______________________________________________________________________________ Endurance Racer Phillip Nolte copyright (c) 1990 ______________________________________________________________________________ The Marathon was one of the most popular events in Human space and the uncounted masses were hungry for anything involving it. They satiated this hunger by spending their hard-earned credits. They spent them on all sorts of junk: clothing and games, trinkets and baubles and who knows what else! If it said "marathon" on it they bought it, avidly. There were also those who took the obsession to more bizarre lengths. Like Morris Quimby, for instance. For part of each day, Quimby was one of several hundred accountants employed by the huge Federated Metals consortium. At home, after work, deep in the overpopulated rabbit warren that had been carved out of the interior of Ceres, he was a Marathon fanatic. For a few hours, each day he could forget about his mundane job and his shrewish wife and his four squalling children. For a few hours he was master of his own universe as he gloried in the power of his statistical games. He would compile detailed and arcane statistics about past and present marathons. Statistics that had meaning only to him. It was a harmless enough occupation, especially since it had probably kept him from going mad. For the time being, it kept him happy. How could he have known what incredible fame and fortune his oddball hobby would bring him? In a Galaxy teeming with humans who were ruled by a government that was powerful, corrupt and immovable, the great race was a welcome diversion. The Marathon was held every four years against the backdrop of the asteroid belt in the Sol system, the birthplace of Man before he spread out to populate the galaxy. The sprawling, rocky disc of the belt contains an uncounted number of asteroids ranging from sizeable planetoids, like Ceres, down to specks no bigger than grains of sand and dust motes. In spite of this, the belt is mostly empty space. But there are areas where matter is fairly concentrated, where huge clusters of variously sized lumps of rock are locked on a perpetual cosmic carousel by their mutual gravitational attractions. A tortuous route was mapped out over a 10,000 kilometer course that made the tiny spaceships of the racers wind their way over, under and around the countless planetoids and boulders that made up one of the larger concentrations of matter in the belt. The race was not, as some thought, from Ceres to Pallas. Instead, the name referred to the dual sponsorship of the event by the businesses of the two asteroids. Imagine an equilateral triangle whose half-kilometer sides are made up of bright bars of neon-green light. Each of the thousands of gates that marked out the course was just such a triangle. Successful negotiation of a gate meant that the contestant's ship passed through somewhere within the triangle. Missing a gate meant disqualification. Between gates the contestants could take any path that they wished. Time could be gained by skimming as closely as possible to the asteroid obstacles in search of the line that placed the spacecraft in the best position for the next maneuver. It was here that the skill and daring of the top racers set them apart from the rest. Invariably several racers were killed and others seriously injured when they tried to gain those precious extra tenths of a second and found that they had used up their narrow margin of safety. The line between superior speed and instant disaster was a razor's edge, ever waiting to nick the unwary. The Asteroid Marathon, as it was sometimes called, was contested in special one-man space vehicles. Main thrust was provided by a conventional, ultra-high efficiency, electric ion-grid drive. What made them special was that the source of electricity was a man-powered generator. Essentially, they were pedal-powered spacecraft. The next running of the great event was only a week away and the handicappers agreed that the contest was down to about twenty-five people out of some two-thousand qualifiers who had a shot at upsetting the champion. The champion was good---the odds were still heavily in his favor. "What'cha thinking, Yuri?" Yuri Ramosian, the reigning Marathon champion, shook his head as he looked around the prep room at the other contestants, appraising the competition. "I don't know, A.J...." said Yuri, "some of these guys look pretty tough!" "Tough" might have been an understatement. Most of the others were young men, in their physical prime, lean to the point of gauntness, their bodies ropily muscular. Scattered through the group also was a handful of young women. Yuri's gaze came to rest on one in particular. "That's Chen-Lee, right A.J.? The one we were briefed about?" The young lady in question was, like the rest of the competition, in top physical condition. Her small bosom was mashed almost flat by the skin-tight fabric of her gaily-colored racing suit and she had the narrow, boyish hips characteristic of top female athletes. Below, the large, powerful, almost grotesque muscles of her marathoner's legs stood out in sharp relief. Unlike the others, she was also strikingly attractive with jet black hair, an oval face and exotic almond-shaped eyes. "Yeah," replied Thorpe, "She won a couple minor races out in the Kepler Quadrant last year. Big deal." "I heard that she won them pretty handily, A.J...." "Sure, Yuri, that's how she got here. Relax, Champ, the handicappers got her tagged a hundred-to-one! She's in the first wave because she's good press---a dark horse from some godforsaken outposter colony." He nodded in the young girl's direction. "Though you got to admit she won't look bad on the newsvids either!" "Right, A.J.," said Yuri, reassured, as usual, by his teamate's shrewd assessment of the situation. But he had to be honest with himself, the young woman's chances were as good as anyone's. Their discussion was ended by a call from the crew captain to get ready. The two men strapped on their helmets and slapped hands in a classic high five before squeezing into the cockpits of their racing crafts. The day's practice session was about to begin. For a few hours each day in the week before the race, the contestants were allowed on a small practice course near Ceres for training and for testing and adjusting the tiny racing vessels. On the other side of the prep room, Cassandra Chen-Lee also strapped on her lightweight meta-kevlar racing helmet prior to entering her ship for the mid-afternoon workout. She signaled the support crew to push her into the airlock and then ran down a mental checklist while the lock cycled. With the outer door fully open, she began pedaling slowly and used the joystick to divert a small amount of power to the maneuvering thrusters. The tiny ship came gently about and she began pedaling a bit harder to put some space between her and the dock. Cassandra felt the usual tightness in her chest, the lump in her throat that always came unbidden whenever she took the ship out intending to go really fast. As soon as she got out on the course and up to speed, she knew from experience that the feeling would pass. Pumping the pedals rhythmically, she banked the needle-nosed craft out towards the practice course. After a signal from the gate official that it was safe to enter, she passed through the bright green