The Barsoom Project

“Ah… yes. Six. Due to the nature of the Game, food and rest breaks will be subject to randomization and interruption.

“Seven. The usual quarter-moon symbol will indicate the presence of rest room facilities. That’s all.”

Dr. Vail smiled at Myers like a cat inspecting a bowl of cream. Griffin had the distinct impression that he was calculating Myers’s body fat content from the thickness of the bearded cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Myers. I think you will find that the adjustments we’ve made in the Game actually make it more interesting. I can’t imagine any of our refinements-”

“Modifications,” Myers corrected politely.

“Ah, yes. Refinements would interfere with security work. Mr. Bobbick, you may find that you are more tired than usual by the end of the last day, due to the fact that your brains are receiving constant input. We balance that with the distribution of food-”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing but fruit or raw vegetables after nine in the evening. In that way your digestive system gets to rest while you sleep. Second, all of the participants will be wearing heart and blood pressure transmitters wired into the mesh of their underwear. These will be in constant operation.

“Well-I think that’ll do it for the time being. You’ll find everything else you need to know as the Game proceeds.”

The two screens winked out. Griffin sipped the dregs of his coffee. “What do you think?”

Marty’s face broke into a huge smile. “You know, for years I’ve been telling myself that I was going to do a Game. You seemed to have so much fun in the South Seas Treasure Game! But I just never did it. Now I’ve got the chance. I love it. I’ll make you a little side bet-I outpoint everyone there.”

“I’ve got a different bet for you. Lose twenty pounds within eight weeks, and we’ll see about that raise.”

“Aw, Chief, c’mon. I can still pin you two out of three-”

“That’s the deal. What do you say?”

Marty waited a minute, then extended a heavy hand. “You’re on.”

Griffin pumped it solemnly. “Now, then. Is War-Bots set up yet?”

Marty rubbed his hands together. “Let’s see.”

Griffin punched a series of buttons, and the window cleared and Razul sat in a tiny cabin that pitched and yawed as he manipulated his controls. Each thundering footstep of the War-Bot reverberated to the core of his spine.

The enemy War-Bot came at him again, scarlet trimmed in black, two hundred feet tall. A thousand tons of mechanized thunder, with Andrew Chala invisible in the torso. It swung a gigantic fist that impacted like the direct strike of an avalanche.

Razul went down, and when he did, a row of buildings was crushed beneath him. Razul must keep the War-Bot rolling, must bring it back to its feet; but he was rolling across a park and into a block of apartment buildings, while families screamed and fled. Tiny nannies pushed prams at sprinter’s speed, or abandoned them to die beneath the metal behemoth. He’d smashed the base of a building. It disintegrated. Concrete and screaming people showered his shoulders as he came to his feet.

“ Have you never wished to fight a war all by yourself? Yourself the only general and the only warrior. No ally to betray you. No subordinate to ruin your plans through mistake or misunderstanding. War reduced to its basics!” Dream Park’s fool of a psychiatrist thought he knew Razul’s mind.

He was wrong. Razul had accepted the War-Bots challenge in spite of Vail.

He glimpsed his enemy through the wreckage. Razul and Chala had agreed to fight without missiles; but one could improvise. Razul clutched a mass of the concrete beehive and hurled it. It smashed through a shell of wall that was still standing; the scarlet behemoth behind it staggered, then came on.

By the sacred mountains of Allah! Dream Park’s servants had violent, bloody dreams. He was a war all to himself, facing one monolith of an enemy now wading toward him through waisthigh structures: a bank, some ancient business buildings that had become apartments. It was good, it was simpler than life, it was a heady experience. If only he couldn’t hear the screams, he could enjoy the battle, concentrate on smashing Andrew Chala. They were little white English, antlike, insignificant; not his people at all.

Yet his battle with the black man, no matter what he did, no matter what crushing blow he dealt, continued to hurt the little people. He couldn’t help but feel the shame and guilt associated, even as the exhaustion of moving the controls began to wear down his endurance. But the War-Bot was back on its tremendous feet, and Razul waded back into the park.

Sweat drooled down his face, and the sounds of screaming and wailing rang in his ears. Razul readied himself for the assault. His enemy’s great black and red machine stalked toward him, nearly running now. If Chala maintained that speed he might be able to dodge Its right foot suddenly sank to the knee!