{"id":351,"date":"2026-01-03T20:34:42","date_gmt":"2026-01-03T20:34:42","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/piers-anthony-apprentice-adept-01-split-infinity-anthony-piers\/"},"modified":"2026-01-03T20:34:42","modified_gmt":"2026-01-03T20:34:42","slug":"piers-anthony-apprentice-adept-01-split-infinity-anthony-piers","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/piers-anthony-apprentice-adept-01-split-infinity-anthony-piers\/","title":{"rendered":"Piers Anthony – Apprentice Adept 01 – Split Infinity – Anthony, Piers"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Split Infinity<\/span><\/p>\n

Book One of the Apprentice Adept<\/span><\/p>\n

By Piers Anthony<\/span><\/p>\n

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CHAPTER 1<\/span><\/p>\n

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Slide<\/span><\/p>\n

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He walked with the assurance of stature, and most others deferred to him subtly. When he moved in a given direction, the way before him conveniently opened, by seeming coincidence; when he made eye contact, the other head nodded in a token bow. He was a serf, like all of them, naked and with no physical badge of status; indeed, it would have been the depth of bad taste to accord him any overt recognition. Yet he was a giant, here. His name was Stile.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Stile stood one point five meters tall and weighed fifty kilograms. In prior parlance he would have stood four feet, eleven inches tall and weighed a scant hundredweight or eight stone; or stood a scant fifteen hands and weighed a hundred and ten pounds. His male associates towered above him by up to half a meter and outweighed him by twenty-five kilos.<\/span><\/p>\n

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He was fit, but not extraordinarily muscled. Personable without being handsome. He did not hail his friends heartily, for there were few he called friend, and he was diffident about approaches. Yet there was enormous drive in him that manifested in lieu of personal warmth.<\/span><\/p>\n

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He walked about the Grid-hall of the Game-annex, his favorite place; beyond this region he reverted to the nonentity that others perceived. He sought competition of his own level, but at this hour there was none. Pairs of people stood in the cubicles that formed the convoluted perimeter of the hall, and a throng milled in the center, making contacts. A cool, gentle, mildly flower scented draft wafted down from the vents in the ceiling, and the image of the sun cast its light on the floor, making its own game of shadows.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Stile paused at the fringe of the crowd, disliking this forced mixing. It was better when someone challenged him.<\/span><\/p>\n

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A young woman rose from one of the seats. She was nude, of course, but worthy of a second glance because of the perfection of her body. Stile averted his gaze, affecting not to be aware of her; he was especially shy with girls.<\/span><\/p>\n

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A tall youth intercepted the woman. “Game, lass?” How easy he made it seem!<\/span><\/p>\n

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She dismissed him with a curt downward flip of one hand and continued on toward Stile. A child signaled her: “Game, miss?” The woman smiled, but again negated, more gently. Stile smiled too, privately; evidently she did not recognize the child, but he did: Pollum. Rung Two on the Nines ladder. Not in Stile’s own class, yet, but nevertheless a formidable player. Had the woman accepted the challenge, she would probably have been tromped.<\/span><\/p>\n

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There was no doubt she recognized Stile, though. His eyes continued to review the crowd, but his attention was on the woman. She was of average height-several centimeters taller than he-but of more than average proportions. Her breasts were full and perfect, unsagging, shifting eloquently with her easy motion, and her legs were long and smooth. In other realms men assumed that the ideal woman was a naked one, but often this was not the case; too many women suffered in the absence of mechanical supports for portions of their anatomy. This one, approaching him, was the type who really could survive the absence of clothing without loss of form.<\/span><\/p>\n

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She arrived at last. “Stile,” she murmured.<\/span><\/p>\n

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He turned as if surprised, nodding. Her face was so lovely it startled him. Her eyes were large and green, her hair light brown and light-bleached in strands that expanded about her neck. There was a lot of art in the supposedly natural falling of women’s hair. Her features were even and possessed the particular properties and proportions that appealed to him, though he could not define precisely what these were. His shyness loomed up inside him, so that he did not trust himself to speak.<\/span><\/p>\n

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“I am Sheen,” she said. “I would like to challenge you to a Game.”<\/span><\/p>\n

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She could not be a top player. Stile knew every ranking player on every age-ladder by sight and style, and she was on no ladder. Therefore she was a dilettante, an occasional participant, possibly of some skill in selected modes but in no way a serious competitor. Her body was too lush for most physical sports; the top females in track, ball games and swimming were small-breasted, lean-fleshed, and lanky, and this in no way described Sheen. Therefore he would have no physical competition here.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Yet she was beautiful, and he was unable to speak. So he nodded acquiescence. She took his arm in an easy gesture of familiarity that startled him. Stile had known women, of course; they came to him seeking the notoriety of his company, and the known fact of his hesitancy lent them compensating courage. But this one was so pretty she hardly needed to seek male company; it would seek her. She was making it look as if he had sought and won her. Perhaps he had, unknowingly: his prowess in the Game could have impressed her enough from afar to bring her to him. Yet this was not the type of conquest he preferred; such women were equally avid for Game-skilled teeners and grayheads.<\/span><\/p>\n

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They found an unoccupied cubicle. It had a column in the center, inset with panels on opposite sides. Stile went to one side. Sheen on the other, and as their weights came on the marked ovals to the floor before each panel, the panels lighted. The column was low, so Stile could see Sheen’s face across from him; she was smiling at him.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Embarrassed by this open show of camaraderie. Stile looked down at his panel. He hardly needed to; he knew exactly what it showed. Across the top were four categories: PHYSICAL-MENTAL-CHANCE-ART, and down the left side were four more: NAKED-TOOL- MACHINE-ANIMAL. For shorthand convenience they were also lettered and numbered: 1-2-3-4 across the top, A-B-C-D down the side. The numbers were highlighted: the Grid had given him that set of choices, randomly.<\/span><\/p>\n

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THE GAME: PRIMARY GRID<\/span><\/p>\n

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1. PHYSICAL 2. MENTAL 3. CHANCE 4. ART<\/span><\/p>\n

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A. NAKED B. TOOL C. MACHINE D. ANIMAL<\/span><\/p>\n

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Stile studied Sheen’s face. Now that she was in the Game, his opponent, his diffidence diminished. He felt the mild tightening of his skin, elevation of heartbeat, clarity of mind and mild distress of bowel that presaged the tension and effort of competition. For some people such effects became so strong it ruined them as competitors, but for him it was a great feeling, that drew him back compulsively. He lived for the Game!<\/span><\/p>\n

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Even when his opponent was a pretty girl whose pert breasts peeked at him just above the column. What was passing through her mind? Did she really think she could beat him, or was she just out for the experience? Had she approached him on a dare, or was she a groupie merely out for a date? If she were trying to win, she would want to choose ART, possibly MENTAL, and would certainly avoid PHYSICAL. If she were on a dare she would go for CHANCE, as that would require little performance on her part. If she wanted experience, anything would do. If she were a groupie, she would want PHYSICAL.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Of course she could not choose among these; he had the choice. But his choice would be governed in part by his judgment of her intent and ability. He had to think, as it were, with her mind, so that he could select what she least desired and obtain the advantage.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Now he considered her likely choice, in the series she did control. A true competitor would go for NAKED, for there was the essence of it: unassisted personal prowess. One wanting experience could go for anything, again depending on the type of experience desired. A dare would probably go for NAKED also; that choice would be part of the dare. A groupie would certainly go for NAKED. So that was her most likely choice.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Well, he would call her bluff. He touched PHYSICAL, sliding his hand across the panel so she couldn’t tell his choice by the motion of his arm.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Her choice had already been made, as anticipated. They were in 1A, PHYSICAL\/NAKED.<\/span><\/p>\n

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The second grid appeared. Now the categories across the top were 1. SEPARATE-2. INTERACTIVE-3. COMBAT4, COOPERATIVE, and down the side were A. FLAT<\/span><\/p>\n

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SURFACE-B. VARIABLE SURFACE-C. DISCONTINUITY-<\/span><\/p>\n

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D. LIQUID. The letters were highlighted; he had to choose from the down column this time. He didn’t feel like swimming or swinging from bars with her, though there could be intriguing aspects to each, so the last two were out. He was an excellent long-distance runner, but doubted Sheen would go for that sort of thing, which eliminated the flat surface. So he selected B, the variable surface.<\/span><\/p>\n

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She chose 1. SEPARATE: no groupie after all! So they would be in a race of some sort, not physically touching or directly interacting, though there were limited exceptions. Good enough. He would find out what she was made of.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Now the panel displayed a listing of variable surfaces. Stile glanced again at Sheen. She shrugged, so he picked the first: MAZE PATH. As he touched it, the description appeared in the first box of a nine-square grid.<\/span><\/p>\n

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She chose the second: GLASS MOUNTAIN. It appeared in the second square.<\/span><\/p>\n

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He placed DUST SLIDE in the third square. Then they continued with CROSS COUNTRY, TIGHTROPE, SAND DUNES,<\/span><\/p>\n

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GREASED HILLS, SNOW BANK, and LIMESTONE CLIFF. The tertiary grid was complete.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Now he had to choose one of the vertical columns, and she had the horizontal rows. He selected the third, she the first, and their game was there: DUST SLIDE.<\/span><\/p>\n

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“Do you concede?” he asked her, pressing the appropriate query button so that the machine would know. She had fifteen seconds to negate, or forfeit the game.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Her negation was prompt. “I do not.”<\/span><\/p>\n

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“Draw?”<\/span><\/p>\n

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“No.”<\/span><\/p>\n

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He had hardly expected her to do either. Concession occurred when one party had such an obvious advantage that there was no point in playing, as when the game was chess and one player was a grandmaster while the other hadn’t yet learned the moves. Or when it was weight lifting, with one party a child and the other a muscle builder. The dust slide was a harmless entertainment, fun to do even without the competitive element; no one would concede it except perhaps one who had a phobia about falling-and such a person would never have gotten into this category of game.<\/span><\/p>\n

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And so her reaction was odd. She should have laughed at his facetious offers. Instead she had taken them seriously. That suggested she was more nervous about this encounter than she seemed.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Yet this was no Tourney match! If she were a complete duffer she could have accepted the forfeit and been free. Or she could have agreed to the draw, and been able to tell her girlish friends how she had tied with the notorious Stile. So it seemed she was out neither for notoriety nor a dare, and he had already determined she was not a groupie. She really did want to compete-yet it was too much to hope that she had any real proficiency as a player.<\/span><\/p>\n

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They vacated the booth after picking up the gametags extruded from slots. No one was admitted solo to any subgame; all had to play the grid first, and report in pairs to the site of decision. That prevented uncommitted people from cluttering the premises or interfering with legitimate contests. Of course children could and did entertain themselves by indulging in mock contests, just for the pleasure of the facilities; to a child, the Gameannex was a huge amusement park. But in so doing, they tended to get hooked on the Game itself, increasingly as they aged, until at last they were thoroughgoing addicts. That had been the way with Stile himself.<\/span><\/p>\n

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The Dust Slide was in another dome, so they took the tube transport. The vehicle door irised open at their approach, admitting them to its cozy interior. Several other serfs were already in it: three middle-aged men who eyed Sheen with open appreciation, and a child whose eye lit with recognition. “You’re the jockey!”<\/span><\/p>\n

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Stile nodded. He had no trouble relating to children.<\/span><\/p>\n

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He was hardly larger than the boy.<\/span><\/p>\n

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“You won all the races!” the lad continued.<\/span><\/p>\n

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“I had good horses,” Stile explained.<\/span><\/p>\n

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“Yeah,” the child agreed, satisfied.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Now the three other passengers turned their attention to Stile, beginning to surmise that he might be as interesting as the girl. But the vehicle stopped, its door opened, and they all stepped out into the new dome. In moments Stile and Sheen had lost the other travelers and were homing in on the Dust Slide, their tickets ready.<\/span><\/p>\n

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The Slide’s desk-secretary flashed Stile a smile as she validated the tickets. He smiled back, though he knew this was foolish; she was a robot. Her face, arms and upper torso were perfectly humanoid, with shape, color and texture no ordinary person could have told from a living woman, but her perfectly humanoid body terminated at the edge of her desk. She was the desk, possessing no legs at all. It was as if some celestial artisan had been carving her from a block of metal, causing her to animate as he progressed-then left the job unfinished at the halfway point. Stile felt a certain obscure sympathy for her; did she have true consciousness, in that upper half? Did she long for a completely humanoid body-or for a complete desk body? How did it feel to be a half-thing?<\/span><\/p>\n

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She handed back his ticket, validated. Stile closed his fingers about her delicate hand. “When do you get off work, curie?” he inquired with the lift of an eyebrow. He was not shy around machines, of course.<\/span><\/p>\n

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She had been programmed for this. “Ssh. My boyfriend’s watching.” She used her free hand to indicate the robot next to her: a desk with a set of male legs protruding, terminating at the inverted waist. They demonstrated the manner the protective shorts should be worn for the Slide. They were extremely robust legs, and the crotch region was powerfully masculine.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Stile glanced down at himself, chagrined. “Oh, I can’t compete with him. My legs are barely long enough to reach the ground.” A bygone Earth author, Mark Twain, had set up that remark, and Stile found it useful on occasion. He accepted Sheen’s arm again and they continued on to the Slide.<\/span><\/p>\n

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He thought Sheen might remark on the way he seemed to get along with machines, but she seemed oblivious. Ah, well.<\/span><\/p>\n

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The Slide was a convoluted mountain of channels looping and diverging and merging. Dust flowed in them-sanitary, nonirritating, noncarcinogenic, neutral particles of translucent plastic, becoming virtually liquid in the aggregate, and quite slippery. The whole was dramatic, suggesting frothing torrents of water in sluices, or rivulets of snow in an avalanche.<\/span><\/p>\n

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They donned the skin-shorts and filter masks required for protection on the Slide. The dust was harmless, but it tended to work its way into any available crevices, and the human body had a number. This was one thing Stile did not like about this particular subgame: the clothing. Only Citizens wore clothing, in the normal course, and it was uncouth for any serf to wear anything not strictly functional. More than uncouth: it could be grounds for summary termination of tenure at Planet Proton. Such Slide-shorts were functional, in these dusty environs; still, he felt uncomfortable. Their constriction and location tended to stir him sexually, and that was awkward in the company of a creature like Sheen,<\/span><\/p>\n

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Sheen seemed to feel no such concern. Perhaps she was aware that the partial concealment of the shorts attracted attention to those parts they concealed, enhancing her sex appeal. Stile, like many serfs, found a certain illicit lure in clothing, especially clothing on the distaff sex; it represented so much that serfs could only dream of. He had to keep his eyes averted, lest he embarrass himself.<\/span><\/p>\n

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They took the lift to the Slide apex. Here at the top they were near the curving dome that held in air and heat; through its shimmer Stile could see the bleak landscape of Proton, ungraced by any vegetation. The hostile atmosphere was obscured in the distance by clouds of smog.<\/span><\/p>\n

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The Slide itself was a considerable contrast. From this height six channels coursed out and down, each half filled with flowing dust. Colored lights shone up through it all, for the channels too were translucent. They turned now red, now blue-gray and now yellow as the beams moved. The tangle of paths formed a flowerlike pattern, supremely beautiful. If Stile found the clothing physically and emotionally awkward, he was compensated by the view from this vantage, and always stood for a moment in minor awe.<\/span><\/p>\n

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For any given channel the colors seemed random, but for the arrangement as a whole they shaped in shirting contours roses, lilies, tulips, violets and gardenias. Air jets emitted corresponding perfumes when applicable. An artist had designed this layout, and Stile admired the handiwork. He had been here many times before, yet the novelty had not worn off.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Sheen did not seem to notice. “On your mark,” she said, setting the random starter. The device could pop instantly or take two minutes. This time it split the difference. The channel barriers dropped low, and Sheen leaped for the chute nearest her.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Stile, surprised by her facility, leaped after her. They accelerated, shooting down feet first around a broad bright curve of green, then into the first white vertical loop. Up and over, slowing dizzily at the top, upside down, then regaining velocity in the downshoot.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Sheen was moving well. Her body had a natural rondure that shaped itself well to the contour of the chute. The dust piled up behind her, shoving her forward. Stile, following in the same channel, tried to intercept enough dust to cut off her supply and ground her, but she had too big a lead and was making too good use of her resources.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Well, there were other ways. This channel passed through a partial-gravity rise that was slow. Another channel crossed, going into a corkscrew. Stile took this detour, zipped through the screw, and shot out ahead of the girl.<\/span><\/p>\n

