The northern end of Minus One Island was less hilly than the rest, and as they came down onto this plain they spotted most of the island’s conventional buildings, clustered together. These were devoted to the island’s olympiads, and they had a consciously Greek look to them: stadium, amphitheater, a sacred grove of towering sequoia, and out on a point over the sea, a small pillared temple, made of some white stone that was not marble but looked like it— alabaster, or diamond-coated salt. Temporary yurt camps had been erected on the hills above. Several thousand people milled about this scene; much of the island’s population, apparently, and a good number of visitors from around Hellas Basin— the games were still mostly a Hellas affair. So they were surprised to find Sax in the stadium, helping to do the measurements for the throwing events. He gave them a hug, nodding in his diffuse way. “Annarita is throwing the discus today,” he said. “It should be good.”
And so on that fine afternoon Maya and Michel joined Sax out on the track, and forgot about everything but the day at hand. They stood on the inner field, getting as close to events as they wanted. The pole vault was Maya’s favorite, it amazed her— more than any other event it illustrated to her the possibilities of Martian g. Although it clearly required a lot of technique to take advantage of it: the bounding yet controlled sprint, the precise planting of the extremely long pole as it jounced forward, the leap, the pull, the vault itself, feet pointing at the sky; then the catapulted flight into space, body upside down as the jumper shot above the flexing pole, and up, and up; then the neat twist over the bar (or not), and the long fall onto an airgel pad. The Martian record was fourteen meters and change, and the young man vaulting now, already winner for the day, was trying for fifteen, but failing. When he came down off the airgel pad Maya could see how very tall he was, with powerful shoulders and arms, but otherwise lean to the point of gauntness. The women vaulters waiting their turn looked much the same.
It was that way in all the events, everyone big and lean and hard-muscled— the new species, Maya thought, feeling small and weak and old. Homo martial. Luckily she had good bones and still carried herself well, or else she would have been ashamed to walk among such creatures. As it was she stood unconscious of her own defiant grace, and watched as the woman discus thrower Sax had pointed out to them spun in an accelerating burst that flung the discus as if shot from a skeet-casting device. This Annarita was very tall, with a long torso and wide rangy shoulders, and lats like wings under her arms; neat breasts, squashed by a singlet; narrow hips, but a full strong bottom, over powerful long thighs— yes, a real beauty among the beauties. And so strong; though it was clear that it was the swiftness of her spin that propelled her discus so far. “One hundred eighty meters!” Michel exclaimed, smiling. “What joy for her.”
And the woman was pleased. They all applied themselves intensely in the moment of effort, then stood around relaxing, or trying to relax— stretching muscles, joking with each other. There were no officials, no scoreboard, only some helpers like Sax. People took turns running events other than their own. Races started with a loud bang. Times were clocked by hand, and called out and logged onto a screen. Shot puts still looked heavy, their throwing awkward. Javelins flew forever. High jumpers were only able to clear four meters, to Maya and Michel’s surprise. Long jumpers, twenty meters; which was a most amazing sight, the jumpers flailing their limbs through a leap that lasted four or five seconds, and crossed a big part of the field.
In the late afternoon they held the sprints. As with the rest of the events, men and women competed together, all wearing singlets. “I wonder if sexual dimorphism itself is lessened in these people,” Michel said as he watched a group warm up. “Everything is so much less genderized for them— they do the same work, the women only get pregnant once in their lives, or never— they do the same sports, they build up the same muscles. . . .”
Maya fully believed in the reality of the new species, but at this notion she scoffed: “Why do you always watch the women then?”
Michel grinned. “Oh I can tell the difference, but I come from the old species. I just wonder if they can.”
Maya laughed out loud. “Come on. I mean look there, and there,” pointing. “Proportions, faces. . . .”
“Yeah yeah. But still, it’s not like, you know, Bardot and Atlas, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. These people are prettier.”
Michel nodded. It was as he had said from the start, Maya thought; on Mars it would finally become clear that they were all little gods and goddesses, and should live life in a sacred joyfulness. . . . Gender, however, remained clear at first glance. Although she too came from the old species; maybe it was just her. But that runner over there . . . ah. A woman, but with short powerful legs, narrow hips, flat chest. And that one next to her? Again female— no, male! A high jumper, as graceful as a dancer, though all the high jumpers were having trouble: Sax muttered something about plants. Well, still; even if some of them were a bit androgynous, for most it was the usual matter of instant recognition.