Stile was spared the awkwardness of answering by the Game Computer’s introductory announcement. “Attention all entrants. The Tourney roster is now complete: four hundred Citizens, six hundred serfs, and twenty-four aliens. Pairing for individual matches is random each Round. The Tourney is double-elimination; only entrants with two losses are barred from further competition. Serfs among the final sixty-four survivors will receive one year extension of tenure. Those proceeding beyond that level will receive commensurately greater rewards. The Tourney winner will be granted Proton Citizenship. Judging of all matches in the objective sphere is by computer; subjective judging is by tabulated audience-response; special cases by panels of experts. Bonus awards will be granted for exceptional Games. Malingerers will forfeit.” There was a momentary pause as the computer shifted from general to specific. Now it would be addressing the annexes individually. “Game-pair 276 report to grid.”
Hastily two serfs rose, a man and a woman, and walked to the grid set up in the center of the room. They began the routine of Game-selection.
“Ah, this is like old times,” the Rifleman said appreciatively.
“Yes, sir,” Stile agreed. He would have liked to follow the first couple’s progress, but of course he could not ignore the Citizen. “Not old to me, sir.”
“Contemporary times for you, of course,” the Citizen said. “I have followed your progress intermittently. You have played some excellent Games. Perhaps I misremember; don’t you happen also to be an excellent equestrian?”
“I was a winning jockey, yes, sir,” Stile agreed.
“Ah, now it comes back! You were lasered. Anonymously.”
“Through the knees, yes, sir.”
“That had to have been the action of a Citizen.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Citizens are a law unto themselves.” The Rifleman smiled. “Don’t forget, I was a serf for nineteen years, and a Citizen only fifteen. My fundamental values are those of the serf. However, I doubt that even most birthright Citizens would approve such vandalism. There are licit and illicit ways to do business, and no Citizen should need to resort to the illicit. A rogue Citizen would be a menace to other Citizens, and therefore should be dealt with firmly for a practical as well as legal reason.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As you know, I am in this Tourney merely for titillation. I now perceive a way to increase that interest. Allow me to proffer this wager: if you overmatch me in this Round, I shall as consequence make an investigation into the matter of the lasering and report to you before you depart the planet. Agreed?”
No serf could lightly say no to any Citizen, and Stile had no reason to demur. He wanted very much to know the identity of his enemy! Yet he hesitated. “Sir, what would be my consequence if you defeat me?”
The Rifleman stroked his angular beardless chin. “Ah, there is that. The stakes must equate. Yet what can a serf offer a Citizen? Have you any personal assets?”
“Sir, no serf has—”
The Citizen waggled a finger at him admonishingly, smiling, and Stile suddenly found himself liking this expressive man. No serf could afford to like a Citizen, of course; they were virtually in different worlds. Still, Stile was moved.
“Of course a serf has no material assets,” the Rifleman said. “But serfs often do have information, that Citizens are not necessarily aware of. Since what I offer you is information, perhaps you could offer me information too.”
Stile considered. As it happened, he did have news that should interest a Citizen—but he was honor-bound not to impart it. He happened to know that a number of the most sophisticated service robots were self-willed, acting on their own initiative, possessing self-awareness and ambition. Theoretically there could eventually be a machine revolt. But he had sworn not to betray the interests of these machines, so long as they did not betray the welfare of Planet Proton, and his word was absolute. He could not put that information on the line. “I regret I can not, sir.”
The Citizen shrugged. “Too bad. The wager would have added luster to the competition.”
As though the future of a serf’s life were not luster enough? But of course the Citizen was thinking only of himself. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I would have liked to make that wager, had I a stake to post.”
“Are you not aware you could make the wager, and renege if you lose? You really don’t have much to lose.”
Stile, under tension of the Tourney, was suddenly angry. “That’s reprehensible!” Then, belatedly, “Sir.”
“Ah, you are an honest man. I thought as much. I like that. Most top Gamesmen do value integrity.”
