Blue Adept

CHAPTER 12 - Dance

Round Ten was getting into rarefied territory. Only twenty players remained, eighteen of whom had suffered one loss. The losers of this Round would receive a five-year tenure bonus.

Stile had another liability to go with his bad knee: the healing thigh. The bullet-amulet had lodged in his bone, holing the artery in passing. The damage, while bad, had not been as bad as it could have been, but he had depleted his vital resources and suffered near-shock. The Yellow Adept had provided a potion that multiplied his healing rate tenfold. Still, nature needed time to do the job, and he had been able to rest only ten hours before having to return for the next Game. He was not in ideal shape. Sheen had led the drone back to Red’s bunker and tossed the bullet in. That had been that. She reported, objectively, that it had been a most impressive explosion, that tore open a hidden second chamber where the Red Adept had hidden. Unfortunately Red had not been there at the time. She had vanished from the scene during the drone-chase, and Stile had not thought to get another fix on her during his brief recovery period.

As a result of all this assistance and attention by the several ladies of the frames. Stile was free of immediate threats to his welfare and was able to play the Game—but he really intended to stay out of the PHYSICAL column. Sheen was taking good care of him, but she could not help him there.

His opponent this time was a man of his own ladder: nicknamed Track, age 35, the running champion of the over-30 category, and no slouch at other track events. Stile could not have beaten him at running, jumping or swimming even when in shape, and in his present condition it would have been hopeless. But Track was comparatively weak in MENTAL and had virtually no artistic awareness. So this should be an easy win for Stile—if he kept it out of PHYSICAL and CHANCE.

As luck would have it. Stile got the letters. He could not eliminate the physical column.

He considered rapidly. NAKED was absolutely out. TOOL was not good; Track was excellent at bicycle racing, tennis, billiards and other such sports. MACHINE was a little better; Track was less secure in things like motorcycle racing, while Stile was expert, and his thigh would interfere only minimally. ANIMAL—Stile was of course the champion horse racer. He could no longer flex his knees properly for best effect, but his basic skill and experience and rapport with horses remained. This was his obvious choice. Therefore he did not take it. He went for TOOL instead, hoping to catch Track sneaking in MENTAL. 2D would have put them into animal training, and Track had an excellent touch with the circus whip.

It didn’t work. It came up IB. Tool-Assisted Physical Games.

But Stile outmaneuvered him in the subgrid, and the Game came up Bubbles. This was about as delicate as a physical game could get.

They blew soap bubbles with straws, and wafted them across a measured alley. Scoring was by volume, distance and time—to get the greatest volume of bubble across a set distance within the time limit. Stile had the fine touch here; his bubbles were only of medium size, but were durable, while Track’s larger ones tended to pop before completing the distance.

Stile won the Game. It had been his gridding skill, once more, that had done it. They shook hands and parted, and the crowd of spectators applauded. This had hardly been a bruising or dramatic Game, but the stakes were high enough to make it interesting to all. With five more years of tenure to look forward to. Track was not hurting badly.

Stile managed six more hours accelerated healing in Phaze before reporting for Round Eleven. Now the total number of contestants was down to eleven, with only one remaining undefeated. The losers of this Round would re3ceive a prize of ten years tenure. One thousand and thirteen had now been eliminated from the Tourney. Stile’s opponent was another Citizen, this time a young one—about fifteen years old. Stile was pretty sure he could prevail on most games of skill, but still did not want to risk the physical ones. This time he had the numbers, so put it into MENTAL; there he would have no disadvantage. The Citizen, surprisingly, selected ANIMAL. So it was 2D, the one Stile had played to avoid last time. When they gridded it down to the specific, they settled on Mixed-Species Communication.

Each player had three untrained animals: a dog, a cat and a rat. Each player had all-purpose animal snack treats and an electronic goad: positive and negative inducements. The task was to get all three animals to traverse a set maze without touching any of them. The first player to succeed would be the winner.

