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“Tom Castle,” said Jackson. “If you thought Redding’s curve was a killer, wait till you see his. Best hook in the league, if you ask me.”

It was not good news—especially to Data, who would come up fourth in this inning. He could picture himself hitting the long fly ball that would give Phoenix the victory.

More than anything he wanted to avoid that. But it was looming more and more likely, the pieces all falling into place. When it came to the curveball, he was still not the hitter he wanted to be, despite Geordi’s advice and all his research. And he was facing the Sunset pitcher who could best exploit his weakness.

So far the game’s events had followed history faithfully. Was it even possible for Data to prevail when he came up to bat?

Denyabe led off the Icebreakers’ half of the ninth. Castle’s first pitch was a curveball out of the strike zone. The second baseman swung anyway and missed.

“Stee-rike one,” called the umpire.

The second pitch to Denyabe was in the same place as the first. Again he went fishing for it. Again he failed to make contact.

It wasn’t until the third pitch that he finally got some wood on the ball. But even then, it was only a foul tip that whizzed by the catcher.

As Data watched from the dugout, it seemed to him that none of these pitches were in the strike zone. Though they initially appeared as if they would get a piece of the plate, they consistently wound up wide to the right.

The android turned to Jackson, who was sitting beside him. “Is this the way Castle usually pitches? He has yet to throw an Uncle Charlie over the plate.”

Jackson grunted. “It’s called painting the corners, Bobo.”

But Data was forced to differ; after all, Jackson didn’t have an android’s visual acuity. Castle wasn’t painting the corners—he was missing them.

And Denyabe couldn’t seem to discern that any better than Jackson could. As Castle released the ball again, Denyabe swung—not as if to hit it somewhere, but merely to stay alive. He just got a piece of it.

The pitcher smiled as the catcher threw him a new ball. It appeared that he had Denyabe right where he wanted him.

Data didn’t want his friend to be handled so ignominiously. It was one thing to make an out and quite another to be embarrassed in the process.

Nor could he help remembering Denyabe’s words. Like everything else he’d ever heard, they were preserved perfectly in his memory: “Men can’t depend on heaven, Bobo. They’ve got to depend on each other.”

Suddenly the android knew what he had to do. He got up and walked over to the pitching coach—Terwilliger’s replacement. “Coach,” he said, “we must call time out.”

The man looked at him. “What the hell for?”

“Because I have advice to give Denyabe.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Care to tell me about it?”

“I would prefer to tell him myself.”

The coach thought about it, snorted. “Sure,” he said finally. “Why not? Can’t hurt, the way we’re going.” He climbed to the top step of the dugout and called time. Then, turning back to Data, he said, “He’s all yours.”

When Denyabe saw Bobo trotting out toward the plate, he smiled. “You know,” he said, “it’s a good thing Terwilliger’s given up already. Otherwise, he’d have killed you for a stunt like this.”

“Please listen,” said Data. “You need not swing at the next curveball.”

“I need not?” echoed Denyabe. “Why do you say that?”

“Because Castle has not yet thrown one for a strike.”

The second baseman allowed himself a glance at the pitcher. “You sure about that? They looked pretty good to me.”

“I am as sure as I can be,” said the android.

Denyabe pretended to inspect his bat. “Even if you’re right,” he said, “that’s only what he’s been doing. Who’s to say what he’s going to do?”

“He has been successful with the strategy thus far,” insisted the android. “Why diverge? At least, until you give him reason to do so?”

Denyabe regarded him, looking not so much at him as into him.

“All right,” he said finally. “I won’t swing at a curveball unless it’s right