Stile was spared further conversation by the interjection of the computer. “Game-pair 281 report to grid.”
The Rifleman stood. “That’s us. Good luck, Stile.” He proffered his hand.
Stile, amazed, accepted it. He had never heard of a Citizen shaking hands with a serf! This was an extension of courtesy that paralleled that of the Herd Stallion in Phaze: the disciplined encounter of respected opponents.
Phaze! Suddenly Stile realized what he had to offer. The knowledge of the existence of the alternate frame! The information might do the Citizen no good, since most people could not perceive the curtain between frames, let alone cross it, but it would surely be of interest to the man. There was no absolute prohibition about spreading the word, though Stile preferred not to. But if he won the Game, he wouldn’t have to. His seemed to be an acceptable risk.
“Sir,” Stile said quickly. “I do have information. I just remembered. I believe it would interest—”
“Then it is a bargain,” the Citizen said, squeezing Stile’s hand.
“Yes, sir. Only I hope you will not share the information with others, if—”
“Agreed. This is a private wager and a private matter between us—either way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Second call for Game-pair 281,” the computer announced. “Appear at the grid within ten seconds or both forfeit.”
“You bucket of bolts!” the Rifleman snapped. “Whom do you suppose you are addressing?”
A lens swung about to fix on the Citizen. The response was instant. “Abject apologies, sir. Time limit is waived.”
The Rifleman’s glance swept across the silent room. “You may laugh now.”
The remaining serfs burst into laughter.
“Rank hath its privileges,” the Rifleman said. He put his hand on Stile’s elbow, guiding him to the grid. This was a public mark of favor that awed the serfs present, Stile included. This Citizen had been friendly and reasonably solicitous throughout, but now he was being so when all eyes were upon him.
“You lout,” another Citizen said, laughing. “Now we’ll all have to show favor to our serfs!”
“What is Proton coming to?” a third Citizen inquired. This one was a woman, elaborately gowned and coiffed, with sparkling sapphires on her wrists and ankles and a nugget of Protonite on her forehead, reminding Stile of Neysa’s snub-horn in her girl-form. Parallelism again, perhaps. This Citizen, too, was smiling, seeming almost like a person.
It occurred to Stile that even Citizens might get bored with their routine existences, and appreciate comic relief on rare occasions. The Tourney was a great equalizer!
Now he faced the Rifleman, the grid unit between them. This was a column inset with panels on opposite sides. The weight of the two men beside it caused the panels to illuminate. Stile’s showed four categories across the top: 1. PHYSICAL 2. MENTAL 3. CHANCE 4. ARTS. Four more were down the side: A. NAKED B. TOOL C. MACHINE D. ANIMAL. The latter facet was highlighted: Stile had to select from the letters.
He experienced the usual pre-Game tension, made worse by the fact that this was no routine Game, but a Round for the Tourney. And made worse yet by the fact that his opponent was a Citizen. What column would the Rifleman choose? PHYSICAL or MENTAL, surely; he was neither a gambler nor an artist, and he wanted a good game. He would want to get into 1B or 1C, tool- or
machine-assisted physical games like tennis or shooting, where his major expertise lay, or into 2B where he might get into chess. He had won a Tourney Game dramatically in chess, Stile remembered now, on his way up; in fifteen years he had probably improved his game. It was necessary to stay clear of this: Stile could play chess well himself, but he had not had fifteen idle years to practice.
He was up against someone who really could play the Game. This could be the toughest opponent he would face in the entire Tourney. A good Game that he lost in a contest was no good; he needed a likely winner. His only real course seemed to be ANIMAL. Then he could get into horseracing or liontaming. His knees were weak, but this only became acute when he flexed them completely; he could do ordinary riding better than anyone he knew, and remained pretty good at trick-riding. His smaller weight would give him an advantage, for the Tourney made no allowances for size or sex. All games were unhandicapped. And he liked animals, while the Rifleman, an expert hunter, probably did not have as close rapport. Yes.
