by E. M. Foner
“Maybe next Carnival,” her father suggested.
“I’ll be an old lady by then,” Chastity grumped.
“Let’s go over the rules one more time before the aliens start arriving,” Joe suggested to Ian. “The chairman for the judging panel is going to have to read them off before we begin.”
“Do you think any aliens are really going to show up?” Ian asked in an undertone.
“Enough of them signed up,” Joe replied. “What do you think of the throwing grounds Paul put together? He had to tack-weld some framing to the deck to hold the dirt, and then we had the trainees do calisthenics on it to tamp down the soil.”
“Looks like you’re trying to start your own ag deck,” Stanley commented.
“Where do you think we borrowed the dirt?” Joe replied. “Anyway, I’ve got a bit of bad news, Ian. When we ran the draft of the rules past Gryph, he said you have to let any contestants who don’t have their own caber use yours.”
“I expected that,” the Scotsman said. “Some of the games I went to back on Earth, everybody tossed the same caber to make it fair. If nobody could turn it, they just started lopping wood off the fat end until somebody could.”
“Anyway, here’s what we have for modified rules after consulting with the Stryx,” Joe said, and began reading out loud.
“A throw begins when a contestant lifts the caber off the ground, and any incidental contact with the dirt before tossing will be counted as a throw. Contestants will move with the caber in the direction of the station’s spin, as indicated by the arrow painted on the decking, and pull before reaching the white line at the middle of the throwing area.”
“There’s not supposed to be a limit on the run up,” Ian objected.
“But the caber has to bounce and land on the dirt,” Joe replied. “We would have held the contest on an ag deck, but some alien might have hit the ceiling with it.”
“What are the contestants pulling on?” Kelly asked.
“The caber,” Ian replied. “You carry it against your shoulder, with both hands under the tapered end, like this.” The large Scotsman held his hands together in a cradle down by his waist, and hunched over, like he was supporting a heavy weight on them. “You do your run up, keeping the caber balanced with the fat end way up over your head, and then you pull, like this.” He straightened out suddenly, raising his hands rapidly past his chest and chin, keeping them together until they were above his head.
“Contestants will have three chances each to achieve a best score,” Joe continued. “The object is to turn the caber so that it lands in line with the end of the thrower’s run up. The scoring is expressed in the hand positions of a human clock, with the twelve o’clock position being the perfect throw. In the case of a toss that doesn’t turn, the side judge will call the number of degrees the caber makes with the deck on landing.”
“So it’s judged on distance?” Kelly hazarded a guess. Sports had never been her thing.
“No, it’s all about the landing,” Ian explained. “Picture yourself running up to the ‘six’ on a clock and throwing a twenty foot long, hundred and eighty pound stick, which you’re cradling from the skinny end. You want the fat end to land on the clock face and the momentum to carry it over, that’s called the ‘turn’, so it lands with the skinny end pointing as close to the ‘twelve’ as possible.”
“Oh. So why don’t the rules say that?” she asked critically.
“Game rules aren’t supposed to be clear,” Stanley informed her. “That’s how judges earn their living.”
“Hello, my human friends,” the Drazen ambassador declared as he strolled up to the group. “I’ve been assigned as chairman of the judging panel for your elective event. It sounds fascinating.”
“Here, let me explain the rules,” Kelly said to Bork, and recited Ian’s version of the sport, complete with the caber tossing pantomime.
“You’re serious?” Bork asked, looking as skeptical as only a Drazen can look. “Can I see that in writing?”
Joe passed the ambassador the display tab with the version approved by the Stryx.
“Ah, that makes sense now,” Bork said. “Since we have five judges, I will deploy one on each side to watch for the turn, and one each behind and in front of the thrower to judge the accuracy of the landing. I will watch from a safe distance and rule on any differences of opinion amongst the judges. Is there anything to drink?”
Kelly invited Bork inside to survey the liquor cabinet, and as the two of them headed up the ramp, she heard Ambassador Czeros call after them, “Bring wine!”
The three other ambassadors assigned as judges turned out to be Ortha, Crute and Apria, making the panel look like a partial reunion of the Gem working group. Apria was so pleased with the Vergallian win at ballroom dancing that she didn’t even complain when Bork returned and assigned her to be the back judge.
“I hate giving her such an important post, but if I put her on the side or the front, she’ll end up distracting the humanoid males, just because she can,” the Drazen ambassador confided to Kelly.
Czeros accepted the bottle of wine from Kelly and stole a chair from the patio area in front of the ice harvester so he could do his side judging while sitting. Ortha planted himself on the other side of the dirt patch, and Crute was given the front judge assignment.
A representative of every species capable of hoisting a pole that weighed as much as a man and was three times as tall showed up for the final instructions. If Ian had really expected the event to go uncontested, he did a good job hiding his disappointment. In fact, the Scotsman went out of his way to greet all of the contestants and generously explained the basic technique, not glossing over the dangers.
“So the main thing, once you’ve got your hands, flippers or tentacles under the caber, is to keep your shoulder, or, uh, wing tips, in contact with it. You can’t balance the weight by pushing because the caber is top heavy, but the contact will help you sense the momentum if it starts to tip. If you feel it coming over backwards and you can’t correct, pull early and get out by running forward. Worst thing that can happen is you’ll crush the back judge.”