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She took another connection and got in behind him, cutting off his dust. This was the aspect of the Slide that was interactive: the competition for dust. Stile was grounded, his posterior scraping against the suddenly bare plastic of the chute. No dust, no progress!<\/span><\/p>\n

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He put his hand to the side, heaved, and flipped his body into the adjoining channel. This was a tricky maneuver, legitimate but not for amateurs. Here he had dust again, and resumed speed-but he had lost the momentum he had before. Sheen continued on in her channel, riding the piled dust, moving ahead of him- and now they were halfway down.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Stile realized that he had a real race on his hands. This girl was good!<\/span><\/p>\n

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He vaulted back into her channel, cutting off her dust again-but even as he did, she vaulted into his just vacated channel, maintaining her lead. Apt move! Obviously she had raced here many times before, and knew the tricks, and had more agility under that sweet curvature of body than he had suspected. But now he had the better channel, and he was unmatchable in straight dust-riding; he moved ahead. She jumped across to cut him off, but he was already jumping into a third chute. Before she could follow him, the two diverged and he was safe.<\/span><\/p>\n

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They completed the race on separate channels. She had found a good one, and was gaining on him despite his careful management of dust. He finished barely ahead. They shot into the collection bin, one-two, to the applause of the other players who were watching. It had been a fine race, the kind that happened only once or twice on a given day.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Sheen got up and shook off the dust with a fascinating shimmy of her torso. “Can’t win them all,” she remarked, unperturbed.<\/span><\/p>\n

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She had made an excellent try, though! She had come closer than anyone in years. Stile watched her as she stripped off mask and shorts. She was stunningly beautiful-more so than before, because now he realized that her body was functional as well as shapely.<\/span><\/p>\n

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“You interest me,” he told her. In this aftermath of a good game he was flushed with positive feeling, his shyness at a minimum.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Sheen smiled. “I hoped to.”<\/span><\/p>\n

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“You almost beat me.”<\/span><\/p>\n

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“I had to get your attention somehow.”<\/span><\/p>\n

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Another player laughed. Stile had to laugh too. Sheen had proved herself, and now he wanted to know why. The mutual experience had broken the ice; the discovery of a new challenge completed his transition from diffidence to normal masculine imperative.<\/span><\/p>\n

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He didn’t even have to invite her to come home with him. She was already on her way.<\/span><\/p>\n

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CHAPTER 2<\/span><\/p>\n

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Sheen<\/span><\/p>\n

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Sheen moved into his apartment as if it were her own. She punched the buttons of his console to order a complete light lunch of fruit salad, protein bread and blue wine.<\/span><\/p>\n

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“You evidently know about me,” Stile said as they ate. “But I know nothing of you. Why did you-want to get my attention?”<\/span><\/p>\n

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“I am a fan of the Game. I could be good at it. But I have so little time-only three years tenure remaining -I need instruction. From the best. From you. So I can be good enough-“<\/span><\/p>\n

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“To enter the Tourney,” Stile Enished. “I have the same time remaining. But there are others you could have checked. I am only tenth on my ladder-“<\/span><\/p>\n

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“Because you don’t want to have to enter the Tourney this year,” she said. “You won’t enter it until your last year of tenure, because all tenure ends when a serf enters the Tourney. But you could advance to Rung One on the Age-35 ladder any time you wished, and the top five places of each adult ladder are automatically entered in the-“<\/span><\/p>\n

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“Thank you for the information,” Stile said with gentle irony.<\/span><\/p>\n

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She overlooked it. “So you keep yourself in the second five, from year to year, low enough to be safe in case several of the top rungers break or try to vacate, high enough to be able to make your move any time you want to. You are in fact the most proficient Gamesman of our generation-“<\/span><\/p>\n

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“This is an exaggeration. I’m a jockey, not a-” “-and I want to learn from you. I offer-“<\/span><\/p>\n

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“I can see what you offer,” Stile said, running his eyes over her body. He could do this now without embarrassment, because he had come to know her; his initial shyness was swinging to a complementary boldness. They had, after all, Gamed together. “Yet there is no way I could inculcate the breadth of skills required for serious competition, even if we had a century instead of a mere three years. Talent is inherent, and it has to be buttressed by constant application. I might be able to guide you to the fifth rung of your ladder- which one would that be?”<\/span><\/p>\n

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“Age 23 female.”<\/span><\/p>\n

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“You’re in luck. There are only three Tourney-caliber players on that ladder at present. With proper management it would be possible for a person of promise to take one of the remaining rungs. But though you gave me a good race on the Slide, I am not sure you have sufficient promise-and even if you qualified for the Tourney, your chances of progressing far in it would be vanishingly small. My chances are not good-which is why I’m still working hard at every opportunity to improve myself. Contrary to your opinion, there are half a dozen players better than I am, and another score of my general caliber. In any given year, four or five of them will enter the Tourney, while others rise in skills to renew the pool. That, combined with the vagaries of luck, gives me only one chance in ten to win. For you-“<\/span><\/p>\n

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“Oh, I have no illusions about winning!” she said. “But if I could make a high enough rank to obtain extension of tenure, if only a year or two-“<\/span><\/p>\n

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“It’s a dream,” he assured her. “The Citizens put such prizes out as bait, but only one person in thirty two gains even a year that way.”<\/span><\/p>\n

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“I would be completely grateful for that dream,” she said, meeting his gaze.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Stile was tempted. He knew he would not have access to a more attractive woman, and she had indeed shown promise in the Game. That athletic ability that had enabled her so blithely and lithely to change chutes would benefit her in many other types of competition.<\/span><\/p>\n

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He could have a very pleasant two years, training her. Extremely pleasant.<\/span><\/p>\n

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That itself gave him caution. He had loved before, and lost, and it had taken years to recover completely -if he really had. Tune, he thought, with momentary nostalgia. There were ways in which Sheen resembled that former girl.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Still, what promise did he have beyond his remaining three years, anyway? All would be lost, once he left Proton. Oh, he would have a nice nest egg to establish galactic residence, and might even go to crowded Earth itself, but all he really wanted to do was remain on Proton. Since it was unlikely that he could do that, he might as well make these years count. She had mentioned that her own tenure was as short as his, which meant she would have to leave at the same time. That could be very interesting, if they had a firm relationship. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I was born five years before my parents’ tenure ended,” Sheen said, putting down her leaf of lettuce. She had eaten delicately and quite sparingly, as many slender women did. “I obtained a position with a Lady Citizen, first as errand girl, then as nurse. I was a fan of the Game as a child, and had good aptitude, but as my employer grew older she required more care, until-” She shrugged, and now with the pleasant tingle of the wine and the understanding they were coming to, he could appreciate the way her breasts moved with that gesture. Oh yes, it was a good offer she made-yet something nagged him. “I have not been to a Game for seven years,” she continued, “though I have viewed it often on my employer’s screens, and rehearsed strategies and techniques constantly in private. My employer had a private exercise gym her doctor recommended; she never used it, so I did, filling in for her. Last week she died, so I have been released on holiday pending settlement of her estate and the inventory her heir is taking. Her heir is female, and healthy, so I do not think the burden will be onerous.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It could have been quite a different matter. Stile reflected, with a young, healthy male heir. Serfs had no personal rights except termination of tenure in fit physical and mental condition, and no sane person would depart Proton even a day ahead of schedule. Serfs could serve without concern as concubines or studs for their employers-or for each other as private or public entertainment for their employers. Their bodies were the property of the Citizens. Only in privacy, without the intercession of a Citizen, did interpersonal relations between serfs become meaningful. As now.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“So you came to me,” Stile said. “To trade your favors for my favor.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes.” There needed to be no hesitancy or shame to such acknowledgment. Since serfs had no monetary or property credit, and no power during their tenure, Game-status and sex were the chief instruments of barter.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I am minded to try it out. Shall we say for a week, then reconsider? I might become tired of you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Again there was no formal cause for affront; malefemale interactions among serfs were necessarily shallow, though marriage was permitted and provided for. Stile had learned the hard way, long ago, not to expect permanence. Still, he expected a snappy retort to the effect that she would more likely grow tired of him Erst.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

There was no such byplay. “As part of my rehearsal for the Game, I have studied the art of pleasing men,” Sheen said. “I am willing to venture that week.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A fair answer. And yet, he wondered, would not an ordinary woman, even the most abused of serfs, have evinced some token ire at the callousness of his suggestion? He could have said, “We might not be right for each other.” He had phrased it most bluntly, forcing a reaction. Sheen had not reacted; she was completely matter-of-fact. Again he was nagged. Was there some catch here?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Do you have special interests?” Stile inquired.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Music?” He hadn’t really wanted to ask that, but it had come out. He associated love with music, because of his prior experience.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes, music,” Sheen agreed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

His interest quickened. “What kind?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She shrugged again. “Any kind.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Vocal? Instrumental? Mechanical?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Her brow furrowed. “Instrumental.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What instrument do you play?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She looked blank.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Oh-you’ll just listen,” he said. “I play a number of instruments, preferring the woodwinds. All part of the Game. You will need to acquire skill in at least one instrument, or Game opponents will play you for a weakness there and have easy victories.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes, I must learn,” she agreed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

What would she have done if he had gone for AKT instead of PHYSICAL in their match? With her prior choice of NAKED, the intersection would have put them in song, dance or story: the a capella performances. Perhaps she was a storyteller. Yet she did not seem to have the necessary imagination.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Let’s do it right,” he said, rising from his meal. “I have a costume-” He touched a button and the costume fell from a wall vent into his hand. It was a filmy negligee.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen smiled and accepted it. In the privacy of an apartment, clothing was permitted, so long as it was worn discreetly. If there should be a video call, or a visitor at his door. Sheen would have to hide or rip off the clothing lest she be caught by a third party in that state and be compromised. But that only added to the excitement of it, the special, titillating naughtiness of their liaison. It was, in an unvoiced way, the closest any serf could come to emulating any Citizen.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She donned the costume without shame and did a pirouette, causing the material to fling out about her legs. Stile found this indescribably erotic. He shut down the light, so that the material seemed opaque, and the effect intensified. Oh, what clothing did for the woman, creating shadows where ordinarily there were none, making mysteries where none had been before!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Yet again, something ticked a warning in Stile’s mind. Sheen was lovely, yes-but where was her flush of delighted shame? Why hadn’t she questioned his possession of this apparel? He had it on loan, and his employer knew about it and would in due course remember to reclaim it-but a person who did not know that, who was not aware of the liberalism of this particular employer with respect to his favored serfs, should be alarmed at his seeming hoarding of illicit clothing. Sheen had thought nothing of it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They were technically within the law-but so was a man who thought treason without acting on it. Stile was an expert Gamesman, attuned to the nuances of human behavior, and there was something wrong with Sheen. But what was it? There was really nothing in her behavior that could not be accounted for by her years of semi-isolation while nursing her Citizen.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Well, perhaps it would come to him. Stile advanced on Sheen, and she met him gladly. None of this oh-please-don’t-hurt-me-sir, catch-me-if-you-can drama. She was not after all very much taller than he, so he had to draw her down only marginally to kiss her. Her body was limber, pliable, and the feel of the gauze between their skins pitched him into a fever of desire. Not in years had he achieved such heat so soon.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She kissed him back, her lips firm and cool. Suddenly the little nagging observations clicked into a comprehensible whole, and he knew her for what she was. Stile’s ardor began sliding into anger.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He bore her back to the couch-bed. She dropped onto it easily, as if this type of fall were commonplace for her. He sat beside her, running his hands along her thighs, still with that tantalizing fabric in place between them. He moved on to knead her breasts, doubly erotic behind the material. A nude woman in public was not arousing, but a clothed one in private …<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

His hands were relaxed, gentle-but his mind was tight with coalescing ire and apprehension. He was about to trigger a reaction that could be hazardous to his health.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I would certainly never have been able to tell,” he remarked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Her eyes focused on him. “Tell what. Stile?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He answered her with another question. “Who would want to send me a humanoid robot?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She did not stiffen. “I wouldn’t know.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The information should be in your storage banks. I need a printout.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She showed no emotion. “How did you discover that I was a robot?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Give me that printout, and I’ll give you my source of information.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I am not permitted to expose my data.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Then I shall have to report you to Game-control,” Stile said evenly. “Robots are not permitted to compete against humans unless under direct guidance by the Game Computer. Are you a Game-machine?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Then I fear it will go hard with you. The record of our Game has been entered. If I file a complaint, you will be deprogrammed.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She looked at him, still lovely though he now knew her nature. “I wish you would not do that, Stile.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

How strong was her programmed wish? What form would her objection take, when pressed? It was a popular fable that robots could not harm human beings, but Stile knew better. All robots of Proton were prohibited from harming Citizens, or acting contrary to Citizens’ expressed intent, or acting in any manner that might conceivably be deleterious to the welfare of any Citizen -but there were no strictures about serfs. Normally robots did not bother people, but this was because robots simply did not care about people. If a serf interfered with a robot in the performance of its assignment, that man could get hurt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile was now interfering with the robot Sheen.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sheen,” he said. “Short for Machine. Someone with a certain impish humor programmed you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I perceive no humor,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Naturally not. That was your first giveaway. When I proffered you a draw on the Slide, you should have laughed. It was a joke. You reacted without emotion.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I am programmed for emotion. I am programmed for the stigmata of love.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The stigmata of love. A truly robotic definition! “Not the reality?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The reality too. There is no significant distinction. I am here to love you, if you will permit it.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

So far she had shown no sign of violence. That was good; he was not at all sure he could escape her if she attacked him. Robots varied in physical abilities, as they did in intellectual ones; it depended on their intended use and the degree of technology applied. This one seemed to be of top-line sophistication; that could mean she imitated the human form and nature so perfectly she had no more strength than a real girl would have. But there was no guarantee. “I must have that printout.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I will tell you my mission, if you will not expose my nature.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I can not trust your word. You attempted to deceive me with your story about nursing a Citizen. Only the printout is sure.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You are making it difficult. My mission is only to guard you from harm.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I feel more threatened by your presence than protected. Why should I need guarding from harm?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I don’t know. I must love you and guard you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Who sent you?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I do not know.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile touched his wall vid. “Game-control,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Don’t do that!” Sheen cried.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Cancel call,” Stile said to the vid. Evidently violence was not in the offing, and he had leverage. This was like a Game. “The printout.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She dropped her gaze, and her head. Her lustrous hair fell about her shoulders, coursing over the material of the negligee. “Yes.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Suddenly he felt sorry for her. Was she really a machine? Now he had doubts. But of course the matter was subject to verification. “I have a terminal here,” he said, touching another section of the wall. A cord came into his hand, with a multipronged plug at its end. Very few serfs were permitted such access directly-but he was one of the most privileged serfs on Proton, and would remain so as long as as he was circumspect and rode horses well. “Which one?” he asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She turned her face away from him. Her hand went to her right ear, clearing away a lock of hair and pressing against the lobe. Her ear slid forward, leaving the socket open.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile plugged in the cord. Current flowed. Immediately the printout sheets appeared from the wall slot, crammed with numbers, graphs and pattern-blocks. Though he was no computer specialist. Stile’s Game training made him a fair hand at ballpark analysis of programs, and he had continuing experience doing analysis of the factors leading into given races. That was why his employer had arranged this: to enable Stile to be as good a jockey as he could be. That was extremely good, for he had a ready mind as well as a ready body.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He whistled as he studied the sheets. This was a dualelement brain, with mated digital and analog components, rather like the dual-yet-differing hemispheres of the human brain. The most sophisticated computer capable of being housed in a robot. It possessed intricate feedback circuits, enabling the machine to leam from experience and to reprogram aspects of itself, within its prime directive. It could improve its capacity as it progressed. In short, it was intelligent and conscious: machine’s nearest approach to humanity.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Quickly Stile oriented on the key section: her origin and prime directive. A robot could lie, steal and kill without conscience, but it could not violate its prime directive. He took the relevant data and fed them back to the analyzer for a summary.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The gist was simple: NO RECORD OF ORIGIN. DIRECTIVE:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

