The Duke of Uranium

Apparently it made an impression on Dujuv too, because he dropped the subject. After the silence had stretched too long, Jak asked, "So what did you have in mind for yourself?"

"I'm going to see if I can get on a professional slamball team." Dujuv said, his voice oddly tense. Jak noted that Dujuv's usually relaxed shoulders were hanging high. This was something Duj cared about and was expecting a fight about, so Jak resolved at once that no matter what, he was going to back his tove. Even though this might be, toktru, the stupidest idea he'd ever heard.

"Well," Jak ventured, "you're a hell of an athlete even for a panth, and you're a determined sort of a heet, and I think you'll probably make it." Duj smiled at him. "Thanks."

But Jak couldn't quite stop himself from saying, "It's just that I can't quite believe you were worried about me getting killed in battle if you're planning to play slamball." "People are not supposed to die at slamball."

"But they do." Jak knew he should shut up, but he couldn't seem to make himself. Dujuv was too important to him, and he could practically hear his Uncle Sib's often-repeated comment that slamball was something like the ancient Roman arena and something like medieval American television but without the intelligence and compassion of either. "Dujuv, last year was a safety record for the league—they only killed twenty-eight players. Most of those were goalies. And a panth-especially an athlete like you-will be a goalie!"

"Jak, toktru, I did my homework on the subject. Even goalies don't get killed if they're good. There's two hundred teams in pro slamball, and they all have five goalies. It was only sixteen out of a thousand, and at least half of those were heets who should have retired years ago and just stayed in too long. Krayjnean, the Hive National goalie that got killed, was depressed and suicidal about getting too old to play, and he had told people he wanted his league life insurance to pay off to take care of his family-you can't really count that death as an accident. There's usually a couple like that every year, masen? So those shouldn't count. And like I said, if you're good, you don't get killed. See, I did the research."

Jak wanted to argue further but he was already breaking a promise to himself. "Yeah, I dak it's mostly marginal and too-old goalies that get killed. And you're not going to be marginal, ever, and by the time you're getting to be a gwont, with your brains-assuming nobody scrambles 'em for you-you can move into coaching or managing, especially if you have a good record."

"I'm going to have a great record." Dujuv's gaze was level and serious. "You and I are not so different. We're both willing to take a little risk to get some travel and adventure. My goal, to start with, is to make it onto Hive National within a couple of years, and volunteer for the travel squad. They go everywhere, even Earth."

"Earth? With all the other opportunities, why do you want to go there? It's a giant collection of pocks in superhigh grav."

"Have you seen the pictures of the beaches around those pocks? And the girls on the beaches? Like say in the pock clusters in North Australia or in Arizona?"

Jak nodded. "I can see your point.