Juxtaposition

4. Poem (SF)

Stile's opponent for the finals was a serf woman two years younger than he: Rue, a twenty-year-tenure veteran of the Game. Like himself, she had not qualified at the top of her age ladder; but also like himself, she was the best of her decade. She was one of the half-dozen serf players Stile was not eager to meet in the Tourney. He thought he could beat her, but he wasn't sure.

Rue had luck as well as skill, for she had lost no Rounds. That meant that a single victory for her would bring her the prize, while one for Stile would merely bring him even. To beat Rue twice in succession — that would be difficult.

They played the grid. Stile got the letters. Rue was good at all manner of tool and machine games, being in superb health; he was well skilled in these areas, too, and could take her in most tool games, but would be at a disadvantage in machine-assisted games. She would expect him to go for TOOL or ANIMAL, so instead he went for A. NAKED. If she went for 4. ARTS, as he expected, this would foul her up.

But she had done the unexpected too, going for 3. CHANCE. With two chances to his one, the advantage would be with her on the straight gamble — if that was the way she wanted to play it. As evidently she did.

They played the subgrid, and finished with a very simple guessing game; each had to pick a number, and if the total of the two numbers was even, Stile won. Even, in this coding, was male; odd was female. This game was so simple it would be played on the grid. Each would enter his/her number, the total flashing on both screens only when both were entered.

Would she choose her own code, an odd number? People tended to, unconsciously, feeling more at home with their own. If she chose odd and he chose even, she would win.

Obviously he should choose odd, to cancel her odd. But, as obviously, she would anticipate that and choose even. Then the result would be odd, and she would still win. It seemed she stood to win regardless.

It came back to the subjective. Given no advantage between alternatives, a person normally selected what pleased him emotionally. Rue, in doubt, should go for odd. Therefore Stile overruled his preference for even and chose the number of letters in his name: five. He entered this on the grid and locked it; no way to change his mind now.

Rue had not yet made up her mind. Now the onus was hers, and they both knew it, and the broadcast audience knew it. She could win or lose by her decision; Stile was passive. The pressure was on her.

"Ten seconds until forfeit," the voice of the Game Computer announced.

Rue grimaced and punched in her number. She was pretty enough, with auburn hair, an extremely fit body, and only a few age creases forming on face and neck. She was thirty-three years old, her youth waning. If she won this one, she would be eligible for rejuvenation, and Stile suspected she desired that more than the actual wealth of Citizenship.

The total showed eight. Rue had chosen the letters of her own name. Even — and Stile had won.

Stile kept his face impassive. He had been lucky — but was keenly aware of the fickleness of that mistress. Rue blanched a little, but knew her chances remained even. Now they were tied, with thirteen victories and one loss each.

There was no break between Rounds this time, since there were no complexities about scheduling. They played the grid again immediately.

Ibis time Stile got the numbers. He certainly was not going for CHANCE, though it had just salvaged his drive. It had not won him anything beyond that, for as a finalist he had already achieved the prize of life tenure as a serf. The only real step forward he could make was to Citizenship, and now at last it was within his means. One single win-

He selected 4. ARTS, knowing that she would be playing to avoid his strong points elsewhere. The arts cut across other skills, and Rue was noted for her intellectual velocity and proficiency with machine-assisted games. Machine art would be a tossup, but he was willing to fight it out there.

But she surprised him again, choosing A. NAKED. So it was 1A, Naked Arts. Stile did not like this; he had had a very bad time in this box in his critical match with the Red Adept, and had pulled it out only by means of a desperation ploy.

They played the subgrids, and finished, to his abrupt delight, with EXTEMPORANEOUS POETRY. Stile had always fancied himself a poet; he had a ready flair for rhyme and meter that had served him in excellent stead in Phaze. But true poetry was more than this — and now he would be able to do something significant when and where it counted.

The Game Computer printed a random list of a dozen words. "Thirty minutes to incorporate these terms into poems," it announced. "Highest point scores given for the use of one key word per line, in order; in the terminal position, rhymed. Technical facility fifty percent; content fifty percent. A panel of judges, including one male Citizen, one female Citizen, male serf, female serf, and the Game Computer, will decide the rating of each effort on the basis of zero to one hundred. The higher composite score prevails. Proceed."

