Birthright

“Ready,” said Tinsmith, turning to the door.

“Just remember, kid,” said Hailey. “No Olympian has ever lost. You represent the race of Man. All of its prestige rides on your shoulders. The first time one of you gets beat, that's the day the Olympians disband.”

“I know,” said Tinsmith tonelessly.

Hailey opened the door. “Want me to go with you? Give you a little company till you reach the track?” “Olympians walk alone,” said Tinsmith, and went out the door. He strode through a long, narrow, winding passageway, and a few minutes later reached the floor of the massive stadium. The air was hot, oppressive. He took a deep breath, decided that the shot was working, and walked out to where the throng in the stands could see him. They jeered.

Showing and feeling no emotion, looking neither right nor left, he walked to where his opponent was awaiting him. The Emran was humanoid in type. He stood about five feet tall, and had huge, powerful legs. The thighs, especially, were knotted with muscle, and the feet, though splayed, looked extremely efficient. His skin was red-bronze, and both body and head were totally without hair. Tinsmith glanced at the Emran's chest: It seemed to have no greater lung capacity than his own. Next his gaze went to the Emran's nose and mouth. The former was large, the latter small, with a prominent chin. That meant there'd be no gasping for air through his mouth during the final mile; if he got tired, he'd stay that way. Satisfied, and without a look at any other part of the Emran nor any gesture of greeting, he stood at the starting line, arms folded, eyes straight ahead. One of the officials walked over and offered him a modified T-pack, for it was well known that Olympians spoke no language not native to their home worlds. He shook his head, and the official shrugged and walked away.

Another Emran began speaking through a microphone, and the loudspeaker system produced a series of tinny echoes from all across the stadium. There were rabid cheers, and Tinsmith knew they had announced the name of the homeworld champion. A moment later came the jeers, as he heard his own name hideously mispronounced. Then the course of the race was mapped—thrice around the massive stadium on a rocky track—and finally the ground rules were read. A coin was flipped for the inside position. Tinsmith disdained to call it, but the Emran did, and lost. Tinsmith walked over to his place on the starting line. As he stood there, crouching, awaiting the start of the race, he glanced over at the Emran and studied him briefly. He was humanoid enough so that Tinsmith could see the awful tension and concentration painted vividly on his already-sweating face. And why not? He was carrying a pretty big load on his shoulders, too. He was the fleetest speedster of a race of speedsters. The Emran, aware of Tinsmith's gaze, looked at him and worked his mouth into what passed for a smile. Tinsmith stared coldly back at him, expressionless.

He had nothing against this being, nor any of his past opponents, just as Iskad had nothing against all the beings he had destroyed with his muscle, just as the brilliant Kobernykov had nothing against the