursed his lips. "I know you havea Sal Maglie."So that was it! Matter of fact, Curran had several Maglie's, because Maglie,over his career, had been both a Giant and a Dodger. Curran considered, inhaled(he hoped) inaudibly. He took one more shot. "I give you Maglie and Lockman, yougive me the Duke -- and a player to be named later. Market worth 10K.""No player," said Rabinall. "Straight-up trade."Curran waited, stalled just to see Rabinall sweat. Because he understoodRabinall fully now, understood him as well as he did himself. Finally, tightgrin slowly widening, he said, "Deal."Later, when it had all been done, the exchanges made, the guarantees signed,Curran had gone for a walk, childishly and foolhardily still clutching thesingleton container of the Duke.He'd done it, he finally had a team. Brooklyn Dodgers, circa 1952. Complete atevery position. Erskine on the mound; Hodges, Robinson, Reese, and Cox in theinfield; Campy behind the plate; Pafko, Furillo, and now Duke in the outfield.And he'd bring them to term, too. No computer investing for him, no hoarding theseeds without tasting the fruit. No sir. He hadn't bought all that equipment fornothing. The Artificial Womb alone had cost 40K; the Nano-neural Educator, 32K;the Growth Accelerator, a cool 75K (including re-conditioning).Once more, he fondled the battery-cooled container, with its cargo of preciouscells. He wondered from where on the Duke's lithe body they had come, whetherthey'd been donated or stolen, scraped or shed, sold legally or black-marketed.No matter, he'd have plenty of time to read the pedigrees, as he'd done so oftenbefore. One of the pleasures of ownership.Yes, these cells would be cloned, all right. They'd develop, they'd mature, andthe Duke would play again. Glide effortlessly through the green grass in centerfield to make a graceful, leaping, time-frozen catch against the fence. Lift ahigh drive to right with that sweet, fluid swing -- a ball going, going, gonefor a home run.Yes, the Duke would return to the game. They all did, and why not? Sure, theEducator would pre-dispose them to accept the contracts he would offer -- notthat they wouldn't be eminently fair -- but, more cogently (was he a mystic?),it was in their blood. To be a ballplayer. The best of the best. What else couldthey do?They'd have a great time. He'd take th... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]