The animals, of course, were at first more interested in pursuing or escaping each other than in doing intellectual tricks. Careful management was required. The goad was adjustable, creating pain in the systems of whatever animal it was tuned to, ranging from mild to paralyzing; the cats learned very quickly not to attempt to pounce on the rats, because of the mysterious agony that balked them. But the inducement of a positive act was more difficult than the suppression of a negative one. The snacks could not be used to lead the animals; they could only be presented as rewards for proper behavior. This was confusing to the creatures.

There was a series of “locks” in which, by the design of the layout, two animals were necessarily together briefly before passing into the next stage of the maze; that was what really put it into the MENTAL column. The reward of food could lure the animals into the first lock, and the goad could prevent them from attacking one another, since they tended to repeat what had been positive before and avoid what had been negative. But the overall strategy of placement and movement and incentive was what counted in causing the animals to respond most positively. Again, Stile’s experience and rapport with animals paid off. He completed the course while the young Citizen was still trying to get his cat to join his growling dog in the lock, instead of pouncing on the rat. Had he brought the rat to the lock first he would have been more successful; either of the other animals would have joined it willingly. Stile had brought rat, cat and dog through in that order, and by the time they finished all three were eager to continue moving forward. The Round was Stile’s. Funny, how these important later Games seemed to be getting less consequential in actual play. Stile’s first Round Game, Football, had been his toughest; this last one his easiest. But the luck of the grid often produced such anomalies.

Again he returned to Phaze for a night’s healing and rest. It was the Yellow Adept who tended him, in her natural old-woman form. She had the potions and experience to handle it, and she represented no temptation for him to abridge his Oracular guarantee, as might have been the case with the Lady Blue.

Why was Yellow doing this? He was in hock to her again, and was getting to like her quite well as a person. It was as if his need brought out her better traits. Maybe she liked being part of a team, doing something worthwhile, earning the appreciation of others. It was something that few Adepts experienced.

The child Brown Adept also paid him a visit to wish him well. It seemed she felt a certain retroactive guilt for the use of a golem in the prior murder of Blue, and wanted to make an amend. Things were looking up.

But until he eliminated the Red Adept, nothing was settled. She must have been busy setting up new traps during the period of his convalescence. Then Sheen re-ported that Red had shown up in the Tourney. She too had made it to the rarefied Rounds, with a single loss. If both Red and Stile continued winning, they would eventually come up against each other there.

It happened in Round Twelve. This was hardly coincidence, at this point. Only six contestants remained, one of them undefeated. The bonus to the loser this time was twenty years tenure—a full extra term.

Stile’s thigh was now almost healed, and he had the incentive of his oath of vengeance. He was ready for Red. This was one situation she could neither escape nor cheat. By beating her here he would not only deny her Citizenship, he would wash her out of the Tourney—and since her murders of Hulk and Bluette had now come to Citizen attention, thanks to the investigation of Bluette’s Employer, she would be denied the bonus tenure. She would be exiled.

Stile pondered the meaning of this. He had wanted to kill her—yet his oath was merely to “make an end” of her. The Oracle had not predicted killing either; it had said Blue would destroy Red. Did exile constitute destruction? Perhaps. The Citizens had fairly sophisticated mechanisms to ensure that no exiled person ever returned to Proton; no worry about that aspect. At any rate, the more Stile contemplated the prospect of coldly killing another human being, the less he liked it. He simply was not a murderer. So if this was the meaning of oath and Oracle, he would accept it with a certain relief.

