Split Infinity

Along the route were the refreshment stations, for liquid was vital for distance running. Sheen stood at the first, holding out a squeeze bottle to Stile, smiling. He was not yet thirsty, but accepted it, knowing that a hot human body could excrete water through the skin faster than the human digestive system could replace it. Running, for all its joy, was no casual exercise. Not at this velocity and this distance.

Hulk accepted his bottle from the standard station robot. No doubt it was a variant of the normal formula, containing some readily assimilable sugars in fermented form, restoring energy as well as fluid; why he had made a point of the distinction of his particular mix Stile wasn’t sure. Maybe it was psychological for him-self as well as his opponent—the notion that some trace element or herb lent extra strength.

With any modem formula, it was possible to reduce or even avoid the nefarious “wall” or point at which the body’s reserves were exhausted. Ancient marathon runners had had to force their bodies to consume their own tissues to keep going, and this was unhealthy. Today’s careful runners would make it without such debilitation —if they were in proper condition. But the psychology of it remained a major factor, and anything that psyched up a person to better performance was worth it—if it really worked. Yet Hulk was not a man to cater to any fakelore or superstition; he was supremely practical.

After they were clear of the station, and had disposed of their empty bottles in hoppers set for that purpose along the way. Hulk inquired: “She is yours?”

“Perhaps I am hers,” Stile said. They were talking about Sheen, of course.

“Trade her to me; I will give you the Rung.” Stile laughed. Then it occurred to him that Hulk just might be serious. Could he have entered this no-win contest because he had seen Sheen with Stile, and coveted her, and hoped for an avenue to her acquaintance?

Hulk was, like Stile, a bit diffident about the women he liked, in contrast to the ones that threw themselves upon him. He could not just walk up to Sheen and say, “Hello, I like your looks, I would like to take you away from Stile.” He had to clear it with Stile first. This was another quality in him that Stile respected, and it intefered with his hate-his-opponent concentration. “I can not trade her. She is an independent sort. I must take the Rung to keep her.”

“Then we had better race.” This time Hulk stepped up the pace.

Now it occurred to Stile that Hulk did not actually covet Stile’s girl; Hulk did have all the women any normal man would want, even if they tended to be the superficial muscle-gawking types. So his expressed interest was most likely a matter of courtesy. Either he was trying to make Stile feel at ease—which seemed a pointless strategy—or he was trying to deplete his urge to win. One thing Stile was sure of: however honest and polite Hulk might be, he wanted to win this race.  Somehow.

Stile kept pace. He could not match Hulk’s short-term velocity, while Hulk could not match Stile’s endurance. The question was, at what point did the balance shift? No matter how he reasoned it. Stile could not see how the man could go the whole route, nearly fifty kilometers, at a sufficient rate to win. Right now Hulk was trying to push Stile beyond his natural pace, causing him to wear himself out prematurely. But this strategy could not succeed, for Stile would simply let the man go ahead, then pass him in the later stage. Hulk could not open up a two-kilometer lead against Stile; he would burst a blood vessel trying. No doubt Hulk had won other races against lesser competition that way, faking them out with his short-term power, making them lose heart and resign; but that was a vain hope here. The longer Stile kept Hulk’s pace, the more futile that particular strategy became. Provided Stile did not overextend himself and pull a muscle.

On they ran, taking fluid at every station without pausing. Other runners kept pace with them on occasion, running in parallel tracks so as not to get in the way, but most of these were short-distance runners who had to desist after a kilometer or two. Stile and Hulk followed the track from dome to dome, staying on the marked route. It passed through a huge gym where young women were exercising, doing jumping jacks, laughing, their breasts bounding merrily. “Stop and get a workout, boys!” one called.

“Too rough,” Hulk called back. “I’rn getting out of here!”