This was more restrictive than Stile liked, but he remained well satisfied. It was not that he thought he had an easy victory, he knew that Rue, too, had facility with words, perhaps greater than his own. She was an extremely quick-witted woman — which was of course one reason she had made it to the Tourney finals. She could cobble together a poem as readily as he could. But at least this particular contest would be decided on skill, not luck.

This was a fair encounter. If he won or if he lost, it would be because he had established his level. That was all he could ask.

Stile considered the words. They were: BITCH, CUBE, FLAME, SIR, SILENCE, LOVE, HORN, CHEAT, ROACH, CIVIL, FLUTE, EARTH. An anomalous bunch indeed! None of them rhymed with each other, so there were no free rides there. The only way to get a key term at the end of a rhyming line was to alternate with filler lines. "My female dog is a wonderful bitch; whenever she scratches she has an itch." That sort of thing would hardly win the Tourney; it was literal doggerel. It might be better to alternate terminal key words with mid-line key words, sacrificing the preferred terminal spot for the sake of the also-preferred, one-key-word-per-line arrangement. The Computer had not made it easy; the contestants had to choose between sacrifices. "My female dog is a wonderful bitch; she stands on a cube and does a twitch." That would garner a better technical score, but nothing extra on content.

He glanced at Rue. She was frowning, evidently displeased by the first term. Stile half smiled; he would have been similarly put out if the term had been RUNT. He was a runt and she was a bitch — but that was the kind of mischief random selection could do.

Because this was Naked Arts, they could use no implements, make no written notes. No rhyming dictionaries. They had to do it all in their heads, punching only the finished poems into the grid for judgment. If either had trouble with memory, he or she could place individual lines as they were worked out. But then those lines would be final, no changes allowed. Since both Stile and Rue were experienced Game players, both could hold the developing poems in memory until the time for presentation. No, the only problem was wrestling these awkward words into the most artistic and meaningful whole.

Stile wrestled a while, but was not satisfied. He could make rhymes and meter, certainly — but where was the meaning? One ignored the content portion of the poem at one's peril. Yet it seemed impossible to fit these unruly words into anything serious; the problem of rhyming and positioning turned his efforts to frivolous tangents, as with the antics of his female dog. What could a person do seriously with words like bitch, cube, and flame?

Time was passing. Rue was hard at work; her expression and concentration suggested she had developed a strategy of creation and was happily ironing out the wrinkles. She would probably come up with something very clever. He had to come up with something even more clever — or more significant. Sir, silence, love — what a headache!

He brought himself back to basics. There were really two types of poetry: the ornamental and the consequential. Ornaments were rhyme, meter, alliteration, pattern, humor, assonance, and technical cleverness. They were stressed in light verse, parody, the libretto for popular music, and such. Serious poetry de-emphasized such things, or dispensed with them altogether. Thus some people were unable even to recognize serious poetry, because it didn't necessarily rhyme. But ultimately any poetic appeal was to the deeper emotions, and the use of symbolism enabled it to evoke complex ramifications in the most compact presentation. As with Kipling's Recessional: "Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!" Presented to Queen Victoria some centuries back, this poem did not find instant favor, for it signaled the decline of the Earth-wide British Empire. But what imagery was evoked by the names of those two ancient cities, foremost in their times, finally brought to ruin by the armies of Babylonia and Alexander the Great, drunkard though the latter might have been. Kipling's verse was superficially pretty; it rhymed nicely. But its real impact was its content, the somber warning for an overextended empire. All too soon it had been London-town under the siege of weapons unknown in the time of Tyre, as the Germans sent their bombers and rockets over. How well Kipling had understood!

With that memory, Stile saw his way. Rhyme, meter, and the rest of the prettiness were encumbrances; he had to dispense with them all and concentrate on meaning and emotion. He would lose some technical points, but gain where it counted. Win or lose, he would do his best, his way.

Stile considered the first word — bitch. He knew of a noble bitch — the old female werewolf who had guided Clef to the Platinum Demesnes, sacrificing her life in the process. Stile could do worse than remember her in this poem!

