“Your share is not a literal kilogram, sir, but rather the equivalent in continuing production from the Protonite mines. In time—perhaps a year—you will have an income of ten to twenty additional grams. Enough to maintain a modest estate without depleting your principal.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to deplete my principal,” Stile said, feeling giddy. Even a Citizen’s small change vastly exceeded his expectation. “Still, to build a stake of seven hundred and fifty grams up to an estate of two thousand kilograms—that will take rapid doubling and redoubling.”
“Certainly, sir. And we shall not be risking all of the discretionary funds. Reverses are to be expected. I recommend an initial limit of one hundred grams per wager.”
“And your recommendation is my law.”
“Yes, sir, in this respect. Except—”
“Except that I will handle the substance of the wagers myself, drawing on none of your computer information. I presume you feel this makes me likely to fail.”
“Yes, sir,” Mellon said unhappily. “I have considerable strategic resource, were it permissible for use.”
“Were it not the way I am, your kind would not have trusted me to keep their secret.”
“Yes, sir.” But considerable disapproval was conveyed in that acquiescence.
“Very well, let’s review this matter. You have the entire information bank of the planetary computer network available to you. The average wagering Citizen does not. Would you consider it fair play for us to use this? I submit that it represents an unfair advantage, and to use it would be dishonest.”
“Citizens have very few restrictions, sir. They may draw on any available facilities. I think it likely that some will seek to take advantage of your inexperience. Turnabout may be considered fair play.”
“Very well. If I encounter a Citizen who is trying to take unfair advantage, I’ll draw on your information to turn the tables. But I’ll balk at anything I dean to be unethical. I will cheat only the cheaters.”
“Understood, sir. It would be unwise to seem to follow the advice of a serf too slavishly.”
Evidently the issue of personal integrity still eluded the robot. “Yes. A Citizen must keep up arrogant appearances.”
Now Sheen, who had remained scrupulously clear of this discussion, rejoined it. “I am sure you will have no difficulty, sir.”
She was a machine, but she was programmed for human emotion. How much did she resent the use he was making of her?
The event they attended turned out to be a routine Citizens’ ball. Sheen and Mellon, as favored servitors, were permitted to accompany Stile, but they kept subserviently behind him. At the entrance they outfitted Stile with a suitable costume for the occasion: a seemingly cumbersome ancient spacesuit, puffed out around the limbs with huge joints at the elbows and knees, and a translucent helmet bubble. Actually, the material was very light and did not hamper movement at all.
They entered the ballroom—and Stile was amazed. It was outer space in miniature. Stars and planets, somewhat out of scale; comets and nebulae and meteors and dust clouds. The motif was not remarkable, but the execution was spectacular. The stars were light without substance, holographically projected, but they looked so real he was fearful of getting burned if he floated too near. For he was floating, in effect, on the invisible floor; the soles of his space boots were padded, so that his footsteps made no sound.
Citizens in assorted varieties of spacesuits floated in groups, their serf-servitors like satellites. One spotted him and moved across. It was the Rifleman. “I see you are mixing in, Stile. Excellent. Let me introduce you to key figures. What is your preference? Romance, camaraderie, or mischief?”
“Mischief,” Stile said, grateful for the man’s help. “I want to make some wagers.”
“Oh, that kind! It’s the gamesmanship in your blood. I know the feeling well. But we have some high rollers here; they’ll strip you down to your minimum estate in short order, if you let them. You can never bet all your wealth, you know; computer won’t allow any Citizen to wipe out. Bad for the image.”
“I understand. I have a competent monetary adviser.”
“You will need him. I warn you, Stile, there are barracuda in these waters. Best to play penny ante until you get to know them.”
By the same token, though, the barracuda would get to know him—and his adviser. That would not do. He needed to score rapidly, before others grew wary. “What is considered penny ante here?”
“One gram of Protonite.”
“That was all I was worth a few days ago.”
The Rifleman smiled. “I, too, in my day. Times change, Citizen. This is a whole new world.”
