The tackle was bruising despite the armor, but at least the padding protected him from more than superficial abrasion. A flag went down.
Roughing the passer. Fifteen-yard penalty. First down. Once again Stile was within field goal range.
He drop-kicked again, of course. The audience cheered. The stadium was almost full now; news of this game was evidently spreading. But he had to keep his attention on the field. Now he had twelve points, and six minutes to go. Maybe he could pull it out after all.
But the Rifleman had the ball again, and now he was determined. There were not going to be any more breaks or mistakes.
Stile’s misgivings were well taken. The Rifleman shot his passes too high and fast for Stile to intercept, settling for swift, short gains. When Stile tried too hard he got tagged for interference. Slowly and erratically, but inevitably, the Citizen hammered out the yardage.
On Stile’s thirty-yard line, the Rifleman’s first pass attempt failed. On second down his run got nowhere. On third down Stile gambled on a blitz, sending eight of his animals in to overrun the quarterback before he could pass. It worked; the Rifleman was sacked. Loss of six yards.
Now it was fourth down, and the Rifleman had to kick out. He tried a placekick and field goal, but was too far out; the ball fell short, to Stile’s immense relief.
Stile had the ball again, with four minutes remaining. Time enough—if he could move the ball.
He moved it. He had his animals open a hole in the center, and he slipped through for several yards. He had his passer send a screen pass to him, and he dodged and raced up the sideline for several more yards. He was wise to the ways of the androids, now; he knew their little individual foibles. Some were faster than others; some were less stupid. One android did not have the wit to outmaneuver another, but Stile did. He could get past them—so long as he did it himself, not delegating the job to an animal of his own. So long as he carried the ball himself, he could progress; that was the key. That was why the Rifleman had succeeded so well in moving the ball at the outset, while Stile floundered. The Rifleman had drawn on his own abilities, not limited by those of the androids. Now Stile was doing it too—and had been doing it, every time he kicked. Now, so late in the game, understanding came. It really was a game of two, not of twenty-two.
But this was bruising. The constant exertion and battering were taking it out of him, and Stile could not maintain the drive. It stalled out on the Rifleman’s forty-yard line. Too far for another field goal. Stile had to punt, regretfully.
He went for the coffin corner, angling the ball out of bounds at the four-yard line. That forced the Rifleman to play in his own end zone.
The Citizen was showing overt nervousness now. He did not like being backed up this way. He tried a pass, but it was wobbly and off-target, incomplete.
Now it was time to strike. Stile caught the arm of his center as the lines reformed. “Make a hole to spring me through,” he said, and the creature nodded. The androids were slow thinkers, but they did orient somewhat on the needs of their supervisors. This one now understood what Stile wanted.
When the ball was hiked, the android shouldered into his opposite number, lifting him entirely off the ground. Stile scooted through, so low that his flexing knees hurt, and emerged directly in front of the Rifleman.
“Oh, no!” the Citizen exclaimed. Losing his poise, he tried to run from Stile instead of throwing the ball away. It was a mistake; he moved right into a pocket of White linemen and was downed in his own end zone.
It was a safety: two points. The score was now 15–14, with two minutes left to play. And Stile’s team would get the ball.
It was put into play by a free kick from the Rifleman’s twenty-yard line. The kicker, under no pressure from the opposing line, got off a booming spiral that lofted high and far. One of Stile’s receivers took it on his thirty-yard line and ran it all of two yards before getting buried.
Now Stile was highly conscious of the clock. He dared not give up the ball again, for the Rifleman would surely consume the remaining time in a slow drive and win by a single point. But how could Stile move it down to field goal range against the desperation defense he knew he would encounter?
Answer: he had to do it himself. He would get battered, but it was the only way.
“Run interference for me,” he told his three most competent animals. “You two in front, you behind. Right end run. You two receivers go out for a fake pass. And you, you runner—you fake a run to the left.” He was pulling out all the stops. If the Rifleman anticipated his strategy, he would swamp Stile with a blitz. It had to be risked.