Cube — there was one cube that was fresh in his experience, and that was the doubling cube of his recent backgammon game, which had enabled him to pull out a last-moment win.

Flame — well, it wasn't the most serious thing, but he had just enabled the chief snow-demon to have a liaison with his literal flame. That might not have any meaning to the Tourney judges, but this poem was not really for them but for Stile himself — his evocation of himself. The frame of Phaze was vitally important to him, and the flame related to that and to the notion of romance, which brought him to the Lady Blue. Ah, yes.

Sir — that was easy. This very poem was Stile's final effort to be called sir: to become a Citizen of Proton, and have similar stature and power in Proton as he did in Phaze as the Blue Adept.

But the remaining terms — they did not seem to relate. Now he was emotionally committed to this course, and had to use them in it — which meant he would have to improvise. That would be troublesome.

What was there to do except use the words as keys, perhaps as some psychic revelation that had to be clothed with syntax to become meaningful? If the first four terms brought him from the recent past to the present, the next eight might be taken as signals of the future. At least he would assume as much for the sake of the poem — insights to himself, now and to come. If the insights proved false, then this was a work of fiction; if true, of prediction. It was a worthy game, and he would take it seriously.

Stile bent to it with a will, and the lines fell into their places. No rhyme, no meter, no other ornamentation; just a series of statements like those of the Oracle, clarifying the significance of each key term. He found that there was not a great amount of mystery to it; the statements were mostly common sense, modified by what he already knew, and the whole was an affirmation of man's resignation to fate.

Suddenly time was up. Rue and Stile typed in their poems. Now it was up to the panel of judges.

In the interim, those judges had assembled. Each one sat in a separate booth facing a central holograph. They could view the holo and converse with each other at the same time. The Game Computer was represented by a booth containing a humanoid robot, its outer surface transparent, so that its wires, hydraulics, and electronic components showed. The thing was at first eerie, like an animated cross section of the human body, but soon the eye accepted it for what it was: an animation of a simplified representation of the far more complicated Computer.

"Display one poem," the Computer-figure said. "The serf Rue will commence her reading."

Rue looked at the printed poem in her grid screen and began to read. A holograph of her formed above the central table, where all the judges could see it plainly. It looked as if she were standing there, a woman on a pedestal, and her eyes made contact with those of whatever judge she happened to face.

"My poem is entitled Cruel Lover," she announced. Then she read, flouncing prettily and smiling or frowning to emphasize the meaning appropriately. As she read each line, it appeared on a simulated screen over her head, until the full poem was printed.

"The key words are used correctly and in the proper sequence," the Computer said. "Each one terminates its lines, and each is matched with a rhyme of good quality. These are credits. Four lines exist only to complete the necessary rhymes; these are neutral. The metric scansion is correct and consistent — basically iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter with certain convenient modifications in the extreme feet. This is a common mode and not considered difficult. I rate the technical facility of this effort forty-two of a total of fifty points alloted to this aspect. Proceed to my left with your judgments."

The female serf was to the left. "I don't know much about all those things," she said diffidently. "But it rhymes, and I sort of like it. So I give it a forty-five."

There was the illiterate response, Stile thought. That was the vote he had not deigned to court, though it cost him Citizenship.

Next was the male Citizen, resplendent in his ornate robes. "We are not yet discussing content or interpretation?" he inquired. When the Computer agreed, he continued: "I find the format simplistic but effective. I'll give it forty." Stile liked that reaction better.

Then the male serf voted. "I don't relate well to the female tone, but technically it seems all right for what it is. The key words are all in the right place, and they do fit in more neatly than I could do. Forty-three from me."

The female Citizen, in a sequined suit, fire opals gleaming at her ears, voted last. "Some of the lines are forced or confusing, but I suppose I must grade that in content. She's done an excellent job of stringing the random words coherently together. Forty-six."

Stile saw that the average score was forty-three, which was good — probably a good deal better than his own would be. Rue had certainly integrated her terms cleverly. He was going to have a rough time of this one!

"We shall now analyze the second poem for technical merit," the Computer said.

Stile stepped up to the grid. He found himself looking past his printed poem into the glassy orbs of the Computer simulacrum robot. He glanced to the side and saw the male serf. He could see anyone he chose, merely by looking in the correct direction; their circle was laid out flat on his screen.

