by John Shirley
Remjhard stared at Hill for a long minute. Then, very slowly, he rose from the bench on which he was seated. His face was blank and expressionless, but his eyes glittered in the dim light.
Hill suddenly realized that they were alone in the locker room. Then he remembered the awesome Brish’diri strength, and took a hasty step backwards away from the alien.
“You realize,” Remjhard said gravely, “that it is a grave insult to accuse a Brish’dir of dishonorable conduct?”
The emissary took another careful look around the locker room to make sure the two of them were alone. Then he took another step towards Hill.
And broke into a wide smile when the director, edging backwards, almost tripped over a locker.
“But, of course, there is no question of dishonor here,” the alien continued. “Honor is too big for a half-man’s play. And, to be sure, in the rules that you furnished us, there was no provisions requiring participants to—” He paused. “—to play at their best, shall we say?”
Hill, untangling himself from the locker, sputtered. “But there are unwritten rules, traditions. This sort of thing simply is not sporting.”
Remjhard was still smiling. “To a Brish’dir, there is nothing as meaningless as an unwritten rule. It is a contradiction in terms, as you say.”
“But why?” said Hill. “That’s what I can’t understand. Everyone keeps telling me that your culture is virile, competitive, proud. Why should you throw the game? Why should you make yourself look bad? Why?”
Remjhard made an odd gurgling noise. Had he been a human, Hill would have thought he was choking. Instead, he assumed he was laughing.
“Humans amuse me,” the Brish’dir said at last. “You attach a few catch phrases to a culture, and you think you understand it. And, if something disagrees with your picture, you are shocked.
“I am sorry, Director Hill. Cultures are not that simple. They are very complex mechanisms. A word like ‘pride’ does not describe everything about the Brish’diri.
“Oh, we are proud. Yes. And competitive. Yes. But we are also intelligent. And our values are flexible enough to adjust to the situation at hand.”
Remjhard paused again, and looked Hill over carefully. Then he decided to continue. “This football of yours is a fine game, Director Hill. I told you that once before. I mean it. It is very enjoyable, a good exercise of mind and body.
“But it is only a game. Competing in games is important, of course. But there are larger competitions. More important ones. And I am intelligent enough to know which one gets our first priority.
“I received word from Brishun this afternoon about the use to which the Kosg-Anjehn victories were being put. Your friend from Extraterrestrial Relations must have told you that I rank among the leaders of the Brish’diri Peace Party. I would not be here on Earth otherwise. None of our opponents is willing to work with humans, whom they consider animals.
“Naturally I came at once to the stadium and informed our half-men that they must lose. And they, of course, complied. They too realize that some competitions are more important than others.
“For in losing, we have won. Our opponents on Brishun will not survive this humiliation. In the next Great Choosing many will turn against them. And I, and others at the mission, will profit. And the Brish’diri will profit.
“Yes, Director Hill,” Remjhard concluded, still smiling. “We are a competitive race. But competition for control of a world takes precedence over a football game.”
Hill was smiling himself by now. Then he began to laugh. “Of course,” he said. “And when I think of the ways we pounded our heads out to think of strategies to beat you. When all we had to do was tell you what was going on.” He laughed again.
Remjhard was about to add something when suddenly the locker-room door swung open and Tomkins stalked in. The E. T. agent was still beaming.
“Thought I’d find you here, Hill,” he began. “Still trying to investigate those conspiracy theories of yours, eh?” He chuckled and winked at Remjhard.
“Not really,” Hill replied. “It was a harebrained theory. Obviously it was the fumble that did it.”
“Of course,” Tomkins said. “Glad to hear it. Anyway, I’ve got good news for you.”
“Oh? What’s that? That the world is saved? Fine. But I’m still out of a job come tonight.”
“Not at all,” Tomkins replied. “That’s what my call was about. We’ve got a job for you. We want you to join E. T. Relations.”
Hill looked dubious. “Come, now,” he said. “Me an E. T. agent? I don’t know the first thing about it. I’m a small-time local bureaucrat and sports official. How am I supposed to fit into E. T. Relations?”