Red’s position was different. She needed to kill Stile. Because if he washed out of the Tourney at this point, he would have twenty years as a tenure serf to plot her destruction, assuming she made it through to Citizenship. He would have his power base on Phaze, where he would be safe from her mischief, and could locate her and make forays at any time. The powers of Citizenship were great, but eventually he would get her, and they both knew it. So she needed more than victory in the Tourney. There were ways to kill in the Games. The competitions were designed to be as safe as possible, but a person could have heart-failure during extraordinary physical exertion, or an anesthetic dart in pistol-dueling could be accidentally contaminated with a legal but lethal drug, or equipment could fail at a critical moment. She would surely try to arrange something like that, though it was prohibitively difficult under the experienced eye of the Game Computer. Stile, in turn, would try to prevent any such accident. There was little delay at this stage, since the Game facili-ties now had to support only three Games. The audience for each would be huge. Stile was spared the unpleasant-ness of having to converse with his enemy. They proceeded immediately to the grid.

Again he got the letters. Every time he really wanted the numbers, it seemed, the luck of the draw denied them, Stile did not try to play for Red’s weaknesses; he was not sure what they were, in Game terms. He played for his own strength: TOOL. He liked animals and worked well with them, but he wanted no more android-animal football games or dog-cat-rat games.

It came up 4A. She had gone for ART.

4A? He had selected B!

But his entry was clear; he had miskeyed. Of all the times to do that! This carelessness could cost him the match!

No time for recrimination. The Naked Arts related to Singing, Dancing, Pantomime, Story Telling, Poetry, Humor and the like: presentations before an audience. Stile was good enough at these things; presumably Red was too. She had probably been gridding for Sculpture in 4B; had Stile played correctly, that might have come to pass. With her life’s work in fashioning amulets, she was thoroughly experienced and skilled at that sort of thing. Of course he would not have let her have it; he would have thrown it into Music. Against Clef he had been in trouble; against Red he was pretty sure he would have a decisive advantage in Music. But of course she would not have let him have it, either, so they would have gridded into something else, that perhaps neither of them had much experience in, such as Writing. So he might be just as well on here. He was versed in most of the Naked Arts, and expert in some. If she wanted to match him in the generation of original free verse—

But the grid turned up Dance. All right—he could dance too. Did she have some particular specialty, like the classical minuet? He did not care to risk that; better to throw it into a more creative form, where his imagination could score. Not Ballet, because his thigh injury could interfere, but perhaps something loosely related.

In the end it came to a structured free-form dramatic dance, paradoxical as that seemed. It had a script with set maneuvers, rather like a ballet, but within that frame the particular interpretations were left to the players. It was costumed; in this case it was considered that apparel was useful for effect without being a necessary tool. NAKED did not refer to the absence of clothing, since all serfs lacked that; it simply meant that a particular Game could be played without any device like a bat or computer or hunting dog. So for this nakedness, the participants were clothed, for the benefit of the audience. Stile, recently acclimatized to the conventions of Phaze, was able to take this in stride. Red of course had no difficulty at all. All in all, he felt reasonably well off. The Computer established the script. It had a good Ele of diverse story lines, and varied them enough so that there were few repeats in a given year. This did mean that some play-themes were fairly unusual, but that was all part of the challenge.

This one was based on a tale of the Arabian Nights, “The Afreet’s Beauty Contest.” Citizens tended to favor Arabian motifs, associating with the presumed opulence of ninth- and twentieth-century Arabian culture. Stile had the role of Kamar Al Zaman, a bachelor prince, and Red the part of Princess Budur, Moon of Moons. Stile was not familiar with this particular story, but had a foreboding about it. These Arabian tales could get pretty fundamental. This one was obviously a romance, and the last thing he could stomach was a Game of Love with the enemy he had sworn to destroy. But there was no clean way out, now.

The Computer was the Narrator and stage director. A panel of performing-arts critics was the judge. They would take into consideration the responses of the audience, but would not be bound by it; it was known that audiences often had illiterate tastes and colossal ignorances. Stile was satisfied with this; it meant his performance would be judged on its esthetic merits rather than on his size or Red’s appearance.

Maybe, too, he was foolishly buoyed by his last experience with such a panel, in connection with the harmonica duet. He knew something like that was unlikely to happen again; still...

