The Boy Who Lifted
Chapter One — The Boy Who Lifted
Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Twigg, of number four, Sedentary Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly soft, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to have a single striated muscle fiber between them, because they simply didn’t hold with that sort of nonsense.
Mr. Twigg was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which manufactured ergonomic office chairs — the reclining kind, with lumbar support, so that a man need never engage his core again as long as he lived. He was a large man, in the way a bag of flour is large: heavy, formless, and entirely without a visible deltoid. Mrs. Twigg was thin and had a neck twice the usual length, which was very useful, as she spent most of her time craning it over garden fences to make sure no neighbor was doing anything so vulgar as a push-up. The Twiggs had a small son called Doughley, and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere. Doughley could not do a single sit-up, and they wept with pride at the thought of it.
The Twiggs had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Squatters. Mrs. Twigg’s sister, Lily Squatter, was — and there was no polite word for it — jacked. Lily and her husband, James, could reportedly deadlift a small automobile, and they had a son of about Doughley’s age whom the Twiggs had never met. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Squatters away; the Twiggs did not want Doughley mixing with a child who might, at any moment, do a pull-up.
When Mr. Twigg woke on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and swole things would soon be happening all over the country. He hummed as he picked out his most sedentary tie for work, and Mrs. Twigg gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Doughley into a high chair that had been reinforced to bear his weight.
None of them noticed a large man in a stringer vest standing motionless against the garden wall.
At half past eight, Mr. Twigg backed his car out of the drive and it was then that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar — a shaker bottle, standing on the pavement, apparently studying a street sign. For a second, Mr. Twigg didn’t realize what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a shaker bottle standing on the corner of Sedentary Drive, but there was no barbell in sight. What could Mr. Twigg have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. He blinked and stared at the bottle. It stared back. As Mr. Twigg drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the bottle in his mirror. It was now rolling itself upright and reading the sign that said Sedentary Drive — no, looking at the sign; bottles couldn’t read, and neither, he suspected, could the men who carried them. Mr. Twigg gave himself a little shake and put the bottle out of his mind.
But on the edge of town, chairs were driven out of his head by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in stringer vests. In the middle of November. Mr. Twigg couldn’t abide people who wore their traps out in public. He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.
His fingers drummed on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together, and Mr. Twigg was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all — one of them looked older than his grandfather and had a chest so vast it appeared to be entering the intersection several seconds before he did. The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Twigg that this was probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for something. Yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later Mr. Twigg arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on ergonomic chairs.
Mr. Twigg always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on chairs that morning. He didn’t see the enormous men jogging past his building — men whose thighs did not fit through the door two at a time, men who were leaping from rooftop to rooftop the way a child skips over paving stones. But the people down on the street saw them; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as body after body soared overhead. Most of them had never seen a natural human standing broad-jump between two office towers, not even at rush hour.
Mr. Twigg, however, had a perfectly normal, muscle-free morning. He shouted at five people. He made several important telephone calls and ate a sandwich the size of a family. And it was only during lunch, when he went across the road to buy himself a bun, that he saw them again.
They were whispering — the vest-people — clustered by the baker’s, and Mr. Twigg passed right by them on his way in. He didn’t mean to listen, but as he waited for his bun to be bagged, a few words drifted his way.
“The Squatters, that’s right, that’s what I heard—”
“—yes, their son, little Harry—”
Mr. Twigg stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it. He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his chin, thinking… no, he was being stupid. Squatter wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Squatter who had a son called Harry — and who could, quite possibly, do the splits between two moving vans. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew was called Harry. He’d never even met the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Herbert. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Twigg; she always got so upset at any mention of a barbell. He didn’t blame her — if he’d had a sister who could clean-and-jerk a wardrobe, he’d have kept it quiet too.
He tried very hard to think about chairs for the rest of the afternoon.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar — a man in a stringer vest, doing an isometric wall-sit against the low brick wall of number four. Its haunches trembled at exactly the frequency of a struck tuning fork, and it had been holding the position, without moving, since dawn. As Mr. Twigg pulled into the driveway he stared at the man. The man stared back. Mr. Twigg went inside without a word. He was not going to mention it to Mrs. Twigg. He didn’t like the man’s eyes, which never seemed to blink, and he didn’t like the veins, which were mapping out routes across the man’s forearms that no cartographer had ever charted.