triangle of the first gate. Cassandra fell in with a flight of five racers who were warming up and testing the control systems on their racing ships, making sure that things were properly adjusted. Like a multi-colored flock of swift, plastic birds, they soared through several of the gates in a graceful and ever-changing cluster. Within minutes, she knew there were no top competitors like herself in the group and she found herself growing impatient. Their lines were sloppy and none of them had the same intense drive out of the gates as she did. Not that it really mattered. Cassandra had been waiting for two ships in particular, both of which had just caught and passed her group. She increased her speed to join the new pair. Free of the slow pack, with the other racers in her sights, she felt her spirit soar. As one, the three executed a series of intricate, difficult maneuvers flawlessly. Her powerful legs pumped the pedals smoothly, instinctively, without conscious thought as her breathing and pulse rate quickened. Cassandra became an intense ball of concentration, her attention focused completely on piloting her racing craft. For the first time in months, she felt wholly, vibrantly alive! To the trained marathoner this was heady, joyous fun! For nearly two complete circuits she barnstormed the practice course with the other two craft, learning the lines the other pilots used, sizing them up. Finally she made a move on them at the second-to-last gate. The other racers hadn't expected the maneuver and both had to change their line slightly to let her execute the pass by going between them. There had nearly been contact between the ships---a mere ten centimeters was all that separated them, but the skills of all three racers were such that none of them had been in any real danger---top level racers handled such maneuvers routinely. Under race conditions, it was not at all uncommon for ships to brush one another or for more serious contacts to occur. The practice session over, the racers waited for their support crews aboard their chase ships to come and pick them up. Even at the end of a practice session, the speeds achieved were astounding. Without a chase ship, the racer would have been required to expend an equal amount of energy on deceleration. Clearly a waste of time! Better to let a nuclear powered craft do the job for you. As the chase ship began to reel Cassandra in, she signaled to them with a circle made with thumb and forefinger---the universal sign: everything OK. As soon as she got back to the race facility, Cassandra sought out the two pilots that she had been sparring with for a little post-practice banter. She had no trouble finding the gaily colored ships. As she came up to them, the pilots were standing with their backs to her. One was demonstrating a racing maneuver with his hands and the other was nodding in agreement. "That was a good session!" she said. "Sorry about that last gate." She did a double-take as they turned to look at her. "Omigod!" she blurted. "You're Yuri Ramosian!" She looked at the other racer. "And you must be A.J. Thorpe?" The teammates smiled at Cassandra's obvious discomfort. "That was you in the yellow and blue ship?" asked Thorpe. The young girl nodded sheepishly. Thorpe's reply surprised her. "Good move! We were a tad too relaxed. Serves us right. Right, Yuri?" "Right, A.J. It's Cassandra, isn't it? Cassandra Chen-Lee?" asked Yuri. The young girl nodded, still a little wide-eyed. Yuri continued. "I agree, it was a hell of a good session! And don't worry, that was a good move you made at gate seventeen. I came in a little slow and a little wide." He shrugged, "You did the same thing I would have done!" Cassandra was a surprised to find that Ramosian stood at least a full head shorter than she did. Like many people who finally meet a legend, she discovered that her mental image of the champ was larger than life. He was also beginning to show his age a little. No youth drugs for marathoners! At this level of competition nearly all drugs were illegal and they were rigidly tested for. As a result, he was showing a little grey at the temples and some salt and pepper in the rest of his hair. But, outside of the little touches of grey and the laugh-wrinkles around his brown eyes, the rest of him was all-business, alloy hard, compact and muscular, ready for anything. His companion, Thorpe, was almost a perfect contrast. Descended from old-earth Kenyan stock, Thorpe was black-skinned and had the characteristic distance runner's physique---long-limbed, gaunt and wiry, without a trace of body fat. With the introductions over, a short awkward silence ensued. Cassandra self-consciously ran a hand through her dark, damp hair and tried to think of something intelligent to say. Thorpe spoke first. "I don't know 'bout you guys, but I'm for a hot shower and a cold drink. Cassandra, why don't you meet us at Killian's after we all clean up some?" he asked. "Good idea, A.J.," said Yuri. "Killian's?" she asked. "It's a little bar just down the corridor," said Yuri. "Kind of a racers hangout. You'll like it. It's a good place to unwind after practice." Cassandra seemed lost in some internal battle for a few moments before she made up her mind. "Okay," she said, nodding. "Killian's it is. Forty-five minutes?" An hour later she pushed cautiously through an old-fashioned, ornate door into the dimly lit interior of Killian's Olde Irish Pub. She looked around a bit while waiting for her eyes to adjust. An interesting place. The management had tried to capture the spirit of an old-earth English pub, say about mid-nineteenth century. They had done an admirable job, and even though there was no way that the dark paneling could be real wood or that the lamps could be burning natural gas, the place looked downright old. There was little doubt that the bar was a hangout for earth natives and marathon racers---the full-earth gravity guaranteed that. Cassandra didn't know for sure what an old pub was supposed to look like, but she decided immediately that she liked the place. Yuri signaled to her from a booth in the back corner. Thorpe sat across from him, his long, bony frame somehow jack-knifed into the confines of the smallish booth. Cassandra headed towards them across the crowded bar. A change into civilian clothing had wrought a transformation in the young girl. A blue outfit accentuated her less-than-generous bosom and disguised the heavily muscled legs. Her glossy black hair made for a flattering contrast against the soft, pale fabric and her smooth, golden skin as it fell in a braid beside her long graceful neck and over her bare shoulder. The hard, purposeful athlete had become tantalizingly feminine. What's more, the exotic almond-shaped eyes were a startling and very beautiful shade of blue! Both men watched in fascination as she slid into the empty space next to Yuri. Yuri and Thorpe were having the house specialty, an English style pale ale. Their glasses were about half-full. Cassandra thought for a moment before ordering from the human waiter. "Bring me something wet, and non-alcoholic," she said. "Did you see the Marathon coverage on the newsvids this morning?" asked Yuri. "It seems like everywhere you look you get this awful pre-race hype! I know it's part of the package, but sometimes I wish they'd just leave us alone and let us race!" He shook his head in disgust. "Not