“Could you do a demonstration toss before the competition starts?” asked the Dollnick, who towered over Ian by a couple of heads.
“I’d be glad to, as long as the judging panel allows it,” Ian replied, turning towards where Bork and Joe were standing with Czeros. “Mr. Chairman? Can I do a demonstration toss for our guest competitors?”
“By all means,” the Drazen responded.
Joe came forward and lifted the fat end of the caber from the dirt and onto his shoulder, while Ian blocked the tapered end from moving. Then the owner of Mac’s Bones put both hands under the caber, lifted the end above his head, and walked forward, raising the pole upright. Once it was vertical and the thrower was holding it steady, he brushed the dirt from the bottom and moved away.
Ian kept the weight balanced against his shoulder as he slid his hands down the caber in short grabs. When he reached the bottom, he squeezed the tapered end tightly and suddenly straightened, sliding his hands completely under the caber as it cleared the ground. The Scotsman staggered back a step, then one to the side, then returned to his starting point and paused for a moment, with the ungainly load under control.
“Remember,” he huffed. “Once you start moving forward, you want to let the weight lead you, and don’t jump-stop before pulling. Try to keep all of the momentum for the turn.”
He took a step or two forward, and then accelerated, moving surprisingly fast for such a big man. He carried his hands low, down around his waist, and when he pulled his hands through, imparting more forward momentum and a lifting vector on the tapered end, the caber did almost a half rotation mid-air. The butt end struck the dirt and the tapered end carried over the top, slowing at the peak of the arc, but continuing over and hitting the ground.
“One-thirty,” called Apria from behind him.
“Sounds about right,” Cr
ute concurred, after looking at the sketch of a clock face Joe had supplied.
“I didn’t quite have enough momentum,” Ian told the alien competitors. “That’s why the caber slowed so much and didn’t go straight over.”
“Is this for real?” a giant bunny asked. “We’re supposed to pick that thing up, run with it, and throw it so it flips over and lands straight?”
“That’s why they call it caber toss, gentlemen,” Ian replied confidently, as Joe and Paul lifted the thick wooden pole and brought it back to the starting point.
“It’s time to begin,” Bork announced from his self-determined safe distance. “Let me just read over the rules, and then we will determine the order. If anybody wants to back out, you can do so now without fear of appearing on the holo-cast.”
The big aliens all squinted in the air over the dirt box, and sure enough, a series of floating holo-cameras were moving into place to broadcast the contest, as Bork read the rules.
“Choop this!” the Grenouthian swore, and hopped away toward the exit. After a moment’s hesitation, a flood of alien body builders followed him. Ian was left standing with the giant Dollnick and a wiry Frunge.
“Alright. That saved a lot of time,” Bork remarked cheerfully. “With three contestants and three tries each, I suggest we resort to the usual rule and have you begin in order of height.”
The giant Dollnick strode forward, and casually waved Joe off when the owner of Mac’s Bones approached to lift the butt end and raise the pole for the thrower.
“I have this,” the Dolly grunted, flexing all four of his arms. He picked the caber off the ground in the middle, and manipulating it like a giant baton over his head, was able to rotate it so the tapered end just scraped the ground and landed at his feet. Grasping the pole with the hands of his upper set of arms, he hoisted the caber and moved the hands of his lower set of arms underneath the tapered end, all in one smooth motion.
“Hey, he’s using four hands!” Kelly objected.
“Nothing about that in the rules,” Bork replied.
The Dollnick held the caber both high and low, took one step forward and heaved it. The giant pole flipped several times in the air, landed with the tapered end down, and fell back towards the thrower. He hesitated for a moment, as if he was thinking about catching it, then dove out of the way.
“Seventy degrees,” called Czeros from his side judging spot.
“Seventy-five,” Ortha stated from the other side.
“Let’s call it seventy-two and a half,” Bork declared agreeably.
“That was twelve o’clock,” Crute shouted from the front spot. “We win!”
“The caber landed on the tapered end and fell in the wrong direction,” Bork pointed out. “You’re lucky I don’t disqualify your man as a danger to the spectators.”
“Good bid,” Ian said, slapping the giant on the back as the Dollnick brushed the dirt from his clothes. “Just pay attention to my technique and I’m sure you’ll do better next throw.”
The Scotsman moved forward and braced the tapered end, while Joe came back out and walked the pole up to the vertical. With a convulsive effort, Ian lifted the caber, cradled the narrow end in his hands, and took several running steps before launching it forward. It described a slow turn, the butt end hitting with the pole near vertical, and the tapered end carrying easily over the top.
“One o’clock,” called Apria in a bored voice, though she was beginning to eye the human in a way that the Scotsman’s wife wasn’t too pleased with.
“I make it two o’clock,” Crute grumbled from the front judge position, though it was clear his heart wasn’t really in the deceit.
“One o’clock it is,” Bork called, and took a sip from the bourbon and rum drink he had improvised. The bottles were from the collection the McAllisters had received as gifts from Lynx’s original EarthCent Intelligence cargo. Paul helped Joe carry the caber back to the throwing end of the dirt patch.