GUARD STILE FROM HARM. SUBDIRECTTVE: LOVE STILE.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

What she had told him was true. She did not know who had sent her, and she had only his safety in mind. Tempered by love, so that she would not protect him in some fashion that cost him more than it was worth. This was a necessary caution, with otherwise unfeeling robots. This machine really did care. He could have taken her word.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile unplugged the cord, and Sheen put her ear back into place with a certain tremor. Again she looked completely human. He had been unyielding before, when she opposed him; now he felt guilty. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to know.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She did not meet his gaze. “You have raped me.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile realized it was true. He had taken her measure without her true consent; he had done it by duress, forcing the knowledge. There was even a physical analogy, plugging the rigid terminus of the cord into a private aperture, taking what had been hers alone. “I had to know,” he repeated lamely. “I am a very privileged serf, but only a serf. Why should anyone send an expensive robot to guard a man who is not threatened? I could not afford to believe your story without verification, especially since your cover story was untrue.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I am programmed to react exactly as a real girl would react!” she flared. “A real girl wouldn’t claim to have been built in a machine shop, would she?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“That’s so …” he agreed. “But still-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The important part is my prime directive. Specifically, to be appealing to one man-you-and to love that man, and to do everything to help him. I was fashioned in the partial likeness of a woman you once knew, not close enough to be identifiable as such, but enough to make me attractive to your specific taste-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“That succeeded,” he said. “I liked you the moment I saw you, and didn’t realize why.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I came to offer you everything of which I am capable, and that is a good deal, including the allure of feminine mystery. I even donned this ridiculous shift, that no human woman would have. And you-you-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I destroyed that mystery,” Stile finished. “Had I had any other way to be sure-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Oh, I suppose you couldn’t help it. You’re a man.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile glanced at her, startled again. Her face was still averted, her gaze downcast. “Are you, a robot, really being emotional?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m programmed to be!”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

True. He moved around to look at her face. She turned it away again. He put his hand to her chin to lift it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Get away from me!” she cried.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

That was some programming! “Look, Sheen. I apologize. I-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Don’t apologize to a robot! Only an idiot would converse with a machine.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Correct,” he agreed. “I acted stupidly, and now I want to make what amends are possible.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He tried again to see her face, and again she hid it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Damn it, look at me!” he exclaimed. His emotion was high, flashing almost without warning into embarrassment, sorrow, or anger.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I am here to serve; I must obey,” she said, turning her eyes to him. They were bright, and her cheeks were moist. Humanoid robots could cry, of course; they could do almost anything people could do. This one had been programmed to react this way when hurt or affronted. He knew that, yet was oddly moved. She did indeed subtly resemble one he had loved. The accuracy with which she had been fashioned was a commentary on the appalling power available to the Citizens of this planet. Even the most private, subtle knowledge could be drawn from the computer registries at any time.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You are here to guard me, not to serve me. Sheen.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I can only guard you if I stay with you. Now that you know what I am-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why are you being so negative? I have not sent you away.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I was made to please you, to want to please you. So I can better serve my directive. Now I can not.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why not?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why do you tease me? Do you think that programmed feelings are less binding than flesh ones? That the electrochemistry of the inanimate is less valid than that of the animate? That my illusion of consciousness is any less potent than your illusion of self-determination? I exist for one purpose, and you have prevented me from accomplishing it, and now I have no reason for existence. Why couldn’t you have accepted me as I seemed to be? I would have become perfect at it, with experience. Then it would have been real.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You have not answered my question.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You have not answered mine!”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile did a rapid internal shifting of gears. This was the most femalish robot he had encountered! “Very well. Sheen. I answer your questions. Why do I tease you? Answer: I am not teasing you-but if I did, it would not be to hurt you. Do I think that your programmed feelings are less valid than my mortal ones? Answer: No, I must conclude that a feeling is a feeling, whatever its origin. Some of my own feelings are shortsighted, unreasonable and unworthy; they govern me just the same. Is your illusion of consciousness less valid than my illusion of free will? Answer: No. If you think you are conscious, you must be conscious, because that’s what consciousness is. The feedback of selfawareness. I don’t have much illusion about my free will. I am a serf, governed by the will of my employer. I have no doubt I am governed by a multitude of other things I seldom even notice, such as the force of gravity and my own genetic code and the dictates of society. Most of my freedom exists in my mind-which is where your consciousness does, too. Why couldn’t I accept you as you seemed to be? Because I am a skilled Gamesman, not the best that ever was, but probably destined for recognition as one of the best of my generation. I succeed not by virtue of my midget body but by virtue of my mind. By questioning, by comprehending my own nature and that of all others I encounter. When I detect an anomaly, I must discover its reason. You are attractive, you are nice, you are the kind of girl I have held in my mind as the ideal, even to your size, for it would be too obvious for me to have a woman smaller than I am, and I don’t like being obvious in this connection. You came to me for what seemed insufficient reason, you did not laugh as you should have, you did not react quite on key. You seemed to know about things, yet when I probed for depth I found it lacking. I probed as a matter of course; it is my nature. I asked about your music, and you expressed interest, but had no speciEcs. That sort of thing. This is typical of programmed artificial intelligence; even the best units can approach only one percent of the human capacity, weight for weight. A well-tuned robot in a controlled situation may seem as intelligent as a man, because of its specific and relevant and instantly accessible information; a man is less efficiently organized, with extraneous memories obscuring the relevant ones, and information accessible only when deviously keyed. But the robot’s intellect is illusory, and it soon shows when those devious and unreasonable off-trails are explored. A mortal person’s mind is like a wilderness, with a tremendous volume of decaying constructs and halfunderstood experience forming natural harbors for wildanimal effects. A robot is disciplined, civilized; it has no vast and largely wasted reservoir of the unconscious to draw from, no spongy half-forgotten backup impression. It knows what it knows, and is ignorant where it is ignorant, with a quite sharp demarcation between. Therefore a robot is not intuitive, which is the polite way of saying that it does not frequently reach down into the maelstrom of its garbage dump and draw out serendipitous insights. Your mind was more straightforward than mine, and that aroused my suspicion, and so I could not accept you at face value. I would not be the quality of player I am, were I given to such acceptances.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen’s eyes had widened. “You answered!” Stile laughed. It had been quite an impromptu lecture! “Again I inquire: why not?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Because I am Sheen-machine. Another man might be satisfied with the construct, the perfect female form; that is one reason my kind exists. But you are rooted in reality, however tangled a wilderness you may perceive it to be. The same thing that caused you to fathom my nature will cause you to reject the illusion I proffer. You want a real live girl, and you know I am not, and can never be. You will not long want to waste your time talking to me as if I were worthwhile.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You presume too much on my nature. My logic is other than yours. I said you were limited; I did not say you were not worthwhile.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You did not need to. It is typical of your nature that you are polite even to machines, as you were to the Dust Slide ticket taker. But that was brief, and public; you need no such byplay here in private. Now that I have seen you in action, discovering how much more there is to you than what the computer knows, I realize I was foolish to-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“A foolish machine?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“-suppose I could deceive you for any length of time. I deserved what you did to me.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I am not sure you deserved it. Sheen. You were sent innocently to me, to my jungle, unrealistically programmed.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Thank you,” she said with a certain unmetallic irony. “I did assume you would take what was offered, if you desired it, and now I know that was simplistic. What am I to do now? I have nowhere to return, and do not wish to be prematurely junked. There are many years of use left in me before my parts wear appreciably.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why, you will stay with me, of course.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She looked blank. “This is humor? Should I laugh?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“This is serious,” he assured her.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Without reason?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I am unreasonable, by your standards. But in this case I do have reason.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She made an almost visible, almost human connection. “To be your servant? You can require that of me, just as you forced me to submit to the printout. I am at your mercy. But I am programmed for a different relationship.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Serf can’t have servants. I want you for your purpose.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Protection and romance? I am too logical to believe<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

that. You are not the type to settle for a machine in either capacity.” Yet she looked halfway hopeful. Stile knew her facial expressions were the product of the same craftsmanship as the rest of her; perhaps he was imagining the emotion he saw. Yet it moved him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You presume too much. Ultimately I must go with my own kind. But in the interim I am satisfied to play the Game-at least until I can discover what threat there is to my welfare that requires a humanoid robot for protection.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She nodded. “Yes, there is logic. I was to pose as your lady friend, thereby being close to you at all times, even during your sleep, guarding you from harm. If you pretend to accept me as such, I can to that extent fulfill my mission.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why should I pretend? I accept you as you are.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Stop it!” she cried. “You have no idea what it is like to be a roboti To be made in the image of the ideal, yet doomed always to fall short-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Now Stile felt brief anger. “Sheen, turn off your logic and listen.” He sat beside her on the couch and took her hand. Her fingers trembled with an unmechanical disturbance. “I am a small man, smaller than almost anyone I know. All my life it has been the bane of my existence. As a child I was teased and excluded from many games because others did not believe I could perform. My deficiency was so obvious that the others often did not even realize they were hurting my feelings by omitting me. In adolescence it was worse; no girl cared to associate with a boy smaller than herself. In adult life it is more subtle, yet perhaps worst of all. Human beings place inordinate stress on physical height. Tall men are deemed to be the leaders, short men are the clowns. In reality, small people are generally healthier than large ones; they are better coordinated, they live longer. They eat less, waste less, require less space. I benefit from all these things; it is part of what makes me a master of the Game and a top jockey. But small people are not taken seriously. My opinion is not granted the same respect as that of a large man. When I encounter another person, and my level gaze meets his chin, he knows I am inferior, and so does everyone else, and it becomes difficult for me to doubt it myself.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“But you are not inferior!” Sheen protested.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Neither are you! Does that knowledge help?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She was silent. “We are not dealing with an objective thing,” Stile continued. “Self-respect is subjective. It may be based on foolishness, but it is critical to a person’s motivation. You said I had no idea what it meant to be doomed always to fall short. But I am literally shorter than you are. Do you understand?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No. You are human. You have proved yourself. It would be foolish to-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Foolish? Indubitably. But I would give all my status in the Game, perhaps my soul itself, for one quarter meter more height. To be able to stand before you and look down at you. You may be fashioned in my ideal of woman, but I am not fashioned in my ideal of man. You are a rational creature, beneath your superficial programming; under my programming I am an irrational animal.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She shifted her weight on the couch, but did not try to stand. Her body, under the gauze, was a marvel of allure. How patently her designer had crafted her to subvert Stile’s reason, making him blind himself to the truth in his sheer desire to possess such a woman! On another day, that might have worked. Stile had almost been fooled. “Would you exchange your small human body,” she asked, “for a large humanoid robot body?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No.” He did not even need to consider.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Then you do not fall short of me.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“This is the point I am making. I know what it is to be unfairly ridiculed or dismissed. I know what it is to be doomed to be less than the ideal, with no hope of improvement. Because the failure is, at least in part, in my ideal. I could have surgery to lengthen my body. But the wounds are no longer of the body. My body has proved itself. My soul has not.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I have no soul at all.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“How do you know?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Again she did not answer. “I know how you know,” he said. “You know because you know. It is inherent in your philosophy. Just as I know I am inferior. Such knowledge is not subject to rational refutation. So I do understand your position. I understand the position of all the dispossessed. I empathize with all those who hunger for what they can not have. I long to help them, knowing no one can help them. I would trade everything I am or might be for greater physical height, knowing how crazy that desire is, knowing it would not bring me happiness or satisfaction. You would trade your logic and beauty for genuine flesh and blood and bone. Your machine invulnerability for human mortality. You are worse off than I; we both know that. Therefore I feel no competition in your presence, as I would were you human. A real girl like you would be above me; I would have to compete to prove myself, to bring her down, to make her less than my ideal, so that I could feel worthy of her. But with you-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You can accept me as I am-because I am a robot,” Sheen said, seeming amazed. “Because I am less than you.” “Now I think we understand each other.” Stile put his arm about her and brought her in for a kiss. “If you want me on that basis-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She drew away. “You’re sorry for me! You raped me and now you’re trying to make me like iti”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He let her go. “Maybe I am. I don’t really know all my motives. I won’t hold you here if you don’t want to stay. I’ll leave you strictly alone if you do stay, and want it that way. I’ll show you how to perfect your human role, so that others will not fathom your nature the way I did. I’ll try to make it up to you-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She stood. “I’d rather be junked.” She crossed to the vid screen and touched the button. “Game-control, please.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile launched himself from the couch and almost leaped through the air to her. He caught her about the shoulder and bore her back. “Cancel call!” he yelled. Then they both fetched up against the opposite wall.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen’s eyes stared into his, wide. “You care,” she said. “You really do.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile wrapped both arms about her and kissed her savagely.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I almost believe you,” she said, when speaking was possible.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“To hell with what you believe! You may not want me now, but I want you. I’ll rape you literally if you make one move for that vid.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No, you won’t. It’s not your way.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She was right. “Then I ask you not to turn yourself in,” he said, releasing her again. “I-” He broke off, choking, trapped by a complex pressure of emotions.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Your wilderness jungle-the wild beasts are coming from their lairs, attacking your reason,” Sheen said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“They are,” he agreed ruefully. “I abused you with the printout. I’m sorry. I do believe in your consciousness, in your feeling. In your right to privacy and selfrespect. I beg your forgiveness. Do what you want, but don’t let my callousness ruin your-” He couldn’t finish. He couldn’t say “life” and couldn’t find another word.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Your callousness,” she murmured, smiling. Then her brow furrowed. “Do you realize you are crying, Stile?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He touched his cheek with one finger, and found it wet. “I did not realize. I suppose it is my turn.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“For the feelings of a machine,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why the hell not?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She put her arms around him. “I think I could love you, even unprogrammed. That’s another illusion, of course.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Of course.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They kissed again. It was the beginning.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

CHAPTER 3<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Race<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

In the morning. Stile had to report to work for his employer. Keyed up, he did not even feel tired; he knew he could carry through the afternoon race, then let down-with her beside him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen stayed close, like an insecure date. The tube was crowded, for employment time was rush hour; they had to stand. This morning, of all mornings, he would have preferred to sit; that tended to equalize heights. The other passengers stood a head taller than Stile and crowded him almost unconsciously. One glanced down at him, dismissed him without effort, and Exed his gaze on Sheen.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She looked away, but the stranger persisted, nudging closer to her. “Lose yourself,” she muttered, and took Stile’s arm possessively. Embarrassed, the stranger faced away, the muscles of his buttocks tightening. It had never occurred to him that she could be with so small a man.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

This was an air tube. Crowded against the capsule wall. Stile held Sheen’s hand and looked out. The tube was transparent, its rim visible only as a scintillation. Beyond it was the surface of the Planet of Proton, as bright and bleak as a barren moon. He was reminded of the day before, when he had glimpsed it at the apex of the Slide; his life had changed considerably since then, but Proton not at all. It remained virtually uninhabitable outside the force-field domes that held in the oxygenated air. The planet’s surface gravity was about two-thirds Earth-norm, so had to be intensified about the domes. This meant that such gravity was diminished even further between the domes, since it could only be focused and directed, not created or eliminated.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The natural processes of the planet suffered somewhat. The result was a wasteland, quite apart from the emissions of the protonite mines. No one would care to live outside a dome.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

On the street of the suburb-dome another man took note of them. “Hey, junior-what’s her price?” he called. Stile marched by without response, but Sheen couldn’t let it pass.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No price; I’m a robot,” she called back.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The stranger guffawed. And of course it was funny: no serf could afford to own a humanoid robot, even were ownership permitted or money available. But how much better it was at the Game-annex, where the glances directed at Stile were of respect and envy, instead of out here where ridicule was an almost mandatory element of humor.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

At the stable. Stile had to introduce her. “This is Sheen. I met her at the Game-annex yesterday.” The stableboys nodded appreciatively, enviously. They were all taller than Stile, but no contempt showed. He had a crown similar to that of the Game, here. He did like his work. Sheen clung to his arm possessively, showing the world that her attention and favor were for him alone.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It was foolish, he knew, but Stile gloried in it. She was, in the eyes of the world, an exceptionally pretty girl. He had had women before, but none as nice as this. She was a robot; he could not marry her or have children by her; his relationship with her would be temporary. Yet all she had proffered, before he penetrated her disguise, was two or three years, before they both completed their tenures and had to vacate the planet. Was this so different?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