“As a sports director,” Tomkins replied. “Ever since this Brish’diri thing broke, we’ve been getting dozens of requests from other alien trade missions and diplomatic stations on Earth. They all want a crack at it too. So, to promote goodwill and all that, we’re going to set up a program. And we want you to run it. At double your present salary, of course.”
Hill thought about the difficulties of running a sports program for two dozen wildly different types of extraterrestrials.
Then he thought about the money he’d get for doing it.
Then he thought about the Starport City Council.
“Sounds like a fine idea,” he said. “But tell me. That gravity grid you were going to give to Starport—is that transferable too?”
“Of course,” Tomkins said.
“Then I accept.” He glanced over at Remjhard. “Although I may live to regret it when I see what the Brish’diri can do on a basketball court.”
The origins of Japanese sumo wrestling date back more than a thousand years; it began as a Shinto ritual used to predict the success of crops or to divine the gods’ intentions. Sumo as a spectator sport developed during the Edo period (between 1603 to 1868). The basic rules are simple: win by knocking your opponent out of the ring (dohyō), or forcing any portion of his body but the soles of his feet to touch the ground. Professional sumo wrestling is practiced only in Japan, where it is the national sport. (Wrestlers of other nationalities are allowed to participate, however only one foreigner per training stable—heya—is currently allowed.) Amateur sumo wrestling is practiced in scores of countries. Other than its expansion into an international sport and the development of telekinetic abilities, Howard Waldrop’s future zen-sumo and its rituals are quite similar to today’s sumo—or sumo two centuries ago.
Man-Mountain Gentian
Howard Waldrop
Just after the beginning of the present century it was realized that some of the wrestlers were throwing their opponents from the ring without touching them.
—Ichinaga Naya, Zen-Suomo: Sport and Ritual
(All-Japan Zen-Sumo Association Books, Kyoto, 2024)
It was the fourteenth day of the January Tokyo tournament. Sitting with the other wrestlers, Man-Mountain Gentian watched as the next match began.
Ground Sloth Ikimoto was taking on Killer Kudzu. They entered the tamped-earth ring and began their shikiri. Ground Sloth, a sumotori of the old school, had changed over from traditional to zen-sumo four years before. He weighed 180 kilos in his mawashi. He entered at the white tassel salt corner. He clapped his huge hands, rinsed his mouth, threw salt, rubbed his body with tissue paper, then began his high leg lifts, stamping his feet, his hands gripping far down his calves. The ring shook with each stamp. All the muscles rippled on his big frame. His stomach, a flesh-colored boulder, shook and vibrated.
Killer Kudzu was small, and thin, weighing barely over ninety kilos. On his forehead was the tattoo of his homeland, the PRC, one large star and five smaller stars blazing in a constellation. He also went into his ritual shikiri, but as he clapped he held in one hand a small box, ten centimeters on a side, showing his intention to bring it into the match. Sometimes these were objects for meditation, sometimes favors from male or female lovers, sometimes no one knew what. The only rule was tha
t they could not be used as weapons.
The wrestlers were separated from the onlookers by four clear walls and a roof of plastic. Over this hung the traditional canopy and tassels, symbolizing heaven and the four winds. Through the plastic walls ran a mesh of fine wiring, connected to a six-volt battery next to the north-side judge.
A large number of 600X slow motion video cameras were placed around the auditorium to be used by the judges if necessary.
Killer Kudzu placed the box on his side of the line. He returned to his corner and threw more salt.
Ground Sloth Ikimoto stamped once more, twice, went to his line, settled into position like a football lineman, legs apart, knuckles to the ground. His nearly-bare buttocks looked like giant rocks. Killer Kudzu finished his shikiri, squatted at his line, where he settled his hand near his votive box, and glared at his opponent.
The referee, in his ceremonial robes, had been standing to one side during the preliminaries. Now he came to a position halfway between the wrestlers, his war fan down. He leaned away from the two men, left leg back to one side as if ready to run. He stared at the midpoint between the two and flipped his fan downward.