"My poem is titled Insights," he said. Then he read:

He had made eye contact with each judge in turn as he read, and had seen their responses. Unfortunately, these were not promising; some frowned, some seemed confused. It wasn't going over; they did not understand its form or content.

"This is free verse," the Computer said. "It has no consistent meter and no rhyme. This should not be taken as a defect. The key terms are terminally placed, in correct order, one to a line with no waste lines. There are natural pauses at the end of most lines. As free verse, I rate this technically at thirty-nine."

Stile's heart sank. The others would follow the Computer's lead, and he would average several points below Rue's effort.

He was not disappointed in this expectation. The serf woman wondered whether these lines could even be considered poetry, as they seemed just like sentences to her, and the others were lukewarm. The average score was thirty-eight. Stile was five points behind.

Now it was time for the content analysis. Neither poet was permitted to speak at this stage; it was felt that if the poems did not speak for themselves, they were defective. "This is a straightforward statement of position," the Computer said of Rue's effort. "She evidently feels slighted by her male friend, and is dictating to him the terms of their future association. I perceive no particular meaning beyond this, and therefore do not regard this as other than light verse. Rating thirty-five."

That was a good sign, Stile thought. If the others followed this lead, her average would drop.

"It's a good thing machines aren't in charge of romance," the serf woman remarked. "I find this a good telling-off. The guy is a roach, calling her such names, and I'm all with her. I say fifty."

Stile winced inwardly. He needed to recover five points, and figured they might rate his poem an average 40. The Computer's lead had put him right in line to even it up by dropping Rue's score, but this 50 was a disaster.

The male Citizen was more critical, however. "I certainly don't care to see a woman spelling out her terms like that for a romance, though I suppose, if she can find a man to accept them, it's their business. I don't follow this 'burning on the tube' reference; does it make sense at all?"

"Oh, sure, sir," the male serf said. "In the old days on Earth they had gas burners, gas coming up a tube and the flame on top. So she's likening herself to that sort of flame. It's a sort of pun, really."

The Citizen shrugged. "Clever," he said sourly. "I rate this thirty." Stile saw Rue wince. But he himself, while deploring the man's narrowness, was gratified by the score. It put him back in the running.

The male serf was next. "If she becomes a Citizen, then she can set terms," he said, and the others laughed. They were getting into this now, loosening up. "I guess I'm looking for something deeper than this, some social com mentary, not just female demands. Rating thirty-two." And Stile's hopes elevated another notch. Now if only the other woman did not react by sexual alignment-

"I believe I note an extremely clever thrust," the lady Citizen said. "Nowhere is the protagonist identified; it is not necessarily serf Rue at all. It could be any woman, most especially one who has been wronged by the man she loves. It could even apply to a humanoid robot female who loves a flesh-man."

Oh, no! Had Rue slanted her verse to pillory Stile? He saw the judges turning to look at him, and at Sheen in the small physical audience permitted. They knew!

"The references to square and cube fall into place," the lady Citizen continued. "A robot is a creature of geometrical parts, supposedly, animated by electric power from a tiny furnace fed by Protonite. She is certainly burning, internally! She must accept a man's attentions — I understand that is what that type is primarily designed for — but can not have his love, since he knows she is a machine. Yet she can be programmed for emotion; she loves him, knowing that love is not returned. Perhaps the man she serves is a musician, playing the violin or flute-"

Sheen got up from her seat in the audience and walked toward the exit. Stile felt acute pity for her. She was not supposed to be the target!

"One moment," the male Citizen said. "That's her, isn't it? I want to question her."

"That would be involving her in the panel's deliberation," the female Citizen said. "I doubt that's legitimate."

"The judges may seek any source of information they wish," the Computer said. "Except the author of the piece in question."

"Female robot — how do you feel about this poem?" the male Citizen called.

Sheen stopped and faced him. "Sir, I prefer not to answer, if I am to be considered an interested party."

"Answer!" he directed, with supreme indifference to her feelings.

"You may answer," the Computer said. "You have not volunteered your influence; you have been summoned by this panel as a material witness. We are trying to determine whether there is substance to the hypothesis that the poem in question represents your viewpoint."

