Steel (3 page)

“Come on,” Kelly said, irritably. He sat down on the bench and watched as Pole pried off the sectional plates on Maxo's chest. His eyes ran up over Maxo's leonine head. If I didn't see them coils, he thought once more, I'd swear he was real. Only the mechanics in a B-fight could tell it wasn't real men in there. Sometimes people were actually fooled and sent in letters complaining that real men were being used. Even from ringside the flesh tones looked human. Mawling had a special patent on that.

Kelly's face relaxed as he smiled fondly at Maxo.

“Good boy,” he murmured. Pole didn't hear. Kelly watched the sure-handed mechanic probe with his electric pick, examining connections and potency centers.

“Is he all right?” he asked, without thinking.

“Sure, he's great,” Pole said. He plucked out a tiny steel-caged tube. “If this doesn't blow out,” he said.

“Why should it?”

“It's sub-par,” Pole said jadedly. “I told ya that after the last fight
eight months
ago.”

Kelly swallowed. “We'll get 'im a new one after this bout,” he said.

“Seventy-five bucks,” muttered Pole as if he were watching the money fly away on green wings.

“It'll hold,” Kelly said, more to himself than to Pole.

Pole shrugged. He put back the tube and pressed in the row of buttons on the main autonomic board. Maxo stirred.

“Take it easy on the left arm,” said Kelly. “Save it.”

“If it don't work here, it won't work out there,” said Pole.

He jabbed at a button and Maxo's left arm began moving with little, circling motions. Pole pushed over the safety-block switch that would keep Maxo from counterpunching and stepped back. He threw a right at Maxo's chin and the robot's arm jumped up with a hitching motion to cover his face. Maxo's left eye flickered like a ruby catching the sun.

“If that eye cell goes…” Pole said.

“It
won't
,” said Kelly tensely. He watched Pole throw another punch at the left side of Maxo's head. He saw the tiny ripple of the flexo-covered cheek, then the arm jerked up again. It squeaked.

“That's enough,” he said. “It works. Try the rest of 'im.”

“He's gonna get more than two punches throwed at his head,” Pole said.

“
His arm's all right
,” Kelly said. “Try something else I said.”

Pole reached inside Maxo and activated the leg cable centers. Maxo began shifting around. He lifted his left leg and shook off the base wheel automatically. Then he was standing lightly on his black-shoed feet, feeling at the floor like a cured cripple testing for stance.

Pole reached forward and jabbed in the
FULL
button, then jumped back as Maxo's eye beams centered on him and the robot moved forward, broad shoulders rocking slowly, arms up defensively.

“Christ,” Pole muttered, “they'll hear 'im squeakin' in the back row.”

Kelly grimaced, teeth set. He watched Pole throw another right and Maxo's arm lurch raggedly. His throat moved with a convulsive swallow and he seemed to have trouble breathing the close air in the little room.

Pole shifted around the floor quickly, side to side. Maxo followed lumberingly, changing direction with visibly jerking motions.

“Oh, he's
beautiful
,” Pole said, stopping. “Just beautiful.” Maxo came up, arms still raised, and Pole jabbed in under them, pushing the
OFF
button. Maxo stopped.

“Look, we'll have t'put 'im on defense, Steel,” Pole said. “That's all there is to it. He'll get chopped t'pieces if we have 'im movin' in.”

Kelly cleared his throat. “No,” he said.

“Oh for—will ya use ya
head?
” snapped Pole. “He's a B-two f'Chrissake. He's gonna get slaughtered anyway. Let's save the pieces.”

“They want 'im on the
offense
,” said Kelly. “It's in the contract.”

Pole turned away with a hiss.

“What's the use?” he muttered.

“Test 'im some more.”

“What for? He's as good as he'll ever be.”

“Will ya do what I say!” Kelly shouted, all the tension exploding out of him.

Pole turned back and jabbed in a button. Maxo's left arm shot out. There was a snapping noise inside it and it fell against Maxo's side with a dead clank.

Kelly started up, his face stricken. “Jesus, what did ya
do!
” he cried. He ran over to where Pole was pushing the button again. Maxo's arm didn't move.

