Juxtaposition

6. Commitment (SF)

Sheen was waiting for him. "How was your honeymoon, sir?" she inquired with a certain emphasis.

"Trouble with two other Adepts, rescued by a troll and a giantess. Routine fare."

"Obviously," she agreed wryly. "Are you ready to approve your new staff, sir? And your temporary economy residence?"

There was that "sir" again. "I'd better, Sheen."

She guided him to a Citizen transport capsule. It was ordinary from the outside, but like a spaceship cabin inside. Through the port a holograph of moving stars could be glimpsed. A rotund, balding serf walked up the aisle and stood at attention, wearing only a tall white hat.

"Speak to him, sir," Sheen murmured.

"Who are you?" Stile asked.

"Sir, I am Cookie, your chef."

"I just happen to be hungry enough to eat a bear," Stile said. The recent action in Phaze had taken his mind from food, causing him to miss a meal.

"Immediately, sir." Cookie disappeared.

Stile blinked. "Oh — he's a holo too."

"Naturally, sir. There is not room in this capsule for a kitchen. We'll arrive in a few minutes, and he will have your meal ready."

Another naked serf entered the spaceship. This one was an attractive older woman. Stile raised an inquiring eyebrow. "I am Henriette, your head housemistress, sir," she said primly.

Stile wondered what a housemistress did, but decided not to inquire. Sheen would not have hired her without reason. "Carry on, Henriette," he said, and she vanished.

Next was a middle-aged man not much larger than Stile himself. "I am Spade, your gardener, sir."

"Sam Spade?" Stile inquired with a smile.

But the man did not catch the historical-literary allusion. Only a Game specialist would be up on such minutiae. "Sir, only Spade, the gardener."

"Of course, Spade." Stile made a gesture of dismissal, and the man vanished.

Next was a voluptuously proportioned young woman with black tresses flowing across her body to her knees. "Of her it is said, let the rose hang its head," Stile murmured, conscious that the rhyme would work no magic here in Proton-frame.

The girl took this as the signal to speak. "I am Dulcimer, your entertainer, sir."

Stile glanced at Sheen. "What kind of entertainment do you suppose I need?"

Sheen was suppressing a smile in the best human fashion. "Dulce, show the Citizen your nature."

Dulcimer put both hands to her head, took hold of her ears, and turned her head sharply sidewise. There was a click; then the head lifted off her body. "At your service, sir."

"A robot!" Stile exclaimed. Then, more thoughtfully: "Are you by chance one of Sheen's friends?"

"I am, sir," the robot head said.

"Put yourself together," Stile told her, and the head was lowered and twisted back into place. Stile waved her away, and Dulcimer vanished.

He turned seriously to Sheen. "Do you think this is wise?"

"Sir, I can not always guard you now. A Citizen depends on no single serf. You can use Dulce when I am not available."

"A machine concubine? Forget it. You know I have no present use for such things. Not since I married the Lady Blue."

"I know, sir," she agreed sadly. "Yet you need protection, for you will be making rivals and perhaps enemies among Citizens. It would not do for a Citizen to take his cook or housemaid or gardener to social functions."

"But Dulcimer would be okay. Now I understand." He considered briefly, then decided to get his worst chore out of the way. "Before we arrive, set up a privacy barrier. I want to talk to you."

"It is already in place. Others must not know that self-willed machines associate with you. Sir."

"You can drop the 'sir' when privacy is guaranteed," he said a trifle sharply. "You were never my inferior, Sheen."

"I was never your equal, either," she said. "What do you wish to say to me?"

Stile nerved himself and plunged in. "You know that I love only the Lady Blue. What went before is history."

"I have no jealousy of the Lady Blue. She is your perfect wife."

"She is my perfect woman. Before her, you were that woman; but I changed when I became the Blue Adept The marriage is only a social convention, applying to the frame of Phaze. Here in Proton I remain single."

"Citizens do not have to marry, not even to designate an heir. I don't see your problem."

"Yet there are marriages of convenience, even among Citizens."

"Especially among Citizens. They marry for leverage, or to pool estates, or to keep a favored serf on Proton beyond his or her twenty-year tenure. They hardly ever worry about love or sex or even appearance in that respect."

"Yet there are legal aspects," Stile continued doggedly. "The spouse of a Citizen has certain prerogatives — "

"Entirely at the pleasure of the Citizen," she said. "The spouse may be immune to tenure termination or molestation by other Citizens, but the Citizen can divorce that spouse merely by entering a note in the computer records. So it means nothing, unless the spouse is another Citizen."

'It means the spouse is a person, for at least the duration of the marriage," Stile said.

