Robot Adept

Chapter 8 Tourney

A serf hurried toward her. “I am empowered by my employer to take you to—”

The Ladder screen blinked. Then its speaker spoke: “This serf has qualified for the Tourney. Until disqualified, Serf Fleta is ineligible for reassignment.”

The serf’s brow furrowed. “But Citizen Tan says—”

So Tan had caught up to her—just too late!

“The Citizen has no authority over the Tourney,” the speaker said.

The serf stepped forward, reaching for Fleta’s arm. “He won’t take no for an—”

There was a flash. The serf staggered, evidently jolted by something. “Interference in the Tourney is not tolerated,” the speaker said. “Serf Fleta to report to Game accommodations until further notice. Follow the line.”

“Yes, sir,” Fleta murmured, awed. The Adepts of Proton-frame did not mince words or actions!

The line led to a small residential chamber, complete with a screen and food machine. The door panel clicked behind her, and she realized that she was confined.

She was suddenly alarmed. Could the Contrary Citizens have tricked her again, and led her to—?

Then the screen came on. “Don’t worry, Fleta,” Mach’s voice said.

She whirled to face it. There he was, back in his normal guise. Still, it was only a picture, and she was coming to distrust those. “How do I know—”

He smiled. “When we first met, in Phaze, I was rescued from the swamp by a unicorn. She took me to a dead volcano crater, where I encountered a lovely young woman. It took me some time to realize that the two were the same, and that I was in love with an animal. But of course I was only a machine myself.” He eyed her body. “It is almost as difficult to realize now that this stranger is that same bubbly nymph whose foal I mean to sire, when we return to Phaze.”

It was Mach, all right! “I qualified for the Tourney!” she exclaimed gladly.

“I know. So you are being confined until it starts, so that no one can get at you. Now you can revert to your own girlform, and I will join you soon.”

“They are not watching you?”

“They are watching me, but I am not in danger. They lost their chance when they lost you.”

“Then we need fear them no longer?”

He grimaced. “Not so. They have our cooperation, in Phaze; we resist them here only because we are standing in lieu of Bane and Agape. Similarly Bane and Agape in Phaze may have a different status; the Adverse Adepts may be trying to capture them and convert them now. We must preserve their independence, by protecting yours. It’s a funny situation, but this is the way I interpret the truce. In Proton we are against the Citizens, until the situation changes, if it does.”

“I wish we were against the Adverse Adepts, too,” she said.

“Had Bane’s folks only been able to accept our love—”

“They want an heir,” she said.

“And they shall have it!” he said. “I have been thinking about that, and researching genetics here in Proton. I believe the Book of Spells now in the Red Adept’s possession will have information on the magical meshing of species, and I am going to research there the moment I return.”

“Then willst thou need not to support the Adverse Adepts!” she exclaimed, lapsing into her natural dialect.

“That does not follow. We made a deal, and I must deliver what I promised, unless the truce is modified. But perhaps the objectives of Stile and the Adepts are not mutually exclusive. If we could somehow forge a compromise—”

“A compromise!” she repeated. “A mating of their differing desires!”

“Yes. Therein lies our true hope. Now you get some rest; I have further research to do before I join you.”

“Do thy research!” she exclaimed, gladly. “An it mean our foal—”

“This is one advantage of exchanging between the frames,” he said. “I have the advantage of pursuing both lines of research. If I can’t see it through, I doubt anyone else can.”

Then he faded out, and she, relieved, melted onto the bed and slept, feeling exhilarated.

There were no challenges in the two days. Mach joined her, and now they were free of the need to hide or to conceal their identities; they had found temporary sanctuary here at the Game Annex. Now, for the first time, they were able to make love in these other bodies.

Then she learned that Mach had not really been talking to her, before their physical reunion. He had set up what he called a responsive emulation. “Damn thee!” she cried, furious at this deception. It had fooled her completely.

“But I could not approach you,” he protested. “It would have been dangerous for you. Then I had some trouble, so I went to Moeba.”

Curiosity caused her to rein her fury for the moment. “Agape’s planet? What did you there?” And by the time he explained, she had decided to forgive him.