“I
told
ya not t'fool with that arm!” Kelly yelled. “What the hell's the
matter
with ya!” His voice cracked in the middle of the sentence.

Pole didn't answer. He picked up his pry and began working off the left shoulder plate.

“So help me God, if you broke that arm…” Kelly warned in a low, shaking voice.

“If
I
broke it!” Pole snapped. “Listen, you dumb mick! This heap has been runnin' on borrowed time for three years now! Don't talk t'me about breakages!”

Kelly clenched his teeth, his eyes small and deadly.

“Open it up,” he said.

“Son-of-a—” Pole muttered as he got the plate off. “You find another goddamn mechanic that coulda kep' this steam shovel together any better these last years. You just
find
one.”

Kelly didn't answer. He stood rigidly, watching while Pole put down the curved plate and looked inside.

When Pole touched it, the trigger spring broke in half and part of it jumped across the room.

Kelly stared at the shoulder pit with horrified eyes.

“Oh, Christ,” he said in a shaking voice. “Oh,
Christ.
”

Pole started to say something, then stopped. He looked at the ashen-faced Kelly without moving.

Kelly's eyes moved to Pole.

“Fix it,” he said, hoarsely.

Pole swallowed. “Steel, I—”

“
Fix
it!”

“I can't! That spring's been fixin' t'break for—”

“You broke it! Now
fix
it!” Kelly clamped rigid fingers on Pole's arm. Pole jerked back.

“Let go of me!” he said.

“What's the matter with you!” Kelly cried. “Are you crazy? He's got t'be fixed. He's
got
t'be!”

“Steel, he needs a new spring.”

“Well,
get
it!”

“They don't
have
'em here, Steel,” Pole said. “I
told
ya. And if they
did
have 'em, we ain't got the sixteen-fifty t'get one.”

“Oh—Oh,
Jesus
,” said Kelly. His hand fell away and he stumbled to the other side of the room. He sank down on the bench and stared without blinking at the tall motionless Maxo.

He sat there a long time, just staring, while Pole stood watching him, the pry still in his hand. He saw Kelly's broad chest rise and fall with spasmodic movements. Kelly's face was a blank.

“If he don't watch 'em,” muttered Kelly, finally.

“What?”

Kelly looked up, his mouth set in a straight, hard line. “If he don't watch, it'll work,” he said.

“What're ya talkin' about?”

Kelly stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“What're ya—”

Pole stopped dead, his mouth falling open. “Are you
crazy?
” he asked.

Kelly kept unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it off and tossed it on the bench.

“Steel, you're out o' your mind!” Pole said. “You can't do that!”

Kelly didn't say anything.

“But you'll—Steel, you're
crazy!
”

“We deliver a fight or we don't get paid,” Kelly said.

“But—Jesus, you'll get
killed!
”

Kelly pulled off his undershirt. His chest was beefy, there was red hair swirled around it. “Have to shave this off,” he said.

“Steel,
come on
,” Pole said. “You—”

His eyes widened as Kelly sat down on the bench and started unlacing his shoes.

“They'll never let ya,” Pole said. “You can't make 'em think you're a—” He stopped and took a jerky step forward. “Steel, fuh Chrissake!”

Kelly looked up at Pole with dead eyes.

“You'll help me,” he said.

“But they—”

“Nobody knows what Maxo looks like,” Kelly said. “And only Waddow saw me. If he don't watch the bouts we'll be all right.”

“But—”

“They won't know,” Kelly said. “The B's bleed and bruise too.”

“Steel,
come on
,” Pole said shakily. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. He sat down hurriedly beside the broad-shouldered Irishman.

“Look,” he said. “I got a sister back East—in Maryland. If I wire 'er, she'll send us the dough t'get back.”

Kelly got up and unbuckled his belt.

“Steel, I know a guy in Philly with a B-five, wants t'sell cheap,” Pole said desperately. “We could scurry up the cash and—Steel, fuh Chrissake, you'll get
killed!
It's a B-seven! Don't ya understand? A B-
seven!
You'll be mangled!”