But the Citizen, too, was tiring. He was in fit condition—but Stile was not merely fit, he was an excellent athlete in peak condition, strongly motivated. His toughness and endurance were counting more heavily now. The Citizen stayed well back, avoiding physical contact whenever possible. In effect, he had dropped off his team. That meant that not only did Stile have eleven effective players to ten, but he had the most animated team. Now he could put together a sustained drive—theoretically.
His animals blocked and Stile ran around the end. And—it worked. He made several yards before his escort fell in assorted tangles. Now a huge Black android pounced on him for the kill—and Stile cut in under the brute and threw him with a solid shoulder boost. It was partly the disparity of size that enabled Stile to come in low, and partly surprise that put him in close instead of where the android expected him. The creature went tumbling across Stile’s back and rolled to the turf.
Suddenly Stile was in the relative clear, and still on his feet. He accelerated forward, drawing on his reserves of energy, determined to make the most of his opportunity. Dimly he heard the roar of the crowd, excited by the dramatic run. The stadium had been constantly filling, and now more than half the seats were filled—and it was a fair-sized chamber, sufficient for perhaps a thousand. Stile knew these spectators didn’t care who won the Game; they merely responded to unfolding drama. Still, their applause encouraged him. His bruises and fatigue seemed to fade, and he shot ahead at full speed. Five yards, ten, fifteen, twenty—
In the end it was the Rifleman who caught him. The man was not to be tricked by a martial arts throw; after all, he was a former Tourney winner who had to be conversant with all forms of physical combat. He caught Stile by one arm and swung him around and down. He tried to wrest the ball away, but Stile was on guard against that, and plowed into the turf without giving it up.
He was now on the Rifleman’s forty-five-yard line with a first down. His ploy had paid off handsomely.
On the next play Stile tried a short pass, from android to android. While he himself faked another run. This was not as spectacularly successful as his last play, but it was good for eight more yards. Most of the attention had been on Stile’s fake, and the Rifleman’s pass defense had loosened up.
Then a quarterback sneak, good for three more yards, and a first down on the thirty-four-yard line. He was getting near field goal range—but now he had only thirty seconds remaining. With no time-outs, he had no time to spare for fancy planning. “Give me the ball,” he said. “Protect me.”
But this time he got nowhere; his strategy had been too vague. Fifteen seconds remaining. Time for one final desperation measure. “Take a lateral,” he told his primary pass receiver. “Step clear and lateral back to me.”
Stile took the hiked ball, stepped back, lateraled to his receiver, and shrugged at the onrushing tacklers as they struggled to avoid him. The Rifleman didn’t want any game penalties stopping the clock at this point!
The android lateraled back. Stile stood alone, having been forgotten by the tacklers. As the pileup formed about the pass receiver, Stile dodged forward, passing confused androids of both teams who somehow thought the play had ended, and were slow to reorient. He cut to the left, getting clear of the central glut, then forward again. He had made it to field goal range!
Then he heard the final gun. He had used up all his
time in the course of his maneuvering, and now the game was over. There would be no more plays, no chance to dropkick the winning field goal.
Stile slowed to a walk, disconsolate. So close—only to fail. To reach the fifteen-yard line in the clear, and have to quit, defeated by a single point.
Then, from the front tier of seats, he heard Sheen’s voice. “Run, you idiot!” And he saw the animals of both teams converging on him.
Suddenly he realized that the game was not quite over. The play was still in session. Until he was tackled, it was not finished.
But the Rifleman, more alert to the situation than Stile had been, was now between him and the goal line. The Citizen was calling directions to his troops. Stile knew he could not make it all the way.
He began running across the field, toward the center, where more of his own animals were. “Protect me!” he bawled.