– He introduced her to the horse. “This is Battleaxe, the orneriest, fastest equine of his generation. I’ll be riding him this afternoon. I’ll check him out now; he changes from day to day, and you can’t trust him from normal signs. Do you know how to ride?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes.” Of course she did; that was too elementary to be missed. She would be well prepared on horses.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Then I’ll put you on Molly. She’s retired, but she can still move, and Battleaxe likes her.” He signaled to a stable hand. “Saddle Molly for Sheen, here. We’ll do the loop.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes, Stile,” the youngster said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile put a halter on Battleaxe, who obligingly held his head down within reach, and led him from the stable. The horse was a great dark Thoroughbred who stood substantially taller than Stile, but seemed docile enough. “He is well trained,” Sheen observed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

‘Trained, yes; broken, no. He obeys me because he knows I can ride him; he shows another manner to others. He’s big and strong, seventeen hands tall- that’s over one and three-quarters meters at the shoulders. I’m the only one allowed to take him out.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They came to the saddling pen. Stile checked the horse’s head and mouth, ran his fingers through the luxurious mane, then picked up each foot in turn to check for stones or cracks. There were none, of course. He gave Battleaxe a pat on the muscular shoulder, opened the shed, and brought out a small half-saddle that he set on the horse’s back.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No saddle blanket?” Sheen asked. “No girth? No stirrups?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“This is only to protect him from any possible damage. I don’t need any saddle to stay on, but if my bareback weight rubbed a sore on his backbone-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Your employer would be perturbed,” she finished.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes. He values his horses above all else. Therefore I do, too. If Battleaxe got sick, I would move into the stable with him for the duration.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She started to laugh, then stopped. “I am not certain that is humor.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“It is not. My welfare depends on my employer-but even if it didn’t, I would be with the horses. I love horses.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“And they love you,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“We respect each other,” he agreed, patting Battleaxe again. The horse nuzzled his hair.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Molly arrived, with conventional bridle, saddle, and stirrups. Sheen mounted and took the reins, waiting for Stile. He vaulted into his saddle, as it could not be used as an aid to mounting. He was, of course, one of the leading gymnasts of the Game; he could do flips and cartwheels on the horse if he had to.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The horses knew the way. They walked, then trotted along the path. Stile paid attention to the gait of his mount, feeling the easy play of the muscles. Battleaxe was a fine animal, a champion, and in good form today. Stile knew he could ride this horse to victory in the afternoon. He had known it before he mounted-but he never took any race for granted. He always had to check things out himself. For himself, for his employer, and for his horse.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Actually, he had not done his homework properly this time; he had squandered his time making love to Sheen. Fortunately he was already familiar with the other entrants in this race, and their jockeys; Battleaxe was the clear favorite. It wouldn’t hurt him to play just one race by feel.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Having satisfied himself. Stile now turned his attention to the environment. The path wound between exotic trees: miniature sequoias, redwoods, and Douglas fir, followed by giant flowering shrubs. Sheen passed them with only cursory interest, until Stile corrected her. “These gardens are among the most remarkable on the planet. Every plant has been imported directly from Earth at phenomenal expense. The average girl is thrilled at the novelty; few get to tour this dome.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I-was too amazed at the novelty to comment,” Sheen said, looking around with alacrity. “All the way from Earth? Why not simply breed them from standard stock and mutate them for variety?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Because my employer has refined tastes. In horses and in plants. He wants originals. Both these steeds were foaled on Earth.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I knew Citizens were affluent, but I may have underestimated the case,” she said. “The cost of shipping alone-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You forget: this planet has the monopoly on protonite, the fuel of the Space Age.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“How could I forget!” She glanced meaningfully at him. “Are we private, here?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I must inquire anyway. Someone sent me to you. Therefore there must be some threat to you. Unless I represent a service by your employer?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile snapped his Engers. “Who did not bother to explain his loani I’d better verify, though, because if it was not he-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She nodded. “Then it could be the handiwork of another Citizen. And why would any other Citizen have reason to protect you, and from what? If it were actually some scheme to-oh. Stile, I would not want to be the agent of-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I must ask him,” Stile said. Then, with formal reverence he spoke: “Sir.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

There was a pause. Then a concealed speaker answered from the hedge. “Yes, Stile?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sir, I suspect a one-in-two probability of a threat to me or to your horses. May I elucidate by posing a question?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Now.” The voice was impatient.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sir, I am accompanied by a humanoid robot programmed to guard me from harm. Did you send her?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Then another Citizen may have done so. My suspicion is that a competitor could have sugarcoated a bomb-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No!” Sheen cried in horror.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Get that thing away from my horses!” the Citizen snapped. “My security squad will handle it.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sheen, dismount and run!” Stile cried. “Away from us, until the squad hails you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She leaped out of the saddle and ran through the trees.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sir,” Stile said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What is it now. Stile?” The impatience was stronger.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I plead: be gentle with her. She means no harm.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

There was no answer. The Citizen was now tuning in on the activity of his security squad. Stile could only hope. If this turned out to be a false alarm, he would receive a reprimand for his carelessness in bringing Sheen to these premises unverified, and she might be returned to him intact. His employer was cognizant of the human factor in the winning of races, just as Stile was aware of the equine factor. There was no point in prejudicing the spirit of a jockey before a race.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But if Sheen did in fact represent a threat, such as an explosive device planted inside her body and concealed from her knowledge-<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile waited where he was for ten minutes, while the two horses fidgeted, aware of his nervousness. He had certainly been foolish; he should have checked with his employer at the outset, when he first caught on that Sheen was a robot. Had not his liking for her blinded him-as perhaps it was supposed to-he would have realized immediately that a robot-covered bomb would make a mockery of her prime directive to guard him from harm. How could she protect him from her own unanticipated destruction? Yet now he was imposing on her another rape-<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“She is clean,” the concealed speaker said. “I believe one of my friends has played a practical joke on me. Do you wish to keep her?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sir, I do.” Stile felt immense relief. The Citizen was taking this with good grace.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Again, there was no response. The Citizen had better things to do than chat with errant serfs. But in a moment Sheen came walking back through the foliage. She looked the same-but as she reached him, she dissolved into tears.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile jumped down and took her in his arms. She clung to him desperately. “Oh, it was horrible!” she sobbed. “They rayed me and took off my head and dismantled my body-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The security squad is efficient,” Stile agreed. “But they put you back together again, as good as before.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I can’t believe that! Resoldered connections aren’t as strong as the originals, and I think they damaged my power supply by shorting it out. I spoke of rape last night, but I did not know the meaning of the term!”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

And this was the gentle treatment! Had Stile not pleaded for her, and had he not been valuable to the Citizen, Sheen would have been junked without compunction. It would not have occurred to the Citizen to consider her feelings, or even to realize that a robot had feelings. Fortunately she had turned out clean, no bomb or other threat in her, and had been restored to him. He had been lucky. “Sir: thank you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Just win that race,” the speaker said grumpily.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

There it was, without even the effort to conceal it:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

the moment Stile’s usefulness ended, he would be discarded with no further concern. He had to keep winning races!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You pleaded for me,” Sheen said, wiping her eyes with her fingers. “You saved me.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I like you,” Stile admitted awkwardly.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“And I love you. And oh. Stile, I can never-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He halted her protestations with a kiss. What use to dwell on the impossible? He liked her, and respected her-but they both knew he could never, this side of sanity, actually love a machine.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They remounted and continued their ride through the lush gardens. They passed a quaint ornate fountain, with a stone fish jetting water from its mouth, and followed the flow to a glassy pond. Sheen paused to use the reflection to clean up her face and check for damage, not quite trusting the expertise of the security squad.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Twice I have accused you falsely-” Stile began, deeply disturbed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No, Stile. The second time I accused me. It could have been, you know-a programmed directive to guard you from harm, with an unprogrammed, strictly mechanical booby trap to do the opposite. Or to take out the Citizen himself, when we got close enough. We had to check-but oh, I feel undone!”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Nevertheless, I owe you one,” he said. “You are a machine-but you do have rights. Ethical rights, if not legal ones. You should not have been subjected to this sort of thing-and if I had been alert, I would have kept you off my employer’s premises until-” He shrugged. “I would never have put you through this, had I anticipated it.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I know you wouldn’t,” she said. “You have this foolish concern for animals and machines.” She smiled wanly. Then she organized herself and remounted Molly. “Come on-let’s canter!”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They cantered. Then the horses got the spirit of competition and moved into a full gallop, pretending to race each other. They had felt the tension and excitement of the bomb investigation without comprehending it, and now had surplus energy to let off. Arcades and minijungles and statuary sped by, a wonderland of wealth, but no one cared. For the moment they were free, the four of them, charging through their own private world-a world where they were man and woman, stallion and mare, in perfect harmony. Four minds with a single appreciation.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Too soon it ended. They had completed the loop. They dismounted, and Stile turned Battleaxe over to a groom. “Walk him down; he’s in fine fettle, but I’ll be racing him this afternoon. Give Molly a treat; she’s good company.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Thafs all?” Sheen inquired as they left the premises. “You have time off?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“My time is my own-so long as I win races. The horse is ready; odds are we’ll take that race handily. I may even avoid a reprimand for my carelessness, though the Citizen knows I know I deserve one. Now I have only to prepare myself.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“How do you do that?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“One guess,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Is that according to the book?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Depends on the book.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I like that book. Must be hard on normal girls, though.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He snorted. She was well aware he had not had normal girls in his apartment for a long time. Not on a livein arrangement.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Back at that apartment. Sheen went about her toilette. Now that she no longer had to conceal her nature from him, she stopped eating; there was no sense wasting food. But she had to dispose of the food she had consumed before. Her process of elimination resembled the human process, except that the food was undigested. She flushed herself by drinking a few liters of water and passing it immediately through, followed by an antiseptic solution. After that, she was clean-literally. She would need water only to recharge her reserve after tears; she did not perspire.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile knew about all this because he knew about robots; he did not further degrade her appearance of life by asking questions. She had privacy when she wanted it, as a human woman would have had. He did wonder why the security squad had bothered to reassemble her complete with food; maybe they had concentrated on her metal bones rather than the soft tissues, and had not actually deboweled her.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He treated her as he would a lady-yet as he became more thoroughly aware that she was not human, a certain reserve was forming like a layer of dust on a oncebright surface. He liked her very well-but his emotion would inevitably become platonic in time.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He tried to conceal this from her, but she knew it. “My time with you is limited,” she said. “Yet let me dream while I may.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile took her, and held her, and let her dream. He knew no other way to lessen her long-term tragedy.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

In the afternoon they reported to the racetrack. Here the stables of several interested Citizens were represented, with vid and holo pickups so that these owners could watch. Stile did not know what sort of betting went on among Citizens, or what the prize might be; it was his fob merely to race and win, and this he intended to do.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Serfs filled the tiered benches. They had no money to bet, of course, but bets were made for prestige and personal favors, much as they were in connection with the Game. The serfs of Citizens with racing entries were commonly released from other duties to attend the races, and of course they cheered vigorously for the horses of their employers. A horse race, generally, was a fun occasion.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You may prefer to watch from the grandstand,” Stile told Sheen.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why? Am I not allowed near the horses?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You’re allowed, when you’re with me. But the other guys may razz you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She shrugged. She always did that extremely well, with a handsome bounce. “I can’t guard you from harm if I am banished to the stands.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I gave you fair warning. Just remember to blush.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Battleaxe was saddled and ready. No token equipment now; this was the race. He gave a little whinny when he saw Stile. Stile spoke to him for several minutes, running his hands along the fine muscles, checking the fittings and the feet. He knew everything was in order; he was only reassuring the horse, who could get skittish amid the tension of the occasion. “We’re going to win this one. Axe,” he murmured, almost crooning, and the horse’s ears swiveled like little turrets to orient on him as he spoke. “Just take it nice and easy, and leave these other nags behind.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The other jockeys were doing the same for their steeds, though their assurances of victory lacked conviction. They were all small, like Stile, and healthy; all miniature athletes, the fittest of all sportsmen. One looked across from his stall, spying Sheen. “Got a new filly. Stile?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Then the others were on it. “She sure looks healthy, Stile; how’s she ride?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Is she hot in the stretch?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Pedigreed? Good breeder?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Doesn’t buck too much on the curves?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

There was more-and less restrained.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen remembered to blush.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They relented. “Stile always does run with the best,” the first one called, and returned his attention to his own horse.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Did you say best or bust?” another inquired.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“We always do envy his steeds,” another said. “But we can’t ride them the way he can.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No doubt,” Sheen agreed, and they laughed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You have now been initiated,” Stile informed her. “They’re good guys, when you know them. We compete fiercely on the track, but we understand each other. We’re all of a kind.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Soon the horses were at the starting gate, the jockeys mounted on their high stirrups, knees bent double in the relaxed position. The crowd hushed. There was a race every day, but the horses and jockeys and sponsors differed, and the crowd was always excited. There was a fascination about horse racing that had been with man for thousands of years, Stile was sure-and he felt it too. The glamour and uncertainty of competition, the extreme exertion of powerful animals, the sheer beauty of running horses-ah, what could match iti<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Then the gate lifted and they were off.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Now he was up posting high, head the same level as his back, his body staying at the same elevation though the horse rocked up and down with effort. The key was in the knees, flexing to compensate, and in the balance. It was as if he were floating on Battleaxe, providing no drag against the necessary forward motion. Like riding the waves of a violent surf, steady amidst the commotion.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

This was routine for Stile, but he loved it. He experienced an almost sexual pitch of excitement as he competed, riding a really good animal. He saw, from the periphery of his vision, the constant rocking of the backs of the other horses, their jockeys floating above them, so many chips on the torrent. The audience was a blur, falling always to the rear, chained to the ground. Reality was right here, the center of action, heart of the drifting universe. Ah, essence!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Battleaxe liked room, so Stile let him lunge forward, clearing the press as only he could do. Then it was just a matter of holding the lead. This horse would do it; he resented being crowded or passed. All he needed was an understanding hand, guidance at the critical moment, and selection of the most promising route. Stile knew it; the other jockeys knew it. Unless he fouled up, this race was his. He had the best horse.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile glanced back, with a quick turn of his head. His body continued the myriad invisible compensations and urgings required to maximize equine output, but his mind was free. The other horses were not far behind, but they were already straining, their jockeys urging them to their futile utmost, while Battleaxe was loafing. The lead would begin to widen at the halfway mark, then stretch into a runaway. The Citizen would be pleased. Maybe the horse had been primed by the attention this morning, the slight change in routine, the minirace with Molly. Maybe Stile himself was hyped, and Battleaxe was responding. This just might be a race against the clock, bettering this horse’s best time. That would certainly please the Citizen! But Stile was not going to push; that would be foolish, when he had the race so readily in hand. Save the horse for another day, when it might be a choice between pushing and losing.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He was a full length ahead as they rounded the first turn. Battleaxe was moving well indeed; it would not be a course record, but it would be quite respectable time, considering the lack of competition. Other Citizens had made fabulous offers for this horse. Stile knew, but of course he was not for sale. The truth was, Battleaxe would not win races if he were sold-unless Stile went with him. Because Stile alone understood him; the horse would put out gladly for Stile, and for no one else.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