That night, Mr. Twigg couldn’t sleep. The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the wall-sitting man on the corner, still not fallen, still perfectly parallel to the ground. Squatters, he thought as he drifted off. Really. What sort of family named themselves after a lift.
He was quite wrong about the man on the wall being unable to hold the position forever. The man on the wall was settling in for a very long night.
Sedentary Drive lay hushed and dark. Not a single citizen was awake to see the enormous figure appear on the corner as suddenly as if he had stepped through the seam of the world. The nearest streetlamp went out with a soft pomf — not because the figure touched it, but because the man had merely flexed his forearm, and the sudden displacement of air had snuffed the bulb like a birthday candle. He raised his fist and, one by one, with a series of muscular twitches so precise they might have been performed by a watchmaker, he darkened every lamp on the street, until the only light left came from two small points glowing in the distance — which were the eyes of the man who had been holding a wall-sit for eighteen hours.
The enormous figure was old — you could tell by the silver of his beard, which reached his belt — but his forearms belonged to no age at all; they were slabs, veined and hairless and eternal. This was Swolebus Dumbbelldore, Headmaster of Gymwarts, and it was said that he had once out-repped a mountain and made the mountain apologize.
“I should have known,” he said quietly to the man on the wall, “that you would be here, Professor McGainagall.”
He turned to smile at the figure holding the isometric pose, but the low brick wall was empty. Instead, he found himself smiling at a stern-looking woman whose forearms suggested she could crush a coconut absently while thinking about something else. She unfolded from her wall-sit in a single controlled motion, without a wobble, without a breath, and her quadriceps sang like plucked cables as she rose.
“How did you know it was me?” she said.
“My dear Professor, I have never seen a natural human hold parallel for eighteen hours. And you skipped no meals. It could only be you.”
Professor McGainagall’s stern face did not soften. “The rumors,” she said. “Is it true, Swolebus? All of it? About You-Know-Who? About the man they will not spot?”
“I’m afraid it is true, Professor. The good, and the terrible.”
She had waited on that wall all day precisely to hear him say otherwise. Her enormous hands trembled — the first tremble they had shown, and it was not from fatigue.
“After all he did,” she whispered. “All the reps he ruined. All the gains he stole. To think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Spotted was finally… finally out-lifted… and by a baby.”
For that was the whole of it. Everyone in the swole world knew the name — spoken always in a fearful murmur — of the darkest lifter who had ever chalked his palms. Some called him Lord Voldebar, though most were too frightened to say even that, and referred to him only as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Spotted, because in his prime no one had dared stand behind his bench for fear of what he might rack. For eleven years he had terrorized the gyms of the land, curling the willpower out of good men, until whole training halls fell silent at the mere echo of his approaching footfall — which registered, they said, on regional seismographs. And the Squatters — James and Lily, the finest natural lifters of their generation — had stood against him. And Voldebar had gone to their cottage in the dead of night to finish it.
“But the boy lived,” Dumbbelldore said. “Voldebar unracked the heaviest set that has ever been attempted upon a human soul, and brought it down upon the child — and the child… repped it back. The bar rebounded. It struck Voldebar with all the force he had put into it, and more, for a baby knows nothing of ego lifting and will simply push until the thing above him moves. Where Lord Voldebar is now, no man can say. But he is broken. And the boy has a mark.”
As he spoke, a low rumble grew in the dark, like an approaching lorry, or a very large man breathing. It swelled until the paving stones hummed, and then, out of the sky, came a motorcycle.
It did not fly. Let no one tell you it flew. It fell — precisely, deliberately — because it was being thrown, an entire motorcycle hurled in a graceful parabola across three counties by a man who had grown bored of roads. The bike landed on the tarmac with a screech and a shower of orange sparks, and behind it, a half-second later, landed the man who had thrown it, dropping out of the clouds and cratering the pavement in a crouch. Slowly, mountainously, he stood.