Sheen's mouth firmed. Her human mannerisms had become so facile that in no physical way was her machine nature evident. She was a beautiful woman, naked of body and perhaps of mind. "Then you shall have my viewpoint, sir. If the poem concerns me, it is not intended as a compliment. It is intended as an attack on the man I love, using me as an involuntary weapon. I am a machine — but I think that even were I alive, I would not care so cynically to hurt a living person in this fashion. This poem is crueler than anything the man I love might do. I am sure his own poem is not of this nature."

The Citizen nodded. "That's some machine," he murmured.

The female Citizen considered, pursing her lips. Her opals flashed. "I am left with a choice. Either this poem is not directed at, shall we say, real people, in which case it is not remarkable — or it is so directed, in which case its brilliance is nullified by its cruelty. In either case, I can not respect it. I rate it twenty-five."

That was disaster for Rue. It made her average score 34¹/₂. The other panelists could reconsider their votes if they wished, but seemed content to let them stand. Rue's poem had a cumulative score of 77¹/₂. Stile had a fair chance to beat that, thanks to Sheen. All he needed was forty points.

Now the judges considered Stile's effort for content. "This poem is more serious and obscure than the other," the Computer said. "Some may not be aware that there exists an alternate frame of reality of this planet within which other laws of physics govern. The author is able to enter that frame, where he is a person of power and has an elegant wife. Several of the first six lines evidently refer to that frame. There was a female wolf who sacrificed her life for her duty, and a magical encounter between a creature of ice and another of fire. The future in that frame can occasionally be foreseen by magical means, and it contains extraordinary mischief, part of which is the conflict of love loyalties. Two lines refer to the Tourney now being concluded, which will lead to Citizenship for one of these serfs. Thus the first portion of the poem is relevant to the larger situation here and must be accorded credit. The second portion appears to be an advisory essay. The Angel Gabriel is destined mythologically to blow his trumpet on Judgment Day for living persons — and that call is the one no one can evade or cheat. This poem extends this concept to creatures both fanciful and repulsive. It concludes that these people and creatures must accept the inevitable with civility, and reminds us that, according to the legend of the other frame, the powerful flute — perhaps an alternate designation of Gabriel's horn — has already announced itself by shaking the earth, in the form of the tremors recently experienced here. Allowing for a considerable figurative dement, I find this poem serious and valid. The tremors were actually caused by the collapse of overworked Protonite mines in the southern range, but this can be taken as a warning: the mineral on which this planet's power is literally based is not inexhaustible, and we shall suffer an accounting when that mineral is at last depleted. Already we have suffered a not-inconsequential damage to a number of our facilities. I therefore take this poem as a well-conceived and serious warning, and on that basis I rate it forty-eight."

Stile was amazed and gratified. He had had no hint the Game Computer knew so much about him or the frame of Phaze, or that it could interpret oblique references with such dispatch. Now he realized that everything he had told Sheen, she had relayed to her machine friends. They in turn could have informed the Game Computer, who perhaps was one of their number. Certainly it possessed considerable self-will, backed by the phenomenal resources of the Computer memory banks and the experience of analyzing many thousands of Games. So this should not have surprised him at all.

It was the serf woman's turn to vote. "Is there any cutting at the opponent?" she asked. The other heads indicated that no one perceived any. "I'm not sure about all the business of the other frame; this is the first I've heard of it. But I can believe the Protonite won't last forever, and somehow this serf-Citizen setup must be called to account. So okay, I'll go with the warning. I rate it forty."

This was better than Stile had hoped from her. She had given the other poem 50, and he had feared she was a man-hater.

"Good job," the male Citizen said. "Forty-five."

"Just what kind of a person is he in that frame you talk about?" the serf man asked.

"He is what is called an Adept," the Computer answered. "That means he is a powerful magician."

"Funny to hear a computer say that," the man said. "But I sort of go for that fantasy bit, even if it is all a story. Forty-two."

Stile's hope was sailing. These were amazingly favorable responses. He was averaging 44. It would take a rating of 25 by the last panelist to bring him down to par with Rue. The lady Citizen seemed too perceptive for that — but she had surprised him before. He felt his hands getting sweaty as he waited for her answer.

