Yet surely they could ask the machines for what they wanted to know! That seemed easier than delving all the way into the past. The knowledge-machines still obeyed men.
No, they did not! Certain areas of knowledge were blanked from public awareness. This history of the steppe-country of Asia; of the Vikings of Europe; of the Moslem Arabs, the pre-Columbian Amerinds, and pre-European Africans. What these histories entailed Alp did not know, for the other names were unfamiliar to him. Those adventures could hardly rival the activities of the steppe, regardless!
But he understood the principle: for some reason the machines had been set not to give out these histories, thus keeping the Galactics ignorant. There were many such gaps in the record, his helmet-education informed him; some histories had been taught fifty or sixty years ago but not, since.
One gap was only partial: Steppe. Because Alp had studied the history of his own people, from Turk to Kao-Kiu to Tolach to Uigur—first a minor subtribe, then an increasingly powerful nation of nomads, and finally masters of all the steppe, equals of the civilized Chinese. Alp knew a thousand years of local events in fair detail. Surely there was more in the machines, following his own time—but that of course was blank to him.
Why was this historical ignorance fostered? To understand that, he had first to understand the nature of the Game.
Then it came clear, and he knew what he had to do.
Chapter 4
GAME
The beltways and lifts did not extend into the upper-most reaches. Alp had to take an internal elevator—and there trouble struck.
An alarm sounded as he entered.
Alp leaped back before the closing doors trapped him. He had not had experience with alarms before, but he had a lifetime's experience with mischief. His reflexes seldom betrayed him.
Now he remembered: key transports were equipped with personnel scanners. And all human clothing carried identification codes. He had plucked out much of his hair uselessly, missing what was there in his new memory to see. Obviously the police had discovered their error and put out a bulletin for the clothing of the robbed citizen. The chase was on again!
If he continued to wear this tunic, he would quickly be run down, now that they had a fix on him. Their magic machines could sniff out an identity unerringly; better to have an angry jinn on his trail! But if he removed the tunic, he would be a naked man again—another sure mark. Either way, capture and death—because he was not a proper citizen of this universe.
But he had only a little farther to go! Once he reached the Game, he would have more than a fighting chance.
He ripped off his tunic and dropped it off the edge of the beltway, saving only his handful of hair. The cloth fluttered down, carrying the telltale identity with it. Of course the police could identify human bodies too—but another complex principle called "personal privacy" made that difficult. A body had to be taken to the police station, where the number on it could be brought out by the special equipment there, for recognition to be certain. Even then, there had to be special authorization before the information could be circulated. The typical Uigur Khagan would never have tolerated such restrictions!
Alp himself had no Galactic number—but since he would be the only living man without one, they could readily identify him. He did not know whether the alarms were set to respond to the absence of any number; but in any event, his nakedness betrayed him.
He still had the stunner. He flicked it on and off at the next man he encountered. The citizen stiffened and would have fallen had Alp not caught him. This one was small and frail.
Alp hauled the tunic over the Galactic's head—and discovered the body beneath was feminine. He had been about to don this new apparel, knowing it would take the police a while to catch up with the changed number, but now altered his plan. There seemed to be no difference between man-tunics and woman-tunics, but no self-respecting warrior would wear female apparel!
This was the first Galactic woman he had seen up close. Her hair was burned short and her body was slender, but otherwise she was in no way inferior to the standards he knew. Why had she dressed like a man? Or were the men dressing like women? Had the long-haired citizens he had seen below actually been women, or—his new memory provided the term—transvestites? It was a sorry world when women pretended to man's status—and got away with it!
But that was the way it was today, he realized. There were no requirements for the sexes. Some men preferred to be overtly masculine, and some women splendidly feminine; but the majority fell into a sexless anonymity. An anonymity he had emulated by reducing his hair; there would have been nothing wrong with his warrior's braid!
Every citizen's right to individuality was respected—and also his freedom from individuality. At least, this was so in public.
Alp dropped the tunic off the belt. Then he stripped away the woman's underclothing and dropped it over also.
As the woman moved, regaining consciousness (because he had dosed her with the shortest possible stun), he propped her against the moving rail and let her travel on, naked.
Nudity: there was a major taboo showing up all the Galactics' freedom of individuality as specious. Alp, sensibly, would rather go naked than wear a woman's tunic; these foolish people would rather exchange sexes than show their bodies. Of course, if Alp's own body were as flabby as what he had seen here, he might conceal it too...
Another citizen arrived, male, and Alp treated him the same way. Then two more came together. This was more difficult, but he managed. Then another woman, similarly processed. A line of people was moving down the belt.
Now the earlier cases realized their condition. Horrified, they fled to other belts and other levels, trying desperately to avoid contact with other people. It was a hilarious game of hide and seek. The sphere of nudity was expanding!
