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The shorts were snug-fitting, running from his waist to mid thigh. The padded white pouch at the groin made him feel like one of the come-hither boys that strutted on the streets of New Orleans.
"Oh, that's cute," Price said.
"Better than the ones with three weeks of trail."
Ahn-Kha dropped the blanket and walked with Valentine, Price, and Bee to the center of the line of spectators. Valentine walked barefoot, testing the field's soil. Some murmured about the burns on his lower back and legs. The Dispatcher stood at the center of the line with the twelve-foot legworm crook, looking like a warrior out of some medieval tapestry.
"I can still order it called off," the Dispatcher said, the words just loud enough to travel to Valentine.
"I can't resist a challenge," Valentine said.
"Well, you look fit enough, 'cept for the limp. Hope you can run.
"I can run," Valentine said.
He tried the crook, an all-wood version of the one he'd seen Zak use. Its hooked end had a rounded point.
"Using metal isn't considered sporting," the Dispatcher said.
Damn, it's awkward. Like a vaulting pole.
"Any rule on length?" Valentine asked.
"Yes, it can't be over fifteen feet."
"How about, say, seven?"
"You must be joking. A Grog can already outreach you. You'll just be cutting yourself shorter."
"I'd rather swing a handy short crook than an awkward long one.
The crowd broke out in consternation when Ahn-Kha buried his old TMCC utility machete into the haft of the crook where Valentine indicated, and broke it over his knee.
Valentine tried the crook again. Now he could run with it.
Five hundred yards away, in the center of the field, the Grog waited. He looked huge even at this distance.
"Good luck, David," the Dispatcher said.
"Is anyone taking odds?" Valentine asked.
"You don't want to know," Price said.
"All you have to do is get the ball back to our line," the Dispatcher said. Valentine marked the stakes, stretching a hundred yards to either side, with the crowd spread out behind. "How you do it's up to you."
Valentine looked at Ahn-Kha. The Golden One's ears twitched in anxiety, but one of the great limpid eyes winked.
Valentine raised his arm to the crowd and turned to walk into the center of the field, stretching his arms and legs as he went. The legworm ride yesterday had tasked his muscles in a new way, a trace of stiffness which gave him a good deal more cause to doubt. He wondered how the Bulletproof would feel about a valiant try ...
The "referee" wore taped-up glasses and a modest crucifix. He carried a basketball under his arm, and leaned over to speak to the Grog as Valentine approached the halfway point. Valentine noticed a pistol in a holster, with a lanyard running up to the referee's neck.
The Grog rivaled Ahn-Kha in size, almost as tall and a good deal wider of shoulder and longer of arm. Pectoral muscles like Viking roundshields twitched as he shifted his half ton of weight from side to side. The Grog's legworm crook lay before his massive hands as though to establish a line Valentine would never cross.
"You're Tuck?" the referee asked.
"Change of programming," Valentine said. "I'm David."
"David, your Wildcat opponent is Vista. Vista, your Bulletproof opponent is David. Don't touch me or you forfeit. Interference by anyone else also results in a forfeit for the interfering side. This mark"-he indicated a pair of flat river stones-"is the center of the field, agreed to by your respective Dispatchers."