“So when Bane returns, my research may help him,” he concluded.

“I like Phaze better,” Fleta said.

“So do I,” he agreed. Then he looked at her, becoming grave. “We have been assuming that we will return together. But if you wash out of the Tourney, and go to Moeba, will exchange be possible for you?”

She was stricken. “If I be not with thee, and they two together, how can we exchange?”

“I think we cannot. Therefore we must be sure that all four are together. If not, we must not exchange.”

“We cannot search for them, as we did in Phaze,” she said. “Needs must I remain in the Annex.”

“Yes, they must come to us. But when Bane contacts me, I will make this clear.”

“Aye.” She pondered a moment more. “Meanwhile, methinks I had best stay here until then. I must win my games.”

“Fleta, you are not trained in the games! You were lucky, and your opponents were selected, for the qualifying ladder. The Tourney is different; you will be up against experienced players, each of whom is desperate to win.”

“And I lose thee, and Phaze, if I lose. I too be desperate to win,” she said quietly.

“I’d better drill you in strategy.”

“Aye.”

So for most of their waking time, he indoctrinated her in the ways of the Tourney, trying to prepare her for a competent performance. The object was not to win the Tourney and become a Citizen, but to remain uneliminated long enough for Bane and Agape to come and make the exchange.

The details of the Tourney varied from year to year. Sometimes only the top five or six on each ladder qualified; this year it was ten, making it a large one. That meant that the authorities had concluded that there were too many serfs, and so were using the Tourney as a device to prune them back voluntarily. There were other ways, but this was considered to be the gentlest.

On the other hand, this was single-elimination. Normally it was double-elimination, which meant that each contestant had two chances. This year, one loss was all, and that made players nervous, though their chances for final victory were unchanged.

One thousand and twenty-four contestants would start the Tourney: ten males and ten females from every age ladder from Age Twenty-one through Age Sixty: eight hundred in all, plus two hundred from the Junior and Senior ladders (those below and above the normal range) and the Leftover Ladder, and a dozen or so slumming Citizens, aliens and such. Each round would cut the number in half, until the tenth round produced the single winner. Because the number of consoles and the extent of the game facilities were limited, Round One would require four days for completion, and Round Two two days; thereafter single days would suffice. Thus the complete Tourney was scheduled for fourteen days, and that schedule would be kept. Any player who failed to show up promptly for his match would lose by default. Audiences were permitted, but no interference would be tolerated.

Fleta had already seen enough of the game system to appreciate how intolerant the Game Computer was of interference. That reassured her.

“Of course that doesn’t apply to Citizens,” Mach said. “They set their own schedules. But most who have the interest to play, also have the pride to do it properly.”

“But if the prize be Citizenship, and the cost of loss be exile, why do Citizens play?” Fleta asked.

“Mere entertainment. Victory gains them nothing, and loss costs them nothing. They are immune. But those they play against are bound. If you come up against a Citizen, call him sir and play to win. He cannot hurt you, here, except by beating you.”

“Not e’en Citizen Tan?”

“Not even he,” he reassured her.

Then, seemingly suddenly, the Tourney started, and she was summoned to her first game. “I am not allowed to help you, here,” Mach said. “But I will try to tune in on Bane. If I can find him, I can tell him what we need.”

“Do thou do that,” she said, kissing him.

She followed the line to the console. She was the first there, which made her feel better, though she knew it made no difference.

She looked at the screen.

TOURNEY ROUND ONE: FLETA VS JIMBO

She hoped Jimbo was a duffer.

He turned out to be a man in his fifties. There were no ladders in the Tourney; they were for qualification only. He nodded at her, then took his stance at the console.

Her numbers lighted. That meant she could not select ANIMAL. But she had discussed this with Mach, and knew her best route. Without hesitation she touched 4. ARTS.

It settled on 4A: Naked Arts. The choices were Poetry, Stories, Singing, Dancing, Pantomime and Drama, with distinctions between recitative and creative. They assembled the nine-square subgrid and chose, and came up with Original Story telling.

JUDGING: the screen printed. COMPUTER PANEL AUDIENCE.