"This mischief of love," she said. "Is this person concerned about the feelings of the lady robot who loves him?"

"He may not answer," the Computer reminded her. "We must divine that answer from his poem."

"I wonder whether in fact it is his own personal reckoning he is most concerned with," she said. "He says they must be civil, because what will be, will be. I am not sure I can accept that answer."

Stile quailed. This woman had downgraded Rue's verse for cruelty; was she about to do the same for his?

"Since he has a wife in the other frame, he really does not need a woman of any kind in this frame," she continued. "It is unfair to keep her in doubt."

"We may approve or disapprove the poet's personal life," the male Citizen said. "But we are here to judge only the merit of the poem. For what it's worth, I see several indications that he recognizes the possibility of fundamental change. A bitch turns noble, defeat becomes victory, ice merges with flame, serf becomes Citizen, the fate of dragons and roaches is linked. Perhaps he is preparing his philosophy for the recognition that a living creature may merge with a machine. If this is the way fate decrees, he will accept it."

She nodded. "Yes, the implication is there. The author of this poem, I think, is unlikely to be deliberately cruel. He is in a difficult situation, he is bound, he is civil. It is an example more of us might follow. I rate this work forty-four."

Stile's knees almost gave way. She had not torpedoed him; his total score would be 82, comfortably ahead of Rue's total.

"Do any wish to change their votes on either aspect, of either poem?" the Computer inquired. "Your votes are not binding until confirmed."

The panelists exchanged glances. Stile got tense again. It could still come apart!

"Yes, I do," the serf woman said. Stile saw Rue tense; this was the one who had given her 50 on content. If she revised her grade on Stile's poem downward-

"I believe I overreacted on that fifty score," she said. "Let's call it forty-five forCruel Lover."

Again Stile's knees turned to goo. She had come down on his side!

"Final score eighty-two to seventy-seven in favor of Stile's poem," the Computer said after a pause. "He is the winner of this Tourney."

Now there was applause from the hidden public address system. So quickly, so simply, he had won!

But he saw Rue, standing isolated, eyes downcast. On impulse he went to her. "It was a good game," he said. "You could easily have won it."

"I still have life tenure," she said, half choked with disappointment. Then, as an afterthought, she added: "Sir."

Stile felt awkward. "If you ever need a favor-"

"I did not direct my poem at you. Not consciously. I was thinking of someone who threw me over. Sir."

But now the crowd was closing in, and Stile's attention was necessarily diverted. "By the authority vested in me by the Council of Citizens of Planet Proton," the Game Computer said, its voice emerging from every speaker under its control throughout the Game Annex, "I now declare that the serf Stile, having won the Tourney, is acquitted of serf status and endowed with Citizenship and all appurtenances and privileges pertaining thereto, from this instant forward."

The applause swelled massively. The panelists joined in, serfs and Citizens alike.

A robot hastened forward with an ornate robe. "Sir, I belong to your transition estate. It is your privilege to wear any apparel or none. Yet to avoid confusion-"

Stile had thought he was braced for this, but the re peated appellation "sir" startled him. For a lifetime he had called others sir; now he had comprehensive conditioning to unlearn. "Thank you," he said, reaching for the robe.

The robot skittered to the side. "Allow me, sir," it said, and Stile realized it wanted to put the robe on him. It did not behoove a Citizen to serve himself, though he could if he wanted to. Stile suffered himself to be dressed, holding a mental picture of a horse being saddled. "Thank you," he repeated awkwardly.

The machine moved close, getting the robe on and adjusted. "A Citizen need not thank a machine — or anyone," it murmured discreetly in Stile's ear.

"Oh. Yes. Thank — uh, yes."

"Quite all right, sir," the machine said smoothly.

Now a lady Citizen approached. It was Stile's employer. Former employer, he reminded himself. "I am gratified, Stile," she said. "You have made me a winner too."

"Thank you, sir." Then Stile bit his tongue.

She smiled. "Thank you, sir." And she leaned forward to kiss him on the right eyebrow. "I profited a fantastic amount on your success. But more than that is the satisfaction of sponsoring a Tourney winner. You will find me appreciative." She walked away.