"A serf is already a person. Marriage to a Citizen merely enhances status for a time. The main hope of serfs who marry Citizens is that one of their children will be designated heir, since such a child shares the bloodline of

the Citizen. But there is no guarantee. Each Citizen is his own law."

"Sometimes a Citizen will designate the spouse as heir," Stile said.

She shrugged. "All this is true, Stile. But what is the point?"

"I have it in mind to marry in Proton, and to designate my wife my heir."

"Oh." She pondered, her computer mind sorting through the implications. "A marriage of convenience to protect your estate. Not for love or sex or companionship."

"For all these things, in part," he said.

"What does the Lady Blue think of this?"

"She suggested it. Though she is able to cross the curtain, she has no affinity for this frame, and no legal status in it. You say you have no jealousy of her; neither does she have jealousy of you."

"Of me? Of course she doesn't! I'm a machine."

"Yes. But she regards you as a person. Now, with this basic understanding, I-" He hesitated.

"You want me to locate a suitable bride of convenience for you?"

"Not exactly. Sheen, I want you to be that bride."

"Don't be silly, Stile. I'm a robot. You know that."

"I see I have to do it the hard way." Stile got out of his comfortable chair. She started to rise, but he gestured her to remain seated.

Stile knelt before her, taking her hand. "Lady Sheen, I ask your hand in marriage."

"I shouldn't be sensitive to humor of this sort," she said. "But I must say I didn't expect it of you."

"Humor, hell! Will you marry me?"

Machines were not readily surprised, but she was programmed to react in human fashion. She paled. "You can't be serious!"

"I am serious, and my knee is getting uncomfortable. Will you answer me?"

"Stile, this is impossible! I'm-"

"I know what you are. You always bring it up when you're upset. I am a Citizen. I can do as I wish. I can marry whom I choose, for what reason I choose."

She stared at him. "You are serious! But the moment you tried to register me as- as- they would know my nature. They would destroy me."

"They would have to destroy me first. Answer."

"Stile, why are you doing this? The mischief-"

"I see I must answer you, since you will not answer me. If I marry you, you will be the wife of a Citizen. By definition, a person. By extension, others of your type may then be considered persons. It is a wedge, a lever for recognition of the self-willed machines as serfs. This is a service I can do for them."

"It really is convenience," she said. "Using me to help my friends forward their case for recognition as people."

"Which would be even more potent if something put me out of the scene prematurely and thrust the onus of Citizenship on you."

"True," she said.

"Is that my answer? Does true equate to yes?"

"No!" she snapped, jumping up. "I don't want your title, I want your love!"

Stile got off his knee silently. His love was one thing he could not offer her.

"In fact, I don't want your convenience," she continued, working up some unrobotic temper. "I don't want the appearance without the reality. I don't want to be used."

"I don't propose to use you-"

"I'm not talking about sex!" she screamed. "I would be happy for that! It's being used as a lever I object to."

"I'm sorry. I thought it was a good idea."

"You in your flesh-male arrogance! To set me up as a mock wife to be a lever, the simplistic machine I am! You thought because I love you I'll do anything you want. After all, what pride can a mere machine have?"

What had he walked into? Stile brought out his holo receiver and called the Lady Blue.

The picture-globe formed. Stile turned it about until the Lady Blue came into view. She was brushing down Hinblue. "Lady," he said.

She looked up. "My Lord!"

Sheen paused in her pacing. "You're in touch with her?"

"Aye, Lady Sheen," the Lady Blue answered, recognizing her voice. "And easy it is to understand the nature of thy concern. I confess I put my Lord up to it."

"I should have known," Sheen said, bemused. "But this is a cynical thing, Lady."

"Aye, Lady. It is a cruel sacrifice for thee."

"That's not the point, Lady. The sheer mischief-"

"I apologize for putting thee in an untenable position, Lady Sheen. Thou hast every right to reject it." She gave Hinblue another stroke, then addressed Stile. "My Lord, I thought not of her feeling, only of her merit. I wanted her as my sister in that frame, and that was selfish. Let her be. I love thee." She returned to the horse, dismissing him.

Stile turned off the holo. "I guess that covers it, Sheen." He felt embarrassed and awkward. "If it's any comfort, I felt about the same as you, when she broached the notion. I do care for you; I always did. I just can't honestly call it love."

"I accept," Sheen said.

"You are generous to accept my apology. I wish I had not put you through this."

"Not the apology. The proposal."

"The-?"

"Remember way back when, you proposed marriage?"

Stile was amazed. "I-"

"Yes, that proposal. If you had the circuitry of a robot, you'd remember these details more readily. Perhaps if you practiced mnemonic devices-"

"But why? You made such a good case against-"

"She wants it," she said simply.