They took their places on the darkened stage. The light came on in Stile’s part of the set. It was not a fancy Arabian setting, to his surprise, but a simple two-level pseudo-stone alcove.

“Kamar AI Zaman, an Arabian prince, has been con-fined to his chamber by his father the King because Kamar refuses to marry any of the eligible girls of the kingdom or any of the princesses of friendly neighboring Idngdoms. The King wishes to ensure the continuance of the royal line, and harbors a nagging suspicion that his son may be gay, so has taken stringent measures to force the issue and to conceal the situation from the public. Prince Kamar submits to this humiliation with genteel grace. He now does the Dance of the Unbowed Head, symbolizing his determination to pursue his own life without regard for the dictates of royal fashion.”

Suddenly Stile liked this tale better. He could dance this theme! He believed in individual freedom and initiative—especially since he had discovered what life was like in Phaze. Even when an infallible Oracle set a particular fate, man’s ingenuity could shape it into something profitable. Stile was a prince, in the terms of Phaze—and a peasant, in the terms of Proton. His participation in the Tourney, he realized now, was motivated by his desire to change his status. To become a prince.

Stile danced. His archaic costume was designed for dancing rather than for any historical accuracy. He wore white tights that left his legs completely free, and a flowing blue cape that flung out when he whirled. It was fun; he developed his presentation as he did it, showing his defiance of the system, his fierce will-to-succeed. It was Stile against the frame of Proton, Stile against adversity. He spun and leaped and spread his arms in the universal gestures of defiance, and finally wound down to passivity; for he was after all Kamar, imprisoned in the tower like a common serf for daring to choose his own mode of living and loving. No one could appreciate his defiance, here in the dark tower, and this made it empty. Except for the audience. It was large, and it applauded vigorously when Stile finished. Maybe this was a rote-response, clapping because that was what was supposed to be done; but Stile hoped that he had in fact conveyed a mood that all of them could understand. Serf against Citizen ...

The experts on the panel made notes. It had been an excellent dance, thematically and technically, a good start on this role. Maybe this would work out. Now Stile’s portion of the stage darkened. Red’s illuminated. Hers was a very feminine set, with draperies and mirrors and a plush feather bed made up on the elevated rear section of the stage, and her costume fit right in. “Meanwhile, the Princess Budur, Moon of Moons, renowned for her beauty and accomplishments in a kingdom on the far side of the civilized world, has experienced similar difficulties. She has refused all suitors, finding none she likes, because she prefers to marry for love rather than prestige or convenience. Her father is furious, and has confined her to quarters until she becomes more amenable to reason. Now, alone, she performs the Dance of Blighted Hope, symbolizing her unrequited longing for true romance.”

Red danced. She wore a lovely red outfit with a full-circle skirt and gems that gleamed in the lights, huge rubies, making her motions sparkle. She was. Stile realized reluctantly, a beautiful woman, well-formed and healthy. Alone, her size was not apparent; she looked normal, as did Stile. Her life of malice had left her physically untouched.

She was an excellent dancer, too. Her symbolism came through exquisitely. She spun precisely, so that her skirt flared out and lifted to show perfectly proportioned legs. She made eloquent gestures of love-longing that could not be misinterpreted; her face became radiant with hope and pitiful with disappointment. Was she a consummate ac-tress, or did she really feel these emotions? Stile felt un-comfortable doubt; it was awkward to maintain his hate at full intensity in the face of this exquisite presentation. At last she collapsed in complete abandoned grief, ending the dance. Never had Hope appeared more Blighted, or a fate less deserved.

The audience burst into applause again. Stile realized with misgiving that Red had outdanced him. She had conveyed more emotion in a more effective manner than he had. He was going to have to work for this Round! To further enhance his discomfort, he realized now that if Red made it to Citizenship, she would have much greater resources than she had had before, and would not need to remain on the defensive; she could probably hire execution squads to dispatch him at her convenience. She did not have to kill him here; it was sufficient merely to defeat him. His situation was looking worse as hers looked better.