“You be careful now, wee man,” Ian commented expansively to the wiry Frunge, who stepped up to the thrower spot. He even helped the alien hold the tapered end of the caber in place as Joe walked it into the upright position. “Squeeze, lift and cradle,” he repeated, before stepping back with alacrity.
The Frunge, whose weight was appreciably less than the pole, rubbed his hands together, clapped, and then fluidly lifted it into the air, with his hands cradling the tapered end. He raised the caber nearly as high as his shoulder, leaning forward and placing his head against the wood as he started to move. After six quick steps, with the fat end of the caber wavering this way and that through the whole journey, he pulled his hands up through the throwing motion, his root-like foot pads leaving the dirt as he reached full extension. The pole described a lazy arc and landed in a nearly vertical position, with no bounce, before falling directly forward.
“Twelve o’clock,” called Apria, examining the Frunge’s musculature with a critical eye.
“Twelve o’clock,” Crute agreed, not bothering to hide his glee at the discomfort of the human champion.
“Uh oh,” Joe said to Stanley. “I think we have a ringer.”
“Now that I think about it, Czeros did say something about supporting our bid for the elective,” Kelly recalled guiltily.
The next two attempts for the three contestants went much the same, though the Dollnick, on his third try, overcompensated for his tendency to spin the caber in the air, and consequently nearly killed his ambassador when he launched it forward like a spear. Even worse, the toss was disqualified for not completing a turn.
Ian stuck with it manfully, scoring one o’clock again on his second toss and twelve-thirty on his third, but the Frunge was like a machine, getting a perfect score three tosses in a row. Torra began playing a dirge on the bagpipes, dispersing most of the crowd, though the Dollnicks hung around to listen appreciatively. Czeros plugged his ears and asked for another bottle of wine.
When the music subsided, Ian approached the Frunge champion, and after a moment of confusion on the part of the alien, negotiated a handshake.
“Tell me,” the disappointed Scot said to the victor. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“Every remembrance day,” the Frunge replied. “Of course, I’m used to throwing something a little heavier, but in the end, it’s like riding Rijint, you never forget.”
“What do you call this sport in Frunge?” Ian asked, thinking he might find it on the galactic sports network and get some tips.
“Sport?” the Frunge asked in reply. “It’s not a sport. We call it ancestor worship.”
When Ian and his wife left for home, he left his caber behind in Mac’s Bones.
Eighteen
After consulting with Blythe and Clive, Kelly invited the Free Gem leaders to meet at her home and celebrate Mist’s win at hide-and-seek. Dorothy’s friend was the youngest Gem on the station, and all of the older clones treated her more like a daughter than a little sister. The Free Gem, with whom Mist lived, were all especially proud of the girl’s rapidly growing ability to understand English. Spending so much time with Dorothy when Metoo was otherwise occupied, Mist had been forced to learn in self defense.
The girls spent the morning together, taking turns playing at being Samuel’s mother, and then reading some of Dorothy’s books. Mist had amassed an impressive portion of Dorothy’s spoken vocabulary in a short time, but she was still at the one-letter-at-a-time stage of reading.
The two of them were equally in love with a vintage picture book of Sleeping Beauty that had arrived in the diplomatic pouch as a gift to Dorothy from her grandparents. The colorful artwork was copied from an animated movie version of the story. The girls were reading it for the third time in a row, and Mist had it nearly memorized, so she was able to give the impression of reading fluently. They took turns being Prince Phillip.
“Welcome to our home,” Kelly greeted the Free Gem delegation, which today consisted of just Matilda, Gwendolyn and Sue. “Could
I get you a cup of tea before dinner? A coffee? Something stronger?”
“Tea, please,” Matilda replied, after the voice box translated Kelly’s subvoced question.
“Three teas coming up,” Kelly said brightly, but to her surprise, Gwendolyn half-raised her hand before the ambassador could turn away.
“I think I would like to try a coffee, if it’s not too much trouble,” the former Waitress Gem said hesitantly.
“No trouble at all,” Kelly replied, hiding her surprise that the Gem weren’t acting in lock-step fashion. She looked to the third clone for a decision on coffee or tea.
“What is something stronger?” Sue inquired.
“We have beer, wine and liquor,” Kelly answered, hoping that the clones wouldn’t take her for a party animal. “They all contain alcohol, with beer being the weakest and liquor being the strongest. Alcohol is an intoxicant for humans, but I don’t know what effect it will have on you.”
“Oh, we drink wine now when we can get it,” Sue replied. “It’s very nice, though it makes some of the sisters sing the protest songs off-key. But I would have said that coffee is stronger than wine, at least, that’s how it affects me. I will have wine.”
“Coffee, tea and wine coming right up,” Kelly said. “Please make yourselves at home.”
As their host disappeared into the kitchen, the three clones gravitated towards the imaginary castle that the girls had built out of boxes, pillows and blankets. Joe had drawn the line at using up valuable duct tape on temporary constructions. Mist looked up from the book and engaged in a silent conversation with her older sisters as Kelly’s daughter looked on impatiently.