to worry, Cassandra," said Thorpe, winking. "He always gets this way before a big race." The Champ took a pull on his mug of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're right, A.J. Enough of that," said Yuri. "How about we change the subject. Let's talk about Cassandra instead." Cassandra took a sip of her drink and swallowed. "Fine," she said, bravely. "What would you like to know?" Thorpe shrugged. "Where you from?" "The New Ceylon colony." Their blank expressions were expected. She continued, "It's in the Naccobus star system, way out on the very edge of explored space. But it's nice. You'd like it. It's clean and underpopulated and they grow the best coffee in the galaxy." "Mining?" asked Yuri. "Lots," said Cassandra. "In fact, it's our main industry." Yuri nodded his head and took another drink of the ale, swallowed and softly smacked his lips in appreciation. "Truly a fine ale! Problem is, I only get to have one. Training rules." "Training rules, Hah! Admit it, Champ, you jus' ain't as young as you used to be!" prodded the much-younger Thorpe, winking at Cassandra. Adding insult to injury, Thorpe ordered himself another drink. "We'll see about that next Sunday," said the Champ, the laugh-wrinkles around his eyes intensifying slightly. "If you can manage to squeeze that bony carcass of yours into that little tiny ship!" Cassandra smiled at the good-natured banter between the two teammates. She decided that Yuri had been right, Killian's was a good place to unwind. The pub was crowded and noisy. Cassandra looked around the room at the various knots of race personnel, easily picking out the pilots. Some she recognized, others were still wearing their racing suits, no doubt in an effort to improve their chances of scoring with one or another of the bar's many female patrons. Over on the other side of the bar there was a good-sized group that was engrossed in some kind of hilarious game. Every now and then a shout would erupt, followed by a chorus of laughter from the rest of the group. One of the men in the small group caught her eye and waved. She waved back shyly. "What's going on over there?" she asked. "That's Michaels and Sharp and the gang," said Thorpe. "They could be up to mos' anythin'---you can't never tell with that bunch. Oh yeah, the wimpy guy on the left is somethin' different though. He's an accountant. Name's Morris Quimby. Been hanging around the bar for a couple days now. The guy's amazin', he can tell you anythin' you want to know 'bout mos' any Marathon, past or present. Hell, he can probably tell you what your split times were from this mornin's session...and mine and Yuri's and all the other top contenders." He took a pull on his ale. "They're good guys. You wanna meet 'em?" "I'd like that," she replied. "But later, let's finish our drinks first." The shared experiences of the racers meant that they had much in common, and conversation was easy as Cassandra got over the initial rush of actually meeting and being with the two celebrities and began to relax a little. After a few more minutes of getting acquainted, Cassandra turned the conversation in a more serious direction. "Do you think you can win the championship again?" she asked, surprised at her own boldness. "The competition looks really good this year." The Champ's reply was unexpected, "I don't know," he shrugged. "What's more, I don't really care all that much. Remember, I've won this damned extravaganza twice. If I go out next week and ride my best but am defeated by you or one of these other handsome young racers..." He motioned towards the group at the other side of the room. "...that won't matter. I'm the most alive when I'm racing!" "I understand, Mr. Ram...er Yuri," she said, sensing the kinship that they shared. "The ship is like it's part of your body. You drive it with your own vitality and you feel it respond to the slightest move of your hand. Racing takes total concentration; while you're doing it, you forget about everything else. That's an incredible feeling. But, I'll be honest, I like it best when I win!" "I'd say you got as good a chance as anybody," said Thorpe. Yuri nodded in agreement. "Thanks," she sighed. "You don't know how good it feels to hear you say that. I had a bad crash during the Heard's World Rally last year, and it's only been the last couple of months that I felt like I was back up to form." "I know what you mean," said Yuri. "I crashed in my first Asteroid Marathon twelve years ago. I got rear-ended during a chain-reaction incident at gate thirty-five. Wound up with a couple broken bones. I was worthless for weeks and I wasn't competitive for six months. Frustrating!" Cassandra nodded her head. "I've really made progress since my trainer put me on a holistic program of diet, physical conditioning and mental exercises. It's safe to say that I wouldn't be here without him." "Tell him he's done a good job," said Yuri. He looked around the room and sighed, "I have to go pretty soon. But, I'm free later on. Are you doing anything?" Cassandra was flattered by the unexpected pass but knew she couldn't possibly take the Champ up on it. She quickly thought up a little lie to let him down easy. "Thank you, no," she replied graciously. "I have a boyfriend waiting for me." Yuri shrugged, and smiled. "I was afraid of that! Can't blame me for trying! Seriously, I really enjoyed talking to you. Good luck in the race." He finished his ale and after taking---and kissing---her hand, left the bar with a wave to the raucous group across the room. "Come on," said Thorpe. "I'll introduce you to these animals." Cassandra picked up her drink and followed her lanky new friend across the room. The group was young, eager and ready to party. This close to a major race, the pilots generally backed off on the alcohol but several of the crew members were getting pretty drunk. Looking the group over, Cassandra was reminded once again that the combination of mental and physical attributes that make for a successful racer can come in the strangest packages. Some are cerebral about their approach, like Yuri Ramosian, for instance. Ramosian held an advanced degree in electro-physical engineering and had all sorts of reasons why he raced. He could spend hours talking about it. Thorpe had only a minimum of formal education and, unless you pinned him down, would rather talk about anything else. Both were Marathoners but, aside from that, Ramosian and Thorpe were pretty normal---just regular guys. And then there was Sharp, the ringleader of the party group. Sharp was certifiably nuts. He was still in his sweaty practice suit and he had opened the collar and rolled up the sleeves in the warm and crowded bar. Above his round face, the thinning hair on his bare head was still plastered to his forehead from sweating inside his helmet during practice. Cassandra sensed that even in normal clothing Sharp would have had an unkempt look about him. Wild, unpredictable, and loud, they called him "Torpedo" Sharp because of his actions both on and off the race course. It was difficult to fathom his motives. As reckless as he was, he probably raced out of some submerged death wish. The game was `Catch the five credit note'. A simple game; perhaps a challenge only to those who have had a few too many drinks. The player would put his hand on the table with thumb and forefinger extended out over the edge and