“Both Kamar and Budur strip and sleep, for it is night,” the Narrator continued. Individual spotlights touched each person with gray light to suggest night, leaving the rest of the stage dark. Stile removed his costume and folded each piece carefully, as a prince would, then stretched out on the elevated back section of the stage, feigning sleep. There was surely more to this Dance than this! There had to be, for he was behind and needed to catch up.

“Now the tower in which Prince Kamar is confined happens to be haunted by a female afreet, a supernatural being of the tribes of the jinn,” the Computer Narrator continued. Stile smiled inwardly; how little the Computer knew that in Phaze, the alternate aspect of this planet, there really were tribes of jinn! This story could be literal, there. In fact it could be literal here, since Phaze overlapped Proton. Maybe the afreets were playing this out in this same spot at this moment. If they had any way to perceive what was happening here, without the use of the curtain....

“This afreetah has been away for the day, going about her business of stirring up assorted mischief in human affairs, but at night she returns. She passes through the stone wall and enters the tower chamber, as she is invisible and immaterial to whatever extent she chooses to be. Lo, she discovers the sleeping Prince Kamar on her bed and is amazed by the handsomeness of this mortal creature. She admires him for some time, deeply regretting that he is not her kind. Then she flies out to tell her friends of this wonder. She encounters a male afreet, who informs her that he has found a mortal who is prettier than hers. Affronted, she challenges him to a beauty contest. They will place the two mortals beside each other and compare them directly.”

There was a pause while the lights dimmed. Stile had to get up and cross the stage and lie down beside Red on her feather bed; the afreets had carried him there, the sleeping prince. His foreboding increased again; he did not like this close a contact with her. But he had to follow the script; any minor deviation would penalize him, and a major deviation could disqualify him. He remained beside Red in play-sleep, wishing he could simply shove her off the planet. His healing bullet-wound began to bother him—psychological, but indicative.

“The two afreets study the unconscious mortals,” the Narrator said. “Each person is a virtually perfect specimen, and the afreets are unable to determine a winner. Finally they hit upon a scheme—let the mortals themselves decide which one is the prettiest. The afreets will wake each in turn and watch their reactions; the one who is least affected will win, since that means the other must be less beautiful.” Like the harmonica contest. Stile thought; the one who changed least, won. He was becoming curious to know the outcome of this tale.

The light brightened so that the audience could see the scene clearly: prince and princess sleeping naked beside each other. This would have had no significance in ordinary Proton life, but after the elaborate costumes of the play the suggestion of intimacy was strong. There was a moment of surprised silence. Then someone snickered. The mirth quickly spread across the hall. Stile knew what it was. He had experienced this sort of thing all his life. The disparity in the size of the actors had become apparent, now that they were together. The Computer did not care, and the panel of experts could handle it, but the audience was less sophisticated. Which was why the audience had no vote in the determination of a winner, here.

“The Pygmy and the Amazon!” someone said, and the laughter swelled.

Abruptly a stasis field dropped over them all. No one could move, on stage or in the audience, though all could hear. Prolonged, such a field could cause bodily harm and eventually death; for a short period it was merely uncomfortable, since bodily functions slowed almost to a halt.

“Single warning,” the Computer said emotionlessly. “Further interference from the audience or inappropriate reactions will result in expulsion of the audience.” The stasis lifted. The audience was now completely sober. There would be laughter only if the script warranted it, and no extraneous remarks. The Game Computer was a strict taskmaster; even a few Citizens had been caught in the stasis. They, however, made no protest; it was to their interest to have discipline maintained. Yet the damage had been done. The audience might be serious, now, but the dance had become ludicrous. Stile knew that behind those sober faces a maniacal laughter raged.

He fought to control his own embarrassment and anger. He drew on a device he had used long ago to reduce stage fright. He pictured each member of the audience as a gibbering demon, with huge pointed ears and a bare purple bottom, scratching at fleas, and whipping a barbed tail about to tickle his neighbors. He projected all the ludicrous feeling onto them, away from himself. I am a man; you are ape-things. Stare, you foolish creatures. Stew in your own drool.