This was new to Fleta. Should she touch one of the words? But there was no grid.

“We can do it by agreement if we want,” Jimbo said. “Me, I don’t like a machine deciding how I rate, or a panel of experts either.”

“A living audience,” Fleta agreed, relieved. She touched that choice, and evidently he did too, for that one highlighted.

SUBJECT: the screen continued. SELECTED BY COMPUTER RANDOM AUDIENCE.

Fleta hadn’t realized that a subject had to be chosen; she had assumed that any story would do. She wasn’t certain how she would do if she got a bad subject. Since she could not choose it herself, and shared her opponent’s distrust of impersonal decisions, she asked “Audience?”

“Agreed,” Jimbo said immediately.

ADJOURN TO STAGE. And a line appeared, showing the way.

They followed it to the stage. There was a small dais and an audience section with seats for about twenty-five.

Now they had to wait for the audience to arrive. It seemed that a number of Tourney spectators had registered for audience purposes, and were on tap awaiting assignment. The Computer was making a random selection and notifying the selectees of this assignment. They were now following their lines to this chamber.

In a few minutes exactly twenty-five people arrived. They were all serfs, male and female, ranging from young to old. They took their seats in silence.

A note sounded at the large screen set in the wall behind the stage. All eyes fixed on it.

AUDIENCE WILL SELECT SUBJECT FOR STORYTELLING. THE FOLLOWING SUBJECTS ARE AVAILABLE; TOUCH BUTTON ON CHAIR WHEN CHOICE IS HIGHLIGHTED.

Then the screen was filled with an alphabetical listing of subjects, beginning with ABANDONMENT and ending with ZOOLOGICAL. The Computer gave the audience a moment to consider the list, then the first word was highlighted. In a second the next was, and then the third, the lighting continuing at one-second intervals until the list had been covered, several minutes later.

THE LEADING CHOICES ARE, the screen announced, ILLICIT WEALTH, UNTIMELY DEATH, FORBIDDEN LOVE. TOUCH

WHEN CHOICE IS HIGHLIGHTED.

The highlight made its tour. Then: SUBJECT IS FORBIDDEN LOVE. AUDIENCE WILL FIRST STORYTELLER.

Then a light illuminated Fleta, and moved across to Jimbo. JIMBO SPEAKS FIRST.

Fleta did not know on what basis the audience decided, but she was relieved; this was proceeding so efficiently that she had not been able to organize her thoughts. She was, after all, an animal; she knew she lacked the versatility of a human being. What story of forbidden love was right for this audience?

“Uh, well,” Jimbo said, evidently also somewhat at a loss. He did not seem to be any better prepared for this than Fleta was, which made her wonder. Maybe he had just gotten into a bad area, for him.

Then he shrugged, as if deciding something private, and began his story.

“There was once this serf, and he wasn’t much, he was forty when he came to Proton, but all they let anybody have is twenty years anyway so maybe that didn’t make much difference. He was a message carrier—any time the Citizen wanted a note delivered personal, so it wouldn’t be in the records, this serf would hand-carry it to wherever it was going. It wasn’t a bad job; he got to travel all over Proton, just taking messages, and got to sleep over at some pretty fancy Citizen estates while waiting for the reply-message to be ready. It went along like this for about nine years, and then the Citizen died and his daughter inherited it.”

Jimbo paused. Fleta saw some knowing smiles in the audience, and realized that they were guessing what was coming next. This seemed to be Jimbo’s own story! “This woman, the new Citizen, was maybe twenty-nine years old, and she was the damned loveliest creature in the dome. Her hair sort of rippled when she walked, throwing off highlights, and her eyes were like twin headlamps, they were so clear and bright. But because she was new, she was uncertain, and she didn’t want to make any fool of herself, putting on the wrong airs in the wrong place, you know, specially when it came to handling serfs. So she sort of asked this serf for advice, because he’d been with the estate for nine years and kept his mouth shut, because sometimes the messages he carried were verbal and he would’ve been fired if he ever breathed a syllable of them to any but the designated party, so he just didn’t say much of anything to anyone, just to be safe. She liked that, so she said, ‘I want a message, only to me,’ and then she asked how she should handle this other serf who sort of did things wrong but didn’t mean to. And the message serf, he delivered his message, only it was really just his advice, that she should maybe reorganize her household a little, and move that clumsy serf to another position without saying why, so no feelings would be hurt and nobody had to be fired. And she did that, and it worked out just fine, and after that she asked for other messages like that.