held about a centimeter apart. The object of the game was to catch a five credit note that was dropped between the thumb and forefinger. An obviously inebriated young racer was about to try his luck. The wobbly young man was the number two rider for the Lotus team. A practice crash during the day's session had left him without a ride. He was either celebrating being alive or drowning his sorrows because he wouldn't be in the race---take your pick, at this stage it was hard to tell. At the other end of the table, the group made room for Cassandra and Thorpe to sit. As the game began again, Cassandra found herself sitting right next to the one who had been pointed out to her as `Quimby'. Sharp held the five-credit note so that the oval picture of president Tsumaki's face in the middle of the bill was lined up with the contestant's thumb. "He'll never catch it," said the little accountant, in a surprisingly deep baritone. "He's had way too much to drink." Sharp released the bill and sure enough, the young racer's fingers closed on empty air. "How did you know that would happen?" asked Cassandra, while Sharp retrieved the bill. "It's quite simple, really," replied Quimby. "This game is just a crude test of reaction time. The participant sees the note begin to fall, but the nerve impulse from brain to hand isn't quite quick enough for him to close his fingers before the bill has dropped past them. Placing the hand on the edge of the table means the bill can't be followed down either." Cassandra nodded in understanding. "I don't suppose a few drinks help any, do they?" she asked. "No, they don't," replied Quimby. "Even though a racer, like yourself, generally has a much faster reaction time than a normal person, a few drinks will quickly remove that advantage." "Damn!" said the frustrated young drunk, as he missed a second try. "C'mon, Sharp, drop it again!" Sharp dropped the bill again, with the same result. The entire group laughed at the shout of outrage, Cassandra along with them. That, unfortunately, got the irate contestant's attention. "It looks easy from down there, doesn't it?" he challenged, looking straight at Cassandra. "C'mon, sit over here! That is, if you think you can do any better!" Cassandra gulped and looked around the table. "N..no! I don't. Really! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you." But it was too late. Suddenly every one in the entire group thought it was an excellent idea. "No excuses," said Sharp. "C'mon, move over to the hot seat." "Go ahead, my dear," said Quimby, chuckling. "You certainly can't do any worse than anyone else." She sat, reluctantly. "Put your hand on the edge of table, like this," said Sharp, demonstrating. "Hold your thumb and forefinger apart like this. Ready? Now!" Even though she really wasn't ready, to everyone's surprise she caught the bill before it had moved a bare centimeter downward. "Hey, no fair anticipatin'!" said Sharp. "Do it again." Cassandra straighten her shoulders, took a deep breath and nodded her head. Again she caught the bill after only about a one centimeter drop. "Three's the charm," said Sharp. "One more time!" She missed it cleanly. And a fourth time. And a fifth. Finally she shook her head in exasperation. "Enough!" she said. "I can't do it anymore. I must've just got lucky the first two times." Three failures in a row took the pressure off and someone else took the favored seat. The game continued. Quimby looked at her quizzically when she returned to her seat. "Well done, Ms. Chen-Lee!" said Quimby. "Far and away the best performance of the evening!" He made some notes in a little black book. Cassandra finished a third drink and talked a bit longer with her new friends before excusing herself. A bony, nervous, elderly man was waiting in her suite when she finally got back. "Where have you been?" he asked, wringing his hands. "You're two hours late! I wanted to examine you right after practice!" "Sorry, Richter. I had some business." The old man seemed to relax a little. "Did you link up with Ramosian and Thorpe out on the course, Cass?" "Yeah, no problem." "Did they suspect that you were waiting for them?" "No, I doubt it. I acted pretty surprised when I talked to them afterwards. Believe it or not, they invited me to have a drink with them! That's where I was. God, I hope they don't see us together!" she added with a giggle. "I told them you were my boyfriend!" He ignored the jibe, or didn't hear it. "You talked to Ramosian?" he asked, obviously impressed. "Yes, I talked to Ramosian. In fact, we had a fairly long conversation. You know what? He said he doesn't care if he wins or loses, he just likes to race. Don't you find that strange?" "Strange?" replied Richter. "Not at all. Just don't you believe a word of it. He's been touting that line of solid waste so long that he may be beginning to believe it himself. Never fear, Cassandra, when the starting flag drops you'll be up against one the most competitive men who ever lived!" Cassandra nodded in agreement. "Don't worry, Richter, I wasn't fooled," she reassured him. "Oh, by the way, your training system really works. I had the fastest reaction time in the bar!" Richter looked suddenly worried. "What did you do, Cass?" "Oh, nothing serious, I just caught a couple of five credit bills," she replied. "And then I covered up by not catching three more of them." She ignored his puzzled look. "You know what, Richter? It really felt super out there today. I'm beginning to have a very good feeling about this race!" Cassandra hugged him and headed off towards her sleep chamber. She didn't see the satisfied smile on the old trainer's face as he dimmed the lights and turned towards his own room. The Asteroid Marathon took place in the vacuum of space where there was no gravity or atmospheric friction to contend with. Under such conditions there were some important points to keep in mind. First, a racing craft that coasted without power did not slow down. Second, and more importantly, the craft's velocity was cumulative. Consider: spinning the pedals on a marathon craft transformed energy from the pilot's muscles into thrust. Thrust was used for changing velocity or for changing direction, both of which were necessary during the course of the race. Naturally, a racer tried to channel as much energy as possible into increasing his speed. The top competitors could reach truly amazing speeds by the end of 10,000 kilometers, a property that had a profound influence on the design of the Marathon race course. The course was designed with very tight and sharp maneuvers in the early going which gradually changed to more open and sweeping maneuvers at its end. In spite of this adjustment, because of the ever escalating velocities, negotiating the course became increasingly more difficult in the later stages. There was a profound difference in safety between the beginning and end of the Marathon course also. A contestant that crashed near the beginning of the race when the velocities were down had a fair chance of survival. A similar incident at mid-course or later, at the frightening speeds achieved, was almost invariably fatal. The ships were constructed from state-of-the-art materials, but even their incredible strength could withstand only so much force, and the most fragile component---the pilot---was only flesh and blood. At just over five meters in length, the racing