If the great motorcycle looked huge in the man’s hand, it was only because the man’s hand was the size of a manhole cover. He was easily three times the height of a normal person, and at least five times as wide, and every visible inch of him — and there were a great many visible inches — was carved into muscle so defined that the streetlamps, had they been lit, would have cast a dozen small shadows across the ravines of his abdomen. His name was Roobeus Swolegrid, Keeper of the Weights and Groundskeeper of Gymwarts, and cradled in the crook of one colossal arm, wrapped in blankets and looking no larger than a loaf of bread against that forearm, was a sleeping baby boy.
“Swolegrid,” said Dumbbelldore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?”
“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbbelldore, sir,” said the giant, climbing carefully out of his own crater. “Young Sirius Blackpress lent it me. I’ve got him, sir. No trouble. He fell asleep somewhere over Bristol — flexed a bit in his sleep and turned the exhaust pipe into a pretzel, but no trouble otherwise.”
Dumbbelldore and Professor McGainagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was the face of a baby boy, fast asleep. And under a tuft of jet-black hair, above his forehead, they could see a strange mark — not a cut, not a bruise, but a set of six tiny, perfectly formed abdominal muscles, packed into the space no wider than two fingers, rising and falling faintly as the infant breathed.
“Is that where—?” whispered Professor McGainagall.
“Yes,” said Dumbbelldore. “He’ll have that six-pack forever. He built it, in a single night, absorbing the strength of the heaviest bar ever thrown. A baby who has never trained a day, and already he is more shredded than men who have chalked their hands for forty years.” He shook his head, and the silver beard swayed. “Even I could not do something about it. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. Abs like that can come in handy. I have a calf muscle myself that is a perfect topographical relief map of the Pennine Way.”
“But surely,” said Professor McGainagall, and her voice cracked, and she gestured with an arm that could have bent a lamppost, at the dark, sleeping, respectable house of number four, “surely you cannot mean to leave him here? With these people? I have watched them all day, Swolebus. They are the softest family I have ever laid eyes on. Their son — I saw him — attempted to lift a spoon this morning and had to rest afterward. They will never understand him. They will never spot him. They do not own so much as a single dumbbell!”
“It is the best place for him,” said Dumbbelldore firmly. “His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.”
“A letter?” repeated Professor McGainagall faintly, sinking back down into a resting squat out of sheer disbelief. “Swolebus — you cannot seriously expect these people to explain to that child what he is? He will grow up thinking a lunge is something you do at a buffet! He’ll be famous — every child in our world will know his name — ‘The Lifter Who Lived!’ — there will be days named after him — and you would rather he learned humility here, folding laundry, than have his head turned by fame before he can hold a plank?”
“Exactly,” said Dumbbelldore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “It would be enough to swell any boy’s ego. Famous before he can walk! Famous for something he cannot even remember! Far better for him to grow up soft, and unspotted, and hungry — so that when the day comes and we send for him, and he first sets foot in Gymwarts, he will have something to reach for. A man who is handed the summit has nowhere left to climb, Professor. But a man who begins in the valley — ah. That is a man who will one day out-rep the sky.”
Professor McGainagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, “Yes — yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Swolebus?”
“Swolegrid’s bringing him.”
“You think it — wise — to trust Swolegrid with something as important as this?”
“I would trust Swolegrid with the last protein scoop on Earth,” said Dumbbelldore.
Swolegrid, at this, made a strange strangled noise, and it became apparent that the enormous man was crying — great, seismic sobs that rattled the windows of number six. He buried his face in a handkerchief the size of a bedsheet.
“Sh!” hissed Professor McGainagall. “You’ll wake the Twiggs!”
“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Swolegrid, mopping his enormous eyes. “But I c-can’t stand it — little Harry, off ter live with a family that thinks DOMS is a person—” He shuddered so violently that a paving stone cracked beneath him.
“There, there,” said Professor McGainagall, patting Swolegrid gingerly on the forearm, which was like patting the flank of a warm mountain. “It’s not really goodbye after all.”
Dumbbelldore stepped over the low garden wall — the same wall that had held Professor McGainagall in a wall-sit for a day, and which now had two enormous foot-shaped dents in the top of it — and walked to the door of number four. He laid the baby gently on the doorstep, tucked the letter inside the blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Swolegrid’s shoulders shook, Professor McGainagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbbelldore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.