That he could understand. He had proposed to Sheen because the Lady Blue wanted it; she had accepted for the same reason. Now they just had to hope it was a good idea.

The capsule had come to a halt the portholes showing a landing at a spaceport. Sheen keyed the door open. Stile gaped.

Outside lay the Blue Demesnes.

No, of course it was the Proton equivalent on the same geographic site. Merely one of numerous examples of parallelism of frames. The castle and grounds looked the same as in Phaze, but there was no magic. Horses grazed and dogs ranged, not unicorns and werewolves. Still, it moved him.

"After the Lady Bluette died, her Employer restored the property and put it on the market," Sheen explained. "It was at a bargain price. I thought you'd like it."

"I do." Stile stared at it a moment longer. "But it's strange here."

"No Lady Blue," she said.

"It will be yours now."

She was silent. Had he said the wrong thing? Well, either it would work out or it wouldn't.

His chef had his meal waiting: genuine imported roast of bear. Stile made a mental note not to speak figuratively; as a Citizen, he was too apt to be taken literally. He had said he could eat a bear; now he had to do it.

Actually, it wasn't bad. The chef did know his business. Sheen had hired people of genuine competence.

"And now for your estate adviser," Sheen said as Stile chomped somewhat diffidently. "You have some elegant financial maneuvering ahead."

"I'd rather master the rules of the game and lay it myself."

"This adviser is one of my friends."

Oh. That was a different matter.

The adviser turned out to be an old male serf, wrinkled, white-haired, and elegant. Stile would not have known him for a robot, had Sheen not informed him. It was evident that the self-willed machines had profited from what Sheen had learned in the course of her association with Stile; only time, expert observation, or direct physical examination betrayed his current associates.

Stile nodded affirmatively to the serf, and the man reported: "Sir, I am Mellon, your financial accountant."

"Mellon, eh?" Stile repeated. "As in Rockefeller, Carnegie, and Du Pont?"

The serf smiled. "Yes, sir."

"You're that good with money?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why are you here as a serf, instead of making your fortune elsewhere in the universe?" Stile knew the

robot had no future away from Proton, but a real serf would, and the cover story had to be good.

"Sir, I have already made my fortune elsewhere," Mellon said. "I am as rich as a Citizen. But here on Proton the dynamics of wealth are most pronounced; the leverage of economics is exerted most openly. Only here can I experience the joy of renewed challenge, failure, and success. When my tenure expires, I shall return to my comfortable galactic estate and write my memoirs of the Proton experience."

Stile was impressed. This was a feasible rationale. It would explain the man's computerized competence. Stile might even have to stave off efforts by other Citizens to hire Mellon away. Except that since no real Mellon existed, any verification of his background would reveal-

"I am cast in the likeness of an actual person, sir," Mellon said, reading Stile's expression. "The proceeds of my memoirs will go to him, in recompense for the use of his credentials."

The machines had figured it all out! "Well, I hope you are not disappointed in the experience you have managing my estate. I don't even know its extent, but I'm trusting you to multiply it for me rapidly."

"I shall do so, sir. I must ask that you follow my advice in particulars with alacrity. There are likely to be difficult moments, but there is an eighty-five percent probability of accomplishing our objective."

Mellon certainly seemed sure of himself! The machines had to have secrets that could be exploited for tremendous leverage. Stile suspected he should leave it alone, but his curiosity governed. "How do you propose to make me rich, even by Proton standards? Surely my section of the Protonite mines can only produce so much."

"By wagering, sir. You will be better informed than your opponents."

Because of the immense body of information accessible to the sapient machines. But it would be made to seem like human instinct and luck. "No."

"Sir?"

"To wager when one has an illicit advantage is not equitable. I do not care to make my fortune that way."

"He's like that, Mel," Sheen said smugly.

"Sir, without that advantage, the odds become prohibitive."

"I have surmounted prohibitive odds before. I shall not compromise my standards now. Presumably you will be able to perform moderately well while limited to ethical means."

"Yes, sir," Mellon said grimly.

Stile completed his uncomfortable repast of bear steak. "Then let's get to it now. I am not used to wealth. I fear this will be a chore for me. I want to get that chore out of the way and return to — my private retreat." Even among his staff, he was not inclined to talk too freely of Phaze. "But first — Sheen?"

"Sir," Sheen said immediately.

"By what mechanism do I promulgate my engagement to you?"

"Application must be made to the Records Computer, sir. A Citizen hearing will be arranged."

"And?"