ships were tiny. But they were breathtakingly beautiful. Aerodynamic styling was employed, not because it was required in the airlessness of space, but because the ships looked better that way. The Marathon was, first and foremost, a spectator sport. The ship's nose was long and pointed and the body swelled gracefully back to the widest part, the cockpit, where it was just over a meter wide. The body then tapered back to the chopped-off tail which housed the grid of the main thruster. The sleek outer shell of the ship was molded in any color or combination of colors that the owner/sponsor wished. It was also common practice for each of the ships to be splashed with a colorful assortment of sponsor logos as well. Inside the cockpit, the appointments were starkly utilitarian. There was a joystick that controled the maneuvers of the tiny ship and, of course, the pedals that drove it. A clear canopy covered the pressurized cockpit and vision "below" was provided by a small oval window in the floor---a threat to pass could come from anywhere. The instrumentation was likewise very simple: an accelerometer to gauge the amount of thrust, a speedometer, and a cluster of attitude indicators to give readouts on pitch, yaw and the artificial horizon. There was also a "fuel" gauge that reported how much cesium reaction mass was left, but it wasn't really important---no one ever ran out of cesium. Life support and temperature control systems were maintained by a small battery pack. The tiny ships had no actual brakes but they could be flipped around and the main thruster used for deceleration. Under race conditions this was seldom done by any competitor, and never by a winner. The power generators, maneuvering thrusters and cesium fuel tanks were standardized so that each ship carried identical equipment. The ships were also carefully "weighed" to insure that their masses were above the minimum limit. Differences in acceleration, maneuverability and speed were due solely to the abilities of the racers themselves. The ships of female contestants carried 100 kilos less mass than those of the males. It was conceded early on that no amount of extra conditioning could quite make up for the slightly superior physical strength of the men. The handicap system worked. Over the years, women had been very competitive in the Marathon. As the days in the week before the race reeled off, the tensions grew ever more intense. The newsvids had special segments devoted to race information several times each day. The race promoters played the emotions of the huge mass of humanity like so many instruments in some huge galactic orchestra. Two days before the race, all of the chase ships with the racers and pit crews, all of the dignitaries in their fine and opulent yachts, all of the sportscasters and their support staff and a huge entourage of assorted fans and hangers-on joined in a huge parade that made its way majestically out to the "Marathon Cluster", the site of the famous race course itself. This "Grande Promenade", as it was called, took the better part of a day to make the five-thousand kilometer journey out from Ceres. For those who wished to watch it, there was a live video feed from the spaceport on Ceres that showed each ship as it left. Popular vidstars kept up an endless, truly mindless banter about the race, the racers, and the dignitaries. Most of humanity was tuned in. The irresistible strains of the tension symphony continued to play in the background. The final day before the race was spent in last-minute preparations. The Marathon ships were checked over one last time. The contestants, in isolation on board their chase ships, carefully re-examined their race strategies, wondering if anything should be changed. At the end of the day the racers retired, to get what rest they could. Meanwhile, the conductors of the mighty tension orchestra were building up to the final crescendo. Race day! All had been tuned to the perfect fevered pitch of excitement. Finally all of the preliminaries were over. It was time! The race was ready to begin! Thousands of participants were lined up at the start. They would start in waves, with the fastest first and each consecutive wave would start at two minute intervals. Such a staggered start insured that the fastest racers wouldn't have to contend with the inherent dangers of less skillful contestants. Those who were in the first wave were the best in the galaxy---Ramosian, Thorpe, Chen-Lee, the mighty Sharp from Luna, swift and crafty Michaels from the belt and twenty others. During the race each competitor could easily be identified by the color of their cesium exhaust. On race day a very tiny amount of just the right impurity gave each exhaust the characteristic color of the contestant's home system. Displaying the colors of one's home world was considered a great honor. Holoposters and vids that promoted the race often showed a twisted, tangled, intertwined rainbow of multicolored exhausts outlined against the black velvet backdrop of space as a tightly packed group of racers executed a tight maneuver through one of the bright triangular gates. In addition to its many other assets, the marathon was a very colorful event---literally! Yuri's exhaust was the sky-blue of his home planet, Earth, while Cassandra's was the deep red of New Ceylon. This exhaust was, of course, nearly transparent at close quarters, allowing the pilots maximum visibility. Twenty-five multicolored exhaust plumes streamed forth as the first wave was finally given the starting signal. A young racer from Sirius IV took the early lead, his sleek ship spewing out the violet color of his homeworld. Yuri purposefully held back; no one knew better than he that 10,000 kilometers was a long race. Besides, many a racer had had a race, a career or even his life cut short from an altercation due to the extreme congestion on the course right after the start. Challenges for position remained at a minimum in the early going as a small knot of twelve ships began to outdistance the others. But the ships began jockeying frantically as they came to the first series of tight obstacles. The right position was vital. Coming into a gate at the wrong angle meant that the contestant could miss the next gate, or that he would have to waste valuable energy getting back onto the right line and be outdistanced by the others. In the worst case, he might even hit an asteroid. Yuri went into the first clump of asteroids in eighth position. He picked the perfect line, one that allowed him to skim just over the surfaces of the jagged rocks in the large cluster and make each of the gates at the same time. With a gentle nudge on the joystick and a furious burst of power, he exited in fifth. Cassandra, who had been running twelfth, suddenly found herself in ninth when the ship right in front of her went wide, colliding with two others. In less than a heartbeat, three racers were in serious trouble as their ships careened wildly off the racing line. One of them, Michaels, the "home town boy" from Ceres, used his incredible strength and skill to just make the gate, but his angle was all wrong. He narrowly missed a large, slowly spinning asteroid on the outside edge of the gate. Cassandra held her breath as she watched the yellow wash from Michaels' exhaust brush the pocked surface of the jagged rock. One of the others wasn't quite so