Arkwright by Allen Steele Read Free Book Online

day of the World’s Science Fiction Convention.
    I didn’t know about this. Monday, July 3, was another day at the shoe store for me. So while my new friends Harry, George, and Maggie took advantage of Sam’s amnesty pact to return to Caravan Hall for presentations about science and its role in the glorious future to come, I was measuring some restless tyke’s feet for a new pair of Buster Browns. My father noticed that I was unhappy, so he made me a deal: if I’d stop sighing and gazing forlornly out the window, he’d close the shop for Independence Day and let me attend the rest of the convention.
    The final day of what would later be called Nycon 1 wasn’t at Caravan Hall, though, or even in Manhattan. Instead, the official event of the last day was a “Science Fiction Softball Game” at Flushing Meadows Park in Queens …
    John W. Campbell, Jr. loosened his necktie, rolled up his sleeves, and spit in his palms. In no hurry at all, he bent down to pick up the baseball bat from where it had been dropped by the last player. He ambled to home plate, where he crouched low over the sandbag, hefted the bat high above his shoulder, and glared at the young man standing atop the pitcher’s mound.
    â€œAwright, kid,” Campbell growled. “Show me your stuff.”
    The fierce look and icy voice with which he challenged the pitcher were the same he used on countless writers who’d cowered on the other side of his desk. But he wasn’t in Astounding ’s office in the Street & Smith Building, and the young fan from Philadelphia who stood on the mound had no desire to sell him a story. He sized up the burly older man pinch-hitting for the Queensboro team and then gazed past him at his catcher. The other Philly player lowered a hand between his knees and pointed a finger at the ground. The pitcher nodded slightly, understanding the catcher’s signal. He juggled the softball in his mitt, making Campbell wait a second while he stole a sly glance over his shoulder to make sure that the last Queens player at bat was still on second—there had been enough base stealing in the game already. Then he whipped back around and, with no warning at all, snapped the ball straight toward the catcher’s glove.
    It was an underhand pitch, but Babe Ruth couldn’t have done better. Campbell was unprepared. He swung the bat wildly but didn’t even come close. The bat hadn’t completed its arc when there was the leathery smack of the ball slamming into the catcher’s glove.
    â€œStrike one!” the umpire yelled.
    â€œHell!” Campbell snarled.
    Laughter from the bleachers, although the few writers who’d shown up for the game were wise enough to cover their mouths with their hands. Campbell was a big cheese in the pulp business, and no one wanted to risk getting on his bad side. The game had been listed in the convention program as being “Science Fiction Professionals vs. Science Fiction Fans,” yet so few writers had actually shown up that the lineup had been changed at the last minute. Now it was between the Cometeers of the Queens Science Fiction League and the Panthers of the Philadelphia Science Fiction Society. Everyone was seated together in the wooden bleachers, players and spectators alike; indeed, the Panthers had to pull some of its players out of the stands when too few members of the Philadelphia club showed up for the game.
    â€œYou don’t think he’s going to strike out, do you?” Maggie asked.
    Nat thought it over. Campbell was older than almost everyone else out on the field, but he had the physique of someone who’d spent too much time at a desk. Just before Sam Moskowitz had talked him into coming down from the bleachers to take a turn at bat for the home team, he’d been smoking a cigarette from a long ivory holder. Just the way he held the bat was proof that this was the first time he’d played