PSYCHOTENNIS, ANYONE? By LLOYD WILLIAMS Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] If scientific advance changes our forms of courtship, can other sports be far behind? Not when telekinesis is finally perfected! Before them the ball took a savage turn toward the player in white. Around Grant the crowd stood up and roared, and he felt suddenly tense and doubting. Then the player ducked, the ball shot through above him to smash against the court wall, and he controlled the rebound to send the sphere once more into erratic, darting flight. "Again!" Grant felt his muscles suddenly relax with release of anxiety. He turned to the girl. "Bee, I'm worried. It's not like Tony--does he want to get killed? He should stop those shots, not dodge them. Are you sure he's all right?" "Now, Granny." The girl kept her eyes fixed on the court. "Remember, Tony took this match for charity. He wants the crowd to have a show, that's all. He is in splendid shape." "No sleep," Grant went on worriedly. "I'm sure it must be that. If his brain were alert, he'd control that ball until Slag went crazy. Without sleep, you can't focus prop--" "Please, Granny, _stop_!" In that instant her throbbing mind touched his, and he caught a glimpse of the alarm in her face. She, too, felt that something was wrong. But she tugged at his sleeve and pointed through the screen at the oval below. "Look!" Slag's feet were set wide apart, and his black-robed body stood square. But his head had begun a sort of slow wobble, from side to side, as the ball lanced in perihedral swings about the court. "Praise Allah!" whispered Grant. "A beautiful dance! Tony's thinking that gangster, into a coma." The white player was in concentration, using his eyes only rarely in shifting ever more complex movements to the sphere. Then the rhythmic pattern had become a wild _corondo_, with Slag as its center, and the dark figure stood hypnotized, with only spasmodic jerks of his brutal features to mark the fear in his mind. "Now," said Grant. His voice seemed loud in the awed silence of the spectators. "Now, Tony! Call it a day!" "Just touch him," whispered Bee. "Don't hurt him, Tony." It was as if they had signaled the player, even through the tele-proof screen. Gradually the wild swings of the ball slowed. It circled Slag gently, dropped closer, and poised above him. Tony's mind was clearly in full control of the sensitive sphere. In a seat behind Grant, an excited man suddenly yelled, "Thumbs down, hard!" Obviously the crowd was ready to sacrifice its erstwhile hero.