It was put into play by a free kick from the Rifleman’s twenty-yard line. The kicker, under no pressure from the opposing line, got off a booming spiral that lofted high and far. One of Stile’s receivers took it on his thirty-yard line and ran it all of two yards before getting buried. Now Stile was highly conscious of the clock. He dared not give up the ball again, for the Rifleman would surely consume the remaining time in a slow drive and win by a single point. But how could Stile move it down to field goal range against the desperation defense he knew he would encounter?
Answer: he had to do it himself. He would get battered, but it was the only way.
“Run interference for me,” he told his three most competent animals. “You two in front, you behind. Right end run. You two receivers go out for a fake pass. And you, you runner—you fake a run to the left.” He was pulling out all the stops. If the Rifleman anticipated his strategy, he would swamp Stile with a blitz. It had to be risked. But the Citizen, too, was tiring. He was in fit condition —but Stile was not merely fit, he was an excellent athlete in peak condition, strongly motivated. His toughness and endurance were counting more heavily now. The Citizen stayed well back, avoiding physical contact whenever possible. In effect, he had dropped off his team. That meant that not only did Stile have eleven effective players to ten, but he had the most animated team. Now he could put together a sustained drive—theoretically. His animals blocked and Stile ran around the end. And —it worked. He made several yards before his escort fell in assorted tangles. Now a huge Black android pounced on him for the kill—and Stile cut in under the brute and threw him with a solid shoulder boost. It was partly the disparity of size that enabled Stile to come in low, and partly surprise that put him in close instead of where the android expected him. The creature went tumbling across Stile’s back and rolled to the turf.
Suddenly Stile was in the relative clear, and still on his feet. He accelerated forward, drawing on his reserves of energy, determined to make the most of his opportunity. Dimly he heard the roar of the crowd, excited by the dramatic run. The stadium had been constantly filling, and now more than half the seats were filled—and it was a fair-sized chamber, sufficient for perhaps a thousand. Stile knew these spectators didn’t care who won the Game; they merely responded to unfolding drama. Still, their applause encouraged him. His bruises and fatigue seemed to fade, and he shot ahead at full speed. Five yards, ten, fifteen, twenty—
In the end it was the Rifleman who caught him. The man was not to be tricked by a martial arts throw; after all, he was a former Tourney winner who had to be conversant with all forms of physical combat. He caught Stile by one arm and swung him around and down. He tried to wrest the ball away, but Stile was on guard against that, and plowed into the turf without giving it up. He was now on the Rifleman’s forty-five-yard line with a first down. His ploy had paid off handsomely. On the next play Stile tried a short pass, from android to android. While he himself faked another run. This was not as spectacularly successful as his last play, but it was good for eight more yards. Most of the attention had been on Stile’s fake, and the Rifleman’s pass defense had loosened up.
Then a quarterback sneak, good for three more yards, and a first down on the thirty-four-yard line. He was get-ting near field goal range—but now he had only thirty seconds remaining. With no time-outs, he had no time to spare for fancy planning. “Give me the ball,” he said. “Protect me.”
But this time he got nowhere; his strategy had been too vague. Fifteen seconds remaining. Time for one final desperation measure. “Take a lateral,” he told his primary pass receiver. “Step clear and lateral back to me.” Stile took the hiked ball, stepped back, lateraled to his receiver, and shrugged at the onrushing tacklers as they struggled to avoid him. The Rifleman didn’t want any game penalties stopping the clock at this point! The android lateraled back. Stile stood alone, having been forgotten by the tacklers. As the pileup formed about the pass receiver. Stile dodged forward, passing confused androids of both teams who somehow thought the play had ended, and were slow to reorient. He cut to the left, getting clear of the central glut, then forward again. He had made it to field goal range!
Then he heard the final gun. He had used up all his time in the course of his maneuvering, and now the game was over. There would be no more plays, no chance to drop-kick the winning field goal.
Stile slowed to a walk, disconsolate. So close—only to fail. To reach the fifteen-yard line in the clear, and have to quit, defeated by a single point.
Then, from the front tier of seats, he heard Sheen’s voice. “Run, you idiot!” And he saw the animals of both teams converging on him.
