Touchdown, Touchdown, Rah, Rah, Rah!

“A client of yours, one Richard Faber. As I was just telling Dean Zelk, there are irregularities in his grades. I have the facts here.” Nyquist gave the folder to Zelk, who silently looked through the papers. Ray looked over her shoulder and saw an assortment of transcripts, letters and news-fax clippings. Heisman Candidate May Face Criminal Investigation, one headline declared. “During his sophomore year in Colorado he had a GPA of 2.6, but he didn’t earn it. His higher grades were given by some complaisant instructors who wanted him to remain on his school’s football team; his actual GPA was 1.1. Faber himself may not have been knowingly involved in any criminal actions in this matter, but—”

“I get the point,” Ray said.

“—His hasty departure from Earth suggests that he was not as pure as the driven snow,” Nyquist concluded. “Especially as his uncle bribed a few people in Immigration to turn a blind eye to the situation. Dean Zelk will have to expel him, since he was admitted under false pretenses. It’s a pity that your business arrangement will collapse, especially as GSN will want its advance payment returned—I believe the contract requires that? Pity.” He left.

“Sneeze on him,” Zelk muttered after the door had closed. “Being the dean, nobody tells me how to run my school.”

Ray nodded. “Is there any way you can keep Faber in school?” Returning his commission on the advance, he reflected, would bankrupt him— which was probably what Nyquist wanted. Now that it was too late, he saw that he had a lot to learn about his business.

“There must be a way to keep Faber in,” Zelk said grimly. “Having already spent the advance, we can’t afford anything else. This being a new situation, however, I’m not sure what we can do. There aren’t any rules or guidelines.”

“Then you can make them up as you go along,” Ray said. “How long will it be until Faber earns some grades here?”

“The primary exams are in another twenty days or so,” Zelk said. “I suppose we could judge him on their basis. But if he does badly—” She exhaled grimly. “He’s out.”

“He’s out, we’re out, everyone’s out,” Ray said. “I’ll make sure he understands that conjugation.”

Ray consulted his notepad as he left the dean’s office. It told him that Faber should be in bagdrag practice now. Ray let the pad lead him to the hexagonal field, where the student players had divided into three teams and were avidly hauling the bag across the grass. Even wrapped in the helmet and quilted pads which the players used for protection, Faber’s bulk and erect posture stood out amid his kya teammates.

A short, chunky kya with grizzled fur and a heavily wrinkled muzzle approached Ray as he watched the practice. “Coach Znayu,” he gronked. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Faber,” Ray said. “How is his playing?”

“The terror from beyond the ozo-nosphere?” The coach shook his head in what seemed like amazement. “Reek Hard’s the best offensive player I’ve ever seen. Point him at a goal line and he’s unstoppable. Just watch him.”

Ray watched as the teams shoved and ran their way through several more plays. He could make nothing out of the plays and Faber’s activities; sometimes the teams dropped the bag and began to push one another around, and sometimes a group of kya stampeded over the bag, pushing away the players who carried it. At other times most of the players stood around while a few of their teammates ran back and forth and talked with one another. “Who’re they?” Ray asked the coach.

“The outrunners,” Znayu said. “You don’t know the game?”

“It’s new to me,” Ray admitted. “Could you give me a few pointers?”

Znayu sniffed agreeably. “Being the brains of each team, the outrunners coordinate plays among the three teams. Maybe in one play the Grass-scents will think they can do better if they work with the Tree-scents against the Flower-scents, and maybe in another play the Grasses like their chances against the other two teams in combination. During the plays they watch the other teams and tell their teammates what the opposition is doing. Then—stench! Stench!” The coach trotted onto the field and began to berate one of the teams over a technical foul.

Ray watched the outrunners as the play was repeated. He decided they looked like members of a herd, guarding the flanks to warn their compatriots against predators. They stayed out of the actual crush of the plays, although opposing players sometimes positioned themselves to block their view of the action. Maybe I am learning something, Ray thought.

The coach called a break and the players went to the sidelines. Ray went to where Faber was refreshing himself from a water bucket. “We have a problem,” Ray said in English. “Nyquist just told Dean Zelk about your grades in Colorado.”

“He did?” Faber swore. “I told Uncle Dick this wouldn’t work.”

“ ‘Uncle Dick’?”

“Richard McIlvaine. He owns the Galactic Sports Network. I’m named after him,” Faber added proudly.

“Oh.”