Now the Citizen known as the Rifleman approached. "I know exactly how you feel," he said. That was no exaggeration; the Rifleman had won his own Tourney fifteen years before. Stile had encountered him in the first Round of this Tourney and barely pulled out the victory. The Rifleman had been an excellent loser. "Accept some private advice, Citizen: get away from the public for several days and drill yourself in the new reality. "That will cure you of embarrassing slips. And get yourself someone to explain the ropes in nontechnical terms — the extent of your vested estate, the figures, the prerogatives. There's a hell of a lot to learn fast, if you don't want to be victimized by predatory Citizens."

"But aren't all Citizens — that is, don't they respect the estates of other Citizens?"

"Your minimum share of the Protonite harvest can not be impinged upon — but only your luck and competence and determination can establish your place in the Citizen heirarchy. This is a new game, Stile — oh, yes, Citizens have names; we are merely anonymous to the serfs. You may wish to select a new name for yourself-"

"No need."

"It is a game more intricate and far-reaching than any within the Tourney. Make a point to master its nuances, Stile — soon." And the Rifleman gave him a meaningful glance.

The audience was dissipating as the novelty of the new Citizen wore off. Stile signaled Sheen. "Can your friends provide me with a mentor conversant with the nuances of Citizen behavior?"

"They can, sir," she said. "Or they could program me-"

"Excellent! Get yourself programmed. They'll know what I need. And do it soon."

Sheen left. Stile found it incongruous that she should remain naked while he was now clothed. Yet of course she remained a serf — an imitation serf — now in his employ; she would remain naked the rest of her life.

Her life? Stile smiled, a trifle grimly. He was forgetting that she had no life. Yet she was his best friend in this frame.

Stile turned to the robot who had brought his robe. "Take me to my estate," he ordered it.

The machine hesitated. "Sir, you have none."

"None? But I thought all Citizens-"

"Each Citizen has a standard share of the Protonite mines. All else follows."

"I see." It seemed there was much that was not handed to a Citizen on a platter. He needed that manual of Citizenship! Where was Sheen? Her programming should have been quick.

Then she appeared. "I have it, sir," she said.

"Excellent. Take me to an appropriate and private place, and deliver."

"Don't I always — sir?" She led the way out of the Game Annex.

The place turned out to be a temporary minidome set up on the desert. Its generator tapped an underground power cable, so as to form the force field that prevented the thin, polluted outside atmosphere from penetrating. A portable unit filled the dome with pleasant, properly cooled air. Sheen set up a table for two, put out crackers, cheese, and mock wine, adjusted the field to turn opaque, and planted a spy-disrupter device on the ground. "Now we are private, sir," she said.

"You don't have to say sir to me," he protested.

"Yes, I do, sir. You are a Citizen and I am a naked serf. We violate this convention at our peril."

"But you've been my friend all along!"

"And once more than that, sir," she reminded him. She had come to him as guardian and mistress, and had been good in both capacities. His marriage to the Lady Blue had deleted the second. Sheen, a machine supposedly without any human emotion not programmed into her, had tried to commit suicide — self-destruction. She had become reconciled after meeting the Lady Blue. Sheen still loved him, and for that Stile felt guilty.

"It occurs to me that, as a Citizen, I could have you reprogrammed to have no personal feeling toward me," he said.

"This is true, sir."

"Do you wish it?"

"No, sir."

"Sheen, I value you greatly. I do not want you to suffer. That poem of Rue's — I am absolutely opposed to giving you cause to feel that way. Is there anything within my present power I can do to make you happy?"

"There is, sir. But you would not."

She was uncompromising. She wanted his love again, physically if not emotionally, and that he could not give. "Aside from that."

"Nothing, sir."

"But I may be able to make your friends happy. As Citizen, I can facilitate their recognition as sapient entities." Her friends were the self-willed machines of Proton who, like Sheen herself, had helped him survive Citizen displeasure in the past. He had sworn never to act against their interests so long as they did not act against the interests of man, and both parties honored that oath. Stile did not regard their desire to achieve serf status as contrary to the oath; he agreed they should have it. But such status was not easy to achieve; the Citizens were devoted to the status quo.

