Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [48]
Applying a level of strength and coordination no human player ever enjoyed, the android swung. For the fences, he thought, recalling a phrase he had heard in batting practice.
But even before the ball left the bat, he could tell that it would not reach the fence. It would not even approach the fence.
The first clue was the sound: a flat plonk rather than the crisp whack that denoted solid contact. His suspicion was confirmed a second later by the arc of the ball: too high, much too high.
The umpire called the infield fly rule, preventing the runners from advancing on the play. Eventually the ball landed in the shortstop’s glove, not more than a few feet behind second base.
Data was numb. What had gone wrong? What could have gone wrong?
The crowd was all but silent. Certainly there were none of the cheers he’d heard earlier.
The dugout, too, was quiet. As Data reclaimed his seat, Jackson made a clucking sound with his mouth.
“Some hook,” remarked the shortstop.
“Hook?” echoed the android.
“Number Two,” said Cherry, who was sitting on the other side of Data. “You know—Uncle Charlie.”
The android just shook his head in bewilderment.
“Curveball,” explained Jackson. “I know you don’t see too many of those in the minors, but up here you’re going to see a lot of them. At least until you prove you can hit them.”
Data looked at him. He resolved to learn more about this thing called a curveball.
On the next pitch Cordoban hit into a double play.
Chapter Nine
“HERE WE ARE,” said Lyneea.
Riker’s eyes focused again and he looked around, remembering where they’d been headed. Sometime in the last several minutes a light snow had begun to fall.
Only the Imprimans, Riker remarked to himself, would consider near-constant precipitation and subfreezing temperatures suitable conditions for an open-air marketplace. Which accounted for the dearth of offworlders strolling through the place.
The merchants had set up their booths on either side of a single winding lane that somehow made its serpentine way from one end of the square to the other. Not the most efficient use of space, perhaps, but it did make the shopping experience a little more intriguing.
The merchandise was all native, all Impriman, from the antique rugs that seemed to be hanging everywhere to the spices that laced the air with strange, compelling scents. Rare animals sat grunting and screeching in their cages, wines and liqueurs poured like tawny waterfalls from dusky bottles, and the snow hissed where it fell into the flames of exotic oil lamps.
Riker had only been here twice during his first stay on Imprima. Once with Teller and Norayan and once by himself, just before he left. But for the life of him he couldn’t remember why he’d come alone. Had he meant to buy something? He couldn’t recall.
In any case, the market hadn’t changed much. More than likely the rest of Besidia had been built around it, and it would probably go on long after the walls that defined it had turned to dust.
“You—the human!”
Reflexively, Riker turned his head. He was relieved to see it was only a spice merchant beckoning to him.
The fellow’s eyes were sharp. With Riker’s broader build, it was easy to see that he wasn’t Impriman—but to know he was human, the merchant had to have gotten a good look inside his hood.
“Whatever it is,” he told the man, “no, thank you.”
“But I have what you’ve been looking for.” The merchant’s eyes seemed to smile all by themselves.
“And what’s that?” asked Riker.
The Impriman held up a finely tooled wooden box. “The thing that all young men crave—the love of their fair companions.”
Then he looked past Riker to Lyneea. And if his eyes had been smiling before, they suddenly seemed to laugh out loud.
“Ah,” he said. “My mistake. It’s you, my lady, who must buy this spice.”
Lyneea looked at him as if he were crazy. “Ply your wares elsewhere,” she advised, her voice as cold and businesslike as ever.
But the merchant didn’t give up easily. “Come,” he told her, “don’t