Dully, they responded. They started blocking off the pursuit. Stile cut back toward the goal, making it to the ten-yard line, the five—
A Black android crashed through the interference and caught Stile from behind. Stile whomped down in a forward fall, and the ball squirted from his grasp. A fumble at the worst possible time!
The androids knew what to do with a loose ball. Animals of both teams bellyflopped to cover it. In a moment the grandest pileup of the game developed. The whistle blew, ending the play and the game.
The delirious cheering of the crowd abruptly stilled. Obviously the ball had been recovered—but where, and by whom? It was impossible to tell.
Slowly, under the supervision of the referees, the androids were unpiled. The bottom one wore a White suit, and lay just within the end zone.
Stile had six more points.
Now the crowd went absolutely crazy. Serfs and Citizens alike charged onto the field. “Let’s get out of here before we’re both trampled to death!” the Rifleman exclaimed, heading for the exit tunnel.
“Yes, sir!” Stile agreed.
“By the way—congratulations. It was an excellent Game.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They drew up inside the tunnel. Here they were safe; the crowd was attacking the goal posts in some kind of insane tradition that went back before Planet Proton had been colonized. “I have not forgotten our private wager,” the Rifleman said. “You played fair and tough and made a remarkable game of it, and you prevailed. I shall be in touch with you at another time.”
“Thank you, sir,” Stile said, unable to think of anything better.
“Now let’s get out of these uniforms.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then Sheen was trotting toward them, her breasts bouncing handsomely. She was ready to assume control of Stile’s remaining time in this frame. It would be several days before all of the Round One matches cleared, since there were 512 of them. But Stile would not be able to linger long in Proton-frame; he had to get back to Phaze and find out how to handle the Unicorn Herd Stallion in combat. Otherwise his tenure in Phaze could become even shorter than his tenure in Proton.
But Sheen was aware of all this. She took him in tow, stripping him of his armor in literal and figurative fashion. Stile was able to tune out the contemporaneous proceedings. How good it was to have a friend like Sheen here, and one like Neysa there!
CHAPTER 4
The Little People
Stile stepped through the curtain into the deep and pleasant forest of Phaze. He recovered his clothing, dressed, then hummed up an ambience of magic. He could signal Neysa with a spell, and she would come for him.
Then it occurred to him that this would consume time that would be better spent otherwise. Why not experiment, and discover whether he could indeed transport himself? He pondered a moment, finding himself quite nervous, then singsonged a spell: “Transport this man to the Blue Castle’s span.” It was not good verse, but that didn’t matter; abruptly he stood in the castle court.
He felt dizzy and nauseous. Either he had done an inexpert job, or transporting himself was not good procedure. Certainly he would not try that again in a hurry; it had gotten him here, but at the expense of his feeling of equilibrium and well-being.
Neysa was in the court, nibbling on the magic patch of bluegrass. Every bite she took was immediately restored, so there was no danger of overgrazing, despite the smallness of the patch. She looked up the moment he appeared, her ears swiveling alertly. Then she bounded across to join him.
“Careful! Thou wilt spear me!” he protested, grabbing her about the neck and hanging on to steady himself.
She snorted. She had perfect control of her horn, and would never skewer something she didn’t mean to, or miss something she aimed for. She blew a questioning note.
“Nice of thee to inquire,” Stile said, ruffling her sleek black mane with his fingers. He was feeling better already; there was a healing ambience about unicorns. “But it’s nothing. Next time I’ll have thee carry me; thou dost a better job.”
The unicorn made another note of query.
“Oh, that,” he replied. “Sheen took care of me and got me to the Game on time. I had to match with a Citizen, a former Tourney winner. He nearly finished me.”
She blew a sour note.
“No, he was a top Gamesman,” Stile assured her. “A player of my caliber. It was like doing battle in this frame with another Adept! But I had a couple of lucky breaks, and managed to win in the last moment. Now he’s going to help me find out who, there, is trying to wipe me out.” He tapped his own knee, meaningfully. “And of course once we settle with the Herd Stallion, we’ll set out to discover who killed me here in Phaze. I don’t like having anonymous enemies.” His expression hardened. “Nay, I like that not at all!”