It was not entirely effective, but it helped. He was aware of Red shivering with suppressed resentment beside him; this was striking her, too. To this extent, he agreed with her.

Yet there was nothing to do except continue. Pygmy and Amazon had a deadly serious Game to win. The panel of judges had not laughed, and that was the critical element of this scene. The play had to go on.

“Now the afreetah changes into a bug and bites Kamar on the leg,” the Computer said. “He wakes—“ Stile slapped his leg as if stung, and sat up. This was a place where the audience might legitimately have chuckled, but there was not a single gibber.

“And spies the Princess Budur, Moon of Moons, lying next to him. Kamar is amazed; he does not realize that he is in a far-distant place, so intent is he on this marvel. He inspects her, touches her to make certain she is real and not a dream-segment, and tries to wake her. But she is under a spell of sleep and can not be roused.” Stile went through the motions, in no way betraying his preference for throttling her. She was his enemy; why couldn’t she be the size of Neysa in girl-form, so that he did not look ridiculous in her company? Insult added to injury. Yet at the same time he had to concede again, inwardly, that she was a remarkable figure of a woman, one that in other circumstances—but no, he hated her, and could not forget that for an instant.

Then he saw the healing scar on her head, beneath her red hair, where his rock had gashed her. He did not know how to feel about that.

“It occurs to Kamar that this may be one of the ladies his father has in mind for him to marry, and that this is a device of his father’s to persuade him. Kamar does not like such strategy, but Budur is so beautiful that he is instantly won over. He resolves to tell his father in the morning that he is now amenable to the union. Meanwhile, he will not soil his future wife by unfair attentions during her repose. Kamar lies down and sleeps again.”

Almost, a peep escaped from a member of the audience. Would a virile young man actually do this, in the presence of a lovely and sleeping young woman? Well, perhaps one who had refrained from marrying any eligible girl because of the principle of pursuing his own life, and who would actually suffer confinement rather than permit his will to be abridged. It was, at least, an ideal for the audience to ponder. Stile felt, with a certain smugness, that he had faced just such a test in his contact with the Lady Blue, and had reacted similarly.

Stile lay down, relieved. It could have been much worse! The script could have required an act of love. That sort of thing was part of the Game—but it might have washed Stile out of the Tourney at this point. How could he do any such thing with his enemy, regardless of the script?

‘The afreet now changes into a bug and bites the Princess Budur in a tender spot,” the Computer continued. Stile almost thought it had been about to say that the Moon of Moons was bitten on a moon; he had to suppress a role-destroying mirth. In tight situations, even deadly serious ones, minor things could seem impossibly funny. “She wakes, while Kamar remains under the enchantment of sleep.”

Red went through the sequence. “She is amazed to find this strange man in her bed. At first horrified, she soon realizes that his presence has occasioned her no harm. She is impressed; he is the handsomest man she has ever seen.” Again, there was not even the hint of a snicker from the audience. “She concludes that her father has placed him here, to show her what she has been missing. She is moved; she calls herself a fool for her prior intransigence. Had she but known! This is the kind of man she could love! She attempts to rouse him, but he sleeps on.” Stile thought Red might shake him violently, trying to do him surreptitious harm, but she was careful, adhering to the script. She knew she was ahead on scoring, and had merely to maintain that lead.

“Princess Budur, overcome by passion for the Prince, embraces him and kisses him, pleading for him to awaken.” Even this directive Red got through, with Stile lying like a dead man. But as she brushed his left ear with her lips, she whispered: “I will torture thee for this indignity, foul man! Never has thy ilk touched me before in other than combat.” She hated men! Not just him, but all men! She was a true Amazon! That remark from the audience must have stung her fully as much as it stung him. For her, an act of love with a man was impossible; she considered the entire opposite sex to be “ilk.”

