Birthright

of the Olympians, his job is identical to that of his brethren: to travel the length and breadth of the galaxy

as an ambassador of Man's goodwill and sportsmanship, challenging native races to those physical contests in which they specialize.”

“Then why haven't any Olympians challenged a Torqual to a wrestling match?” came a question. “As I was saying,” continued Hailey, “the natives of Emra IV pride themselves on their fleetness of foot. Foot racing is their highest form of physical sport, and so—” “It wouldn't have to do with the face that the Torqual go twelve hundred pounds of solid muscle, would it?” persisted the questioner.

“Well, we hadn't wanted to make it public, but Sherif Ibn ben Iskad has challenged Torqual to put up its champion for a match next month.”

“Sherif Iskad!” whooped a human reporter. “Now, thatis news! Iskad's never lost, has he?” “No Olympian has,” said Hailey. “And now that that's settled, I'll get back to the subject. Big John Tinsmith will be running against the very finest that Emra IV has to offer, and I guarantee you're going to see...”

On and on Hailey droned, answering those questions that appealed to him, adroitly ducking those that he didn't care for. Finally, fifteen minutes before post time, he cleared the room again and turned to Tinsmith. “How do you feel, kid?”

“Fine,'’ said Tinsmith, who hadn't moved a muscle. “Herb!” snapped Hailey. “Lock and bolt the door. No one comes in for ten minutes.” The trainer's assistant secured the door, and Hailey pulled out a small leather bag from beneath the rubbing table. He opened it, pulled out a number of syringes, and began going over the labels on a score or more of small bottles.

“Adrenalin,” he announced, shooting a massive dose into Tinsmith's arm. “Terrain looked a little rough too. Better have a little phenylbutazone.'’ One dose was inserted into each calf. “Something to make you breathe the air a little easier ... here, this'll ease the heat a bit ... yep, that's about it. Getting sharp?” Tinsmith moved for the first time, sitting up on the edge of the table, his long, lean legs dangling a few inches above the polished floor. He took two deep breaths, exhaled them slowly, and nodded. “Good,” said Hailey. “Personally, I was against this race. I think it's a little soon for you yet. But Olympians can't say no, so we stalled as long as we could and then agreed to it.” Tinsmith lowered himself to the floor, knelt down, and began tightening his shoes. “Now, this guy's fast, make no bones about it,” said Hailey. “Damned fast. He'll knock off the first mile in under three minutes, which means you'll be so far back you probably won't be able to see him. But the Emrans are short on staying power. Figure he'll get the second mile in three and a half, the third in three and three-quarters. Save your kick until then. It's four miles and eighty yards. If you run like you trained, you ought to pull even with him a good quarter mile from the finish.” Hailey chuckled. “Won't that be something, though! Have that bastard pull out by hundreds of yards and then nip him at the wire just when every goddamn alien from here to the Rim thinks an Olympian has finally gone and got himself beat. Sheer beauty, I call it!”