"That is all, sir. Marriages, births, designations of heirs, changes in estate holdings — all are merely a matter of accurate record. The hearing is a formality, to make sure there is no foul play or confusion."

"No ceremony? Blood tests? Waiting periods?"

"These are available if you wish them, sir. But they are not required for Citizens and are irrelevant for robots. The entry in the record is all that is mandatory."

"Well, let's do this right. Let's set a date for a formal, medieval, Earth-style nuptial, and invite the public."

"What date, sir?"

Stile considered. "There may be some mischief here. Let's give it time to clear. Set the date for two months hence, at which time you will become my wife and heir. Get yourself a pretty wedding outfit."

Mellon coughed. "Sir, may I comment?"

"Comment," Stile agreed.

"The Records Computer will know Sheen is not a legal person. It will advise the members of the Citizen panel. This will not interfere with the marriage, for a Citizen may do what pleases him; he may marry a toad if he wants. But the designation of a nonperson as heir to Citizenship will complicate your own activities. If you could hold that aspect in abeyance-"

"That would be a lie," Stile said. "I intend to name her heir, and I want no deception about it." Yet he wondered at his own motive, since this was more than the Lady Blue had suggested. Why make a larger issue of it? And he answered himself; because he felt guilty about not being able to give Sheen his love, so he was giving her his position instead.

"Yes, sir," Mellon said submissively.

"Sir, he is correct," Sheen said. "If you bring this mischief on yourself prematurely-"

"I will not abuse my word," Stile said firmly. "The truth shall be known."

"Sir, I fear you will imperil yourself and us," she said. "Rather than permit that, I shall decline to-"

"Do you want me to call the Lady Blue again?"

Sheen hesitated. "No, sir."

So he had bluffed her out! "How do I file my entry with the Records Computer?"

"Sir, I can activate its receptor-"

"Do so."

She touched a button on the wall. "Records, sir," a wall speaker said.

"I, Stile, Citizen, hereby announce my betrothal to the Lady Sheen. I will marry her two months hence in public ceremony, and designate her to become my heir to Citizenship effective that date. Any questions?"

"Sir, are you aware that Sheen is a robot?" the computer asked.

"I am aware."

"If you designate a nonperson heir, your estate will, on your demise or abdication, revert to the common pool, sir."

"I challenge that," Stile said. "I want her to inherit."

"Then a special hearing will be necessary, sir."

"We already have a hearing. Juxtapose them. Schedule it at your earliest convenience."

"Yes, sir." The Records Computer disconnected.

"Now you have done it, sir," Sheen murmured. "You and your unstable living human temper."

"We'll see. Let's get to the next event."

They entered the capsule again, and Sheen programmed their destination. The smooth motion commenced. Stile paid attention to none of this; he was already orienting on the wagering to come, much as he would for a Game of the Tourney. He was not sure he had really left the challenge ladder; perhaps he had merely achieved a new plateau for a new series of games.

"To wager — what are my present resources?" he asked Mellon.

"The initial estate of a Citizen is set at one kilogram of Protonite, sir," Mellon said. "Serfs do not deal in money, normally, so there is little way to equate this with what you have known."

"I know that a single ounce of Protonite is supposed to be worth the entire twenty-year tenure of the average serf," Stile said.

"Yes, traditionally. Actually, this fluctuates as the variables of demand and technology change the need, though the Proton Council regulates the supply to keep the price fairly stable, much as the cartels of the galaxy have traditionally regulated the supplies of foregoing fuels — coal, oil, uranium, and such."

"Until supplies ran short," Stile said. "Or until technology obviated the need. Efficient utilization of starlight and hydrogen fusion — these became virtually limitless resources."

"Indeed, sir. But starlight and fusion both require enormous initial capital investment. Though Protonite is theoretically limited, it is so potent that it has become the fuel of choice for interstellar travel. Its value more closely resembles that of bullion gold than that of bygone oil."

"Gold," Stile said. "I have played with that in my historical researches. I have a fair notion of its value, as measured in archaic ounces."

"Then set one gram of Protonite as equivalent to four hundred troy ounces of gold, sir. One kilogram-"

"Four hundred thousand ounces of gold!" Stile finished, amazed despite himself.

"Enough to hire a thousand serfs for full tenure, sir," Mellon said. "A fortune equivalent to that of many of the historically wealthy persons of Earth. That is your minimum share of Citizenship; wealthy Citizens control the equivalent of as much as a ton of Protonite, so are richer than any historical figure."

"I see that," Stile agreed, somewhat awed. He had known Citizens were exceedingly rich, but still had underestimated the case. "And I must become one of those wealthy ones?"