"All in good time, sir. Now shall we review the appurtenances and privileges of Citizenship?"

"By all means."

Rapidly, in simple language, she acquainted him with his situation. He was entitled to use the proceeds from his share of the mines to purchase or construct a physical estate, to staff it with serfs, robots, androids, cyborgs, or anything else, and to indulge in any hobbies he wished. The amount of credit available from his share was sufficient to enable him to construct a moderate palace, hire perhaps twenty-five serfs, and buy six robots of Sheen's type. Expensive hobbies like exotic horse breeding or duplicating the Hanging Gardens of Babylon would have to wait until the palace was complete. The income of a Citizen was not limitless; it only seemed that way to serfs.

It was possible, however, to increase one's resources by making and winning large wagers with other Citizens. Bets of a year's income were not uncommon. However, if a Citizen got two years in arrears, further wagers would not be honored until he caught up. It was never permitted for a Citizen to become destitute; a basic lifestyle had to be maintained. Appearance was vital.

"I'll have no problems there," he said. "I'm not a gambling man, outside the Game. I shall be a very conservative Citizen and live well within my income. Most of the time I won't even be here, as you know."

She nodded sadly. "Yes, sir. There's a note in the program from my friends. They warn it is not safe for you to stand pat. Forces are building rapidly. To protect yourself you must soon develop your estate to a hundred times its original magnitude. Within six months."

"A hundred times!" he exclaimed. "In six months!"

"And you must unravel the mystery that is associated with your lasering, sir. Who sent me to protect you? My friends have disturbing new evidence that this is not an isolated event. Someone or something is interfering with your life, and my friends can't discover who."

"Yes. And in Phaze, someone set the Red Adept against me on a false alarm." He had had an extraordinary amount of trouble in that connection, ending in the banishment of the Red Adept from both Phaze and Proton. The Oracle had said Blue would destroy Red, and that had proved correct — but none of that mischief would have occurred if someone had not started the rumor that Blue intended to attack Red.

"And there was that earthquake, sir, which you believe is connected to events in Phaze," she continued. "Another portent, perhaps."

"Definitely. The Platinum Elves informed me that I would be involved in important developments, after my honeymoon." Ooops — he had not meant to mention the honeymoon to Sheen. He continued rapidly. "I'm not sure I like the implication. I don't know what the linkages between frames might be, but since a number of people can cross, there can be interactions, perhaps quite serious ones." He breathed deeply. "I was psychologically prepared for banishment from Proton when I got eliminated from the Tourney. I'm not so certain about how to proceed now that I have permanent tenure. I don't feel comfortable here in clothing."

"That is why you needed to isolate yourself, sir."

Stile got up and paced the small enclosure. "I promised to return to Phaze by noon. I have already overran that deadline. Why don't you set in motion the machinery for the establishment of my physical estate, and start hiring serfs, while I cross the curtain to-"

"That might not be wise, sir."

Her constant "sirs" were still getting on his nerves, but he knew this was good conditioning. "Not wise?"

"You will need your money as a stake to multiply your estate, sir, so should not fritter it away on nonessentials. And if it became known that a machine was disposing your assets-"

"I am a Citizen, aren't I? I can use a machine if I want to, can't I?" Stile was irritated, not liking the implied slur at Sheen.

"Yes, sir."

"So I'm appointing you my chief of staff, or whatever the appropriate office is. I'd better hire a staff of serfs, for appearances, and become a compulsive gambler. But I'll lose my new fortune unless I have competent input. Will your friends help?"

"They will, sir."

"Then ask them to locate an appropriate adviser for me. One who knows how to break in a new Citizen."

"And how to escalate a Citizen's fortune rapidly, sir."

"Precisely. Now I'll go finish my honey — uh, my business in Phaze. Assuming I can get out of Proton unobserved."

"A Citizen can, sir," she assured him. "If you will make a brief, formal holo statement of authorization, so I can draw on your funds-"

"Ah, yes." Stile took care of that immediately.

"Thank you, sir," she said, accepting the recording. "I shall set the wheels in motion."

"Excellent. And I'll ponder what I can do for you and your friends."

Sheen nodded, knowing he could do nothing for her. She would serve him loyally and lovingly, regardless.