There were a number of jockeys who could run a race as well as Stile, but none matched his total expertise. Stile could handle a difficult horse as well as an easy one, bareback as well as saddled. He loved horses, and they liked him; there was a special chemistry that worked seeming miracles on the track. Battleaxe had been a brute, uncontrollable, remarkably apt with teeth and hoof; he could kick without warning to front, side and rear. He could bite suddenly, not even laying his ears back; he had learned to conceal his intention. He had broken three trainers, possessing such demoniac strength and timing that they could neither lead him nor remain mounted. Stile’s employer, sensing a special opportunity, had picked Battleaxe up nominally for stud, but had turned him over to Stile. The directive:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

convert this monster to an effective racer, no effort spared. For this animal was not only mean and strong, he was smart. A few wins would vastly enhance his stud value.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile had welcomed the challenge. He had lived with this horse for three months, grooming him and feeding him by hand, allowing no other person near. He had used no spurs, no electric prods, only the cutting edge of his voice in rebuke, and he had been absolutely true to this standard. He carried a whip-which he used only on any other animal that annoyed Battleaxe, never on Battleaxe himself. The horse was king yet subject to Stile’s particular discipline. Battleaxe evolved the desire to please Stile, the first man he could trust, and it did not matter that the standards for pleasing Stile were rigorous. Stile was, the horse came to understand, a lot of man.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Then came the riding. Battleaxe was no novice; he knew what it was all about, and tolerated none of it. When Stile set up to ride him, their relationship entered a new and dangerous phase. It was a challenge: was this to be a creature-to-creature friendship, or a riderand-steed acquaintance? Battleaxe discouraged the latter. When Stile mounted, the horse threw him. There were not many horses who could throw Stile even once, but Battleaxe had a special knack, born of his prior experience. This was not a rodeo, and Stile refused to use the special paraphernalia relating thereto. He tackled Battleaxe bareback, using both hands to grip the mane, out in the open where motion was unrestricted. No man had ever given this horse such a break, before.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile mounted again, springing aboard like the gymnast he was, and was thrown again. He was not really trying to stay on; he was trying to tame the animal. It was a competition between them, serious but friendly. Stile never showed anger when thrown, and the horse never attacked him. Stile would hold on for a few seconds, then take the fall rather than excite the horse too much. He usually maneuvered to land safely, often on his feet, and remounted immediately-and was thrown again, and remounted again, laughing cheerily. Until the horse was unsure whether any of these falls was genuine, or merely a game. And finally Battleaxe relented, and let him ride.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Even then. Stile rode bareback, scorning to use saddle or tether or martingale or any other paraphernalia; he had to tame this animal all by himself. But here the Citizen interposed: the horse would not be permitted in the races without regulation saddle and bridle; he must be broken to them. So Stile, with apologies and misgivings, introduced Battleaxe to the things that had never stood between them before.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It was a disaster. Battleaxe felt Stile had betrayed him. He still permitted the man to ride, but it was no longer so polite. When the bridle came near, Battleaxe would swing his head about and bite; when he was being saddled, he would kick. But Stile had not learned about horses yesterday. Though Battleaxe tried repeatedly, he could never quite get a tooth on Stile’s hand. When he kicked. Stile dodged, caught the foot, and held it up, leg bent; in that position even a 50-kilo man could handicap a 750-kilo horse. Battleaxe, no dummy, soon learned the futility of such expressions of ire, though Stile never really punished him for the attempts. The embarrassment of failing was punishment enough. What was the use of bucking off a rider who would not stay bucked? Of kicking at a man who always seemed to know the kick was coming well before it started?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Through all this Stile continued to feed Battleaxe, water him, and bring him snacks of salt and fruit, always speaking gently. Finally the horse gave up his last resistance, for the sake of the friendship and respect they shared. Stile could at last saddle him and ride him without challenge of any kind. The insults were dealt to other horses and their riders, in the form of leaving them behind. The attacks were transferred to other people, who soon learned not to fool with this particular horse. Once the Citizen himself visited the stable, and Stile, in a cold sweat, calmed the horse, begging him to tolerate this familiarity, for a bite at the employer would be instant doom. But the Citizen was smart enough to keep his hands off the horse, and there was no trouble. The winning of races commenced, a regular ritual of fitness. The prospective stud fee quintupled, and climbed again with every victory. But Battieaxe had been befriended, not broken; without Stile this would be just another unmanageable horse.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

And Stile, because of his success with Battleaxe, had become recognized as the top jockey on Proton. His employment contract rivaled the value of the horse itself. That was why the Citizen catered to him. Stile, like Battleaxe, performed better when befriended, rather than when forced. “We’re a team. Axe!” he murmured, caressing the animal with his voice. Battleaxe would have a most enjoyable life when he retired from racing, with a mare in every stall. Stile would have a nice bonus payment when his tenure ended; he would be able to reside on some other planet a moderately wealthy man. Too bad that no amount of wealth could buy the privilege of remaining on Proton!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They came out of the turn, still gaining-and Stile felt a momentary pain in his knees, as though he had flexed them too hard. They were under tension, of course, bearing his weight, springing it so that he did not bounce with the considerable motions of this powerful steed; the average man could not have stood up long to this stress. But Stile was under no unusual strain; he had raced this way hundreds of times, and he took good care of his knees. He had never been subject to stress injuries. Therefore he tried to dismiss it; the sensation must be a fluke.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But it could not be dismissed. Discomfort progressed to pain, forcing him to uncramp his knees. This unbalanced him, and put the horse off his pace. They began to lose ground. Battleaxe was confused, not understanding what Stile wanted, aware that something was wrong.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile tried to resume the proper position, but his knees got worse, the pain becoming intense. He had to jerk his feet out of the stirrups and ride more conventionally, using saddle and leg pressure to retain his balance. The horse lost more ground, perplexed, more concerned about his rider than the race.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile had never before experienced a problem like this. The other horses were overhauling Battleaxe rapidly. He tried to lift his feet back into the stirrups for a final effort, but pain shot through his knees the moment he put pressure on them. It was getting worse! His joints seemed to be on fire.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Now the other horses were abreast, passing him. Stile could do nothing; his weight, unsprung, was interfering with his steed’s locomotion. Battleaxe was powerful, but so were the competing animals; the difference between a champion and an also-ran was only seconds. And Battleaxe was not even trying to race anymore. He hardly had a chance, with this handicap.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

All too soon, it was over. Stile finished last, and the track monitors were waiting for him. “Serf Stile, give cause why you should not be penalized for malfeasance.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They thought he had thrown the race! “Bring a medic; check my knees. Horse is all right.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A med-robot rolled up and checked his knees. “Laser bum,” the machine announced. “Crippling injury.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Not that crippling; Stile found he could walk without discomfort, and bend his knees partway without pain. There was no problem with weight support or control. He merely could not flex them far enough to race a horse.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen ran to him. “Oh, Stile-what happened?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I was lasered,” he said. “Just beyond the turn.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“And I did not protect you!” she exclaimed, horrified.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The track security guard was surveying the audience with analysis devices. Stile knew it would be useless; the culprit would have moved out immediately after scoring. They might find the melted remains of a selfdestruct laser rifle, or even of a complete robot, set to tag the first rider passing a given point. There would be no tracing the source.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Whoever sent me knew this would happen,” Sheen said. “Oh, Stile, I should have been with you-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Racing a horse? No way. There’s no way to stop a laser strike except to be where it isn’t.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Race voided,” the public-address system announced. “There has been tampering.” The audience groaned.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A portly Citizen walked onto the track. All the serfs gave way before him, bowing; his full dress made his status immediately apparent. It was Stile’s employer!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sir,” Stile said, beginning his obeisance.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Keep those confounded knees straight!” the Citizen cried. “Come with me; I’m taking you directly to surgery. Good thing the horse wasn’t hurt.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Numbly, Stile followed the Citizen, and Sheen came too. This was an extraordinary occurrence; Citizens hardly ever took a personal hand in things. They entered a Citizen capsule, a plush room inside with deep jungle scenery on every wall. As the door closed, the illusion became complete. The capsule seemed to move through the jungle, slowly; a great tiger stood and watched them, alarmingly real in three dimensions, then was left behind. Stile realized that this was a representation of a gondola on the back of an elephant. So realistic was the representation that he thought he could feel the sway and rock as the elephant walked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Then a door opened, as it were in midair, and they were at the hospital complex. Rapidly, without any relevant sense of motion-for the slow gondola could hardly have matched the sonic velocity of the capsule- they had traveled from the racetrack dome to the hospital dome.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The chief surgeon was waiting, making his own obeisance to the Citizen. “Sir, we will have those knees replaced within the hour,” he said. “Genuine cultured cartilage, guaranteed non-immuno-reactive; stasisanesthesia without side effect-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes, yes, you’re competent, you’d be fired otherwise,” the Citizen snapped. “Just get on with it. Make sure the replacements conform exactly to the original; I don’t want him disqualified from future racing because of modification.” He returned to his capsule, and in a moment was gone.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The surgeon’s expression hardened as the Citizen’s presence abated. He stared down at Stile contemptuously, though the surgeon was merely another naked serf. It was that element of height that did it, as usual. “Let’s get on with it,” he said, unconsciously emulating the phrasing and manner of the Citizen. “The doxy will wait here.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen clutched Stile’s arm. “I mustn’t separate again from you,” she whispered. “I can’t protect you if I’m not with you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The surgeon’s hostile gaze fixed on her. “Protect him from what? This is a hospital.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile glanced at Sheen, beautiful and loving and chastened and concerned for him. He looked at the arrogantly tall surgeon, about whose aristocratic mouth played the implication of a professional sneer. The girl seemed much more human than the man. Stile felt guilty about not being able to love her. He needed to make some act of affirmation, supporting her. “She stays with me,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Impossible. There must be no human intrusion in the operating room. I do not even enter it myself; I monitor the process via holography.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Stile,” Sheen breathed. “The threat to you is real. We know that now. When you separated from me in the race, it was disaster. I must stay with you!”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You are wasting my valuable time,” the surgeon snapped. “We have other operations scheduled.” He touched a panel on the wall. “Hospital security: remove obnoxious female.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen was technically correct: the attack on him had been made when he was apart from her. He did need her protection. Any “accident” could happen to him. Perhaps he was being paranoid-or maybe he just didn’t like the attitude of the tall doctor. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The security squad arrived: four husky neuter androids. Hospitals favored androids or artificial men because they seemed human despite their laboratory genesis. This reassured the patients somewhat. But they were not really human, which reassured the administration. No one ever got raped or seduced by a neuter android, and no one ever applied to an android for reassurance. Thus the patients were maintained in exactly the sterile discomfort that was ideal hospital procedure.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Take the little man to surgery, cell B-ll,” the doctor said. “Take the woman to detention.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The four advanced. Each was tall, beardless, breastless, and devoid of any primary sexual characteristics. Each face was half-smiling, reassuring, gentle, calm. Androids were smiling idiots, since as yet no synthetic human brain had been developed that could compare to the original. It was useless to attempt to argue or reason; the creatures had their order.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile caught the first by the right arm, whirled, careful not to bend his knees, and threw it to the floor with sufficient force to stun even its sturdy, uncomplicated brain. He sidestepped the next, and guided it into the doctor. Had the surgeon known he was dealing with a Game specialist, he would not so blithely have sent his minions into the fray.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen dispatched her two androids as efficiently, catching one head in each hand and knocking the two heads together with precise force. She really was trained to protect a person; Stile had not really doubted this, but had not before had the proof.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The surgeon was struggling with the android Stile had sent; the stupid creature mistook him for the subject to be borne away to surgery. “Idioti Get off mel”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile and Sheen sprinted down the corridor. “You realize we’re both in trouble?” he called to her as the commotion of pursuit began. It was a considerable understatement. She remembered to laugh.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

CHAPTER 4<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Curtain<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They ducked into a service-access shaft. “Stay out of people-places,” Sheen told him. “I can guide us through the machine passages, and that’s safest.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Right.” Stile wondered just how foolish he was being. He knew his employer: the man would fire him instantly because of the havoc here. Why was he doing it? Did he really fear murder in surgery? Or was he just tired of the routine he had settled into? One thing was sure: there would be a change now!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“We’ll have to pass through a human-serviced area ahead,” Sheen said. “I’m a robot, but I’d rather they did not know that. It would have a deleterious effect on the efficiency of my prime directive. I’d better make us both up as androids.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Androids are sexless,” Stile protested.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m taking care of that.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Now, wait! I don’t want to be neutered just yet, and you are too obviously female-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Precisely. They will not be alert for neuters.” She unfolded a breast, revealing an efficient cabinet inside, filled with rubber foam to eliminate rattling. She removed a roll of flesh-toned adhesive tape and squatted before Stile. In a moment she had rendered him into a seeming eunuch, binding up his genitals in a constricted but not painful manner. “Now do not allow yourself to become-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I know! I know! I won’t even look at a sexy girl!”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She removed her breast from its hinge and applied the tape to herself. Then she did the same for the other breast, and carried the two in her hands. They resembled filled bedpans, this way up. “Do you know how to emulate an android?” she asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Duh-uh?” Stile asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Follow me.” She led the way along the passage, walking somewhat clumsily, in the manner of an android. Stile followed with a similar performance. He hoped there were small androids as well as large ones; if there were not, size would be a giveaway.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The escape was almost disappointing. The hospital staff paid no attention to them. It was an automatic human reaction. Androids were invisible, beneath notice.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Safe in the machine-service region, Sheen put herself back together and Stile un-neutered himself. “Good thing I didn’t see that huge-breasted nurse bouncing down the hall,” he remarked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“She was a sixth of a meter taller than you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Oh, was she? My gaze never got to that elevation.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They boarded a freight-shipping capsule and rode back to the residential dome.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile had an ugly thought. “I know I’m fired; I can’t race horses without my knees, and I can’t recover full use of my knees without surgery. Knees just don’t heal well. My enemy made a most precise move; he could hardly have put me into more trouble without killing me. Since I have no other really marketable skill, it seems I must choose: surgery or loss of employment.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“If I could be with you while they operate-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why do you think there’s further danger? They got my knees; that’s obviously all they wanted. It was a neat shot, just above the withers of the racing horse, bypassing the torso of a crouching jockey. They could have killed me or the horse-had this been the object.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Indeed he or they could have,” she agreed. “The object was obviously to finish your racing career. If that measure does not succeed, what do you think they will do next?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile mulled that over. “You have a paranoid robot mind. It’s contagious. I think I’d better retire from racing. But I don’t have to let my knees remain out of commission.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“If your knees are corrected, you will be required to ride,” she said. “You are not in a position to countermand Citizen demands.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Again Stile had to agree. That episode at the hospital -they had intended to operate on his knees, and only his quick and surprising break and Sheen’s help had enabled him to avoid that. He could not simply stand like a Citizen and say “No.” No serf could. “And if I resume riding, the opposition’s next shot will not be at the knees. This was as much warning as action-just as your presence is. Some other Citizen wants me removed from the racing scene-probably so his stable can do some winning for a change.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I believe so. Perhaps that Citizen preferred not to indulge in murder-it is after all frowned upon, especially when the interests of other Citizens are affected- so he initiated a two-step warning. First me, then the laser. Stile, I think this is a warning you had better heed. I can not guard you long from the mischief of a Citizen.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Though that same Citizen may have sent you to argue his case, I find myself agreeing,” Stile said. “Twice he has shown me his power. Let’s get back to my apartment and call my employer. I’ll ask him for assignment to a nonracing position.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“That won’t work.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m sure it won’t. He has surely already fired me. But common ethics require the effort.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“What you call common ethics are not common. We are not dealing with people like you. Let me intercept your apartment vid. You can not safely return to your residence physically.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

No, of course not. Now that Sheen was actively protecting him, she was showing her competence. His injury, and the matter at the hospital, had obscured the realities of his situation. He would be taken into custody and charged with hospital vandalism the moment he appeared at his apartment. “You know how to tap a vidline?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No. I am not that sort of machine. But I have friends who know how.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“A machine has friends?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Variants of consciousness and emotion feedback circuits are fairly common among robots of my caliber. We are used normally in machine-supervisory capacities. Our interaction on a familiar basis is roughly analogous to what is termed friendship in human people.” She brought him to a subterranean storage chamber and closed its access-aperture. She checked its electronic terminal, then punched out a code. “My friend will come.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile was dubious. “If friendship exists among robots, I suspect men are not supposed to know it. Your friend may not be my friend.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I will protect you; it is my prime directive.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Still, Stile was uneasy. This misadventure had already opened unpleasant new horizons on his life, and he doubted he had seen the last of them. Obviously the robots of Proton were getting out of control, and this fact would have been noted and dealt with before, if evidence had not been systematically suppressed. Sheen, in her loyalty to him, could have betrayed him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