"You must become the wealthiest Citizen, sir," Mellon agreed. "Only then can you be reasonably secure against the forces that may be brought to bear. Our target is two metric tons of Protonite."

"That's two thousand kilograms!" Stile exclaimed.

"Precisely, sir. There have been wealthier Citizens in the past, but at present none go beyond this level. Only extraordinary expertise can bring you to this."

"Expertise, yes; illicit information, no."

"Yes, sir."

"And how much of my single, insignificant kilogram may I employ for gambling?"

"Three quarters of it, sir. You must, by Proton custom that has the force of law, maintain a floor of two hundred and fifty grams for normal household use."

"Some household! That's a hundred thousand ounces of gold!"

"True, sir. No Citizen is poor by galactic standards."

"I seem to remember Sheen telling me that no Citizen could get more than two years' income in arrears."

"That is an optional guideline for the conservative."

"I see. But I can't afford to be conservative, can I? And if I gamble and lose, so I'm stud: at the floor level-then what?"

"Your share is not a literal kilogram, sir, bat 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 exportation. "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 deem 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 super-novae. 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 bade, 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 elite. 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 lacked 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 riffled 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 асе-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.

So that was the unit of currency — safely penny-ante after all. Relieved, Stile discarded his 10 of hearts, to keep his opponent from getting it and having a pair, and asked for Merle's left-end card, which in a conventional arrangement might be her high one. Of course it wasn't? she had not arranged her cards physically, either. Too much could be telegraphed that way. It was the jack of clubs.

Now he had ace of spades, 6 of hearts, jack of clubs, 4 of clubs and 2 of clubs. Perhaps three legs on a flush, if he didn't lose his clubs to Merle's drawings.

But he had to call, raise, or drop. He was unwilling to quit so early, so he called, contributing one white chip.

Merle discarded another, and drew his ace. She was having uncanny luck in destroying his hand! Then she added a red chip to the pot. She was raising the ante — five more grams.

The Rifleman passed Stile another replacement card. It was the king of clubs. Now Stile had four clubs — almost a flush. A full flush would very likely win the pot; only one hand in 200 was a flush. But by the same token, flushes were hard to come by. Merle would have four chances in five to steal away one of his clubs on her next ton. Should he call or fold?

He looked at Mellon. The serf nodded affirmatively, approving the bet. So Stile discarded the 6 of hearts, drew another card from Merle — and got the ace of spades back. Disappointed, he matched the red chip.

Merle frowned faintly within her helmet, and Stile was frustrated again, unable to gauge her true mood. With an unfamiliar game variant and an unfamiliar opponent, he could exercise little of his natural skill. A person's eyes could tell a lot; if the pupils widened, the hand was positive. But her pupils were shadowed by that translucency.

She took another card: his king of clubs. He got an 8 of spades from the pack. Already his promised flush was fading, as he had feared. His hand still amounted to nothing.

Merle put in a blue chip. Another ten grams! That brought her total up to sixteen grams of Protonite. At the rate she was raising the ante, he could not afford to let this game continue too long. But he would surely lose if he stood pat now; she must have amassed at least one pair. He wanted to make a good showing, so that other Citizens would want to make wagers with him.

Stile decided to keep trying for the flush. Therefore he discarded his ace of spades, reckoning it too risky to hold for her possible reacquisition, and drew from Merle — his original 10 of diamonds. No good to him at all, at this stage, since he had discarded his matching 10 before.

Again he matched her bet, though he thought it would have been smarter to drop. She probably had ten times as much wealth to gamble with as he did. If Mellon knew how week Stile's hand was, the serf would hardly have tolerated this bet.

Merle took his jack of clubs, further decimating his flush. And she put five more blue chips into the pot. Sixty-six grams total: she surely had a good hand now!

Stile accepted the replacement card: the 6 of spades. Now his hand was the 8 and 6 of spades, 10 of diamonds, and 4 and 2 of clubs. No pairs, no flush, no high card — and a monstrous ante facing him if he wanted to keep playing.

Then something clicked. He had almost missed the forest for the trees!

"I stand pat on this hand," Stile announced. "Adviser, may I bet my limit?"

Mellon agreed reluctantly. Stile put eight blue chips and four white ones into the pot, bringing his total to one hundred grams. Now it was Merle's turn to call or fold; she could not raise during his turn. Would she be bluffed out?

She called, putting in another thirty-four grams. She laid down her hand, face up. "Blaze," she said. "Two kings, two queens, one jack."

That meant she had to have had one pair last round, perhaps two pairs, beating him. She had waited until she had what she wanted: a pat hand, all court cards. She had played with nerve.