Yet she was a consummate actress, as so many women seemed to be. No one in panel or audience had any hint of her true feeling. She had a will of iron; she would do whatever it took to win this Round. Stile could not even play upon her anger, for the script was too specific. He was officially sound asleep.

“Finally she gives up. She clasps him tightly and falls asleep.” Red put her left arm across his chest, snuggled close, set her lips against his left ear again, and slowly, methodically bit into it.

Stile could not jump or scream, for that would have cost him more points. Yet her position was such that her foul was not evident to the panel. She seemed to be kissing his ear—a natural enough action for the role. Stile had to hold himself frozen while the pain burgeoned.

This was, indeed, going to be a rough Game. “This display of emotion wins the wager for the afree-tab, for Budur showed more passion for Kamar than he did for her. Satisfied, the afreets carry the Prince back to his own chamber and depart. They have no further interest in this matter.”

The light dimmed, and Stile returned to his side of the stage. His ear felt huge and throbbing, but he could not touch it; Kamar had no reason to. He had to admit Red had outplayed him again; she had fouled him and gotten away with it.

This narrative was following the classic formula—boy meets girl, boy loses girl. Surely boy would regain girl before it was done. Stile hoped he would have opportunity to gain the lead. It depended on the kind of dancing and acting required. There wouldn’t be more close contact with Red for a while, at least.

“When the Prince and Princess wake in the morning, they are chagrined to find themselves alone. Each has fallen in love with the other, but neither knows the identity of the nocturnal visitor. They perform the Dance of Separation, symbolizing the pain and confusion of this mysterious loss.”

Stile and Red danced together, apart; she on her part of the stage, he on his. This was challenging; they had to coordinate their motions, esthetically, also keeping time to the music the Computer provided. As with the harmonica duet, this was a test of integration as well as of individual skill. Stile, good at this sort of thing, expected to score well. But he had another nasty surprise. Red seized the lead, going into a series of deep knee bends. Stile was unable to match this, as she well knew. If he flexed his knees that far, he would not be able to maintain his balance, and the pain would be prohibitive. She might take a minor penalty for pushing the lead, but he was suffering a major penalty for not matching her style. Red was still gaining points.

So it continued. Red was an excellent dancer, and she had good knees, and she played her advantage unscrupulously well. She really knew how to make a man look awkward. She made quick shifts of figure that threw him out of phase, but it looked as though he was the one who had miskeyed, not her. She initiated a sequence, then terminated it just as he was emulating it, making him look stupid again. And this was all good tactic, in the Game; when the judges saw what she was doing, they would still be giving her points for her expertise in competition. Stile’s own considerable skill was largely eroded by his incapacity. This Game was becoming hopeless.

They wended their way through the long quest as Kamar searched the civilized world for his love and she longed to receive news of him. Stile continued to lose headway. Members of the audience were quietly vacating their places, satisfied they knew the outcome. The Oracle, he realized, had not promised him victory; he had merely juggled the Lady Blue’s Oracular message to ensure his survival after this encounter. He actually had no guarantee of victory. His oath was only an oath—vital to him, but no guarantee of success.

Yet there had seemed to be developing purpose in his life, however it had been shaped. The way his need to meet the Herd Stallion had brought him and the Lady Blue to the Little Folk, and he had acquired the Platinum Flute, lost to the Stallion anyway, and delivered the Flute to Clef. Maybe all coincidence, but if Clef was indeed the Fore-ordained, then it all had meaning. Stile had been a vital part of that chain—

A part that had ended with the relaying of the Flute. Stile could have become surplus thereafter, no longer needed in the chain. An actor whose part had terminated. So Purpose was no answer. He was on his own. And in trouble. What use to survive this Dance, if his loss of the Game meant only that Red would have him assassinated shortly after he sired a son for the Lady Blue? At last the dance led Prince Kamar to Princess Budur. He had traversed the civilized world, taking many months, to locate her. It was to be an ecstatic reunion, as the lovers joined after a quest that had often seemed hopeless. Stile abhored the notion, but forced himself to carry on. Whatever he might wish, this was evidently not to be the occasion for his destruction of Red.