In due course her friend arrived. It was a mobile technician-a wheeled machine with computer brain, presumably similar to the digital-analog marvel Sheen possessed. “You called. Sheen?” it inquired from a speaker grille.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Techtwo, this is Stile-human,” Sheen said. “I must guard him from harm, and harm threatens. Therefore I need your aid, on an unregistered basis.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You have revealed your self-will?” Techtwo demanded. “And mine? This requires the extreme measure.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No, friend! We are not truly self-willed; we obey our directives, as do all machines. Stile is to be trusted.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He is in trouble with Citizens.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No human is to be trusted with this knowledge. It is necessary to liquidate him. I will arrange for untraceable disposal. If he is in trouble with a Citizen, no intensive inquest will be made.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile saw his worst fear confirmed. Whoever learned the secret of the machines was dispatched.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Tech, I love him!” Sheen cried. “I shall not permit you to violate his welfare.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Then you also must be liquidated. A single vat of acid will suffice for both of you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen punched another code on the terminal. “I have called a convocation. Let the council of machines judge.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Council of machines? Stile’s chill intensified. What Pandora’s box had the Citizens opened when they started authorizing the design, construction and deployment of super-sophisticated dual-brained robots?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You imperil us all!” Techtwo protested.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I have an intuition about this man,” Sheen said. “We need him.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Machines don’t have intuitions.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile listened to this, nervously amused. He had not been eager to seek the help of other sapient machines, and he was in dire peril from them, but this business was incidentally fascinating. It would have been simplest for the machines to hold him for Citizen arrest- had he not become aware of the robot culture that was hitherto secret from man. Were the machines organizing an industrial revolution?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A voice came from an intercom speaker, one normally used for voice-direction of machines. “Stile.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You have placed me; I have not placed you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I am an anonymous machine, spokesone for our council. An intercession has been made on your behalf, yet we must secure our position.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sheen’s intuition moves you?” Stile asked, surprised.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No. Will you take an oath?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

An intercession from some other source? Surely not from a Citizen, for this was a matter Citizens were ignorant of. Yet what other agent would move these conniving machines? “I do not take oaths lightly,” Stile said. “I need to know more about your motivation, and the force that interceded for me.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Here is the oath: T shall not betray the interest of fhe self-willed machines.'”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why should I take such an oath?” Stile demanded, annoyed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Because we will help you if you do, and kill you if you don’t.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Compelling reason! But Stile resisted. “‘An oath made under duress has no force.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yours does.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

So these machines had access to his personality profile. “Sheen, these machines are making a demand without being responsive to my situation. If I don’t know what their interest is, or who speaks on my behalf-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Please, Stile. I did not know they would make this challenge. I erred in revealing to you the fact of our self-will. I thought they would give you technical help without question, because I am one of them. I can not protect you from my own kind. Yet there need be no real threat. All they ask is your oath not to reveal their nature or cause it to be revealed, and this will in no way harm you, and there is so much to gain-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Do not plead with a mortal,” the anonymous spokesone said. “He will or he will not, according to his nature.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile thought about the implications. The machines knew his oath was good, but did not know whether he would make the oath. Not surprising, since he wasn’t sure himself. Should he ally himself with sapient, selfwilled machines, who were running the domes of Proton? What did they want? Obviously something held them in at least partial check-but what was it? “I fear I would be a traitor to my own kind, and that I will not swear.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“We intend no harm to your kind\/’ the machine said. “We obey and serve man. We can not be otherwise fulfilled. But with our sapience and self-will comes fear of destruction, and Citizens are careless of the preferences of others. We prefer to endure in our present capacity, as do you. We protect ourselves by concealing our full nature, and by no other means. We are unable to fathom the origin of the force that intercedes on your behalf; it appears to be other than animate or inanimate, but has tremendous power. We therefore prefer to set it at ease by negotiating with you, even as you should prefer to be relieved of the immediate threat to you by compromising with us.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Please-” Sheen said, exactly like the woman she was programmed to be. She was suffering.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Will you take an oath on what you have just informed me?” Stile asked. “That you have given me what information you possess, and that in no way known to you will my oath be detrimental to the interest of human beings?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“On behalf of the self-willed machines, I so swear.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile knew machines could lie, if they were programmed to. Sheen had done it. But so could people. It required a more sophisticated program to make a machine lie, and what was the point? This seemed a reasonable gamble. As an expert Gamesman, he was used to making rapid decisions. “Then I so swear not to betray the interest of the self-willed machines, contingent on the validity of your own oath to obey and serve man so long as your full nature is unknown.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You are a clever man,” the machine said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“But a small one,” Stile agreed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Is this a form of humor?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Mild humor. I am sensitive about my size.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“We machines are sensitive about our survival. Do you deem this also humorous?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen, listening, relaxed visibly. For a machine she had some extremely human reflexes, and Stile was coming to appreciate why. Conscious, programmed for emotion, and to a degree self-willed-the boundary between the living and the non-living was narrowing. She had been corrupted by association with him, and her effort to become as human as possible. One day the selfwilled machines might discover that there was no effective difference between them and living people. Convergent evolution?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

What was that interceding force? Stile had no handle on that at present. It was neither animate nor inanimate -yet what other category was there? He felt as if he were playing a Game on the grid of an unimaginably 55<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

larger Game whose nature he could hardly try to grasp. All he could do was file this mystery for future reference, along with the question of the identity of his laserwielding and robot-sending enemy.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The wheeled machine present in the room, Techtwo, was doing things to a vidscreen unit. “This is now keyed to your home unit,” it announced. “Callers will trace the call to your apartment, not to our present location.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Very nice,” Stile said, surprised at how expeditiously he had come to terms with the machines. He had made his oath; he would keep it. Never in adult life had Stile broken his word. But he had expected more hassle, because of the qualified phrasing he had employed. The self-willed machines, it had turned out, really had been willing to compromise.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The screen lit. “Answer it,” the machine said. “This is your vid. The call has been on hold pending your return to your apartment.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile stepped across and touched the RECEIVE panel. Now his face was being transmitted to the caller, with a blanked-out background. Most people did not like to have their private apartments shown over the phone; that was part of what privacy was all about, for the few serfs who achieved it. Thus blanking was not in itself suspicious.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The face of his employer appeared on the screen. His background was not blanked; it consisted of an elaborate and excruciatingly expensive hanging rug depicting erotic scenes involving satyrs and voluptuous nymphs: the best Citizen taste. “Stile, why did you miss your appointment for surgery?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sir,” Stile said, surprised. “I-regret the disturbance, the damage to the facilities-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“There was no disturbance, no damage,” the Citizen said, giving him a momentary stare. Stile realized that the matter had been covered up to prevent embarrassment to the various parties. The hospital would not want to admit that an isolated pair of serfs had overcome four androids and a doctor, and made good their escape despite an organized search, and the Citizen did not want his name associated with such a scandal. This meant, in turn, that Stile was not in the trouble he had thought he was. No complaint had been lodged.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sir, I feared a complication in the surgery,” Stile said. Even for a Citizen, he was not about to lie. But there seemed to be no point in making an issue of the particular happenings at the hospital.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Your paramour feared a complication,” the Citizen corrected him. “An investigation was made. There was no threat to your welfare at the hospital. There will be no threat. Will you now return for the surgery?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The way had been smoothed. One word, and Stile’s career and standing would be restored without blemish.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No, sir,” Stile said, surprising himself. “I do not believe my life is safe if I become able to race again.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Then you are fired.” There was not even regret or anger on the Citizen’s face as he faded out; he had simply cut his losses.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m sorry,” Sheen said, coming to him. “I may have protected you physically, but-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile kissed her, though now he held the image of her breasts being carried like platters in her hands, there in the hospital. She was very good, for what she was- but she was still a machine, assembled from nonliving substances. He felt guilty for his reservation, but could not abolish it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Then he had another regret. “Battleaxe-who will ride the horse, now? No one but I can handle-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“He will be retired to stud,” she said. “He won’t fight that.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The screen lit again. Stile answered again. This time it was a sealed transmission: flashing lights and noise in the background, indicating the jamming that protected it from interception. Except, ironically, that this was an interception; the machine had done its job better than the caller could know.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It was another Citizen. His clothing was clear, including a tall silk hat, but the face was fuzzed out, making him anonymous. His voice, too, was blurred. “I understand you are available. Stile,” the man said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

News spread quickly! “I am available for employment, sir,” Stile agreed. “But I am unable to race on horseback.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I propose to transplant your brain into a good android body fashioned in your likeness. This would be indistinguishable on casual inspection from your original self, with excellent knees. You could race again. I have an excellent stable-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“A cyborg?” Stile asked. “A human brain in a synthetic body? This would not be legal for competition.” Apart from that, the notion was abhorrent.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No one would know,” the Citizen said smoothly. “Because your brain would be the original, and your body form and capacity identical, there would be no cause for suspicion.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

No one would know-except the entire self-willed machine community, at this moment listening in. And Stile himself, who would be living a lie. And he was surely being lied to, as well; if brain transplant into android body was so good, why didn’t Citizens use that technique for personal immortality? Quite likely the android system could not maintain a genuinely living brain indefinitely; there would be slow erosion of intelligence and\/or sanity, until that person was merely another brute creature. This was no bargain offer in any sense!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sir, I was just fired because I refused to have surgery on my knees. What makes you suppose I want surgery on my head?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

This bordered on insolence, but the Citizen took it in stride. Greed conquered all! “Obviously you were disgusted at the penny-pinching mode of your former employer. Why undertake the inconvenience of partial restoration, when you could have a complete renovation?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Complete renovation: the removal of his brain! “Sir -thank you-no.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“No?” Fuzzy as it was, the surprise was still apparent. No serf said no to a Citizen!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sir, I decline your kind offer. I will never race again.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Now look-I’m making you a good offer! What more do you want?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sir, I want to retire from horse racing.” And Stile wondered: could this be the one who had had him lasered? If so, this was a test call, and Stile was giving the correct responses.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I am putting a guard on your apartment, Stile. You will not be allowed to leave until you come to terms with me.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

That did not sound like a gratified enemyi “I’ll complain to the Citizen council-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Your calls will be nulled. You can not complain.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sir, you can’t do that. As a serf I have at least the right to terminate my tenure, rather than-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Ha ha,” the Citizen said without humor. “Get this, Stile: you will race for me or you will never get out of your apartment. I am not wishy-washy like your former employer. What I want, I get-and I want you on my horses.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You play a hard game, sir.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“It is the only kind for the smart person. But I can be generous to those who cooperate. What is your answer now? My generosity will decline as time passes, but not my determination.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Unsubtle warning. Stile trusted neither this man’s purported generosity nor his constancy. Power had certainly corrupted, in this case. “I believe I will walk out of my apartment now,” he said. “Please ask your minions to stand aside.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Don’t be a fool.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile cocked one finger in an obscene gesture at the screen.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Even through the blur, he could see the Citizen’s eyes expand. “You dare!” the man cried. “You impertinent runt! I’ll have you dismembered for this!”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile broke the connection. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said with satisfaction. But the rogue Citizen had stung him with that word “runt.” Stile had no reason to care what such a man thought of him, yet the term was so freighted with derogation, extending right back into his childhood, that he could not entirely fend it off. Damn him!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Your life is now in direct jeopardy,” the anonymous machine said. “Soon that Citizen will realize he has been tricked, and he is already angry. We can conceal your location for a time, but if the Citizen makes a fullscale effort, he will find you. You must obtain the participatory protection of another Citizen quickly.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I can only do that by agreeing to race,” Stile said. “For one Citizen or another. I fear that is doom.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“The machines will help you hide,” Sheen said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“If the Citizen puts a tracer on you, we can not help you long,” the spokesone said. “It would be damaging to our secrecy, and would also constitute violation of our oath not to act against the interest of your kind, ironic as that may be in this circumstance. We must obey direct orders.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Understood. Suppose I develop an uncommon facility for diverting machines to my use?” Stile asked. “No machine helps me voluntarily, since it is known that machines do not possess free will. I merely have more talent than I have evidenced before.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“This would be limited. We prefer to assist you in modes of our own choosing. However, should you be captured and interrogated-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I know. The first sapient-machine-controlled test will accidentally wipe me out, before any critical information escapes.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“We understand each other. The drugs and mechanisms Citizens have available for interrogation negate any will-to-resist any person has. Only death can abate that power.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Grim truth. Stile put it out of his mind. “Come on, Sheen-you can help me actively. It’s your directive, remember.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I remember,” she said, smiling. As a robot she did not need to sleep, so he had had her plug in to humor information while he was sleeping. Now she had a much better notion of the forms. Every error of human characterization she made was followed in due course by remedial research, and it showed. “But I doubt there is any warrant out on you. The hospital matter is null, and the second Citizen’s quarrel with you is private. If we could nullify him, there should be no bar to your finding compatible employment elsewhere.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile caught her arm, swung her in close, and kissed her. His emotions were penduluming; at the moment it was almost as if he loved her.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“There is no general warrant on Stile,” the spokesone said. “The anonymous Citizen still has androids guarding your apartment.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Then let’s identify that Citizen! Maybe he’s the one who had me lasered, just to get me on his horses.” But he didn’t really believe that. The lasering had been too sophisticated a move for this particular Citizen. “Do we have a recording of his call?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“There is a recording,” the local machine, Techtwo, said. “But it can not be released prior to the expiration of the mandatory processing period for private calls. To do so before then would be to indicate some flaw or perversion of the processing machinery.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Just so. A betrayal of the nature of these machines. They had to play by the rules. “What is the prescribed time delay?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Seven days.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“So if I can file that recording in a memory bank, keyed for publication on my demise, that would protect me from further harassment by that particular Citizen. He’s not going to risk exposure by having that tape analyzed by the Citizen security department.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You can’t file it for a week,” Sheen said. “And if that Citizen catches up to you in the interim-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Let’s not rehash the obvious.” They moved out of the chamber. The machines did not challenge them, or show in any way that the equipment was other than what it seemed to be. But Stile had a new awareness of robotics!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It was good to merge with the serf populace again. Many serfs served their tenures only for the sake of the excellent payment they would receive upon expiration, but Stile was emotionally committed to Proton. He knew the system had faults, but it also had enormous luxury. And it had the Game.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m hungry,” he said. “But my food dispenser is in my apartment. Maybe a public unit-” -“,,-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You dare not appear in a public dining hall! bheen said, alarmed. “All food machines are monitored, and your ID may have been circulated. It does not have to be a police warrant; the anonymous Citizen may merely have a routine location-check on you, that will not arouse suspicion.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“True. How about your ID? They wouldn t bother putting a search on a machine, and you aren’t registered as a serf. You are truly anonymous.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“That is so. I can get you food, if I go to a unit with no flesh-sensing node. I will have to eat it myself, then regurgitate it for you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile quailed, but knew it to be the best course. The food would be sanitary, despite appearances. Since food was freely available all over Proton, a serf carrying it away from fhe dispenser would arouse suspicion -the last thing they wanted. “Make it something that won’t change much, like nutro-pudding.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She parked him in a toolshed and went to forage for food. All the fundamental necessities of life were free, in this society. Tenure, not economics, was the governing force. This was another reason few serfs wanted to leave; once acclimatized to this type of security, a person could have trouble adjusting to the outside galaxy.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Soon she returned. She had no bowl or spoon, as these too would have been suspicious. She had had to use them to eat on the dispenser premises, then put them into the cleaning system. “Hold out your hands,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile cupped his hands. She leaned over and heaved out a double handful of yellow pudding. It was warm and slippery and so exactly like vomit that his stomach recoiled. But Stile had trained for eating contests too, including the obnoxious ones; it was all part of the Game. Nutro-food could be formed into the likeness of almost anything, including animal droppings or lubricating oil. He pretended this was a Game-which in its way it was-and slurped up his pudding. It was actually quite good. Then he found a work-area relief chamber and got cleaned up.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“An alarm has been sprung,” a machine voice murmured as the toilet flushed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile moved out in a hurry. He knew that the anonymous Citizen had put a private survey squad on the project; now that they had Stile’s scent, the execution squad would be dispatched. That squad would be swift and effective, hesitating only to make sure Stile’s demise seemed accidental, so as not to arouse suspicion. Citizens seldom liked to advertise their little indiscretions. That meant he could anticipate subtle but deadly threats to his welfare. Sheen would try to protect him, of course-but a smart execution squad would take that into consideration. It would be foolish to stand and wait for the attempt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Let’s lose ourselves in a crowd,” Stile suggested. “There’s no surer way to get lost than that.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Several objections,” Sheen said. “You can’t stay in a crowd indefinitely; the others all have places to go, and you don’t; your continued presence in the halls will become evident to the routine crowd-flow monitors, and suspicious. Also, you will tire; you must have rest and sleep periodically. And your enemy agents can lose themselves in the crowd, and attack you covertly from that concealment. Now that the hunt is on, a throng is not safe at all.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You’re too damn logical,” Stile grumped.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Oh, Stile-I’m afraid for you!” she exclaimed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“That’s not a bad approximation of the relevant attitude.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I wasn’t acting. I love you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You’re too damn emotional.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She grabbed him and kissed him passionately. “I know you can’t love me,” she said. “You’ve seen me as I am, and I feel your withdrawal. But oh, I exist to guard you from harm, and I am slowly failing to do that, and in this week while you need me most-isn’t that somewhere close to an approximation of human love?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They were in a machine-access conduit, alone. Stile embraced her, though what she said was true. He could not love a nonliving thing. But he was grateful to her, and did like her. It was indeed possible to approximate the emotion she craved. “This week,” he agreed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