lucky. In spite of a valiant, desperate effort, he missed the gate and augered directly into the asteroid. The fragile eggshell of his ship exploded from the horrifying impact into a cloudy smear of fog and debris. Michaels slipped back behind the lead pack, obviously shaken by his narrow escape. As the course got more difficult, Yuri continued to move methodically up through the pack. By the halfway point, he was in second place. He had developed a distinct admiration for the young racer ahead of him: his teammate, Thorpe. The emerald plume from the back of the sleek racing ship never faltered as A.J. swept through each of the increasingly difficult maneuvers. Yuri smiled. Thorpe had learned a lot since joining the team! The champ nodded in approval at the classic lines that the young racer took through the ever more difficult turns. A bit wide going in; cut as close as possible to the apex of the curve; sweep a bit wide going out, the tiny ship all but scraping the hard unyielding surfaces of the rocky obstacles as Thorpe sought the triangular green glow of the next gate. Spectators throughout the galaxy held their breath and marveled at the beautiful and deadly minuet that the two men danced through the complex and dangerous series of maneuvers. They made the task look graceful, effortless. This was an illusion. Inside their respective ships the contestants were straining themselves beyond comprehension to maintain the torrid pace, all the while making countless delicate adjustments every second on the flight controls to keep the tiny ship on exactly the right line! Behind them, by about five kilometers, Cassandra moved quietly into fifth. And so it went, hour after grueling hour. Some of the contestants were forced to call for their chase ships as one or another of the hardships of the race caused them to cease their effort. They were the fortunate ones. Others, their minds fogged with fatigue, made the fatal mistake---and paid the ultimate price. For some, it was just bad luck. They happened to be in the way when someone made a mistake, like Michaels had been---in the wrong place at the wrong time. To the soulless asteroids that were hit, it made no difference, perpetrator or victim, both suffered the same cruel fate. With three-quarters of the race well behind him, Yuri made his move. He knew it was now or never, that he had to be in the lead for the final leg. To accomplish this, Yuri had picked his spot well: the famous Pallas tunnel. The "tunnel" was the most difficult portion of the course and involved a complicated series of left and right sweeping turns that also involved a substantial change in "elevation" between each gate, up and left, down and right, down and left, up and right. To make matters worse, the profusion of large, irregular chunks of rock in this very difficult area meant that most of the gates were blind as well---the racers came upon them abruptly, without warning. Yuri's long experience and consummate skill made the tunnel the ideal place to make his bid for the lead. Once through this area, all that remained was one more gate and then a straight-line powered sprint to the finish. It was time. In a classic maneuver, Yuri pulled up to where he knew he was visible out of the corner of Thorpe's eye. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book: let your opponent feel your presence right behind him, stick to him, hound him until he makes the one error, the one mistake that will let you through! Yuri smiled again. No doubt about it, Thorpe had really developed! A.J. executed the first series of bends flawlessly, but trying to watch the gates and the rocks and the ever-present ship behind him---all at the same time---was too much to ask. Suddenly, Thorpe's ship bobbled slightly as the awkward position of the next gate surprised him. He made a valiant attempt to make the gate, his green exhaust glowing brightly from the effort. His attempt was successful---but only barely! Luckily he also missed a small boulder-sized asteroid right near the corner of the gate. Thorpe, nearly off the course and on a line that was all wrong, left a huge opening for the Champ to streak past. Yuri confidently executed the difficult maneuver and just skimmed through the same gate, only his line was perfect. He came out of the tunnel alone. There wasn't a ship within five kilometers of him. Yuri leveled off and fell into the rhythmic pumping of his legs that would take him home. One more gate before the finish line! Sixty-five percent of the human race got up to stretch, go to the bathroom or to get another drink. It looked like Yuri Ramosian was going to be champion for the third time! Oh well, they thought, at least Thorpe had given him a run for his credits! Cassandra carved out a line similar to Yuri's and made up a couple of places at the same time, moving her up to third place. Ahead, she could just barely see the blue plume from Yuri's exhaust. Her own red plume intensified as she began to pump the pedals furiously in an attempt to catch the leader. Thorpe was the only contestant between her and Ramosian, but he could do nothing to hold off her charge. His jaw dropped in astonishment as she poured on an unbelievable blast of acceleration that left him behind. Meanwhile, Yuri was still giving all he had to increase his speed. He knew the competition was a long way back and he was beginning to feel confident that the win was his. No racer in history had ever made up such a deficit and he, the best racer who had ever competed, was the one they had to catch! But, of course, he hadn't counted on Cassandra. She passed the Champ just before the final gate. Yuri shook his head. Her incredible strength had allowed her to catch up, but she was going much too fast. She'd never make the gate. Sure enough, the exhaust plume from her racing craft faltered for a moment as she seemed to realize it too. The next maneuver took him completely by surprise. Suddenly her ship cartwheeled gracefully over, to travel rear-end first. A flip-turn to decelerate! During a race! Yuri smiled at the bold and novel approach. I'll have to give her credit for that one, he thought, but it'll never work. "Nice try, Cassandra!" he said aloud. As expected, he passed her slowed-down ship just on the other side of the gate. Yuri straightened out for the final sprint to the finish. Now was the time to dig deep, to find out what was left. Yuri had always been able to somehow save a little for a "kick" at the very end. This race was to be no exception. It looked bad for Cassandra---she had lost a great deal of time and speed in her successful effort to make the final gate. That one mistake had dropped her back by about twelve kilometers. The situation did look hopeless, but there was no quit in Cassandra! She went doggedly back to work. With just a hundred kilometers left to the finish, she trailed by ten kilometers. By the time there were fifty left, she trailed by five. Soon, Yuri was taking furtive glances over his shoulder as she continued to come on relentlessly! Sixty-five percent of the human race went back and sat down in front of their vidscreens. This race wasn't over yet! With ten kilometers left, there was no doubt---it would be a photo finish. If Cassandra could keep it up! Yuri could see the finish gate---a flashing neon-blue rectangle---a heartbreakingly short distance away when the yellow and blue craft