The Lady Blue appeared. She wore a bathing suit, and was as always so lovely it hurt him. It was not that she was of full figure, for actually she was less so than Sheen, but that somehow she was exquisitely integrated, esthetically, in face and form and manner. The term “Lady” described her exactly, and she carried its ambience with her regardless what she wore. “Welcome back, my lord,” she murmured.
“Thank thee, Lady.” He had been absent only a day, but the shift of frame was so drastic that it seemed much longer.
“Thy friend Hulk has returned.”
“Excellent,” Stile said. He was somewhat stiff from the bruising football game, but glad to be back here and quite ready to receive the Oracle’s advice.
“Thou’rt weary,” the Lady said. “Let me lay my hands on thee.”
“Not necessary,” Stile demurred. But she stopped him and ran her soft hands across his arms and around his neck, and where they touched, his remaining discomfort faded. She kneaded the tight muscles of his shoulders, and they loosened; she pressed his chest, and his breathing eased; she stroked his hair and the subconscious headache became nonexistent. The Lady Blue was no Adept, but she did possess subtle and potent healing magic, and the contact of her fingers was bliss to him. He did not want to love her, yet, for that would be foolhardy; but only iron discipline kept him from sliding into that emotion at a time like this. Her touch was love.
“I would that my touch could bring the joy to thee that thy touch does to me,” Stile murmured.
She stopped immediately. It was a silent rebuke that he felt keenly. She wanted no closeness with him. Not while she mourned her husband. Perhaps not ever. Stile could not blame her.
They moved on into the castle-proper. The Lady preceded him to the bath, where Hulk soaked in a huge tile tub set flush with the floor, like that of a Proton Hammam. The huge man saw the Lady, nodded, then in an afterthought sought ineffectively to cover himself. “I keep forgetting this is not Proton,” he muttered sheepishly. “Men don’t go naked in mixed company here.”
“Thou’rt clothed in water,” the Lady reassured him. “We be not overly concerned with dress, here. My present suit differs not much from nudity.” She touched the blue material momentarily. “I have myself stood naked before a crowd and thought little of it. The
animals wear no clothing in their natural forms, and oft not in their human shapes. Even so, I would not have intruded, but that my lord is here and needs must be informed immediately.”
“That’s right!” Hulk agreed. “Do thou step outside a moment, Lady, and I’ll get right out of this.”
“No need,” Stile said. “I am here.” He had been behind Hulk, whose attention had been distracted by the prior entry of the Lady.
“Oh. Okay. I have the Oracle’s answer. But thou dost not have much time, Stile. May I talk to thee privately?”
“If the Lady is amenable,” Stile agreed.
“And what is this, unfit for mine ears?” the Lady Blue demanded. “Well I know you two are not about to exchange male humor. Is there danger?”
Hulk looked guilty. He used his fingers to make a ripple in the bath water. “There may be, Lady.”
The Lady looked at Stile, silently daring him to send her away. She called him “lord” and deferred to him in the presence of others, for the sake of appearances, but he had no private power over her.
“The Lady has suffered loss already,” Stile said. “I am no fit replacement, yet if the Oracle indicates danger for me, she is rightfully concerned. She must not again be forced to run the Blue Demesnes without the powers of an Adept.”
“If thou wishest,” Hulk agreed dubiously. “The Oracle says that thou canst only defeat the Herd Stallion by obtaining the Platinum Flute.”
“The Platinum Flute?” Stile repeated, perplexed.
“I never heard of it either,” Hulk said, making further idle ripples with his hand. The ripples traveled to the edges of the tub, then bounced back to cross through the new ripples being generated. Stile wondered passingly whether the curtain that separated the frames of science and magic was in any way a similar phenomenon. “But there was another querist there, a vampire—”