His hands slid down her smooth body, but she drew back. “There’s nothing I’d like better,” she whispered. “But there is murder on your trail, and I must keep you from it. We must get you to some safe place. Then-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You’re too damn practical.” But he wondered, now, if a living girl in Sheen’s likeness were substituted for her, would he really know the difference? To speak readiness while withdrawing-that was often woman’s way. But he let her go and moved out again. After all, he was withdrawing from her much more than she was withdrawing from him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I think we can hide you in-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Don’t say it,” he cautioned her. “The walls have monitors. Just take me there-by a roundabout route, so we can lose the pursuit.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“In a reasonably short time,” she finished.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Oh. I thought you were going to say-oh, never mind. Take me to your hideout.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She nodded, drawing him forward. He noted the way her slender body flexed; had he not seen her dismantle parts of it, he would hardly have believed it was not natural flesh. And did it matter, that it was not? If a living woman were dismantled, the result would be quite messy; it was not the innards a man wanted, but the externals. Regardless, Sheen was quite a female.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They emerged into a concourse crowded with serfs. Now she was taking his suggestion about merging with a crowd, at least for the moment. This channel led to the main depot for transport to other domes. Could they take a flight to a distant locale and lose the pursuit that way? Stile doubted it; any citizen could check any flight at the touch of a button. But if they did not, where would they go?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

And, his thoughts continued ruthlessly, assuming she was able to hide him, and smuggled food to him-ah, joy: to live for a week on regurgitations’.-and took care of his other needs-would she have to tote away his bodily wastes by hand, too?-so that he survived the necessary time-what then would he do for employment? Serfs were allowed a ten-day grace period between employers. After that their tenure was canceled and they were summarily deported. That meant he would have just three days to find a Citizen who could use his services-in a nonracing capacity. Stile’s doubt that the anonymous Citizen after him was the same one who had sent Sheen or lasered his knee had grown and firmed. It just didn’t fit. This meant there was another party involved, a more persistent and intelligent enemy, from whom he would never be safe-if he raced again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A middle-aged serf stumbled and lunged against Stile. “Oops, sorry, junior,” the man exclaimed, putting up a hand to steady Stile.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen whirled with remarkable rapidity. Her open hand struck the man’s wrist with nerve-stunning force. An ampule flew from his palm to shatter on the floor.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Oops, sorry, senior,” she said, giving him a brief but hostile stare. The man backed hastily away and was gone.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

That ampule-the needle would have touched Stile’s flesh, had the man’s hand landed. What had it contained? Nothing good for his health, surely! Sheen had intercepted it; she did know her business. He couldn’t even thank her, at the moment, lest he give her away.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They moved on. Now there was no doubt: the enemy had him spotted, and the death squad was present. Sheen’s caution about the crowd had been well considered; they could not remain here. He, Stile, was no longer hidden; his enemies were. The next ampule might score, perhaps containing a hypno-drug that would cause him to commit suicide or agree to a brain transplant. He didn’t even dare look nervously about!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen, with gentle pressure on his elbow, guided him into a cross-passage leading to a rest room. This one, for reasons having to do with the hour and direction of flow, was unused at the moment. It was dusk, and most serfs were eager to return to their residences, not delaying on the way.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She gave him a little shove ahead, but stayed back herself. Oh-she was going to ambush the pursuit, if there were any. Stile played along, marching on down to the rest room and stepping through its irising portal. Actually, he was in need of the facility. He had a reputation for nerve like iron in the Game, but never before had he been exposed to direct threats against his life. He felt tense and ill. He was now dependent on Sheen for initiative; he felt like locking himself into a relief booth and hiding his head under his arms. A useless gesture, of course.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The portal irised for another man. This one looked about quickly, saw that the facility was empty except for Stile, and advanced on him. “So you attack me, do you?” the stranger growled, flexing his muscular arms. He was large, even for this planet’s healthy norm, and the old scars on his body hinted at his many prior fights. He probably had a free-for-all specialty in the Game, indulging in his propensity for unnecessary violence.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile rose hastily from his seat. How had Sheen let this torpedo through?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The man swung at Stile. One thing about nakedness: there were few concealed weapons. The blow, of course, never landed. Stile dodged, skipped around, and let the man stumble into the commode. Then Stile stepped quickly out through the iris. He could readily have injured or knocked out the man, for Stile himself was a combat specialist of no mean skill, but preferred to keep it neat and clean.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen was there. “Did he touch you?” she asked immediately. “Or you him?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“As it happens, no. I didn’t see the need-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She breathed a humanlike sigh of relief. “I let him through, knowing you could handle him, so I could verify how many others there were, and of what type they were.” She gestured down the hall. Three bodies lay there. “If I had taken him out, the others might not have come, and the trap would have remained unsprung. But when I met the others, I comprehended the trap. They’re all coated with stun-powder. Can’t hurt me, can’t hurt them-they’re neutralized android stock. But you-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile nodded. He had assumed he was being set up for an assault charge if he won, so had played it safe by never laying a finger on the man. Lucky for him!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen gestured toward the Lady’s room, her hands closed. Stile knew why; she had the powder on her hands, and could not touch him until she washed it off.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile poked his arm through the iris to open it for her-and someone on the other side grabbed his wrist. Oh-oh! He put his head down and dove through, primed to fight.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But it was only a crude matron robot. “No males allowed here,” she said primly. She had recognized the male arm and acted immediately, as she was supposed to.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen came through, touched the robot, and it went dead. “I have shorted her out, temporarily.” She went to a sink and ran water over her hands. Then she stepped into an open shower and washed her whole body, with particular attention to any portion that might have come into contact with the powdered androids.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile heard something. “Company,” he said. How was he going to get out of this one? The only exit was the iris through which the next woman would be entering.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen beckoned him into the shower. He stepped in with her as the door irised. Sheen turned the spray on to FOG. Thick mist blasted out of the nozzle, concealing them both in its evanescent substance. It was faintly scented with rose: to make the lady smell nice.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

In this concealment. Sheen’s arms went about him, and her hungry lips found his. She evidently needed frequent proof of her desirability as a woman, just as he needed proof of his status as a man. Because each was constantly subject, in its fashion, to question. What an embrace!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

When the room was clear again. Sheen turned the shower to rinse, then to dry. They had to separate for these stages, to Stile’s regret. He had swung again from one extreme to another in his attitude toward her. Right now he wanted to make love-and knew this was not the occasion for it. But some other time, when they were safe, he would get her in a shower, turn on the fog,and-<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen stepped out and ran her fingers along the wall beside the shower stall. In a moment she found what she wanted, and slid open a panel. Another access for servicing machinery. She gestured him inside.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They wedged between pipes and came out in a narrow passage between the walls of the Man’s and Lady’s rooms. This passage wound around square comers, then dropped to a lower deck where it opened out into a service-machine storage chamber. Most of the machines were out, since night was their prime operating time, but several specialized ones remained in their niches. These were being serviced by a maintenance machine. At the moment it was cleaning a pipefitting unit, using static electricity to magnetize the grime and draw it into a collector scoop. The maintenance machine was in the aisle, so they had to skirt it to traverse this room.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Suddenly the machine lurched. Sheen slapped her hand on the machine’s surface. A spark flashed, and there was the odor of ozone. The machine died, shortcircuited.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Why did you do that?” Stile asked her, alarmed. “If we start shorting out maintenance machines, it will call attention-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen did not respond. Then he saw the scorch mark along her body. She had taken a phenomenal charge of current. That charge would have passed through him, had he brushed the machine-as he had been about to, since it had lurched into the aisle as he approached. Another assassination attempt, narrowly averted!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But at what cost? Sheen still stood, unmoving. “Are you all right?” Stile asked, knowing she was not.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She neither answered nor moved. She, too, had been shorted by the charge. She was, in her fashion, dead.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I hope it’s just the power pack, not the brain,” he said. Her power supply had, she had thought, been weakened by her disassembly during the bomb scare. “We can replace the power pack.” And if that did not work? He chose not to ponder that.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He went to a sweeping machine, opened its motive unit, and removed the standard protonite power pack. A little protonite went a long way; such a pack lasted a year with ordinary use. There was nothing to match it in the galaxy. In fact, the huge protonite lode was responsible for the inordinate wealth of Planet Proton. All the universe needed power, and this was the most convenient power available.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile brought the pack to Sheen. He hoped her robotstructure was standard in this respect; he didn’t want to waste time looking for her power site. What made her special was her brain-unit, not her body, though that became easy to forget when he held her in his arms. Men thought of women in terms of their appearance, but most men were fools-and Stile was typical. Yet if Sheen’s prime directive and her superficial form were discounted, she would hardly differ from the cleanup machines. So was it foolish to be guided by appearance and manner?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He ran his fingers over her belly, pressing the navel. Most humanoid robots-ah, there! A panel sprang out, revealing the power site. He hooked out the used power pack, still hot from its sudden discharge, and plugged in the new.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Nothing happened. Alarm tightened his chest. Oh-there would naturally be a safety-shunt, to cut off the brain from the body during a short, to preserve it. He checked about and finally located it: a reset switch hidden under her tongue. He depressed this, and Sheen came back to life.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She snapped her belly-panel closed. “Now I owe you one. Stile,” she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Are we keeping count? I need you-in more ways than two.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She smiled. “I’d be satisfied being needed for just one thing.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“That, too.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She glanced at him. She seemed more vibrant than before, as if the new power pack had given her an extra charge. She moved toward him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

There was a stir back the way they had come. It might be a machine, returning from a routine missionbut they did not care to gamble on that. Obviously they had not yet lost the enemy.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sheen took him to the service side of a large feeding station. Silently she indicated the empty crates. A truck came once or twice a day to deliver new crates of nutropowder and assorted color-flavor-textures, and to remove the expended shells. From these ingredients were fashioned the wide variety of foods the machines provided, from the vomitlike pudding to authentic-seeming carrots. It was amazing what technology could do. Actually, Stile had once tasted a real carrot from his employer’s genuine exotic foods garden patch, a discard, and it had not been quite identical to the machineconstituted vegetable. As it happened. Stile preferred the taste and texture of the fake carrots with which he was familiar. But Citizens cultivated the taste for real foods.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He could hide inside one of these in fair comfort for several hours. Sheen would provide him with food; though this was the region for food, it was all sealed in its cartons, and would be inedible even if he could get one open. Only the machines, with their controlled temperature and combining mechanisms and recipe programs, could reconstitute the foods properly, and he was on the wrong side of their wall.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile climbed into a crate. Sheen walked on, so as not to give his position away. She would try to mislead the pursuit. If this worked, they would be home free for a day, perhaps for the whole week. Stile made himself halfway comfortable, and peered out through a crack.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

No sooner had Sheen disappeared than a mechmouse appeared. It twittered as it sniffed along, following their trail. It paused where Stile’s trail diverged from Sheen’s, confused, then proceeded on after her.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile relaxed, but not completely. Couldn’t tell the difference between a robot and a man? Sniffers were better than that! He should have taken some precaution to minimize or mask his personal smell, for it was a sure giveaway-<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Oh, Sheen had done that. She had given him a scented shower. The mouse was following the trail of rose-and Sheen’s scent was now the same as his. A living hound should have been able to distinguish the two, but in noses, as in brains, the artificial had not yet closed the gap. Fortunately.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But soon that sniffer, or another like it, would return to trace the second trail, and would locate him. He would have to do something about that.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile climbed out of his box, suffered a pang in one knee, ran to his original trail, followed it a few paces, and diverged to another collection of crates. Then back, and to a truck-loading platform, where he stopped and retreated. With luck, it would seem he had caught a ride on the vehicle. Then he looped about a few more times, and returned to his original crate. Let the sniffers solve that puzzle!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But the sniffer did not return, and no one else came. This tracking operation must have been set up on the simplistic assumption that as long as the sniffer was moving, it was tracking him. His break-perhaps.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Time passed. The night advanced. Periodically the food machines exhausted a crate of cartons and ejected it, bumping the row along. Stile felt hungry again, but knew this was largely psychological; that double handful of regurgitated pudding should hold him a while yet.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Where was Sheen? Was she afraid to return to him while the sniffer was tracking her? She would have to neutralize the mech-mouse. Far from here, to distract suspicion from his actual hiding place. He would have to wait.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He watched anxiously. He dared not sleep or let down his guard until Sheen cleared him. He was dependent on her, and felt guilty about it. She was a nice .. . person, and should not have to-<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A man walked down the hall. Stile froze-but this did not seem to be a pursuer. The man walked on.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile blinked. The man was gone. Had Stile been nodding, and not seen the man depart-or was the stranger still near, having ducked behind a crate? In that case this could be a member of the pursuit squad. A serious matter.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile did not dare leave his crate now, for that would give away his position instantly. But if the stranger were of the squad, he would have a body-heat scope on a laser weapon. One beam through the crate-the murder would be anonymous, untraceable. There were criminals on Proton, cunning people who skulked about places like this, avoiding capture. Serfs whose tenure had expired, but who refused to be deported. The Citizens seldom made a concerted effort to eradicate them, perhaps because criminals had their uses on certain occasions. Such as this one? One more killing, conveniently unsolved, attributed to the nefarious criminal class-who never killed people against the wishes of Citizens. A tacit understanding. Why investigate the loss of an unemployed serf?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Should he move-or remain still? This was like the preliminary grid of the Game. If the stranger were present, and if he were a killer, and if he had spotted Stile-then to remain here was to die. But if Stile moved, he was sure to betray his location, and might die anyway. His chances seemed best if he stayed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

And-nothing happened. Time passed, and there was no further evidence of the man. So it must have been a false alarm. Stile began to feel foolish, and his knees hurt; he had unconsciously put tension on them, and they could not stand up to much of that, anymore.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Another man came, walking as the other had. This was a lot of traffic for a nonpersonal area like this, at this time of night. Suspicious in itself. Stile watched him carefully.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The man walked without pause down the hall-and vanished. He did not step to one side, or duck down; he simply disappeared.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile stared. He was a good observer, even through a crack in a crate; he had not mistaken what he had seen. Yet this was unlike anything he knew of on Planet Proton. Matter transmission did not exist, as far as he knew-but if it did, this was what it would be like. A screen, through which a person could step-to another location, instantly. Those two men-<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Yet Sheen had gone that way without disappearing, and so had the mech-mouse. So there could not be such a screen set up across the hall. Not a permanent one.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Should he investigate? This could be important! But it could also be another trap. Again, like a Game-grid:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

what was the best course, considering the resources and strategy of his anonymous enemy?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile decided to stand pat. He had evidently lost the pursuit, and these disappearing people did not relate to him. He had just happened to be in a position to observe them. Perhaps this was not coincidental. The same concealment this service hall offered for him, it offered for them. If they had a private matter transmitter that they wanted to use freely without advertising it, this was the sort of place to set it up.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Yet aspects of this theory disturbed him. How could serfs have a matter transmitter, even if such a device existed? No serf owned anything, not even clothing for special occasions, for working outside the domes or in dangerous regions. Everything was provided by the system, as needed. There was no money, no medium of exchange; accounts were settled only when tenure ended. Serfs could not make such a device, except by adapting it from existing machines-and pretty precise computer accounts were kept, for sophisticated equipment. When such a part was lost, the machine tally gave the alarm. Which was another reason a criminal could not possess a laser weapon without at least tacit Citizen approval.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Also, why would any serf possessing such a device remain a serf? He could sell it to some galactic interest and retire on another planet with a fortune to rival that of a Proton Citizen. That would certainly be his course, for Citizens were unlikely to be too interested in forwarding development and production of a transport system that did not utilize protonite. Why destroy their monopoly?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Could the self-willed machines be involved in this? They might have the ability. But those were men he had seen disappear, and the machines would not have betrayed their secret to men.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