A police craft appeared. Alp rode down the belt himself, gesticulating as if in dire embarrassment. He was one of several—and the policeman could not distinguish him from the others!
Alp jumped into another elevator. This time no alarm rang. Good! He made it to the highest level and charged forth as though crazed.
But more police craft had assembled. Evidently they were taking no chances and were rounding up all the naked citizens. One flying machine oriented on Alp, gaining on him.
Alp dived for a special booth marked GAME ENTRY. "Sanctuary!" he cried as the police came up.
The door slid closed, and the clamor outside abated. "Identity?" a neutral voice inquired in Galactic.
"Anonymous," Alp said. He had rehearsed this dialogue in his mind during the chase.
"Entry fee?"
"Advance credit."
"Advance credit is not granted on an anonymous basis."
This was the crux. "I plead an exception. I am not a Galactic citizen."
"Your hand."
Alp held out his hand. Something touched it. "Intriguing," the voice of the Game Machine said. He knew it was the Machine, because there was now a superior quality about it, indicating intelligence. He knew the Machine would have the truth from him—if it so desired. He was at its mercy.
He also knew that machines did not care about human concerns. He was gambling that its disinterest in whether he lived or died was matched by its disinterest in the need of the police to capture him. The Game Machine could learn the truth about him—and not bother to give it away.
But it probed no further. "What indication is there that prospective winnings will be sufficient to repay such advance credit?"
"Technical expertise." The words came with difficulty, for both language and concepts were foreign. What he was really saying was that he would be a skilled player.
Now the police were peering in the transparent aperture, but they could not intrude until the Machine ejected him. He had to convince it to accept him into the Game!
"Of what nature?"
"Extrapolation of events." That meant he would be a lucky guesser. He could not claim to know the immediate futur
e of Steppe—the past ten years of his own life—for then the Machine might suspect he had snooped on the program.
"One technical question."
"Agreed." As if he could refuse! This was another point of decision. If he could convince it that he was a good risk despite his anonymity, it would stake him to the minimum entrance fee of one hundred points. If not—
"What is the likely fortune of Wu-Kiai?"
Alp's hopes collapsed. "I do not know that name."
"Perhaps you know him as Uga."
Alp thought. "I do know of a chief by that name. A Uigur; a strong, violent man." He considered carefully.
Actually he knew Uga very well, for that man had also been out of favor with the Khagan and had assumed much greater power when the Khagan died. But supposedly Alp was extrapolating, and he had to be cautious. "I believe he will rise high—but he lacks the judgment to be a really effective leader. No doubt he will die in battle."
"Here is a sampling of available parts. Make your selection."
Alp's pulse leaped. "You are extending credit?"
"That depends on your selection."
The Machine was candid! But Alp was half there.
A picture-screen illuminated. As the voice named each man, an image showed. This was followed by a brief description: current family and position and personality. The summary was fair; Alp had known several of these men personally. Obviously the Machine had done thorough research.
Could Alp himself be in the Game records? There was a nervous twitch down his back. At this historical date he would be but a stripling, as yet not come into his demesnes, as yet unmarried. But later he would be a chief... and perish in the gorge. An inferior part!
Credit was never extended for more than the minimum, which meant he could not obtain a really promising part. The quality of the part offered depended on the amount of the entry fee paid. Yet even the least likely prospect could turn out to be a winner; that was part of the appeal of the Game.
Alp knew that more than one of these prospects had died in the decade following the present Game-time of 831. Naturally the Machine knew this, but the players did not. If Alp chose wrongly, he would "die"—actually, be ejected from the Game—very soon, with no chance to succeed in the manner that would earn him back his entrance stake. Such figurative death would soon become literal, for him, since the police would be waiting outside.
"These are all Uigur," Alp said.
"Those are the most commonly desired parts at the moment," the Machine said. "There are many others. What group do you prefer?"
"Kirghiz." Alp was disgusted, having to consider a barbarian part, but he needed quick success.
"An interesting choice." Kirghiz parts appeared on the screen.
Was the Machine suspicious? It could not really find anything "intriguing" or "interesting," for it had no emotion. Such words could be signals of trouble. It had to know that the Kirghiz were about to supplant the Uigur in Steppe. But there was scant indication of this ten years before the actual overthrow.
"No, they are too barbaric," Alp said. "No future there. A Uigur is best, after all."
"As you wish." The Machine was giving away no hint!
Alp chose a literate Uigur subchief named Ko-lo: a man of some potential but little present importance. Alp now knew that literacy was rarer in the Galactic society than among the Uigurs. Illiterates did not favor literate parts, since they could not play them well, so this was an underrated attribute. Just what he needed: a potent if subtle tool for advancement.
"Here is your costume," the Machine said. Material spewed out of a slot: a loose robe falling to his calves, split at the sides and gathered by a broad belt. A short fur cape to cover his shoulders, and a fur cap. Not real fur, of course. Wide trousers, that he strapped in at the ankles. He did the same for his sleeves at the wrists. Stout leatherite shoes.