Kelly was working the dark trunks over Maxo's hips.

“I won't let ya do it, Steel,” Pole said. “I'll go to—”

He broke off with a sucked-in gasp as Kelly whirled and moved over quickly to haul him to his feet. Kelly's grip was like the jaws of a trap and there was nothing left of him in his eyes.

“You'll help me,” Kelly said in a low, trembling voice. “You'll help me or I'll beat ya brains out on the wall.”

“You'll get killed,” Pole murmured.

“Then I will,” said Kelly.

*   *   *

Mr. Waddow came out of his office as Pole was walking the covered Kelly toward the ring.

“Come on, come on,” Mr. Waddow said. “They're waitin' on ya.”

Pole nodded jerkily and guided Kelly down the hall.

“Where's the owner?” Mr. Waddow called after them.

Pole swallowed quickly. “In the audience,” he said.

Mr. Waddow grunted and, as they walked on, Pole heard the door to the office close. Breath emptied from him.

“I should've told 'im,” he muttered.

“I'd o' killed ya,” Kelly said, his voice muffled under the covering.

Crowd sounds leaked back into the hall now as they turned a corner. Under the canvas covering, Kelly felt a drop of sweat trickle down his temple.

“Listen,” he said, “you'll have t'towel me off between rounds.”

“Between what rounds?” Pole asked tensely. “You won't even last one.”

“Shut up.”

“You think you're just up against some tough fighter?” Pole asked. “You're up against a machine! Don't ya—”

“I said shut up.”

“Oh … you dumb—” Pole swallowed. “If I towel ya off, they'll know,” he said.

“They ain't seen a B-two in years,” Kelly broke in. “If anyone asks, tell 'em it's an oil leak.”

“Sure,” said Pole disgustedly. He bit his lips. “Steel, ya'll never get away with it.”

The last part of his sentence was drowned out as, suddenly, they were among the crowd, walking down the sloping aisle toward the ring. Kelly held his knees locked and walked a little stiffly. He drew in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. He'd have to breathe in small gasps and exhalations through his nose while he was in the ring. The people couldn't see his chest moving or they'd know.

The heat burdened in around him like a hanging weight. It was like walking along the sloping floor of an ocean of heat and sound. He heard voices drifting past him as he moved.

“Ya'll take 'im home in a box!”

“Well, if it ain't
Rattlin'
Maxo!”

And the inevitable, “
Scrap iron!
”

Kelly swallowed dryly, feeling a tight drawing sensation in his loins. Thirsty, he thought. The momentary vision of the bar across from the Kansas City train station crossed his mind. The dim-lit booth, the cool fan breeze on the back of his neck, the icy, sweat-beaded bottle chilling his palm. He swallowed again. He hadn't allowed himself one drink in the last hour. The less he drank the less he'd sweat, he knew.

“Watch it.”

He felt Pole's hand slide in through the opening in the back of the covering, felt the mechanic's hand grab his arm and check him.

“Ring steps,” Pole said out of a corner of his mouth.

Kelly edged his right foot forward until the shoe tip touched the riser of the bottom step. Then he lifted his foot to the step and started up.

At the top, Pole's fingers tightened around his arm again.

“Ropes,” Pole said, guardedly.

It was hard getting through the ropes with the covering on. Kelly almost fell and hoots and catcalls came at him like spears out of the din. Kelly felt the canvas give slightly under his feet and then Pole pushed the stool against the back of his legs and he sat down a little too jerkily.

“Hey, get that derrick out o' here!” shouted a man in the second row. Laughter and hoots. “Scrap iron!” yelled some people.

Then Pole drew off the covering and put it down on the ring apron.

Kelly sat there staring at the Maynard Flash.

The B-seven was motionless, its gloved hands hanging across its legs. There was imitation blond hair, crew cut, growing out of its skull pores. Its face was that of an impassive Adonis. The simulation of muscle curve on its body and limbs was almost perfect. For a moment Kelly almost thought that years had been peeled away and he was in the business again, facing a young contender. He swallowed carefully. Pole crouched beside him, pretending to fiddle with an arm plate.