“Well,” said Dumbbelldore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business here. We may as well go and join the celebration.” Somewhere beyond the rooftops, faint and joyous, came the distant, rhythmic sound of an entire nation racking and unracking their heaviest plates in salute.
“Yeah,” said Swolegrid in a very muffled voice. “I’ll be takin’ the motorbike back ter Sirius. G’night, Professor McGainagall — Professor Dumbbelldore, sir.” He wiped his streaming eyes on his sleeve, threw one leg over the motorcycle — which sagged and then held — and, with a kick of one tree-trunk leg, launched himself and the bike straight up into the clouds and out of sight.
“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGainagall,” said Dumbbelldore, nodding to her. Professor McGainagall dropped smoothly into a resting squat, sank her weight, and disappeared with a controlled hop over the far wall in answer.
Dumbbelldore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and, with one small twitch of his ancient forearm, drew the light back into every streetlamp at once, so that Sedentary Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat — a real one, this time, an ordinary tabby, entirely without visible abdominals — slinking around the corner at the other end. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his heel, and with a pomf of displaced air far softer than the ones that had put out the lamps, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Sedentary Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing feats of strength to occur. Harry Squatter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him, and he squeezed it — a firm, even, controlled grip, the grip of a boy who would one day close his fist around a barbell that no other human alive could lift — and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing that at this very moment, all across the country, people were meeting in secret, raising their protein shakers, and toasting in hushed voices:
“To Harry Squatter — the Lifter Who Lived!”
第一章——大难不死的举铁男孩
住在久坐路四号的弗农·特维格先生和太太总是得意地说，他们是再松软不过的人了，多谢关心。他们无论怎么看，都不像是身上能找出哪怕一根横纹肌纤维的人，因为他们压根儿不赞成那种胡闹。
特维格先生是一家名叫格朗宁的公司的主管，公司生产人体工学办公椅——就是那种可以后仰、带腰托的椅子，保证一个人活到老都不必动用一次核心肌群。他块头很大，不过是面粉袋式的大：沉重，松垮，看不出一丝三角肌的轮廓。特维格太太很瘦，脖子足足有常人的两倍长。这倒非常方便，因为她一天里大部分时间都在伸长脖子越过篱笆，看看左邻右舍有没有干出俯卧撑之类粗俗的事情。特维格夫妇有个小儿子，名叫面团利。在他们看来，世上再也找不到比他更好的孩子。面团利连一个仰卧起坐也做不起来，夫妇俩每想到这一点，都会骄傲得热泪盈眶。
特维格一家想要什么就有什么，但他们也有一个秘密。他们最害怕的，就是这秘密叫人发现。一想到有人得知斯夸特一家的事，他们就觉得自己准会受不了。特维格太太的妹妹莉莉·斯夸特——实在找不出更文雅的说法——壮得吓人。据说莉莉和丈夫詹姆能硬拉起一辆小汽车。他们也有一个儿子，年纪跟面团利差不多，特维格一家却从来没见过。这男孩也是他们不肯同斯夸特一家来往的一大理由；他们可不愿意面团利跟一个随时可能做出引体向上的孩子厮混。
故事开始在一个阴沉灰暗的星期二。特维格先生一觉醒来，窗外的阴云没有丝毫迹象表明，全国各地很快就会发生种种古怪而强壮的事情。他哼着小曲，挑出自己最显久坐气质的领带准备上班；特维格太太则兴高采烈地说着闲话，同时奋力把尖声哭闹的面团利塞进一把特制加固、足以承受他体重的高脚椅里。
他们谁也没有注意到，一个穿着细肩带背心的大汉正一动不动地靠在花园围墙边。
八点半，特维格先生倒车驶出车道。就在这时，他注意到了第一件怪事——人行道上立着一只摇摇杯，仿佛正在研究路牌。有那么一会儿，特维格先生没明白自己看见了什么——接着他猛地回头又看了一眼。久坐路街角的确立着一只摇摇杯，可四下里连一根杠铃也没有。特维格先生刚才一定是看花眼了吧？准是光线捣的鬼。他眨眨眼，盯着那只杯子。杯子也盯着他。特维格先生拐过街角，沿路开去，从后视镜里继续观察它。杯子这时已经滚着把自己立直，正在读那块写着“久坐路”的路牌——不，是在看路牌；杯子不会识字，而据他猜测，携带这种杯子的人多半也不会。特维格先生轻轻晃了晃脑袋，把那只杯子抛在脑后。
可是到了城边，另一件事又把办公椅从他脑子里赶了出去。他像往常一样堵在早高峰的车流中，不由得注意到街上似乎有许多衣着古怪的人。一个个都穿着细肩带背心。十一月里居然穿成这样！特维格先生最受不了把斜方肌露在大庭广众之下的人。他猜想，这大概又是什么愚蠢的新潮流。
他的手指不耐烦地敲着方向盘，目光落在附近一小群怪人身上。他们正聚在一起兴奋地窃窃私语。特维格先生气恼地发现，其中有几个年纪一点儿也不轻——有个人看上去比他祖父还老，胸膛却宽阔得惊人，仿佛比他本人早好几秒钟就已经进入了十字路口。真是岂有此理！不过特维格先生转念一想，这多半是什么无聊的噱头——这些人显然是在替什么东西募捐。对，一定是这样。车流又动了起来，几分钟后，特维格先生驶进格朗宁公司的停车场，脑子里重新只剩下人体工学椅。