with the red exhaust plume blew past underneath. The former Champ crossed the finish line, completely spent, in second place! Cassandra's margin of victory was two-tenths of a second, making it the closest Marathon in history. Thorpe, who had hung on to finish third, was more than twenty kilometers behind them. Afterwards, after the chase ships had picked them up and they stood on the victor's podium to receive their medals, Yuri sincerely congratulated her on a fine race. He meant every word. It had been a wonderful race, the kind that would be buzzed about for months! The events of the next few days insured that this Marathon would be talked about for years to come. Two days after the race, back on Ceres, Yuri and Thorpe were surprised by a summons from the race authorities. Such an unscheduled meeting was highly irregular. As two of the top three finishers, they were very busy people! During the next two days, there were dozens of social functions to attend and hundreds of minor dignitaries to meet and talk with. Crowning it all was the victory banquet that was to be held the final night where the top three were to be guests at an elaborate dinner and would get to shake the hand of President Tsumaki himself! Half-an-hour later Yuri and Thorpe were at the Marathon Complex. Joining them were Harris Dockett, a harried-looking, slightly overweight, middle-aged Marathon official and Dr. Julius Harbour, the official Marathon Physician. "What's this all about?" asked Yuri. "Yuri, A.J., you know Dr. Harbour," said Dockett. The former champ and his teammate shook hands with the doctor. Dockett pushed a button on his intercom. "You can send Mr. Quimby in now." "Quimby?" asked Thorpe. "You mean Morris Quimby?" "Yes," replied Dockett, somewhat surprised. "You know him?" "Yeah," said Thorpe. "Met him at Killian's Pub. The guy's a Marathon freak, a reg'lar walkin' Comlink!" Morris Quimby, looking very nervous, entered the room, nodded at Thorpe and was introduced to the Champ. Quimby cleared his throat. "It is truly a pleasure to meet you, Mr Ramosian. I'm an accountant for Federated Metals. I'm also a longtime fan of the Marathon. I even do statistical work-ups on the athletes to assess their performance. It's kind of a hobby with me." He stopped and looked from Yuri to the Marathon officials. Dockett nodded his head. Quimby cleared his throat again and continued. "Last week's contest was won by the young lady, Cassandra Chen-Lee, in what was a very close and thrilling race." "The closest and most enjoyable of my career," said Yuri. "Even though I lost." "You may have lost, Mr. Ramosian, but perhaps not legally," said Quimby, nervously. "I did some calculations on Chen-Lee's performance yesterday and I found a few things that didn't quite add up." "Be careful what you say, Mr. Quimby, every contestant must pass a rigid battery of drug and genetic tests before and after the race. Especially if they win!" warned Harbour. "I'm aware of that, doctor, nevertheless, my statement stands! I've calculated the amount of energy that she would have needed to make up the distance between Mr. Ramosian and herself on the final straight power sprint to the finish." He paused here for greater effect. "Not even in your record-breaking win of eight years ago did you put out that much energy in such a short time," he said, looking at Yuri. "She beat your best-ever energy output by more than fifteen percent! And that doesn't even include what it must have cost her to do that unprecedented flip turn just before the final gate." "Yeah," said Yuri, appreciatively. "That was pretty incredible!" "As further proof," Quimby continued. "At the weigh-in after the race, there were only two kilograms of cesium left in her tank. Two kilos! She almost ran out, Mr. Ramosian. As you know, no one ever runs out of cesium!" The Champ shook his head in disbelief. "One more thing," said Quimby. "Mr. Thorpe and I were witnesses at a game she participated in where she demonstrated evidence of an abnormally fast reaction time." Thorpe nodded in agreement. Yuri looked quizzically at Dockett. "Would you be willing to testify in a court of law about this information, Mr. Quimby?" asked Dockett, his voice very serious. "In the interest of fair racing, I feel that I must," replied Quimby. "Maybe we can avoid all that," interjected Harbour. "Why don't we just get Chen-Lee and that Richter character down here and have me take another look at her." "Good idea," said Dockett. Within the hour, Cassandra Chen-Lee and Harlow Richter had reported to the complex. "You wish to examine my racer again?" said Richter indignantly. "Why?" "There are some minor discrepancies, Mr. Richter. I'm sure it's nothing," soothed Dockett. "Just a quick check-up by Dr. Harbour and we can all go home. Shouldn't take more than a half hour." "Very well," said Richter grumpily. "But please make it quick. We have a million things to do!" Ten minutes later they were again in Dockett's office. Dr. Harbour wore a perplexed look. "Her parameters are all within normal limits," said the old gray haired doctor. "I find nothing illegal. But..." "Good," said Richter. "Then we'll be off for the day's activities." Dr. Harbour still looked doubtful. "Wait a few more minutes," he said. "I want to take a look at the imaging medscan." Dr. Harbour's "few minutes" became an hour, then and hour and a half. Finally he called the entire group back together. "I've found the answer, Harris," said the old doctor. "And?" said Dockett. "Here, take a look at these readings." "What are we supposed to see?" "Not much, at first glance. Like you would expect for a top Marathon contender, Cassandra's readings are all at the high end of normal. But there are a few things here that, to quote Mr. Quimby, `don't quite add up."' "What do you mean?" asked Dockett. "Let me see if I can give you an example. Take a look at Thorpe's printout over here. What's the figure for lung capacity?" "Um... four point three seven liters. Why?" "Okay, look at Chen-Lee's." Dockett looked at her printout. "Six point five nine?" said Dockett. "Now---sorry Ms. Chen-Lee---compare her chest to Thorpe's." "Hm...Aside from a far more pleasing architecture I'd say there's no way she could have a larger lung capacity than Thorpe." said Dockett. "Exactly!" said Harbour. "That's one of the things I found when I did a few comparisons! But there's more." "Yes?" "As you know, Harris, the Marathon rules state that genetic alterations and use of any but a very small list of drugs by the contestants are strictly forbidden. All my tests show that Cassandra hasn't done any of these things." "So, what's the point, Julius?" "It seems there are other ways to improve performance," said the doctor. "Would you mind explaining that," said Dockett. Harbour smiled and dropped his bomb. "Cassandra Chen-Lee has been extensively modified surgically." "Modified?" said Dockett, shocked. "How?" "This is ridiculous!" interrupted Richter indignantly. "I came down here in good faith! What kind of nonsense is this?" "I'd remain calm if I were you, Mr. Richter," said Harbour. "Something very odd is going on here and I assure you we are going to find out what it is. It's also possible that you are in a great deal of trouble!" Richter made a sound of disgust but backed off. The doctor continued. "Gather around. This is the readout from the Horvald imaging med-scan, a