“I hope not to do anything foolish before I acclimatize.”
“Oh, by all means do be foolish,” the Rifleman said encouragingly. “It is expected of all new Citizens. You are the novelty of the day; enjoy it while you can.”
All this time the Rifleman had been guiding Stile across the miniature galaxy. Now they came to a group of space-suited Citizens hovering near a large dark nebula. The men were rotund and unhandsome; rich living had shaped them to porcine contours that even the ballooning suits could not ameliorate. This disgusted Stile; he knew that they could easily have kept their weight down by consuming diet food that tasted identical to the calorific food, or by having reductive treatments. Apparently they just didn’t care about appearance.
But the two women were a striking contrast. One was an hourglass, her breasts like pink melons, her waist so tiny Stile knew that surgery had reduced it, her hips re-surging enormously, tapering into very large but well-contoured legs. Stile found this exaggeration of female traits unpleasant, but even so, it had its impact upon him. Her breasts swelled like the tides of an ocean as she breathed, and her hips shifted elevation precipitously as she walked. Her suit was only remotely related to space; most of it was transparent, and much of the front was mere netting. It seemed to Stile that in real space those enormous mammaries would detach explosively and fly outward like the rings of gas and dust from old supernovae. But she had a pretty face, almost elfin; surely the handiwork of a fine plastic surgeon.
The other woman was decorously garbed in an opaque cloth-type suit that covered every portion of her body. Her head was encased in a translucent bubble that shadowed her face and lent enticing mystery to her expression. She seemed almost too young to be a Citizen—but of course there was no age limit.
The Rifleman introduced the whole group, but the names of the men bounced off Stile’s awareness like rainwater. Only the two women registered consciously; he had never before heard the name of a female Citizen, and it affected him with an almost erotic force. “… Fulca, with the fulsome figure,” the Rifleman was concluding. “And Merle, known to her illustrious enemies as the Blackbird.”
Illustrious enemies? Blackbird? If this were not mere posturing, this was a Citizen to be wary of.
The two women nodded as their names were spoken. “You’re the new franchise, aren’t you?” Fulca inquired.
“Yes, sir,” Stile said, then visibly bit his tongue. Both women smiled.
“Stile would like to wager,” the Rifleman said. “He’s a Gamesman, you know, with an eye to pulchritude.”
The male Citizens stood back, curious but not participating, as if more intrigued by the manner in which the females would handle this upstart than by the prospect of making some profit. “Anything,” Fulca agreed. “Choose your mode, bantam.”
There was that ubiquitous reference to his size. He would probably never be free of such disparagement. No sense in letting it rattle him. He had what he wanted—someone to wager with.
Stile’s imagination suddenly deserted him. “Uh, small, to start. Very small. And simple.”
Her glance traversed him merrily. “For a small, simple man. Agreed.”
Was that another cut at him? Probably not; it was evident that Citizens treated each other very casually. What did they have to prove? They were all eli
te. Or maybe this was part of his initiation. The watching males gave no sign.
“Uh, scissors-paper-stone?” Stile asked, casting about for something suitable and drawing no inspiration from the environment. Without the Game’s preliminary grid, he Jacked notions.
“Ah, a noncontact game,” she said as if surprised. Now one of the watching males nodded at another, as if the two had made a bet on the matter that had now been decided. So that was the nature of their interest—to wager on Stile’s performance with the voluptuous woman. No doubt many men sought to get close to her on one pretext or another. This actually encouraged Stile; he was beginning to grasp the situation. “Small and simple,” he repeated.
“Shall we say one gram, doubled each round, seven rounds?” Fulca suggested.
Stile glanced at Mellon, who made an almost perceptible nod of assent. The final bet would fall within the limitation, though the total amount of the series would not. These Citizens were indeed a fast crowd! Again one of the males nodded, having a point decided—what level Stile was playing at.
“May I call the throws?” the Rifleman asked. “On the count of two, spaced one second; late throw means default, which Merle will call. For one gram of Protonite: on your mark, one-two.”
