"Robert Reed - Starbuck" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

Starbuck by Robert Reed
A sharp-eyed reader noted recently that Mr. Reed passed a milestone earlier this year when he
published his fiftieth story in F&SF. Story #53 is a good one for citing statistics, as baseball
stories are always a good excuse for reveling in stats. Perhaps F&SF should launch its own series
of player trading cards? If we do, you'll see that Robert Reed bats right, throws right, has an
exceptional on-base percentage and his speed on the keyboard is almost unrivaled. And the fun
fact is that Mr. Reed is Nebraska's leading science fiction writer. (Readers are encouraged to read
this story while chewing a flat, cardboard-like piece of bright pink gum.)
****
His hard stuff had gone a little soft and his breaking stuff was staying up in the zone now, and what had
been a crisply pitched game for the first eight innings was slowing down by the breath. By the heartbeat.
Starbuck walked off the mound and slapped his glove against a thigh, and he wiped his wet forehead
with a wet sleeve, then he tucked the glove under an arm while he worked at the new ball with both bare
hands, trying to coax life into fingers that insisted on feeling hot needles whenever they touched the world.
Jeez, his right hand was a mess, particularly on the blistered middle finger. But he barely noticed that
pain, what with the ache of his shoulder and the burning inside what had started the game as a strong
sound elbow. Finally, grudgingly, he scaled the mound again and looked at the enemy batter--a skinny
little center fielder who could smack a pitched ball in any of a thousand directions--and watched the
taped fingers of his catcher, ten layers of code laid over the signal so that the runner standing on second
didn't get wind ... crap, what pitch did the guy want...? Starbuck just shook him off, forcing him to try
again. And again, the fingers were talking gibberish. So what could a pitcher do but wave his glove
overhead, screaming, "Time out,"to the umpire?

The bloodless machine lifted its arms, and a game barely moving suddenly ground to a halt.

Beyond the glare of the lights were more lights, and there were faces and things that would never look
like faces, all attached to voices possessing a perfect clarity, and even if a man's ears could somehow
ignore what was being shouted at him, there were also the obvious thoughts that no sentient mind could
evade--tension and considerable hope, plus a growing, well-deserved impatience.

"Sit him down,"said a multitude, voices full of pity and malice.

"No, leave him in,"said a smaller multitude, spirits buoyed by the suddenly rich prospects for their own
team.

The catcher was a meaty-faced man with garlic on the breath and nearly two decades of experience. He
walked like an old catcher, knees complaining. But he had a boy's smile and an unexpected kindness in a
voice that was softer than one might expect from that face and that build. "He's going to yank you,"the
catcher told Starbuck. "You want him to?"

"No."

"Cosgrove's ready."

Starbuck snapped off a few brutal curses. "Cosgrove cost me my last two games. You think I should let
him come out here--?"

"Well then,"his catcher interrupted. Then he put his fat glove around his mouth, choking off the garlic stink
while asking, "What's your best pitch left?"