procedure which we don't normally do for qualifying. Because there's a protest, I did one today." "Excellent, Julius," said Dockett. "Just as the rules specify." The old doctor pointed to his viewscreen which showed a color-coded, three-dimensional internal view of Cassandra Chen-Lee. The projection could be rotated to any angle and any organ system could be zoomed in on and magnified or highlighted. The view zoomed in on the thoracic region. Cassandra, upset by the accusations and uncomfortable at having her internal anatomy more or less on public display, remained at the back of the group but looked on with a kind of morbid fascination. "To begin with, her lungs have been connected across the bottom and special organic valves have been placed so that air passes completely through both lungs; in through the left lung first, out the bottom, into and up through the right lung before finally being breathed out. There are no dead air spaces like those in an unaltered human's lungs. This modification alone makes her lungs at least ten percent more efficient than normal." Cassandra, her mouth open, wore a look of disturbed wonder. Harbour typed a command on the med-scan keyboard and a different portion of the chest region became highlighted. He continued. "In addition, both her heart and her lungs have been equipped with a number of extra veins and arteries to improve oxygen exchange. This is what threw off my original figures for lung capacity and led me to do a more detailed analysis. To further improve performance, there are extra vessels supplying the large muscles of her legs as well." Dockett shook his head in disbelief. "But that's not the end of it. Look at this!" Harbour typed in another string of commands. The nervous system of the projection became highlighted. "As if increased endurance weren't enough, she has several tiny biomicroprocessers in her hands and arms that have been connected to a microscopic descrambler inside her skull. The connection has been made with an exquisitely crafted set of delicate, hair-thin gold cables that almost escaped detection. In turn, the descrambler is directly connected to the appropriate areas of her brain. I have never measured a faster reaction time! From brain to hand it is about ten times faster than human normal!" Cassandra sat down heavily in Harbour's thickly padded chair, her head in her hands. "What does it all mean?" asked Dockett, shooting a disproving glance at Richter. "It means that she should have won the race easily, but she must have misjudged the pace and held back a little too much in the early going. As a result, she had to far exceed even superhuman performance to win! Except for that slight miscalculation and, of course, the obscure statistics of Morris Quimby, these modifications may have gone unnoticed." Cassandra was in a state of shock. Distraught, nearly hysterical, she shouted at Richter. "You said you were going to fix me up after my accident! What have you done to me, Richter?" Yuri and A.J. tried to calm her down. "Are you responsible for this, Richter?" asked Dockett. "Yes." "Incredible techniques!" said Harbour, unable to hide his admiration. "Where did you learn?" "For ten years I was a doctor for General Metals at their infamous Nacobbus VI mining site. A lot of good men got hurt out there. It was my job to fix them up. Often there wasn't much left to work with. Most of them would have died anyway unless we did something. We were forced to try some pretty radical things." "What does that have to do with Cassandra?" asked Harbour. "I'd been patching people up so they could go back to being miners, Dr. Harbour. I wanted to see what my procedures could do for an athlete. Cassandra's accident was the perfect opportunity. I was planning to tell Cassandra and the Marathon committee all about it as soon as the furor surrounding the race died down a bit." "You mean this isn't an act? She really doesn't know?" asked Harbour, in disbelief. Richter nodded his head. "She thought it was an unusual diet and my special exercise program." "I thought you were my friend!" said Cassandra, with an accusing look, her voice still edged with hysteria. "I am your friend, Cassandra," said the old man quietly. "Before your accident you were a good pilot---one of the best---but you lacked the other important physical attributes that would have made you a top Marathoner." He put his hand on her shoulder. "You were a mess after your accident, Cass! Without my intervention, you wouldn't even have been able to walk again, let alone race! My techniques not only gave you back your health, they also made you into a contender. But you're forgetting something, Cassandra: it was your skill and your desire that made you into a winner!" Richter looked proudly around the room. "Check the rules, Gentlemen. I believe you will find that we haven't broken any of them!" "What?" said Dockett. "He may be right, Harris," said the doctor. "There is a distinct possibility that the rules haven't been broken!" A long and extensive examination of the rule book revealed that Cassandra had indeed broken none of the rules. Remarkably, she was allowed to keep the championship. The rules were rewritten; such modifications to the human body would not be allowed again. Cassandra went numbly through the ceremonies, still in deep emotional shock. Within a few months she had gotten considerably better. Whether or not she ever completely recovered remains unknown. The trophy was a beautifully sculpted cup made of real gold that had been mined from the belt. The inscription read: First Place Unlimited Division Ceres-Pallas Marathon In the realm of sport that tests human endurance to its limits, there is no higher award. Morris Quimby was offered a position with the lofty title of "Official Statistician to the Ceres-Pallas Marathon". He took the job immediately. After all, how many people get a chance to live their dreams? Arguments over who was the "real" winner of the marathon raged in barrooms and betting halls for years afterwards. Yuri Ramosian retired soon after, never to race again. He went on to a career in sports journalism and made enormous sums of money endorsing various athletic products. Some say that it was the controversy over the beautiful and enigmatic Cassandra that made him want to quit. Others say he finally got tired of it. Possibly, but, what they didn't know was that Yuri wasn't a "normal" human being himself. It wasn't widely publicized but there's a good chance that the real reason he retired was due to the fact that one of his two hearts was beginning to act up. ______________________________________________________________________________ Phil Nolte has been writing Science-Fiction for about three years, although he's been reading and enjoying it for most of his life. He says that, for him, writing started out as "a lark" just to see if he could actually do it. Later, he found himself getting more and more serious about it. He still writes at home in his spare time, often when others are totally wasting their time watching dreadful TV sitcoms, etc... His obsession is a better use of time. In addition to fiction, he's also written several science history articles for a local (Red River Valley) trade journal. This is his third story to be printed in Quanta. nu020061@vm1.nodak.edu ______________________________________________________________________________