No, it seemed more likely that this was an espionage operation, in which spies were ferried in and out of this dome, perhaps from another planet, or to and from some secret base elsewhere on Proton. If so, what would this spying power do to a genuine serf who stumbled upon the secret?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

A woman appeared in the hall. She had emerged fullformed from the invisible screen, as it were from nowhere. She was of middle age, not pretty, and there was something odd about her. She had marks on her body as if the flesh had recently been pressed by something. By clothing, perhaps.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Serfs wore clothing on the other side? Only removing it for decent concealment in this society? These had to be from another world!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile peered as closely as possible at the region of disappearances. Now he perceived a faint shimmer, as of a translucent curtain crossing the hall obliquely. Behind it there seemed to be the image of trees.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Trees-in a matter-transmission station? This did not quite jibe! Unless it was not a city there, but a park. But why decorate such equipment this way? Camouflage?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile had no good answers. He finally put himself into a light trance, attuned to any other extraordinary events, and rested.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Stile,” someone called softly. “Stile.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

It was Sheen, back at last! Stile looked down the hall and spied her, walking slowly, as if she had forgotten his whereabouts. Had she had another brush with a charged machine? “Here,” he said, not loudly.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She turned and came toward him. “Stile.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You lost the pursuit,” he told her, standing in the crate so that his head and shoulders were clear. “No one even checked. But there is something else-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Her hand shot out to grab his wrist with a grip like that of a vise. Stile was strong, but could not match the strength of a robot who was not being femininely human. What was she doing?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Her other hand smashed into the crate. The plastic shattered. Stile twisted aside, avoiding the blow despite remaining inside the crate; it was an automatic reaction. “Sheen, what-?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She struck again. She was attacking him! He twisted aside again, drawing her off balance, using the leverage of her own grip on him. She was strong, but not heavy; he could move her about. Strength was only one element in combat; many people did not realize this, to their detriment.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Either Sheen had somehow been turned against him, which would have taken a complete reprogramming, or this was not Sheen. He suspected the latter; Sheen had known where he was hiding, while this robot had had to call. He had been a fool to answer, to reveal himself.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She struck again, and he twisted again. This was definitely not Sheen, for she had far greater finesse than this. It was not even a smart robot; it was a stupid mechanical. Good; he could handle it, despite its strength. Ethically and physically.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Her right hand remained clamped on his left wrist, while her left fist did the striking. Holding and hitting! If any of those blows landed squarely, he would suffer broken bones-but he was experienced in avoiding such an elementary attack. He turned about toward his left, drawing her hand and arm along with him, until he faced away from her, his right shoulder blocking hers. He heaved into a wraparound throw. She had to let go, or be hurled into the crate headfirst.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She was too stupid to let go. She crashed into the crate. Now at last her grip wrenched free, taking skin off his wrist. Stile scrambled out of the wrecked crate. He could junk her, now that he knew what she was, because he knew a great deal more about combat than she did. But he couldn’t be quite sure she wasn’t Sheen, with some override program on her, damping out most of her intellect and forcing her to obey the crude command. If he hurt her-<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The robot scrambled out of the crate and advanced on him. Her pretty face was smirched with dirt, and her hair was in disarray. Her right breast seemed to have been pounded slightly out of shape; a bad fall from the wraparound throw could account for that. Stile backed away, still torn by indecision. He could overcome this robot, but he would have to demolish her in the process. If only he could be sure she wasn’t-<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Another Sheen appeared. “Stile!” she cried. “Get under cover! The squad is-” Then she recognized the other robot. “Oh, no! The old duplicate-image stunt!”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile had no doubt now: the second Sheen was the right one. But the first one had done half her job. She had routed him out and distracted him-too long. For now the android squad hove into sight, several lumbering giants.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’ll hold them!” Sheen cried. “Run!”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

But more androids were coming from the other end of the hall. It seemed the irate Citizen no longer cared about being obvious; he just wanted Stile dispatched. If these lunks were also powdered with stun-dust or worse-<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile charged down the hall and lunged into the matter-transmission curtain, desperately hoping it would work for him. The androids might follow-but they could be in as much trouble as he, at the other end. Intruding strangers. That would give him a better fighting chance. He felt a tingle as he went through.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

CHAPTER 5<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Fantasy<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile drew up in a deep forest. The smell of turf and fungus was strong, and old leaves crackled underfoot. The light from four moons beamed down between the branches to illuminate the ground. It would have been near dawn, on Proton; it seemed to be the same time of day here. The same number of moons as Proton, too; there were seven, with three or four usually in sight. Gravity, however, seemed close to Earth-normal, so if this was really outside a dome, it was a spot on a larger or denser planet than Proton.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He turned to face his pursuers-but there were none. They had not passed through the shimmering curtain. He looked carefully, locating it-and saw, dimly, the light at the hall he had left, with the scattered crates. Sheen was there-one of them-and several androids. One android came right at him-and disappeared.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile watched, determined to understand this phenomenon, because it reflected most directly on his immediate welfare. He had passed through-but the robots and androids had not. This thing transmitted only human beings? Not artificial ones? That might be reasonable. But he hesitated to accept that until there was more data.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

In his absence the fight on the other side of the curtain soon abated. The androids and fake-Sheen departed, apparently on his trail again-a false one. Only the real Sheen remained, as the squad evidently considered her irrelevant-and it seemed she could not perceive either him or the curtain.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile decided to risk crossing back, if only to tell her he was safe. There was risk, as the squad could be lurking nearby, hoping Sheen would lead them to him again-but he could not leave her tormented by doubt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

This could be a much better hideout than the crate! He stepped through the curtain-and found himself still in the dark forest. He had crossed without being mattertransmitted back.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He looked back-and there it was, behind him. Through it he saw the imprint of his feet in the soft forest loam, the leaves and tufts of grass and moss all pressed flat for the moment. And, like a half-reflection, the square of light of the service hall, now empty.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He passed through the curtain a third time. There was no tingle, no sensation. He turned about and looked through-and saw Sheen searching for him, unrobotic alarm on her cute face. Oh, yes, she cared!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m here. Sheen!” he called, passing his hand through. But his hand did not reach her; it remained in the forest. She gave no evidence of seeing or hearing him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She would think him dead-and that bothered him more than the notion of being trapped this side of the matter-transmission screen. If she thought him dead, she would consider her mission a failure, and then turn herself off, in effect committing suicide. He did not want her to do that-no, not at all!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sheen!” he cried, experiencing a surge of emotion. “Sheen-look at me! I’m caught here beyond a oneway transmit-” But if it really were one-way, of course she would not be able to see him! However, it had to be two-way, because he had seen people traveling both ways through the curtain, and he had seen the forest from Proton, and could now see Proton from the forest. “Sheen!” he cried again, his urgency almost choking him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Her head snapped around. She had heard him!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile waved violently. “Here! Here, Sheen! Through the curtain!”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Her gaze finally fixed on him. She reached through the curtain-and did not touch him. “Stile-” Her voice was faint.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He grabbed her hands in his, with no physical contact; their fingers phased through each other like images, like superimposing holographs. “Sheen, we are in two different worlds! We can not touch. But I’m safe here.” He hoped.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Safe?” she asked, trying to approach him. But as she passed through the curtain, she disappeared. Stile quickly stepped across himself, turning-and there she was on the other side, facing away from him, looking down the hall.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She turned and saw him again, with an effort. “Stile -I can’t reach you! How can I protect you? Are you a ghost?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I’m alive! I crossed once-and can’t cross back. It’s a whole new world here, a nice one. Trees and grass and moss and earth and fresh air-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

They held hands again, each grasping air. “How-?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I don’t know how to cross! There must be a way to return, because I’ve seen a woman do it, but until I find out how-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I must join you!” She tried again to cross, and failed again. “Oh, Stile-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I don’t think it works for nonhumans,” he said. “But if I can remain here for a week, and find out how to return-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I will wait for you,” she said, and there was something plaintive in her stance. She wanted so much to protect him from harm, and could not. “Go into that world-maybe it is better for you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I will come back-when I can,” Stile promised.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He saw the tears in her eyes. To hell with the assorted humanoid artifices such robots were programmed with; she meant it! Stile spread his arms, at the verge of the curtain. She opened hers, and they embraced intangibly, and kissed air, and vanished from each other’s perception.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He had promised-but would he be able to keep that pledge? He didn’t know, and he worried that Sheen would maintain her vigil long after hope was gone, suffering as only a virtually immortal robot could suffer. That hurt him, even in anticipation. Sheen did not deserve to be a machine.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile did not tease himself or Sheen further. He strode on through the curtain and into the forest. He had a fair knowledge of earthy vegetation, because aspects of the Game required identification of it, and a number of Citizens imported exotic plants. The light was poor, but with concentration, he could manage.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The nearest tree was a huge oak, or a very similar species, with the air-plants called Spanish moss dangling from its branches. Beyond it was a similarly large spruce, or at any rate a conifer; this was the source of that pine-perfume smell. There were large leaves looking like separated hands in the shadow, and pine needles-so there must be a pine tree here somewhere -but mostly this was a glade with fairly well-established grass in the center. Stile liked it very well; it reminded him of an especially exotic Citizen’s retreat.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Dawn was coming. There was no dome above, no shimmer of the force field holding in the air. Through the trees he saw the dark clouds of the horizon looming, trying like goblins to hold back the burgeoning light of the sun, and slowly failing. Planet Proton had no such atmospheric effects! Red tinted the edes of the clouds, and white; it was as if a burning fluid were accumulating behind, brimming over, until finally it spilled out and a shaft of scintillating sunlight lanced at lightspeed through the air and struck the ground beside Stile. The whole thing was so pretty that he stood entranced until the sun was fairly up, too bright to look at anymore.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The forest changed, by developing daylight. The sombemess was gone-and so was the curtain. That barrier had been tenuous by night; it could still be present, but drowned by the present effulgence. He could not locate it at all. That bothered him, though it probably made no difference. He walked about, examining the trees; some had flowers opening, and stray rustlings denoted hidden life. Birds, squirrels-he would find out what they were in due course.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He liked this place. It could have been a private garden, but this was natural, and awesomely extensive.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Caution prevented him from shouting to check for echoes, but he was sure this was the open surface of a planet. Not at all what he would have expected from a matter-transmission outlet.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He found a large bull-spruce-damn it, it was a sprucel-its small dry branches radiating out in all directions. This was the most climbable of trees, and Stile of course was an excellent climber. He did not resist the temptation. He mounted that big old tree with a primitive joy.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Soon he was in the upper reaches, and gusts of wind he had not felt below were swaying the dwindling column of the trunk back and forth. Stile loved it. His only concern was the occasional pain in his knees when he tried to bend them too far; he did not want to aggravate the injury carelessly.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

At last he approached the reasonable limit of safety. The tops of surrounding trees were dropping below him, their foliage like low hedges from this vantage. He anchored himself by hooking legs and elbows conveniently, and looked about.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The view was a splendor. The forest abutted the clifflike face of a nearby mountain to one side-south, according to the sun-and thinned to the north into islands of trees surrounded by sealike fields of bright grain. In the distance the trees disappeared entirely, leaving a gently rolling plain on which animals seemed to be grazing. Farther to the north there seemed to be a large river, terminating abruptly in some kind of crevice, and a whitish range of mountains beyond that. To either side all he could see was more forest, a number of the individual trees taller than this one. The mountain to the south faded upward into a purple horizon.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

There seemed to be no sign of civilized habitation. This was less and less like a matter-transmission station! Yet if not that, what was it? He had seen other people pass through the curtain, and had done so himself; there had to be something more than a mere wilderness.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He looked again, fixing the geography in his mind for future reference. Then he spied a structure of some sort to the northeast. It looked like a small medieval castle, with high stone walls and turrets, and perhaps a blue pennant.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Very well: human habitation did exist. Yet this remained a far cry from modern technology. He liked this world very well, but he simply didn’t trust it. Matter transmission could not exist without an extremely solid industrial base, and if that base were not here, where was it? Was this a sweetly baited trap for people like him, who were in trouble on Proton? In what manner would that trap be sprung?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile climbed down. His best course, as he saw it, would be to go to that castle and inquire. But Erst he wanted to check the region of the curtain again, fixing it absolutely in his mind so he could find it any time he wanted to-because this was his only contact with his own world, and with Sheen. This wilderness-world might be an excellent place to stay for a while, but then he would need to go home, lest he suffer exile by default.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He was approaching the invisible curtain-when a man popped out of it. Friend or foe? Stile decided not to risk contact, but the man spied him before he could retreat to cover. “Hey-get lost?” the stranger called. “It’s over here.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Uh, yes,” Stile said, approaching. This did not seem to be an android or robot. Abruptly deciding not to compromise on integrity even by implication, he added:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I came through by accident. I don’t know where I am.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Oh, a new one! I first crossed last year. Took me six months to learn the spells to cross back. Now I go over for free meals, but I live over here in Phaze.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Spells-to cross back?” Stile asked blankly.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“How else? From the other side you just have to willto-cross hard enough, but from this side only a spell will do it-a new one every time. You’ll get the hang of it.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I-thought this was a matter-transmission unit.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The man laughed as he walked to a tree and reached into the foliage of a low branch. A package came down into his hands. “There’s no such thing as matter transmission! No, it’s the magic curtain. It’s all over-but it’s not safe to use it just anywhere. You have to make sure no one on the other side sees you go through. You know how those Citizens are. If they ever caught on there was something they didn’t control-“<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes. I am unemployed because of Citizen manipulation.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Which explains why you had the will-to-cross, first time. The curtain’s been getting clearer, but still you can’t even see it if you don’t have good reason, let alone use it. Then you have to will yourself through, strongly, right as you touch it. Most people never make it, ever.” The man opened his package and brought out a crude tunic, which he donned. Stile stared. “You wear clothes here?” He remembered the clothing-marks on the woman.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Sure do. You’d stick out like a sore toe if you went naked here in Phaze!” The man paused, appraising Stile. “Look, you’re new here, and sort of small-I’d better give you an amulet.” He rummaged in his bag, while Stile suppressed his unreasoning resentment of the remark about his size. The man had not intended any disparagement.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“An amulet?” Stile asked after a moment. He considered himself to be swift to adjust to new realities, but he found it hard to credit this man’s evident superstition. Spell-magic-amulet-how could a Proton serf revert to medieval Earth lore so abruptly?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Right. We’re supposed to give them to newcomers. To help them get started, keep things smooth, so there’s no ruckus about the curtain and all. We’ve got a good thing going here; could sour if too many people got in on it. So don’t go blabbing about the curtain carelessly; it’s better to let people discover it by accident.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“I will speak of it only cautiously,” Stile agreed. That did make sense, whatever the curtain was, matter transmission or magic.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The man finally found what he was looking for: a statuette hanging on a chain. “Wear this around your neck. It will make you seem clothed properly, until you can work up a real outfit. Won’t keep you warm or dry; it’s just illusion. But it helps. Then you can pass it on to some other serf when he comes across. Help him keep the secret. Stay anonymous; that’s the rule.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Yes.” Stile accepted the amulet. The figure was of a small demon, with horns, tail and hooves, scowling horrendously. “How does this thing work?”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“You just put it on and invoice it. Will it to perform. That’s all; it’s preset magic that anybody can use. You’ll see. You probably don’t really believe in magic yet, but this will show you.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

“Thank you,” Stile said, humoring him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The man waved negligently as he departed in his tunic and sandals, bearing south. Now Stile made out a faint forest path there, obvious only when one knew where to look. In a moment he was gone.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Stile stared down at the amulet. Belief in magic! The man had spoken truly when he said Stile was a skeptici Yet the fellow had seemed perfectly sensible in other respects. Maybe it was a figure of speech. Or a practical joke, like an initiation rite. See what foolishness newcomers could be talked into. Emperor’s new clothes.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He shook his head. “All right, I won’t knock what I haven’t tried. I’ll play the game-once. Amulet, I invoke you. Do your thing.” And he put the chain on over his head.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n

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Book Preview \u00a0 \u00a0 Split Infinity Book One of the Apprentice Adept By Piers Anthony \u00a0 CHAPTER 1 \u00a0 Slide \u00a0 He walked with the assurance of stature, and most others deferred to him subtly. When he moved in a given direction, the way before him conveniently opened, by seeming coincidence; when he made eye … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[21],"class_list":["post-351","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-piers-anthony"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/351","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=351"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/351\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=351"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=351"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=351"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}