Stile, caught off-guard by this ready procedure, put out his forked fingers a shade late. Fulca was there with a flat hand. “Default,” Merle said, her voice soft, like dusk wind in pines.
“Agreed,” Stile said, embarrassed. He had made the winning throw—too late. Some beginning; he had already thrown away the twenty-year ransom of one serf.
“For two grams,” the Rifleman said. “One—two.”
This time Stile was on time, with scissors again. Fulca also showed scissors. “No decision,” Merle breathed.
Stile marveled that it could really be this simple. He had thought of Citizens as a class apart, devoted to pursuits beyond the comprehension of mere serfs. But in fact Citizens were serflike in their entertainment—or so it seemed so far.
The Rifleman continued without pause. “Balance of one gram to Fulca. For four grams: one—two.”
Stile’s mind was racing as he warmed to the game. Theoretically random, these combinations were actually not. Each person was trying to figure the strategy of the other. Stile himself was very good at analyzing patterns and moods; he did it almost instinctively. The first throw had been random; the normal course, for an inexperienced person, would be to go on the next throw to whatever choice had won before. Thus Fulca had gone from paper to scissors. Stile, testing, had held firm. Did he have the pattern solved? If so, Fulca would go next to the stone. So he would match that, verifying. The early bets were for analyzing; the later ones counted. Even as this flashed through his mind, his hand was flinging out the closed fist.
Fulca matched his stone. “No decision,” Merle said. It seemed they did not play these over, but just continued the series.
“For eight grams: one—two.”
This time Stile went for the win. He expected Fulca to go for paper, to wrap the last throw’s stone. So he threw scissors again—and won.
“Scissors cuts paper; Stile wins,” Merle announced.
“Balance of seven games to Stile,” the Rifleman said. “For sixteen grams: one—two.”
Would the hourglass lady Citizen be foolish enough to go for stone again, fighting the last war too late? Or would she stick with paper, expecting him to go for stone? Stile decided to play her for the fool. He threw out the flat hand. And won.
“Paper wraps stone; Stile,” Merle said.
“Balance of twenty-three grams to Stile,” the Rifleman said. “I warned you girls he was a Gamesman, like me. He can play. For thirty-two grams: one—two.”
Stile continued the fool-play, throwing out the closed fist. Fulca threw the forked fingers. She winced as she saw the combination.
“Stone crushes scissors. Stile wins.” Merle smiled within her dusky helmet. Evidently these people enjoyed a good challenge.
“You beat me with the ones I lose with!” Fulca exclaimed.
That was another way of looking at it. He had cut her paper, then shifted to paper and wrapped her stone, then had his stone crush her scissors. The losing throws became the winners of the next throw. “Beginner’s luck,” Stile said apologetically.
One of the males snorted. “His mind is on the wager, not her body,” he murmured.
“Balance of fifty-five grams to Stile,” the Rifleman said. “For sixty-four grams: one—two.”
Fulca had caught on to his pattern; had she the wit to take advantage of it? This single throw could reverse the entire game. Stile thought she would not learn quickly enough, so he threw scissors, trusting her to throw paper. She did.
“Scissors cuts paper. Stile wins,” Merle said.
“He sure cut your paper!” the male Citizen remarked to Fulca with satisfaction. He had evidently won his private bet on the outcome of this contest.
“Balance of one hundred nineteen grams to Stile. End of series,” the Rifleman said. “So entered in the credit record; Stile has increased his Citizen’s stake by more than ten percent, fleecing his first ewe. Instant analysis: he lost one, drew two, and won four. Was this luck or skill?”
“Skill,” Merle said. “He is a master Gamesman—as is unsurprising.”
Fulca shrugged, and her torso undulated in vertical stages. “There are other games.”
“Uh-uh, dear,” the Rifleman said with a reproving smile. “You had your crack at him and lost, as I did in the Tourney. If you want to seduce him, you’ll have to wait your next turn. Now he enters the second round.”