Instantly sweat sprang to their foreheads and shoulders, their bodies rippled as if pushing against great unmoving weights, their toes curled into the clay of the ring. They stayed immobile on their respective marks.
Killer Kudzu’s neck muscles strained. With his left hand he reached and quickly opened the votive box.
Man-Mountain Gentian and the other wrestlers on the east side drew in their breaths.
Ground Sloth Ikimoto was a vegetarian and always had been. In training for traditional sumo, he had shunned the chunko-nabe, the communal stew of fish, chicken, meat, eggs, onions, cabbage, carrots, turnips, sugar, and soy sauce. Traditional sumotori ate as much as they could hold twice a day, and weight gain was tremendous.
Ikimoto had instead trained twice as hard, eating only vegetables, starches, and sugars. Meat and eggs had never touched his lips.
What Killer Kudzu brought out of the box was a cheeseburger. With one swift movement he bit into it only half a meter from Ground Sloth’s face.
Ikimoto blanched and started to scream. As he did, he lifted into the air as if chopped in the chest with an ax, arms and legs flailing, a Dopplering wail of revulsion coming from his emptied lungs. He passed the bales marking the edge of the ring, one foot dragging the ground, upending a boundary bale, and smashed to the ground between the ring and the square bales at the plastic walls.
The referee signaled Killer Kudzu the winner. As he squatted the gyoji offered him a small envelope signifying a cash prize from his sponsors. Kudzu, left hand on his knee, with his right hand made three chopping gestures from the left, right, and above, thanking man, earth, and heaven. Kudzu took the envelope, then stepped through the doorway of the plastic enclosure and left the arena to rejoin the other west-side wrestlers.
The audience of eleven thousand was on its feet cheering. Across Japan and the world, two hundred million viewers watched.
Ground Sloth Ikimoto had risen to his feet, bowed and left by the other door. Attendants rushed in to repair the damaged ring.
Man-Mountain Gentian looked up at the scoring clock. The match had taken 4.1324 seconds. It was 3:30 in the afternoon on the fourteenth day of the Tokyo tournament.
The next match would pit Cast Iron Pekowski of Poland against Typhoon Takanaka.
After that would be Gentian’s bout with the South African veldt wrestler Knockdown Krugerand.
Man-Mountain Gentian stood at 13-0 in the tournament, having defeated an opponent each day so far. He wanted to retire as the first Grand Champion to win six tournaments in a row, undefeated. He was not very worried about his contest later this afternoon.
Tomorrow, though, the last day of the January tournament, he would face Killer Kudzu, who, after this match, also stood undefeated at 14-0.
Man-Mountain Gentian was 1.976 meters tall and weighed exactly two hundred kilos. He had been a sumotori for six years, had been yokozuna for the last two of those. He was twice holder of the Emperor’s Cup. He was the highest paid, the most famous zen-sumotori in the world.
He was twenty-three years old.
He and Knockdown Krugerand finished their shikiri. They got on their marks. The gyoji flipped his fan.
The match was over in 3.1916 seconds. He helped Krugerand to his feet, accepted the envelope and the thunderous applause of the crowd, and left the reverberating plastic enclosure.
“You are the wife of Man-Mountain Gentian?” asked a voice next to her.
Melissa put on her public smile and turned to the voice. Her nephew, on the other side, leaned around to look.
The man talking to her had five stars tattooed to his forehead. She knew he was a famous sumotori, though he was very slim and his chonmage had been combed out and washed and his hair was now a fluffy explosion above his head.
“I am Killer Kudzu,” he said. “I’m surprised you aren’t at the tournament.”
“I am here with my nephew, Hari. Hari, this is Mr. Killer Kudzu.” The nephew, dressed in his winter Little League outfit, shook hands firmly. “His team, the Mitsubishi Zeroes, play the Kawasaki Claudes next game.”
They paused while a foul ball caused great excitement three rows down the bleachers. Hari leapt for it but some construction foreman of a father came up grinning with the ball.