Stile touched D. Immediately a new grid showed: 1D, PHYSICAL/ANIMAL. The Rifleman had chosen as expected.
Now the top line was 1. SEPARATE 2. INTERACTIVE 3. COMBAT 4. COOPERATIVE, and the sideline was A. FLAT B. VARIABLE C. DISCONTINUITY D. LIQUID. Stile had the letters again, which was fine. Horseracing was on a flat surface, and he had control of the surfaces. He did not want to get involved with trained sharks or squid wrestling in the LIQUID medium, and feared the Rifleman might be experienced in falconing in DISCONTINUITY, i.e., air. Mountain Rodeo would be all right, in the VARIABLE surface; Stile had bulldogged mountain goats before. But that category also included python tug-of-war in trees, and Stile did not care for that. So he stuck with A. FLAT.
The Rifleman selected 2. INTERACTIVE. So they were in box 2A. No horseracing, but there could be two-horse polo or—
The new grid was upon them, nine squares to be filled in by turns. Lists of games and animals appeared.
The Rifleman met Stile’s gaze over the column. “Take it,” he said, smiling. He was giving Stile the advantage of first selection, rather than requiring the Game Computer to designate the turn randomly. Such minor courtesies were permitted; they facilitated the selection process.
“Thank you, sir.” Stile designated POLO/HORSE in the center box.
The Citizen put BASEBALL/ANDROID in the right upper box.
Oh, no! Stile had not considered that androids counted as animals for Game purposes. Baseball was played by modified twentieth-century rules: nine players per team. It was a ballgame, but there was some overlap in categories; ballgames could appear in several sections of the master grid. This was an animal-assisted ballgame, as was polo. The difference was, there were a number of animals here, not used as steeds but as actual players. Obviously the Rifleman was expert at this sort of game, while Stile was only fair. He had walked into a trap.
Sure enough, while Stile filled in other individual animal contests, the Rifleman filled in android team games: Soccer, Basketball, Football. And when they played the grid, the Citizen won: FOOTBALL/ANDROID.
Disaster! Stile had not played team football in a long time. He could pass, kick and catch a football, but an hourlong session with twenty bruisingly huge androids? What a horror!
There was no chance now to brush up on the antique Earth-planet Americana the Rifleman evidently liked. Stile had to play immediately, or forfeit. The Citizen did not bother to ask him to concede, knowing he would not. For better or worse, this had to be fought out on the field.
They adjourned to the bowl-stadium. It was sparsely attended by spectators, since there were several hundred Games in progress and serf interest was divided. However, a number began to file in as the news of a Citizen-serf-android match spread. It was not that serfs were interested in Stile, at this point; they merely hoped to see a Citizen get knocked about a little with impunity.
“In the interest of economy of time and efficient use of facilities, this Game will be abbreviated to thirty minutes playing time without interruption,” the Game Computer announced. “Each party will select twenty animal players, from which a continuous playing roster of ten will be maintained. Substitutions are limited to one per team per play, performed between plays. Proceed.”
The computer was certainly moving it along! And no wonder, for a second playing field was already being utilized, and the remaining two would surely be in use before Stile’s game finished.
They reviewed the androids. The artificial men stood in a line, each hulking and sexless and stupid but well muscled. Each carried a placard labeling its specialty: FULLBACK, HALFBACK, QUARTERBACK, and an array of offensive and defensive linemen. The capability of each was set within a standard tolerance; an android could perform exactly what it was supposed to do, no more and no less. Thus the outcome of the Game would be determined by the management and strategy and participation of the two human players, not the skill of the androids.
The largest imponderable was that of human skill. For this was not a remote-control game; the androids were there merely to assist the real players, who could occupy any position on their teams, but had to participate continuously. A good contestant would enable his team to prevail; a bad one would drag his team down to defeat. Stile feared that the Rifleman would prove to be good, while Stile himself, partly because of his size, would be less-than-good.