“Second round?” Stile asked.
This time all the male Citizens chuckled. Merle tapped herself lightly between her muted breasts. “Do you care to try your skill with me, serf-Citizen?”
“I do still have the urge,” Stile said, catching Mellon’s affirmative nod. But he felt uneasy; he now perceived that Merle was not nearly as young as she had first seemed. In fact, she was somewhat older than he, and her manner was that of a completely self-assured person. She was probably a power among Citizens; one of the barracuda he had been warned against. But he would have to tackle this kind some time.
“Then let us play a hand of poker,” she said.
The serfs hastily brought a pack of playing cards, poker chips, an opaque table, and chairs. The Rifleman took the cards, spread them out, and pronounced them fit to play with; Stile believed him. No one got through the Tourney without being expert with cards. Why should Citizens cheat? They needed neither money nor fame, and cheating would destroy the natural suspense of gambling.
But Stile was nervous about this game. Poker players were a breed apart, and a Citizen poker player whose facial features were shrouded by a translucent helmet could be more of a challenge than Stile could handle at the moment. Yet Stile was good at poker, as he was in most games; he certainly should have a fighting chance, even against an expert—if he didn’t run afoul of his betting limit. Limits could be devastating in poker.
“Merle has chosen the game,” the Rifleman said. “Stile may choose the rules.”
“Standard fifty-two-card pack, no wild cards, standard wider galaxy hands in force, betting—”
“Sorry, Stile,” the Rifleman interjected. “You may not dictate the pattern of betting. That choice reverts to her, by Citizen custom.”
“Of course I will honor Citizen custom,” Stile said. “But I have hired a serf to supervise my estate, and he wants me to stay clear of large bets until I know my way around. So I might have to renege on the game, if—”
“A sensible precaution,” Merle said. “Seat your serf to the side; you may consult with him while betting.”
“That is gracious of you, Merle,” Stile said, forcing himself to speak her name, though his lifetime of serf conditioning screamed against it. “Please, in compensation, name the variant you prefer.”
“Certainly, Stile. Are you familiar with Lovers’ Quarrel?”
/>
Oops. “I do not know that variant,” Stile admitted.
“It is a variety of Draw. Each player must draw from the hand of the other, one card at a time, which hand is replenished by the dealer. Betting occurs after each draw, until one player stands pat.”
Some variant! This had the double stress of involuntary loss of cards from one’s hand, and the opponent’s knowledge of an increasing portion of that hand. At some point they both should know what each had—but that would not necessarily make betting easier.
They took seats at the table, the Rifleman serving as dealer. Stile glanced at the knot of spectators. The males watched with poker faces, obviously intent on the proceedings. Mellon and Sheen stood impassively, but Stile knew that Sheen, at least, was controlling her emotional circuitry with difficulty. She loved him and wanted to protect him, and here she could not. This was also outside Mellon’s bailiwick; there was no way for him to draw on computer information to give Stile an advantage, and that was the way Stile preferred it. This was an honest game.
The Rifleman dealt five cards to each. Stile picked up his hand, holding it together so that only the bottom card showed, and that was concealed from all external view by his casually cupped hands. He rifled once through the corners, his trained eye photographing the hand and putting it mentally in order: ace of spades, 10 of hearts, 10 of diamonds, 4 of clubs, 2 of clubs. A pair of tens. That was not much; in a two-player game, the odds were marginally in favor of this being high, but he would have similar odds on the flip of a coin. He did not want to bet on this.
“The lady may draw first,” the Rifleman said.
“Thank you, Rife,” Merle said. She discarded one card face down. “I will take your center card, Stile, if you please.”
Stile spread his hand without looking and lifted out the center card. It was the 10 of diamonds. There went his pair already!
The Rifleman dealt Stile a replacement card. It was the 6 of hearts. Now he had only ace-high, a likely loser.
“One ounce,” she said. The Rifleman slid a white poker chip across to her, and she touched it into the center of the table.