“And then one time she sort of forgot where she was, only it didn’t really matter because Citizens make their own rules and serfs just do what they’re told. She was getting ready for a party, and she’d sent her personal maid for something, and the messenger man was there, so she just told him to take off her robe and put on the new one she had selected. So he put his hands on her shoulders from behind, and pinched the fabric, and lifted it up, and it came right off her and she was naked. Then he folded it and set it down and fetched the new robe from its hanger, only it was really more like an evening gown, and she turned and lifted her arms so he could put the gown up over her, and she had the body like only an android or robot made for that sort of thing ever has, only on her it was real, I mean natural, and he like to have goggled, because mostly Citizens don’t take much care of themselves and even when they look good in a gown it’s mostly corset stays and foundation crème and whatever, or maybe a fresh rejuve treatment, but she didn’t even use underwear, her body was genuine throughout. And then she was mostly dressed, and looking just as good, only better, because he knew it didn’t just come with the clothing.

“Then the maid came back, and took over, and he went back to his chamber. But it was like that image of that body was burned into his retinas, because he kept seeing it every time he blinked. And suddenly he lost interest in the android gal who would be with him any time he wanted, because she was like a cratered moon, and the Citizen was like the sun. And every time he saw the Citizen, she was clothed but he saw her naked like a serf, and her skin shining, and her eyes sort of looking at him, and it was like a fire inside him, but she never noticed. Sometimes she’d bring in these men, Citizens, and have sex with them, and they were jaded but they got hot for her in a hurry when they discovered that her body didn’t come off with the clothing, and sometimes she’d just hire a robot to do it exactly the way she liked it. Only she didn’t like to have to tell a robot how, that was maybe too much like masturbation, so she’d have the messenger tell the robot, and make sure the robot had it right. And the messenger—”

Jimbo paused, again, and it was clear that every member of the audience understood his hesitation perfectly. He had conceived a passion for a Citizen: forbidden love indeed! What was he going to do about it?

“Then one day she had a new robot, and maybe there was a circuit not properly integrated, because it wasn’t getting it quite right, even though it had the instructions down pat and could repeat them verbatim. ‘Damn it!’ she swore, irritated. So she called in the messenger and told him to show the robot how to do it right. He was moving too fast and heavy, when she liked slow and light. So the messenger, he got down on her—”

He paused again, but the audience did not object. Evidently he was uncertain about how much detail he should provide, and what was relevant to the assigned subject, and how to phrase it for this mixed audience.

Fleta, too, was thrust into thought, perhaps for different reason. Jimbo was telling how a male humanoid robot was routinely used for sexual purpose; apparently this was accepted in Proton. She had had relations with just such a robot. If she told her own story—and indeed, it was all she could think of to do—would this audience take it to be routine and therefore dull, and deem her the loser? What was the most wonderful experience of her life might seem, here, to be unworthy of mention.

If she lost, here in this first round, she would be shipped to Moeba, and would never be able to exchange back to her own body in Phaze. But if she won, she would have several more days before the second round, and maybe by then—

“He got down on her,” Jimbo repeated, resuming his narration. “His heart was beating like a teenager’s, because the Citizen’s body was his ultimate dream, and all he wanted to do was be like this with her for real, and have her want him as a man. He knew this wasn’t so, that she saw him only as a convenient source of minor information, and now as a device to demonstrate a minor technique to a machine, but his dream wanted to pretend it was something more.

“His flesh touched hers, lightly, and penetrated gently, moving with just that constrained urgency that she required. ‘Yes, like that,’ she said to the robot. ‘Proceed exactly like that.’ The robot nodded, understanding at last.