But Stile had beaten her. "Skip straight," he said, laying it out. "Ten-high." There it was: 10-8-6-4-2: This hand was not as strong as a straight, but was stronger than any of the other hands from three of a kind down.

"Very nice, Stile," she agreed. "The pot is yours." She made a little gesture of parting and walked away.

"He took her," one of the male Citizens said. "That's one kilo for me." Another nodded glumly.

"Very nice indeed," the Rifleman said. "You have added another hundred to your estate. It is so recorded."

A total of 219 grams of Protonite added to his original thousand — in the course of just two supposedly penny-

ante games. But Stile knew he could just as readily lose it again.

Mellon approached as the group of Citizens dispersed. "Sir, you must desist now."

"I'll be glad to. But what is the reason? I thought you would stop me from betting before."

"This is the bait, sir. Now the serious bettors will seek you out."

The serious bettors. Of course. Stile had, as it were, dipped his toe. He needed to announce himself, so that he could step into the real action, where the upper limit would rise. Obviously a gain of 219 grams was statistically insignificant, compared with the 2000 kilograms that was his target level. He had won only one ten-thousandth of his stake. This could be as difficult a climb as it had been through the levels of the Tourney.

Yet Mellon was not concerned about the luck of individual wagers. He had a certain program of challenge planned. His limit on Stile's initial betting had been merely to prevent Stile from losing his stake in the course of making himself known to the key wagering clientele.

"Did I hear correctly?" Stile asked the Rifleman. "Did one of the spectators bet a full kilogram of Protonite on the outcome of my game with Merle?"

"He did," the Rifleman agreed. "Citizens bet on anything."

"Ten times what I bet — and he wasn't even playing!"

The Rifleman smiled. "That's the way it is. Your adviser protected you from getting into that level too soon. Come on — there's more than wagering to get into."

Stile allowed the Rifleman to show him around some more. There were different levels and slants and curves to the invisible floor, with refreshments on one tier, dancing on another, and conversation on a third. Coupled with the ubiquitous holographic astronomy, the effect was potent This was a wonderland, as impressive in its lavish expense as in its execution. Yet the Citizens, long used to this sort of thing, ignored the setting and socialized among themselves.

"You do get accustomed to it," the Rifleman said,

divining Stile's thoughts. "This is merely a standard social occasion, a kind of Citizen concourse, where any can come for idle entertainment and socializing on an amicable plane. All comforts and amusements are available at every Citizen's private residence, but they get bored. Of course they have holo contact, but you can't actually touch a holo, or push it aside or make love to it."

"You say they," Stile observed.

"I'm still a serf at heart. You'll be the same. The Citizens do not discriminate against our kind — to do so would be to dishonor their system — but we discriminate against ourselves, internally. We react to what is beneath their notice. Look there, for instance." He gestured upward.

Stile looked. Above them was a transparent spaceship, inside which Citizens were dancing. The men wore archaic black tailed-coat costumes, the women white blouses and slippers and voluminous skirts. From this nether vantage he could see right up their prettily moving legs, under their skirts where the white bloomers took over. Stile had gotten used to nakedness in Proton and to clothing in Phaze, but this halfway vision was intensely erotic for him. He did have some acclimatizing to do, lest he embarrass himself.

Again the Rifleman was with him in spirit. "Yet we see excellent distaff flesh all about us, unconcealed," he pointed out, indicating Sheen, who remained respectfully behind. Stile glanced back. Sheen was indeed the perfect figure of a young woman, with lovely facial features, fine large, upstanding breasts, and torso and legs that could hardly be improved upon. In terms of appearance she was stunning, far prettier than the exaggerated lady Citizen Fulca — yet she did not excite him sexually. This was not because he knew she was a machine, he decided; the robot was more human and caring than most flesh-women he knew. It was because she was a naked serf. Sheen had no secrets, so lacked novelty. In contrast, the peek up the skirts of the dressed ladies above — that, literally, clothed his fancy and set his pulse racing.

"But the average Citizen can look and yawn," the Rifleman said, glancing again at the skirts above. "Clothing is no novelty here. Nothing is novelty, except assured victory

in an honest game of chance. You made Merle's day just now; you were an unknown quantity, giving her the thrill

of uncertainty."

That reminded Stile. "Just how old is she, and how much of her fortune would a hundred grams of Protonite represent, if it's not uncouth to inquire?"

"The fortunes of all Citizens are a matter of public record. She's worth about ten kilos; I can get the precise figure for the moment, if you wish. The Records Computer-"

"No, no need. So my wager did not hurt her."

