The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick Page A

his stuff. We’ve got someone else in his room now.
    Just then a van pulled up, and Frank turned to me. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I’ve got to welcome Big Mama back.”
    â€œBig Mama?” I repeated.
    He smiled. “The mother of the Trojan colt. She was barren last year, and her first couple of breedings this year didn’t take. If she missed this time, that’s it for another year.”
    â€œYou can’t keep trying until she’s pregnant?”
    â€œWe could,” he answered as we walked toward the van. “But all racehorses have an arbitrary birthday of January 1, and a late June or early July foal would be at too much of a disadvantage. By the time he caught up physically with his rivals, all the good ones would be retired.”
    â€œSo is this going to be another Trojan colt?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “Mr. Bigelow sold his share of Trojan close to two years ago. This time Tyrone’s mother went to Touchdown Pass.”
    â€œI never saw him,” I said, “not even on TV.”
    â€œHappens a lot with West Coast horses, especially if they don’t run in the Triple Crown or the Breeders’ Cup.”
    â€œShe’s just flown back from California?” I asked.
    He smiled. “No, from about fifteen miles down the road. They may run in California and New York and elsewhere, but ninety percent of the good ones retire to Kentucky.”
    The van had stopped, and the driver came around the back, slid out a ramp for the mare to walk down, and opened the door at the back. He then led her out by a rope attached to her halter.
    â€œI’ll take her from here, George,” said Standish.
    â€œHope we got something this time, Harry,” replied the driver. “Anyway, she looks happy.”
    â€œProbably happy just to be out of the van,” said Standish. He began leading her to a pasture, and I walked alongside him.
    â€œWhat would a foal be worth?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “A lot depends on Tyrone. He wins the Champagne or the Futurity or one of the other major stakes for two-year-olds, this one would go for a couple of million, especially if it’s a boy. He runs like a cheap claimer, and this one’s price plummets.”
    â€œEven though it’s not the same sire?”
    â€œA lot of investors and writers forget it, but Momma supplies half the genes.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I suppose when Poppa produces a hundred foals a year and Momma produces one, it’s easy to forget.”
    â€œTake a look at the percentages, if you want to see something interesting.”
    â€œI don’t follow you.”
    â€œThe most successful stallion in history, in terms of the percentage of stakes winners he sired, was Bold Ruler. You know what that percentage was?”
    â€œI have no idea,” I replied.
    â€œTwenty-five percent,” said Standish. “One-quarter of all his foals won stakes races. The average for the breed is something less than one percent. Are you impressed?”
    â€œI’m impressed,” I said.
    â€œYou know how many mares have produced more than twenty-five percent stakes winners?” he asked with a smile.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNeither do I,” he answered. “But it’s well over two hundred.” He patted the mare on the neck. “People forget that it takes more than a sire, but we remember, don’t we, baby?”
    The mare nickered at him, and a moment later he turned her loose in an empty pasture. She trotted once around it, as if to make sure it was the one she remembered, and then settled down to do some serious grazing.
    â€œAnything else I can answer or help you with before I make my rounds?” asked Standish.
    â€œJust one thing,” I said. “You ever hear of a man named Horatio—” I stopped in mid-sentence as a thought hit me. “Oh, shit!”
    â€œHoratio