“Her face turned back to the messenger, and he knew she was about to tell him to get off, now that his job was done. But the folly of the forbidden dream overcame him, and suddenly he plunged on in, exactly the way the robot was not supposed to. Her mouth opened with surprise, the annoyance just beginning, and he put his mouth on hers and kissed her savagely as his loin thrust against her and his body exploded in rapture.

“Then, his folly of passion abating, he realized what he had done. He had raped a Citizen! He scrambled up and ran from the chamber, knowing that his life was forfeit. He did not try to flee, for there was nowhere to go; he simply waited for what was to come.

“After an hour the call came: to report to the Citizen’s front office. He knew there would be a robot there to take him into custody. For one moment of bliss he had forfeited all that he had worked for for nine years. He went, but the Citizen was there alone, standing in total loveliness in a gown. ‘I require a message, for one only,’ she said. ‘If a serf oversteps his bounds, what should a Citizen do?’ He knew she was referring to him. ‘Have him put to death,’ he replied, determined at least not to be a coward in his termination.

“Her expression did not change. ‘If he has otherwise given good service, and perhaps was overtaken by an aberration of the moment?’ she asked. He had not even hoped for such generosity of response! ‘Fire him,’ he said.

“She turned away from him. ‘If publication of the offense might cause embarrassment to the Citizen?’ she asked. Then he dared indeed hope! ‘Enter him in the Tourney without explanation,’ he said.

“She nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said. And so it was that he found himself in the Tourney, though he had always been a duffer in the Game and knew he would quickly wash out and be deported. But his years of service still counted (for he had not been fired) and would represent a very nice payment on his departure; he would leave with an untarnished record. He was duly grateful for this, knowing how much worse it could have been, and his respect for his employer was undiminished. But still in his dream he had the temerity to wonder: was it possible that in some tiny way the Citizen had returned his interest, and perhaps been nattered by his inability to hold back when given the opportunity to indulge his passion with her? Could she have been unable to admit any trace of an interest so far beneath her, yet not displeased to have had the indulgence of it forced upon her? Would that account for her uncommon generosity in dealing with the one who had ravished her?”

Jimbo gazed out across the audience. “I do not know the answer, but I would like to think I might guess it.”

Fleta knew before she spoke that Jimbo had won this game. She had thought that her own crisis was unique, and that the others in the Tourney were merely competing for the prize of Citizenship. Now she saw that that was not necessarily the case; each contestant might have as good reason to be here as she. She did not begrudge Jimbo the evident sympathy he had evoked in this audience.

FLETA SPEAKS SECOND, the big screen announced.

Now it was upon her! Encouraged by her opponent’s example of discretion and candor, she told her own story in similar fashion.

“There was once in the Frame o’ Phaze a unicorn filly,” she began. “She was happy in her Herd, grazing the plains and running with her companions and learning the ways o’ her kind. She labored to master her transformations, choosing one original form and one common form to complement her natural one. Her dam could become a firefly, so the filly liked the notion o’ a flying form, and chose the smallest o’ the avians, the hummingbird. Most other unicorns chose fierce hawks or fast falcons or lovely feathered birds, or even flying dragons, and some were amused that she should aspire to such an insignificant creature, but she had no fear o’ smallness, for her dam was the smallest o’ mares yet well respected by all the members o’ the Herd and o’ the neighboring Pack o’ werewolves too. Indeed, it turned out that she could feed more readily than others, needing only the nectar o’ some flower, and hide well, and it was a good choice.

“The common form was the most challenging, however, because that was human. The form itself was not difficult, but just as she had spent more time learning to fly than she had learning the birdform, she had to spend far more time learning to speak like a human than she had achieving girlform. To speak, she had to learn to think like a human, and the ways o’ human thought were marvelous and weird. So she sought help, first from acquaintances among the werewolves and vampires who came more naturally by girlform, then from the most feared o’ human folk, one o’ the Adepts. This was because her dam was oath-friend to one Adept, and he was friend to some other Adepts, and so one o’ them was willing to help the filly o’ the oath-friend. Thus it was that the filly spent some time as the guest o’ the Brown Adept, serving her as a serf might serve a Citizen, but also learning from her the complete human language and much o’ the social ways of the human species too.