"Not at all. Age is also on record. Merle is sixty-one years old. She's had rejuvenation, of course, so she has the face and body of a serf girl of thirty. But her mind is old. I dare say she knows more about sex than you and I combined."

Stile had noticed that most Citizen women were physically attractive, in contrast with the men. Rejuvenation would of course account for this. It would not prolong life significantly, but it would make a person seem young on the day he died of age. The vanity of women caused them to go this route.

Stile turned to the Rifleman. "I thank you for the courtesy of your time. You have facilitated my education. Now I think I will go home and assimilate my impressions, if I may do so without offense to this gathering."

"No offense. You have made your appearance and performed on stage; all interested Citizens have had opportunity to examine you. Go and relax, Stile."

"I really did not meet many Citizens. I suppose I'm not much of a novelty."

The Rifleman smiled. "Allow me to detain you for one more thing." He led Stile to an especially thick dust cloud. Set just within its opacity was a control panel. A touch on this, and an image formed above — Stile, playing poker with Merle. The view shifted perspective as if the camera were dollying around, showing Stile from all sides. An inset showed the poker hands of each, changing as the play progressed.

"I've been recorded!" Stile exclaimed.

"Exactly," the Rifleman agreed. "All interested Citizens are able to tune in on you — or on any other person here. This is open territory, unprivate." He touched the controls again, and the nether view of the dancing Citizens appeared. "So-called X-ray views are also available, for those who wish." Now the skirts and bloomers faded out, leaving the Citizens dancing naked, looking exactly like serfs.

Stile was alarmed. "You mean viewers can strip me like that, holographically?" He was concerned about exposure of his physical reaction when viewing the inner skirts before.

"Indeed. Voyeurism is a prime Citizen pastime. That particular thrill seems never to become passé."

Stile sighed inwardly. He surely had provided the voyeurs some innocent entertainment today! "I appreciate your advising me," he said, somewhat faintly.

"Welcome, Stile. I thought you would want to know. Citizenship is not completely idyllic, and there are many ways to be savaged unknowingly. Many Citizens prefer the complete privacy of their domes."

"I can see why." And on that amicable note they parted.

Back in his transparent capsule, Stile relaxed. It had actually been a joke on him, he decided, and harmless. The Citizens had really looked him over and found him human. He would be more alert in future.

But the joke had not finished. A call came in to the travel capsule. When he acknowledged, the head of Merle formed. Without her space helmet, she was revealed as a rather pretty young woman, with the same delicate rondure to her facial features as had been suggested by her suit-shrouded torso. "I have decided I like you, Stile," she said. "Would you care for an assignation?"

"Uh, what?" he asked awkwardly.

She laughed. "Oh, you are so refreshing! It has been decades since I've had a truly naïve man." The scope of the image expanded, to reveal the upper half of her body hanging in the air before him like a statuette, her small but excellent breasts shrouded by a translucent shawl. She must have viewed the holographic record of Stile's recent experience and grasped his susceptibility to partial clothing

on women. "You can see that I am moderately endowed, but please accept my assurance that I am expert with what I have."

Stile proved his naïveté by blushing. "Sir, you catch me unprepared. Uh-"

She actually clapped her hands in glee. "Oh, absolute delight! I must have you!"

"I can't say I care to have holographs made of me performing in such a situation," Stile said, his face burning.

Merle pursed her lips. "But holos are the best part of it, so that one can review the occasion at proper leisure and improve technique."

Out of range of the holo pickup, Sheen signaled imperatively. She did not want Stile to offend the Citizen. Mellon nodded agreement.

Stile took their advice. "Merle, as you can see, I'm flattered to the point of confusion. This is more than I can handle right now. Could you, would you grant me a stay of decision?"

"Gladly, Stile," she agreed merrily. "I will contact you tomorrow."

Some stay! "Thank you," he said, conscious that his blush had intensified. He was thirty-five years old and hardly inexperienced with women, but his underlying awe of Citizens had betrayed him.

The moment the connection terminated, he snapped: "Block off all other calls! I don't want any more of that!"

"We dare not block off Citizen calls," Sheen said. "But I'll ask my friends to make an inoffensive excuse message for you, and filter out as much as possible."

"Thanks." He caught her hand. "You're beautiful, Sheen."

"I wish I could move you the way Citizen Merle did," she grumbled.

"She moved me to naked terror!"

"Naked, yes; terror, no."

"She's a sixty-year-old woman!"

"In that respect I can not compete. I was made less than a year ago."

That reminded him. "Sheen, has there been any progress

on your origin? Have your friends discovered who sent you to me and why?"

"I will query them," Sheen said, but paused. "Oops — a call."

"I told you, I don't want-"

"From her."