“And what do you play?” asked Killer Kudzu.
“Utility outfield. When I play,” said Hari, averting his eyes and sitting back down.
“Oh. How’s your batting?”
“Pretty bad—.123 for the year,” said Hari.
“Well, maybe this will be the night you shine,” said Kudzu.
“I hope so,” said Hari. “Half our team has the American flu.”
“Just the reason I’m here,” said Kudzu. “I was to meet a businessman whose son was to play this game. I find him not to be here, as his son has the influenza also.”
It was hot in the domed stadium and Kudzu insisted they let him buy them Sno-cones. Just as the vendor got to them, Hari’s coach signaled and the nephew ran down the bleachers and followed the rest of his teammates into the warmup area under the stadium.
Soon the other lackluster game was over and Hari’s team took the field.
The first batter for the Claudes, a twelve-year-old built like an orangutan, got up and smashed a line drive off the Mitsubishi third baseman’s chest. The third baseman had been waving to his mother. They carried him into the dugout. Melissa soon saw him up yelling again.
So it went through three innings. The Claudes had the Zeroes down by three runs, 6-3. In the fourth inning, Hari took the right field, injuries having whittled the flu-ridden team down to the third-stringers.
One of the Claudes hit a high looping fly straight to right field. Hari started in after it, but something happened with his feet; he fell and the ball dropped a meter from his outstretched glove. The center fielder chased it down and made the relay and by a miracle they got the runner sliding into home plate. He took out the Zeroes catcher doing it.
“It doesn’t look good for the Zeroes,” said Melissa.
“Oh, things might get better,” said Killer Kudzu. “The opera’s not over till the fat lady sings.”
“A diva couldn’t do much worse out there,” said Melissa.
“They still don’t like baseball in my country,” he said. “Decadent. Bourgeois, they say. As if anything could be more decadent and middle-class than China.”
“Yet you wear the flag?” She pointed toward his head.
“Call it a gesture to former greatness,” he said.
Bottom of the sixth, last inning in Little League. The Zeroes had the bases loaded but they had two outs in the process. Hari came up to bat.
Things were tense. The outfielders were nearly falling down from tension.
The pitcher threw a blistering curve that got the outside. Hari was caught looking.
> From the dugout the manager’s voice saying unkind things carried to the crowd.
Eight thousand people were on their feet.
The pitcher wound up and threw.
Hari started a swing that should have ended in a grounder or a pop-up. Halfway through, it looked like someone had speeded up a projector. The leisurely swing blurred. Hari literally threw himself to the ground. The bat cracked and broke in two at his feet.
The ball, a frozen white streak, cometed through the air and hit the scoreboard 110 meters away with a terrific crash, putting the inning indicator out of commission.
Everyone was stock-still. Hari was staring. Every player was turned toward the scoreboard.
“It’s a home run, kid,” the umpire reminded Hari. Slowly, unbelieving, Hari began to trot toward first base.
The place exploded, fans jumping to their feet. Hari’s teammates on the bases headed for home. The dugout emptied, waiting for him to round third.
The Claudes stood fuming. The Zeroes climbed all over Hari.
“I didn’t know you could do that more than once a day,” said Melissa, her eyes narrowed.
“Who, me?” asked Kudzu.
“You’re perverting your talent,” she said.
“We’re not supposed to be able to do that more than once every twenty-four hours,” said Killer Kudzu, flashing a smile.
“I know that’s not true, at least, not really,” said Melissa.
“Oh, yes. You are married to a sumotori, aren’t you?”
Melissa blushed.
“The kid seemed to feel bad enough about the dropped fly. Besides, it’s just a game.”
At home plate, Hari’s teammates climbed over him, slapping him on the back.
The game was over, the scoreboard said 7-6, and the technicians were already climbing over the inning indicator.
Melissa rose. “I have to go pick up Hari. I suppose I will see you at the tournament tomorrow?”
“How are you getting home?” asked Killer Kudzu.
“We walk. Hari lives near.”
“It’s snowing.”