特维格先生在九楼办公室里总是背对窗户坐着。否则，那天上午他恐怕很难专心研究椅子。他没有看见那些体型惊人的人从办公楼旁慢跑而过——他们的大腿粗得不能两条同时挤过一道门；他们从一座屋顶跃向另一座屋顶，就像孩子跳过一块块铺路石。可街上的人全看见了。他们指指点点，张口结舌地望着一个又一个躯体从头顶飞过。大多数人从没见过一个纯天然的人类立定跳远跨过两幢办公大楼，哪怕是在交通最繁忙的时候也没有。
不过，特维格先生度过了一个完全正常、没有一丝肌肉的上午。他训斥了五个人，打了好几个重要电话，还吃掉了一只全家份大小的三明治。直到午饭时间，他过街给自己买小圆面包，才又看见了他们。
那群背心怪人聚在面包店旁，正在窃窃私语。特维格先生进店时从他们身边径直走过。他本来无意偷听，可等着店员把面包装进纸袋时，几句话飘进了他的耳朵。
“斯夸特一家，没错，我听说的就是他们——”
“——对，还有他们的儿子，小哈利——”
特维格先生猛地停住了。一阵恐惧淹没了他。他回头看着那些窃窃私语的人，像是想跟他们说些什么，却又打消了念头。他飞快地穿过马路，匆匆赶回办公室，厉声命令秘书不要打扰他，一把抓起电话。家里的号码几乎已经拨完，他却改变了主意。他放下听筒，摸着下巴想道……不，他这是犯傻。斯夸特又不是什么罕见的姓。他相信，肯定有不少姓斯夸特的人都有个儿子叫哈利——而且那孩子完全可能在两辆行驶中的货车之间劈个一字马。再说，他甚至不能肯定外甥是不是叫哈利。他压根儿没见过那孩子。说不定叫哈维，也说不定叫赫伯特。没有必要让特维格太太担心；她一听见“杠铃”两个字总会心烦意乱。这也怪不得她——如果他也有个能把衣柜挺举起来的妹妹，他同样不会到处声张。
下午剩下的时间里，他拼命让自己专心想椅子。
回到家门口时，他发现了另一件怪事——一个穿细肩带背心的男人背靠四号门前的矮砖墙，正在做靠墙静蹲。他的臀腿恰好以被敲响的音叉那种频率微微颤动；从天亮起，他就一直保持着这个姿势，纹丝不动。特维格先生把车开进车道，死死盯着那个人。那个人也盯着他。特维格先生一言不发地进了屋。他绝不会把这件事告诉太太。他不喜欢那人的眼睛——那双眼睛似乎从不眨一下；他也不喜欢那人的血管——它们在前臂上绘出的路线，是世上任何制图师都不曾标注过的。
那天夜里，特维格先生睡不着觉。合上眼睛前，他最后看见的还是街角那个静蹲的男人，仍旧没有倒下，大腿依然与地面完美平行。斯夸特，他朦胧地想。真是的。哪会有一家人拿一种举铁动作给自己当姓呢。
他以为墙边那个人不可能永远保持那个姿势，这可大错特错了。墙边的人已经准备好在那里度过漫漫长夜。
久坐路静悄悄的，一片漆黑。没有一个人醒着，因此谁也没有看到，一个高大的身影突然出现在街角，仿佛他是从世界的一道接缝里一步跨出来的。最近的一盏路灯“噗”地轻响一声，灭了——并不是那人碰了它，而是他只不过绷紧了一下前臂，骤然排开的空气便像吹生日蜡烛一样吹灭了灯泡。他举起拳头，用一连串精确得仿佛钟表匠操作的肌肉抽动，一盏接一盏地熄灭了街上所有的灯。最后只剩远处两个小亮点——那是那个已经靠墙静蹲了十八个小时的人的眼睛。
高大的身影年纪很老——从垂到腰带的银白胡须就看得出来——可他的前臂不属于任何年龄。那是两块隆起的巨石，青筋盘绕，光滑无毛，亘古长存。他就是肌格沃茨的校长，壮不思·哑铃多。传说他曾经做次数赢过一座山，还逼得那座山亲口向他道歉。
“我早该料到，”他轻声对墙边那个人说，“你一定会在这里，麦增肌教授。”
他转过身，微笑着望向那个保持静蹲的身影，矮砖墙前却已经空无一人。他面对的是一位神情严厉的女人。她的前臂让人觉得，她完全可以一边想着别的事，一边随手捏碎一只椰子。她用一个连贯而克制的动作结束静蹲，起身时没有摇晃，没有喘气，两边股四头肌却像拨动的钢缆一样嗡嗡作响。
“你怎么知道是我？”她问。
“亲爱的教授，我从没见过哪个纯天然的人类能把大腿保持平行十八个小时。而且你一顿饭也没耽误。除了你，不会是别人。”
麦增肌教授严厉的脸色没有缓和。“那些传言，”她说，“是真的吗，壮不思？全都是真的？关于那个连名字也没人敢保护的人？关于绝不能给他做保护的神秘人？”