“Then did the filly come to maturity, and learned the identity o’ the herb that suppressed her cycle o’ heat so that she would not be bred too soon, for the Herd Stallion was her uncle and banned from breeding her. She played with the human son o’ her dam’s oath-friend, and he showed her how his kind mated, though it were meaningless in the absence o’ heat. E’en so, she came to like that young human man, and wished she could be truly human, that she might be always with him. But he, o’ course, knew her for an animal, and while he treated her always as a companion and e’en friend, there was no way he saw her as one to breed with or, as the humans put it, marry. So she kept her desire for him hidden, knowing that any union between them was forbidden. He was after all the son o’ an Adept, one year to be Adept himself; he was far beyond the aspiration o’ a normal human woman, let alone a mere animal.”

How neatly she had summarized the whole of her first decade and a half of life! But now she was ready for the real story. “Then she came o’ age to mate and bear a foal for the Herd, so she was sent to another Herd, that its Stallion might breed her without incest. But she dawdled, remaining near the place favored by the Adept’s son, in case he should come there and need a ride or companionship. She knew the hope to be vain, but still she stayed, foolishly. Perhaps it was in her mind that if she arrived at the other Herd not in time for her heat, she would escape breeding, and be free a little longer. It might not make much sense, but she was after all only an animal.

“Then happened something strange. A man passed the region, and he smelled like the Adept’s son, but he acted like him not. He was going naked, as men did not, and stumbling as if he had been ne’er there before. She kept her distance, wanting to approach, but uncertain. Finally he cried for help, and that was all she needed; she sounded a chord on her horn in answer, and galloped to his aid. He seemed surprised to see her, as if his memory was gone, but rode her away from that place. She had to back off a water dragon, but carried him to safety in the crater. It was especially strange that he used not magic o’ his own to protect himself, and seemed almost wary o’ her, despite their long acquaintance. He settled down to sleep in the crater, and she pondered, then yielded to her desire and changed to girlform and joined him there.

“Next morning it seemed he was playing a game, for his speech was strange and he seemed still not to know her. He insisted his name was other than what she knew it was. He claimed to know magic not, and he was loath to wear clothes. She persuaded him to try a spell, and he did, but it worked strangely. She also encouraged him to make some clothing. He said he was a rovot, a thing like a wooden golem, only made o’ metal, and that he needed not to have natural processes. But o’ course he did; he did just prefer to do it alone. And gradually she understood that he was not the same man she had known, but his other self, from Proton-frame, a stranger to Phaze and all that was in it. Yet was he very like the one she knew in appearance, and perhaps in other things too, and she liked him very well. Perhaps she liked him better, for that he needed her help constantly, lest he blunder into trouble. But he knew not she was an animal; he thought the girlform and the birdform and the unicorn different creatures. He liked the girlform, and therefore she spoke not o’ her other forms, but stayed close to him and teased him and smiled at him, reveling in the companionship she had ne’er had recently w’ the Adept’s son.

“Then he, thinking her human, took her in his arms and kissed her, and her heart fled from her and became his captive that moment. She tried to tell o’ her nature, and why love between them was forbidden, but O she could not; she did want the illusion to linger longer. Then demons attacked, and to save them both she had to change to her natural form and carry him to safety. The secret was out. But he was not appalled; he said he was a machine, a thing not alive, a creature without feeling, that could not love. Then did new horror loom for her, that she had lost her heart to one who could care not. But he was wrong; he did care for her. And so their forbidden love was born.”

She paused, and looked at the audience, and saw them rapt as they had been for Jimbo’s story. But such was the joy of her memory, for all its heartache, she hardly cared now whether they cared; she just wanted to finish it.

“Then did the Adverse Adepts make chase, seeking to capture them and use him for their purpose, and they had to flee and hide. Goblins were questing e’erywhere. But they traveled a route the enemy did not suspect, and managed to escape. Later she learned that their love was forbidden not because the Adept his father objected to unicorns, but because only a human woman could bear him an heir. The filly saw that this was valid, for though she could have sex with her lover she could breed with him not. So she decided to free him for his destiny, and to fix herself in human form and jump from a ledge to her death. But he found her, and cried out to her the triple Thee, the ultimate statement o’ his love, and such was the power o’ it that it saved her from the extinction she had sought and made them one again.