The Rifleman selected four pass receivers and a solid offensive line. He was going for an aerial offense, without doubt! Stile chose pass receivers too, and a passing quarterback, then concentrated on his defensive line. He had to hope for a stalled game and errors; as he saw it, defense was the refuge of incompetence, and that was apt to be him. He dreaded this Game!
It began. Chance gave Stile’s team first possession of the ball. His animals were in white, the Rifleman’s in black. The opposing team lined up like faceless demons from the frame of Phaze, darkly formidable. They swept forward, kicking the ball ahead, converging on its locale as it landed. Stile’s receiver-android had no chance; he was down on the ten-yard line.
Yards, Stile thought. This was one of the few places where the old system of measurements prevailed on Planet Proton, because of the vintage and origin of this particular game. It was easiest to think of them as scant meters.
Now the onus was on him to devise a strategy of play that would bring the football down the field and across the opposing goal line. Stile had a hunch this would not be easy. He assigned himself to be a pass receiver, and scheduled the play for his runner. That should keep Stile himself from getting crushed under a pile of android meat. Of course he knew the androids were programmed to be very careful of human beings. Still, a tackle was a tackle, and that could be bruising. He was thoroughly padded in his white playing suit, of course, but he knew accidents could happen.
The play proceeded. The pass receivers dodged the opposing linemen and moved out on their patterns. Stile got downfield and cut back as if to receive the ball—and found himself thoroughly blocked off by the android pass defender. Catch the ball? He could not even see it! The only way he could hope to get it, had it been thrown to him, was if it passed between the animal’s legs.
Fortunately he knew no pass was coming. Stile’s runner bulled into the line, making one yard before disappearing into the pileup. That, obviously, was not the way to go.
Still, this first drive was mainly to feel his way. The nuances were already coming back to him, and he was getting a feel for the performance tolerances of the androids. He should be able to devise good strategy in due course.
Next play he tried a reverse end run. He lost a yard. But he was watching the Black team’s responses. The androids, of course, lacked imagination; a really novel play would fool them, and perhaps enable his team to make a big gain or even score.
On the third play he tried a screen pass to one of his receivers. The pass was complete, but the receiver advanced only to the line of scrimmage before getting dumped. No breakthrough here!
Fourth down and t
ime to kick the ball downfield. Stile signaled his kicker to come in—and realized belatedly that he had selected no kicker. None of his animals specialized in any kind of kick, and therefore could not do it. If he had his quarterback make the attempt, the job would surely be bungled, and the other team would recover the ball quite near the goal line. Yet if he did not—
A whistle blew. The referee, penalizing his team for delay of game. Five yards. He had to kick it away!
No help for it; Stile would have to kick it himself. He would not have the booming power of an android, and he dreaded the thought of getting buried under a mound of tackling animals, but at least he could accomplish something. If he got the kick off promptly, he might get away without being bashed.
No time to debate with himself! He called the play, assigning the kick to himself. The teams lined up, the ball was snapped, and the enormous Black line converged on Stile like a smashing storm wave.
Stile stepped forward quickly and punted. Distracted by the looming linemen, he dropped the ball almost to the ground before his toe caught it. The ball shot forward, barely clearing the animals, and made a low arch downfield, angling out of bounds just shy of the fifty-yard line. Not bad, all things considered; he had gained about forty yards. He had been lucky; had the Black androids had the wit to expect an incompetent punt, they might have blocked it or caught it before it went out, and had an excellent runback.
Luck, however, seldom played consistent favorites. Stile had to do better, or the first bad break would put him behind.
Now it was the Rifleman’s turn on offense. The Citizen had stayed back during the prior plays, keeping himself out of mischief. Now he made his first substitution, bringing in one of his pass receivers. Stile exchanged one of his receivers for a pass defender. The first plays would probably be awkward, since most of Stile’s players were offensive and most of the Rifleman’s players defensive—but the longer the drive continued, the more qualified players could be brought in, at the rate of one per play. Of course the offensive and defensive lines were fairly similar, for Game purposes, so the exchange of as few as three backfield players could transform a team. All the same, Stile hoped the drive did not continue long.