Split Infinity

They had formed the grid artfully to prevent any vertical or horizontal three-in-a-row lines, so there was no obvious advantage to be obtained here. Since Stile had made the extra placement. Hulk had choice of facets. They made their selections, and it came up 2B, dead center: Marathon.

Stile relaxed. Victory! But Hulk did not seem discouraged. Strange.

“Concede?” Stile inquired, per protocol.

“Declined.”

So Hulk actually intended to race. He was simply not a distance runner; Stile was. What gave the man his confidence? There was no way he could fake Stile out; this was a clear mismatch. As far as Stile knew. Hulk had never completed a marathon race. The audience, too, was marveling. Hulk should have conceded. Did he know something others didn’t, or was he bluffing?

Well, what would be, would be. Hulk would keep the pace for a while, then inevitably fall behind, and when Stile got a certain distance ahead there would be a mandatory concession. Maybe Hulk preferred to go down that way—or maybe he hoped Stile would suffer a cramp or pull a muscle on the way. Accidents did happen on occasion, so the outcome of a Game was never quite certain until actually played through. Stile’s knee injury was now generally known; perhaps Hulk overestimated its effect.

They proceeded to the track. Sheen paced Stile nervously; was she affecting an emotion she did not feel, the better to conceal her nature, or did she suspect some threat to his welfare here? He couldn’t ask. The established track wound through assorted other exercise areas, passing from one to another to make a huge circuit. Other runners were on it, and a number of walkers; they would clear out to let the marathoners pass, of course. Stile and Hulk, as rung contenders be-fore the Tourney, had priority.

The audience dispersed; there was really no way to watch this race physically except by matching the pace.  Interested people would view it on intermittent view-screen pickup, or obtain transport to checkpoints along the route.

They came to the starting line and checked in with the robot official. “Be advised that a portion of this track is closed for repair,” the robot said. He was a desk model, similar to the female at the Dust Slide; his nether portion was the solid block of the metal desk.  “There is a detour, and the finish line is advanced accordingly to keep the distance constant.”

“Let me put in an order for my drinks along the way,” Hulk said. “I have developed my own formula.”

Formula? Stile checked with Sheen. “He’s up to something,” she murmured. “There’s no formula he can use that will give him the endurance he needs, without tripping the illegal-drug alarm.”

 “He isn’t going to cheat, and he can’t outrun me,” Stile said. “If he can win this one, he deserves it. Will you be at the checkpoints to give me my own drinks?  Standard fructose mix is what I run on; maybe Hulk needs something special to bolster his mass, but I don’t, and I don’t expect to have to finish this course anyway.”

“I will run with you,” she said.

“And show the world your nature? No living woman as soft and shapely as you could keep the pace; you know that.”

“True,” she agreed reluctantly. “I will be at the checkpoints. My friends will keep watch too.” She leaned forward to kiss him fleetingly, exactly like a concerned girl friend—and wasn’t she just that?

They lined up at the mark, and the robot gave them their starting signal. They were off, running side by side. Stile set the pace at about fifteen kilometers per hour, warming up, and Hulk matched him. The first hour of a marathon hardly counted; the race would be decided in the later stages, as personal resources and willpower gave out. They were not out after any record; this was purely a two-man matter, and the chances were that one of them would concede when he saw that he could not win.

Two kilometers spacing was the requirement for forced concession. This was to prevent one person slowing to a walk, forcing the other to go the full distance at speed to win. But it was unlikely even to come to that; Stile doubted that Hulk could go any major fraction of this distance at speed without destroying himself. Once Hulk realized that his bluff had failed, he would yield gracefully.

Soon Stile warmed up. His limbs loosened, his breathing and respiration developed invigorating force, and his mind seemed to sharpen. He liked this sort of exercise. He began to push the pace. Hulk did not have to match him, but probably would, for psychological effect. Once Stile got safely out in front, nothing the big man could do would have much impact.

Yet Hulk was running easily beside him, breathing no harder than Stile. Had the man been practicing, extending his endurance? How good was he, now?