it,” he said, holding out the second sample.
“Took you long enough,” grumbled his uncle. Mr. Flugnet didn’t say anything, he just came over and took the box from Alan. Dumping the sphere that was inside out into the palm of his hand, he examined it closely.
“No soap,” he said wearily and handed it back. “That’s one of the regulars. Here, you can keep it”.
“Thanks,” Alan placed the little grenade carefully in his carrier. “I’ll need this tonight. We’re playing North and every little bit will help. Coach Blauman says that even if we haven’t much in the way of equipment, it’s the spirit that counts. He says that if we really get in there and fight we’ll be able to stop North cold.”
“That’s nice,” murmured Mr. Flugnet vaguely as he reached for his hat. He obviously had his mind on other things.
“Sorry the boy didn’t have what you were looking for,” said Alan’s uncle. “But probably the other men have rounded up the rest of them by now.”
Mr. Flugnet looked dubious. “I doubt it. Kids are like packrats. When Security finally broke Harris down—he’s the guy that’s responsible for this whole mess—he admitted to having made at least three hundred and slipping them into sample cases. As of an hour ago we’d recovered exactly thirty-seven.”
He caught himself with a start. “Shouldn’t be talking about it. Though I can’t see where it makes any difference now.” He let out a long sigh. “Well, you’re the last house on my list and I’ve done all that I can. Guess I’d better be going.” He picked up his truce hat and planted it firmly on his head.
“Guess I’d better be going too,” said Alan. “I’ve got to be getting over to the stadium to get dressed for the game.”
“Don’t rush off,” said Alan’s uncle. He didn’t intend to let the visitor escape until he found out exactly what it was that was causing him so much concern. “No, not you, Alan. You run on. I’m talking to Mr. Flugnet. Why not wait until the cease-fire siren sounds? It’s getting dark outside and some of the kids might take a potshot at you before they see your truce hat.”
“Thanks just the same, but—”
“Aw, stay! I’ll fix you a good stiff drink. You look as though you could use one.”
Mr. Flugnet hesitated and then sat down again. “I guess I could at that,” he said.
Alan’s uncle hurried over to the liquor cabinet and poured two long ones. After he’d handed a drink to Mr. Flugnet, he settled back in his own chair and said as casually as he could, “You were saying something about somebody named Harris who did something to some grenades and got hauled in by Security?”
Mr. Flugnet didn’t answer right away. Instead he took a long pull at his glass, coughed, and then took another. Alan looked at his watch and then started out of the room. He was almost to the door when his aunt said sharply, “Alan!”
He turned.
“If you get hit tonight, mind that you see that they do a proper job of patching you up at the aid station. I don’t want my sheets all messed up like last time.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Alan said obediently. As he went out nobody said good bye. They were all waiting for Mr. Flugnet to say something.
Alan stopped automatically at the front door and made a quick check of the street through the periscope. Nothing seemed to be moving but he didn’t take any chances. Sliding the door open just wide enough to get through, he made a running dive for the communication trench. The kid across the street had got a sniper-scope for Christmas and a guy wasn’t even safe after dark.
The field lights were already on and the stadium a quarter full when Alan slipped into the locker room. He was ten minutes late and had to hurry with his dressing, but for once the coach didn’t bawl him out. Coach Blauman didn’t even notice him—Coach Blauman had troubles of his own. He was over in one corner telling them to Dan Ericson, the sports reporter for the Tribune who covered most of the high school events.
The coach was a fat, florid man, and there was a slight thickness to his speech that indicated that he had gotten to the bottle he kept in the back of his locker earlier than usual.
“You want a quote?” he snorted. “I’ll give you a quote. I’ll give you enough quotes to fill that whole damn fish-wrapper you call a magazine from front to back. You can put my picture on page one and put a great big “Coach Blauman says” right underneath it.”
Ericson gave a tired grin. “Go ahead, coach. What’s the beef for the evening?”
“That damn PTA, that’s what. I go to them and ask for four mortars, four stinking mortars, and all I get is the brush-off. Three thousand bucks they got salted away, and it’s all going for new body armor for the band. I say, ‘What’s the use of having a pretty band when the team’s so hard up for equipment that a bunch of sandlot grade school players could knock them over.’ So old Stevens gives me the fish eye and throws me a line about how it ain’t whether you win or lose but how you play the game.”
“Don’t let it get you down, Blauman,” said the reporter. “Think of all the character you’re building!”
Alan was lugged off the field at the end of the second action with a gash in his head that took six stitches to close. During the rest of the quarter he sat woodenly on the bench in the players dugout. A telescreen at the far end was following the play but he didn’t lift his head to look at it. He looked like a clockwork mannequin that had been temporarily turned off.
He was sent back in just before the end of the half. Illegally, it is true—the enemy had already received credit for one wounded, and according to NAA rules he was supposed to be ineligible to continue playing. Blauman didn’t have any choice, however. The last drive of North’s had tom up his whole center and he didn’t have much left in the way of reserves.
As Alan trotted out toward the foxholes that marked his side’s last stand, he passed stretcher bearers bringing back the dead and injured from the last play. Most of them were wearing the green helmets of Marshall. The PA system announced the substitution and there was a feeble cheer from the Marshall side of the stadium.
Alan went up to the referee’s tank and threw a quick salute at the vision slit.
“Wetzel substituting for Mitchell.”
“Check,” said the bored voice of the official inside. “Fight clean and fight hard and may the best team win.” The formula came mechanically. Neither the referee nor anybody else had any doubt that the best team had won.
Alan was half way to the hastily dug trenches that marked his team’s position when a mortar shell exploded forty feet away and knocked him off his feet. There was a sudden outraged blast from the referee’s siren, and then the enemy captain bobbed out of his foxhole.
“Sorry, sir,” he yelled. “One of my mortar crews was sighting in and accidentally let off a round.”
The referee wasn’t impressed.
“That’ll cost you exactly twenty yards.” he said.
A yell came from the Marshall bleachers as the penalty for backfield illegally in motion was announced. The Marshall team was too tired to do