Alp knew right away that this costume was no more authentic than those of the four demons who had brought him to this time. The underwear was similar to what he had removed from the men and women on the belts, the boots were not suitable for riding, and the belt chafed. But it was a reasonable approximation, and once he wore some dirt into it he would be able to wear it comfortably.
There were also weapons, at last! A bow in its ornate sheath that hung from his belt before his left thigh. A quiver of arrows, that rested across the small of his back, with the barbs to the right. A dagger and a short sword, both in good sheaths.
He was in business. The Game Machine had admitted him on credit, which meant it thought he had a reasonable chance to repay. His choice of the part must have been the decisive factor. Apart from the literacy, he had taken Ko-lo because he had never heard of that particular chief nor his family, and he was almost certain the man had not existed historically. That meant the part was open: no specific historical fate awaited, and it was up to the player to improvise.
His memory had told him that a few such parts existed, so that the Game would not be completely fixed. There had to be leeway—room for individual initiative, along with the strict programming of established characters. No one was supposed to know whose fate was predetermined and whose was self-determined; all were mixed together in the Game. Every player could believe that he had free will.
Of course, being a free agent was no guarantee that a player would profit. Most washed out even more rapidly than the average. But a smart—and lucky—man's best opportunity was here.
This part of Ko-lo was a subchief: better than the minimum fee normally brought. That meant that immediate hazards existed that would shorten the span of play. The Machine did not say this, but in practice a peasant with a likely long life could command a higher entrance fee than a chief who was about to be executed.
But Alp did not intend to depend on either luck or the largess of an "intrigued" Game Machine. He happened, by the freak of timesnatch, to be thoroughly conversant with the history of the real Steppe—including particularly the ten years following the present Game-date. If the demons had thought they could profit from such information, why not Alp himself?
"Bare your arm," the Machine said.
Alp bared his left arm and lifted it. There was a momentary pain as light flashed. "Your Game identity number," the Machine explained.
Alp looked. The light had burned a tattoo into the skin on his forearm. He was no longer anonymous!
A panel opened opposite the entrance. Alp/Ko-lo stepped out into the great Game of Steppe.
Chapter 5
SUBCHIEF
For a moment the beauty of it made him dumb. As far as he could see, the grassy plain stretched. There was not a tree or tent anywhere—nothing to interrupt the charge of a good horse. Even the door through which he had come was gone; there was nothing behind him except more plain. Glorious!
First he checked his weapons. He drew out the bow. It was not of the type he ordinarily used, being metal and plastic—plastic was a Galactic invention: a substance somewhat like dried gut, but shaped with greater versatility—
rather than wood and horn. But it had good weight and spring, and the string was of sturdy nylon—yet another imitation material. The Galactics seemed to have a fetish about avoiding animal products. So it was a facsimile—but a serviceable one.
Alp whipped out an arrow from the quiver, brought it over his shoulder and nocked it in the bowstring in a single motion, as the fighting Uigur always did. And halted, amazed.
The shaft of the arrow was not solid. It was made of a beam of light. Only the head and feather were substantial—and these not very. The tip was no more than a paper shell that would collapse instantly on impact, and the nock was actually set into the feather: it should tear apart when fired. Yet the arrow as a whole had an odd firmness, and the head remained before the feather no matter how he spun it about.
How could the arrow act solid—when it was made of light? Tractor beam, his memory said, but that hardly helped.
Alp touched the shaft with one finger. Yes—th
at finger went numb. It was a stunner!
Carefully he returned the strange arrow to its quiver and drew the sword. It was similar: a thread of light in lieu of a cutting edge. But his experience with the police stunner—which weapon he had left in the entrance booth as a prerequisite to admittance to Steppe—convinced him that these instruments were sufficient. They would not kill—
but they would incapacitate as surely as the real weapons would have.
He struck the air with his sword, shadow-cutting. He could handle it. Any player receiving a "lethal" strike would "die"—and be ejected from the Game, a loser. He could then re-enter by seeking new admittance, paying the fee, and assuming a new character. If, in the course of his prior parts, he had amassed sufficient Game-credits, he would be ahead; if not, he would have to produce the fee from his own resources. A wealthy man could afford to lose many times. But Alp himself had to prosper within this one part. His first loss would be his last, because of the waiting extradition to the hell of the chasm.
Alp found a sharp edge on the handle of his dagger and used it to mark the other weapons inconspicuously in Uigur script. A routine precaution. He brushed back his hair.
Hair? His braid was back!
The work of the Machine again. Players were made up for each part, so that others could not tell what they had originally looked like. Alp did not remember going through makeup, but—here was his hair, spliced as though never cut.
One more succinct reminder: he had only an idiot's notion of the capabilities of Galactic magic.