Ernie had quit breathing. After a little while he seemed to notice that and took a careful breath. His face—well, scared didn't really fit it. Maybe wary did.
I went on, "I'm a little puzzled by something on that film. That little whiplash jerk in your punches looks sort of strange. I thought you might explain it to me."
"Gee, Coach, I jist swing an' m' body does the rest." He seemed to realize his English was slipping and stopped for a second. "I guess I don't really think about what I'm doing," he finished.
I shook my head. "Sorry, Ernie, but that won't wash. Whatever it is you do, you know about it, or else you wouldn't have stopped doing it when the other camera was on you."
He looked like a cornered animal. "You wouldn't understand," he muttered. "You'd think I was a—a freak."
"Try me. Look, if I'm going to coach you properly, I have to know all about you. If you want, I'll give you my word I won't tell anybody else."
For a long time he just sat there, looking down at his hands folded tightly in his lap. "All right," he said at last. "Coach, have you ever heard of teleportation?" When I shook my head, he went on, "You read about it sometimes in those science fiction books. It's when you go from one place to another, like, in no time at all."
"All kinds of crazy stuff in those books. So?"
"Well, that's what I do. I can 'port about an inch at a time, and I do it when I'm hitting or ducking a punch. It's just enough distance to throw off the other guy's timing, usually."
I just sat there, wondering if he was putting me on. He must have seen that in my face somehow, because his eyes started looking wary again. "You don't believe me," he muttered.
"How about giving me a demonstration?" I suggested. "How fast did you say you