There was only one person Sheen referred to that way. "Oh. Put her on, of course."

The image formed. The Lady Blue faced him. "My Lord, I dislike bothering thee, but I fear mischief."

"What mischief?" he demanded, instantly concerned. The Lady Blue was no more beautiful, by objective standards, than Sheen, but she had completely captured his love. It bothered him to have the fact so evident in Sheen's presence, but there really was no way to avoid it in this situation.

"Clip says he winds ogres." She glanced nervously about. "We know not why such creatures should be on the isle of the West Pole."

"I'll rejoin thee," Stile said.

"Nay, my Lord. Clip will guard me from harm. I merely advise thee, just in case any difficulty arises."

"Very well," he agreed reluctantly. "But if there's any sign of menace, call me right away. It will take me a while to reach Phaze."

"I love thee, Lord Blue," she said, flashing her smile, making the air about her brighten. Stile always liked that magic effect. She faded out.

"Nevertheless," Stile said grimly to Sheen, "I want to get closer to a curtain-crossing point. Or anywhere along the curtain; once I step across, I can spell myself immediately to the West Pole."

Mellon was looking at him strangely. Stile smiled. "Have Sheen fill you in more thoroughly; you machines need to know this. I go to a world of magic, where I have a lovely wife and am important."

"Yes, sir," Mellon said dubiously. "I trust this will not interfere with your program of estate development."

"Please infer no insult from this," Stile told him. "But if my Lady Blue is in danger, my entire Citizenship estate can drop into deep space without a ship."

"Thank you for clarifying your priorities, sir," Mellon said stiffly.

"Oh, don't be stuffy," Sheen reproved the other robot "You have to take Stile on his own peculiar terms."

"Of course. He is a Citizen."

She turned to Stile. "My friends have a report."

"Let's have it." Stile was discovering that a lot of business could be done on the move.

The image of a desk robot appeared. "Sir, the machine of your inquiry was purchased by Citizen Kalder ten weeks ago, programmed to love and protect the serf Stile, and sent to said serf."

"But why?" Stile demanded. "Why should a Citizen make an anonymous and expensive gift to a serf he does not employ?"

"That information is not available, sir. I suggest you contact Citizen Kalder." The image faded.

"At least now I have a name," Stile said. He pondered briefly. "How much does such a robot cost?"

"Approximately five grams of Protonite, sir," Mellon replied. "This is my own value, which is typical for the type."

"That is quintuple the twenty-year hire of a serf," Stile said. "Maybe peanuts for a Citizen, but still out of proportion for a throwaway gift. Easier to send a serf bodyguard." Another thought occurred. "Has my own estate been docked that amount for you and the other special personnel?"

"We are rented, sir," Mellon said. "By special arrangement."

That meant that the self-willed machines had set it up. They were covertly helping him, so that he could help them. "What do your friends think of our engagement Sheen?"

"Sir, they are amazed, to the extent their circuitry and programming permit. This changes the situation, giving them the chance for recognition much sooner than otherwise. There are grave risks, but they are willing to follow this course."

"Good enough. I would like to secure your recognition as serfs, not merely because of the help your kind has

given me at critical moments, but because I believe it is right. Though if each of you costs five grams, I don't know how it could be economic for you to work for serfs wages."

"We can last several times as long as the tenure of a serf," Mellon replied. "Once we achieve recognition, there may be a premium for the service we can offer. Properly programmed, we could be superior serfs, performing the routine functions of several. Since we do not sleep, we can accomplish more in a given tenure. The Protonite that powers us is equivalent in value to the food that living serfs consume, and our occasional necessary repairs equate to live-person illness. We feel we shall be economic. But even if we are not, we shall at least have the opportunity to play the Game legitimately, and perhaps some few of our number will advance to Citizenship. That prospect is more important to us than mere service as serfs."

"So I gather," Stile agreed. He liked these intelligent machines; he trusted them more than he did many living people, partly because they remained simpler than people. A robot could be deceitful if programmed to be — but what was the point of such programming? Mainly he liked their loyalty to him, personally. They trusted him, so aided him, and he knew they would never betray him.

"Sir, do you wish me to place a call to Citizen Kalder?" Sheen inquired.

"Yes, do it."

But at that point there was another call from the Lady Blue. "The ogres are closing on us, my Lord," she said worriedly. "I was not sure before that we were the object of their quest, but now that seems likely. I mislike bothering thee, but-"

"I'm on my way!" Stile cried. "Sheen, reroute this tub to the nearest intersection with the curtain. Forget about the call to the Citizen; I'll tackle that later."

"Yes, sir," she said. The capsule shifted motion.