“恐怕都是真的，教授。好消息和坏消息都是。”
她在墙边等了一整天，为的正是听他说出相反的答案。她那双硕大的手颤抖起来——这是它们第一次颤抖，而且绝不是因为疲劳。
“他干了那么多事，”她低声说，“毁掉了那么多次数，夺走了那么多增益。谁能想到，那个绝不能给他做保护的人终于……终于被人举过了……而且对手还是个婴儿。”
事情的全部经过就是这样。强壮世界里的每一个人，都知道有史以来最黑暗的举铁者的名字；人们提起它时，总要害怕地压低嗓门。有些人叫他伏地杠，但大多数人连这三个字都不敢说，只叫他“绝不能给他做保护的神秘人”。因为在他的全盛时期，没有人敢站在他的卧推凳后面，大家都怕他下一次会把什么东西架回去。十一年来，他使全国各地的健身房笼罩在恐怖之中，用弯举抽空好人的意志。只要远远响起他的脚步声——据说当地的地震仪都能记录下来——整座训练馆便会鸦雀无声。而斯夸特夫妇，詹姆和莉莉，是他们那一代最出色的纯天然举铁者，他们曾挺身反抗他。于是伏地杠在夜深人静时去了他们的小屋，要把事情彻底了结。
“可是那孩子活下来了，”哑铃多说，“伏地杠卸下了有史以来压在人类灵魂上最沉的一组重量，把杠铃压向那个孩子——可是那孩子……**又推了回去。**杠铃反弹了，以伏地杠压下去的全部力量击中他，而且力量更大。因为婴儿根本不懂什么叫虚荣重量；悬在头上的东西不动，他就只管推下去。伏地杠如今身在何处，无人知晓。不过他已经垮了。而那孩子身上留下了一个印记。”
他说话时，黑暗中传来一阵低沉的轰鸣，像是一辆卡车正在驶近，又像是一个体型非常庞大的人正在呼吸。声音越来越响，连铺路石也跟着嗡嗡震动。接着，一辆摩托车从天而降。
它没有飞。谁也别说它飞过。它是在坠落——准确地、有意地坠落——因为有人嫌公路太无聊，索性把整辆摩托车扔了出去，让它沿一道优美的抛物线飞过三个郡。摩托车尖啸着落在柏油路上，迸出一片橘红色火星。半秒钟后，扔车的人也从云层里落下，蹲身砸进路面，留下一个大坑。他慢慢地、像一座山似的站了起来。
那辆巨型摩托车在他手里显得很大，只是因为他的手本身就有井盖那么大。他轻轻松松就有普通人三倍高，至少五倍宽。浑身上下每一寸露在外面的皮肤——露出来的实在很多——都刻满了界线分明的肌肉；假如路灯还亮着，它们准会在他腹肌的沟壑里投下十几道小小的阴影。他名叫鲁伯·壮格，是肌格沃茨的重量保管员兼场地看守。他一条巨臂的臂弯里抱着一个熟睡的男婴，婴儿裹在毯子里，衬着那根前臂，显得还没有一条面包大。
“壮格，”哑铃多如释重负地说，“总算来了。你从哪里弄到这辆摩托车的？”
“借来的，哑铃多教授，先生。”巨人小心地从自己砸出的坑里爬出来，说道，“小天狼星·布莱克推借给俺的。俺把他带来了，先生。一路上没出岔子。他飞到布里斯托尔上空时睡着了——睡梦里绷了下肌肉，把排气管拧成了椒盐卷饼，不过除此以外啥事也没有。”
哑铃多和麦增肌教授俯身看着那团毯子。里面依稀露出一个熟睡男婴的脸。乌黑的头发下面、额头上方，有一个奇怪的印记——不是割伤，也不是淤青，而是六小块轮廓完美的腹肌，全挤在两指宽的地方，随着婴儿的呼吸微微起伏。
“就是那里——？”麦增肌教授低声问。
“是的，”哑铃多说，“这六块腹肌会伴随他一辈子。他在一夜之间，吸收了有史以来最沉的杠铃的力量，练出了它们。一个连一天都没有练过的婴儿，清晰度已经超过了那些在手上抹了四十年镁粉的人。”他摇摇头，银白胡须随之摆动。“连我也拿它没有办法。就算有，我也不会动它。这样的腹肌有时很管用。我自己就有一块小腿肌，完完全全是奔宁山径的立体地形图。”
“可是，”麦增肌教授说着，声音一下子变了调。她用一条能把路灯杆掰弯的胳膊，指着久坐路四号那幢黑暗、沉睡而体面的房子，“你肯定不会真想把他留在这里吧？跟这些人住在一起？我观察了他们一整天，壮不思。这是我见过最松软的一家人。他们的儿子——我亲眼看见的——今天早上想拿起一把勺子，事后还不得不休息一阵。他们永远不会理解这孩子。他们永远不会给他做保护。他们家里连一只哑铃也没有！”