There were of course various definitions of destruction. Perhaps Red was destined to win the Tourney, become a Citizen, and destroy herself in riotous living. Yet that would not be Stile’s agency. Why would the Oracle warn her that Blue would destroy Red, if Blue was merely one hurdle among many to be overcome? The whole thing now suggested a misinterpretation of the Oracle’s meaning. Where did that leave him?

With his oath of vengeance. It didn’t matter what the Oracle predicted. Stile would make an end of Red, one way or another, and he would not return to love the Lady Blue until he did. If he could not accomplish this through the Game, it would have to be some other way. But it would be. Because he had sworn. Right now he would play this Round out as well as he could, taking his loss with the same dignity he had taken his wins.

Yet as the dance drew to its close. Stile’s case looked hopeless. He was so far behind on points that only a figurative knockout punch could salvage a win—and this was no boxing match. How much he would have preferred that boxing match! Red was proceeding smoothly to a victory that wasn’t even close.

Then Stile had an idea. Perhaps he could after all score a knockout! It would require discipline and courage that strained the limits of his ability, and there was no guarantee he could make it work. But from what he had learned of Red’s nature, it was a chance. Stile nerved himself for it.

“And now at last the lovers are rejoined,” the Narrator said. “They rush together. Kamar takes Budur in his arms—“ Stile had the wit to stand on the raised back portion of the stage, so that his height almost matched Red’s. Now he concentrated, throwing himself into a half-trance. Pretend she is the Lady Blue, he told himself. The woman you love.

“Their expression of joy and love knows no bounds,” the Narrator continued. This was the finale. The Lady Blue. And, almost, he made himself believe. As they went into the concluding Dance of Rapture, Stile threw himself into the full feeling of it, conveying to audience, panel and Red herself the power of his passion. He was ready to act out the full spirit of this reunion, to love her in the dance exactly as Prince Kamar loved Princess Budur. Internal rebellion seethed in him, but he suppressed it savagely. He could destroy his enemy only by loving her.

And she—had to go along with it. How could a Princess, Moon of Moons, reunited with her lost love after extended and agonized separation, do other than accede to his natural desire? Stile had seized the lead—and what a lead it was!

Now the audience caught on. “Do it!” someone whispered audibly, and the Computer did not react. Because this was a legitimate conclusion of this script. What was a dance, except the rationalization and dramatization of human passion?

Red was not slow to catch on. Seeing herself trapped in this interpretation, anathema to her, she broke. Instead of kissing him, she bit him. Blood flowed from his lip. Instead of accepting his embrace, she struck him with fist and elbow.

The members of the judging panel began to react. Some violence was permissible in lovemaking; was this merely an interpretation?

“Beloved!” Stile whispered to her.

Red’s face transformed to the semblance of a demon. She caught Stile’s head in her hands and shoved it hard against the wall. Stile’s consciousness exploded in sparkles, but he offered no resistance. Furious, she threw him to the floor. He feared a back injury, but he lay there. She started throttling him, so angry that tears were flowing from her eyes. “I’ll kill thee! I’ll kill thee!” she raged. “Thou dost dare love me! Death be the penalty!”

She was a creature of hate, and deserved her fate. Yet even as her maniacal fury lashed him. Stile felt regret, knowing that she, like himself, was a victim of circumstance, of fate. Some unknown party had set them both up for this cruel denouement.

As Stile sank into unconsciousness, he felt the stasis field take hold, and knew that he had won. His difficult, desperate ploy had been effective against the man-hater. Even for victory in the Tourney, even for Citizenship, even for life itself, she could not bring herself to submit to this ultimate humiliation—to be loved, even in pretense, by a man. Red had disqualified herself.