Originally published in Isaac Asimov's Science Fictiom Magazine, Summer Issue, 1977. Copyright © 1977 by Jack C. Haldeman II.

This electronic version published by permission of the author. Commercial use prohibited.

Slugger stood helplessly as he watched the ball arc over his head and clear the center field fence. Four to three, it was all over. He dropped his glove to the ground and started the long walk back to the dugout. The sell-out crowd was silent. He shook his head. They'd lost it; lost everything-the game, the series. Now those ugly Arcturians had won the right to eat all the humans.

It was a crying shame.

Too bad Lefty had sprained his ankle rounding first.

The UN delegates milled aimlessly around in their special box seats. They looked depressed and Slugger couldn't blame them. They were all overweight and would surely be among the first to go.

Well, he had gone the distance and that was the important thing. How you play the game is everything. Coach Weinraub always said that.

He hated going to the showers after losing a game. There was none of the joking around and towel snapping that followed a win. Maybe there would be a cold beer. That would be nice. He wondered absently who they would eat first.

The locker room was depressing -- no beer at all, only warm Cokes and stale popcorn. He dressed quickly and slipped out the back door. The Arcturians were probably spraying each other with champagne.

He arrived at the Blarney a few minutes later. Usually he didn't go there, but tonight he wanted to go where he wasn't known. He wasn't aware that his face was more widely known than the President's. He ordered a beer.

The bar was dirty and dark and the ruddy-faced bartender was the only one who could get a good look at him. Luckily he was sympathetic and didn't let on that he recognized Slugger.

"Damn shame," said a man at the other end of the bar.

"Yeah. I wonder what Arcturians taste like. Do you know anyone who's eaten one?"

"My brother-in-law's in the Forces, and he says they taste like corned beef."

"Yuck. I wouldn't eat one in a million years. They look worse than maggots."

"You ever seen an algae production plant? That burger you're eating was a slimy green plant a week ago."

"That's different."

Slugger played with the water spots on the counter in front of him as he listened to their conversations. He wished Lefty was around and they could joke things up, break some of the tension. Maybe he should give him a call. He'd said he was going home to his wife, but maybe he'd come out for a beer. Maybe his ankle still bothered him.

"I bet you wouldn't eat one of them."

"I'm not sure. After all, they were going to eat us and it seemed like the only thing for us to do. Anyway, we lost the game, so we don't have to eat them. Why worry about it?"

"Yeah, the game. Buncha clowns."

Slugger felt his collar getting tight. He gripped his beer glass harder to keep his temper down.

"The umpire should've been shot. I hope they roast him on a stick."

"It wasn't the umpire, it was the team. They looked like a buncha girls out there. Did you see that bonehead play old Mandella made? They shoulda traded him years ago."

"They gave him an error, didn't they? What do you want? He was two for five."

"Lousy singles with nobody on. He struck out in the fifth with the bases loaded."

"They had good pitching. Shut us out twice."

Slugger nodded to himself and ordered another beer. They did have good pitching. Have to hand it to them there. But hell, with six arms and twelve fingers on each hand, they had to have good control. A lot these bar-flies knew. They should have had to face those curve balls that dipped just right.

"You're all wet. We blew it -- blew it real bad. Lefty only had one hit and he had to FALL DOWN! An easy double, maybe three bases and with Pedro batting clean-up, man, that would have been the ball game. But no, he had to go and trip over his own shoelaces. Couldn't even get back to first. What a clown."

Slugger had had enough. They couldn't talk about his friend like that. With calculated slowness, he stood up and turned to face the men at the end of the bar.

"It coulda happened to anyone. Wasn't his fault."

"Hey look, it's Slugger."

"Throw the bum out."

"Fantastic! Ten for seventeen in the series."

"Bet the fix was on."

"Can I have your autograph, Slugger? It's for my kid."

"Buncha sand-lot bums."

Slugger turned to the nearest man and grabbed him by the collar, lifting him off the bar stool.

"It could have happened to anyone," Slugger repeated. "A bad day, that's all."

He sat the struggling man down, missing the stool and dumping him on the dirty floor.

"But this was the last one, Slugger. We had to win this one."

"You win some, you lose some, and some get rained out," said Slugger as he walked to the door, stopping only to autograph a baseball someone held out for him.

Outside, the streets were filled with celebrating Arcturians. They were running around with knives and forks in their multiple hands. Some wore bibs with humorous sayings printed on them.

Slugger started the long walk back to his apartment. Many of the Arcturians he met congratulated him on his performance in the series. Others pinched his arms and buttocks. He felt like a cow hanging in a butcher shop window.

It was growing dark and a cold drizzle had started. A young boy wearing a tattered baseball cap was standing on the corner, selling evening papers with the headline: HUNGRY FOR A WIN, THE AWKS COP THE BIG ONE.

The boy approached him. "Say it isn't so, Slugger."

The great man just shook his head and crossed the street.