The Complete Stories_ Volume 1 - Isaac Asimov [109]
George could not help but stare in astonishment and his neighbor leaned over to say (speaking loudly in order to be heard over the hubbub), “No one here from my home town; I’ll root for yours. Someone you know?”
George shrank back. “No.”
“I noticed you looking in that direction. Would you like to borrow my glasses?”
“No. Thank you.” (Why didn’t the old fool mind his own business?)
The announcer went on with other formal details concerning the serial number of the competition, the method of timing and scoring and so on. Finally, he approached the meat of the matter and the audience grew silent as it listened.
“Each contestant will be supplied with a bar of nonferrous alloy of unspecified composition. He will be required to sample and assay the bar, reporting all results correctly to four decimals in percent. All will utilize for this purpose a Beeman Microspectrograph, Model FX-2, each of which is, at the moment, not in working order.”
There was an appreciative shout from the audience.
“Each contestant will be required to analyze the fault of his machine and correct it. Tools and spare parts are supplied. The spare part necessary may not be present, in which case it must be asked for, and time of delivery thereof will be deducted from final time. Are all contestants ready?”
The board above Contestant Five flashed a frantic red signal. Contestant Five ran off the floor and returned a moment later. The audience laughed good-naturedly.
“Are all contestants ready?”
The boards remained blank.
“Any questions?”
Still blank.
“You may begin.”
There was, of course, no way anyone in the audience could tell how any contestant was progressing except for whatever notations went up on the notice board. But then, that didn’t matter. Except for what professional Metallurgists there might be in the audience, none would understand anything about the contest professionally in any case. What was important was who won, who was second, who was third. For those who had bets on the standings (illegal, but unpreventable) that was all-important. Everything else might go hang. George watched as eagerly as the rest, glancing from one contestant to the next, observing how this one had removed the cover from his micro-spectrograph with deft strokes of a small instrument; how that one was peering into the face of the thing; how still a third was setting his alloy bar into its holder; and how a fourth adjusted a vernier with such small touches that he seemed momentarily frozen.
Trevelyan was as absorbed as the rest. George had no way of telling how he was doing. The notice board over Contestant Seventeen flashed: Focus plate out of adjustment.
The audience cheered wildly.
Contestant Seventeen might be right and he might, of course, be wrong. If the latter, he would have to correct his diagnosis later and lose time. Or he might never correct his diagnosis and be unable to complete his analysis or, worse still, end with a completely wrong analysis.
Never mind. For the moment, the audience cheered.
Other boards lit up. George watched for Board Twelve. That came on finally: “Sample holder off-center. New clamp depressor needed.”
An attendant went running to him with a new part. If Trevelyan was wrong, it would mean useless delay. Nor would the time elapsed in waiting for the part be deducted. George found himself holding his breath. Results were beginning to go up on Board Seventeen, in gleaming letters:
aluminum, 41.2649;
magnesium, 22.1914;
copper, 10.1001.
Here and there, other boards began sprouting figures.
The audience was in bedlam.
George wondered how the contestants could work in such pandemonium, then wondered if that were not even a good thing. A first-class technician should work best under pressure.
Seventeen rose from his place as his board went red-rimmed to signify completion. Four