“这里对他最合适，”哑铃多坚定地说，“等他长大一些，他姨妈和姨父会把一切解释给他听。我给他们写了一封信。”
“一封信？”麦增肌教授有气无力地重复道。她难以置信，干脆又沉进一个休息深蹲里。“壮不思——你不会真指望这些人告诉这孩子，他究竟是什么人吧？他会以为弓步就是冲向自助餐台抢菜！他会成名的——我们世界里的每个孩子都会知道他的名字——‘大难不死的举铁男孩！’——将来甚至会有以他命名的纪念日——可你宁愿让他在这里叠衣服、学习谦逊，也不愿让名声在他还撑不住平板支撑以前就冲昏他的头脑？”
“正是这样。”哑铃多从半月形眼镜上方十分严肃地看着她，“那足以让任何男孩的自尊心膨胀。还不会走路就出了名！而且还是因为一件他根本不记得的事！最好还是让他在松软、无人保护而且饥饿的环境里长大——这样，等到那一天我们派人来接他，他第一次踏进肌格沃茨时，才会有一个可以努力够到的目标。一个人要是生来便被放在顶峰，就再没有地方可以攀登了，教授。可是一个从山谷出发的人——啊，那样的人才终有一天能把天空也多做一次。”
麦增肌教授张开嘴，又改变主意，把话咽了回去，然后说道：“是啊——是啊，你说得对，当然对。不过，这孩子怎么到这里来呢，壮不思？”
“壮格把他送来。”
“你认为把这么重要的事情交给壮格——明智吗？”
“哪怕世上只剩下最后一勺蛋白粉，我也会放心交给壮格。”哑铃多说。
壮格听了这话，喉咙里发出一种古怪的哽咽声。直到这时大家才发现，这个大得惊人的男人哭了。他爆发出一阵阵撼动地面的抽泣，震得六号房的窗户格格作响。他把脸埋进一块床单大小的手帕里。
“嘘！”麦增肌教授低声喝道，“你会把特维格一家吵醒的！”
“对——对不起，”壮格呜咽着，用手帕擦着那双巨大的眼睛，“可俺实在受不了——小哈利要去跟一家把延迟性肌肉酸痛当成人名的人生活——”他哆嗦得太厉害，脚下的一块铺路石“啪”地裂开了。
“好了，好了，”麦增肌教授说。她小心翼翼地拍了拍壮格的前臂，那感觉就像在轻拍一座温热山峰的侧面。“这毕竟不是真的永别。”
哑铃多跨过花园的矮墙——正是麦增肌教授靠着静蹲了一整天的那堵墙，如今墙顶已经多出两个硕大的脚形凹坑——向四号的门口走去。他轻轻把婴儿放在门阶上，把那封信塞进毯子，接着回到另外两人身边。整整一分钟，三个人站在那里，望着那小小的一团。壮格双肩抽动，麦增肌教授拼命眨眼；哑铃多眼里平日闪烁的光芒似乎也熄灭了。
“好啦，”哑铃多终于说道，“事情办完了。这里没有我们的事了。我们不妨去参加庆祝。”屋顶那边，隐隐传来欢快而有节奏的响声，仿佛全国的人都在用最沉的杠铃反复出架、回架，向他致敬。
“是啊。”壮格闷声闷气地说，“俺得把摩托车还给小天狼星。晚安，麦增肌教授——晚安，哑铃多教授，先生。”他用袖子擦干奔流的眼泪，一条腿跨上摩托车——车身往下一沉，居然撑住了——接着用树干般粗壮的一条腿蹬了一下，连人带车笔直冲进云层，不见了踪影。
“我想我们很快会再见的，麦增肌教授。”哑铃多向她点点头，说道。麦增肌教授顺畅地沉进一个休息深蹲，重心下压，然后以一个控制得无可挑剔的小跳越过远处的围墙，就算是回答了。
哑铃多转身沿街走去。他在街角停下，古老的前臂轻轻抽动了一下。所有路灯同时恢复了光明，久坐路顿时笼罩在橘黄色的灯光里。他看见远处另一头有一只虎斑猫正绕过街角——这回是真猫，一只普普通通、看不出半块腹肌的虎斑猫。他还能勉强望见四号门阶上那团毯子。
“祝你好运，哈利。”他低声说。他脚跟一转，排开的空气发出“噗”的一声，比先前熄灯时轻柔得多，随后他便消失了。
微风吹动久坐路修剪整齐的树篱。这条街在墨色的天空下静谧而整洁，任谁也不会想到，惊人的力量壮举竟会发生在这种地方。哈利·斯夸特在毯子里翻了个身，并没有醒。他的一只小手握住身旁那封信，捏了一下——那是一种坚定、均匀而克制的握力，属于一个终有一天会握住一根世上再没有第二个人能够举起的杠铃的男孩——接着他继续睡去。他不知道自己与众不同，不知道自己已经出了名，也不知道此时此刻，全国各地的人正秘密聚会，高高举起手里的蛋白粉摇摇杯，压低声音祝酒：
“敬哈利·斯夸特——大难不死的举铁男孩！”