“But now that love be still forbidden, if not by humans, then by the situation, for he be a creature o’ Proton, and she a creature o’ Phaze, and they can ne’er cross o’er to each other’s frames without making an imbalance that will harm all. So now they quest for some way to make it right, but know not w’er it e’er can be.”

Then she felt her eyes melting, and knew that her story was done.

AUDIENCE WILL TOUCH

WINNER, the big screen printed. Jimbo’s name highlighted, then Fleta’s.

JIMBO SIX VOTES, FLETA FIVE VOTES. ABSTENTIONS FOURTEEN.

“Hey, wait!” a serf cried. “I didn’t abstain! I hadn’t made up my mind yet!” There was a chorus of agreement.

MAJORITY VOTE OF ESTABLISHED AUDIENCE REQUIRED FOR DECISION, the screen continued imperturbably. AUDIENCE WILL BE REQUIRED TO CONTINUE VOTING UNTIL THAT MAJORITY IS REGISTERED. TWO-MINUTE RECESS FOR CONSIDERATION BEFORE NEXT VOTE.

Fleta looked at Jimbo, and found him looking at her. She walked across to him. “I liked thy story,” she said, feeling an affinity for him. “Truly, thou dost know forbidden love as I do.”

“Too bad we didn’t fall in love with each other,” he said. “Are you really a…?”

“A unicorn. Aye. But an the Citizens catch me, that be meaningless.”

“How so?”

“They mean to use me as lever against him whom I love. But the Tourney protects me—an I not depart too soon.”

“Won’t you be safe offplanet?”

“I be not in mine own body, here. An I depart this world before I exchange to mine own frame, methinks can I not exchange at all, and that be worse yet.”

“So you would prefer to remain here a little longer,” he said.

“Aye,” she said sadly. “But that decision be not in my power.”

He smiled. “But it may be in mine.” He stepped to the front of the stage, waving his hands. “May I have your attention!” he cried.

Instantly a sour note sounded from the screen. ERROR! CONTESTANT MAY NOT ATTEMPT TO INFLUENCE AUDIENCE ON HIS BEHALF.

“I haven’t finished my story,” he cried. “There’s something else I have to say.”

ERROR! STATEMENT IS OUT OF ORDER AT THIS TIME.

A man in the audience stood. “Listen, who’s deciding this game, us or the machine?” he demanded. “Aren’t we like a jury, and we can hear more if we want?”

“Yes, and can’t we judge for ourselves whether he’s trying to change our votes unfairly?” a woman responded.

The screen hesitated. PROCEDURAL MATTER. AUDIENCE WILL INDICATE WHETHER TO HEAR MORE FROM CONTESTANTS. SELECT RESPONSE YES NO. The YES was highlighted, then the NO.

CONTESTANTS MAY SPEAK, the screen printed, yielding gracefully.

“Okay,” Jimbo said. “We’ve got two people here, both probably on the way out regardless of this particular game. One can go any time; the Tourney is just a pretext to get him offplanet without being charged with anything. The other is here to protect her from trouble still brewing, and if she can stay a while longer, maybe things will work out a little better for her. So if I were voting, and I had trouble making up my mind, I think I’d boot the one with nothing to lose, and keep the one with maybe something to win. Now I’m not trying to tell anybody how he should vote, just saying the way I see it, and the damned machine can’t object to that, can it?” He walked to the side, leaving the stage to Fleta.

She realized that she was supposed to say something, but she could think of nothing. She just stood there and started to melt again, which seemed to be this body’s way of crying. She didn’t want to melt in front of all these people, so she hid her face in her hands, overcome.

After a moment, the voting proceeded. Fleta forced her eyes back into shape and looked at the screen.

FLETA TWENTY-THREE VOTES, JIMBO TWO; FLETA PROCEEDS TO ROUND TWO.

Jimbo looked at her and smiled. She ran to him, hugged him, and kissed him. The members of the audience applauded.

Suddenly she felt much more at home in the frame of Proton.

She had two days before her next match, because of the time required for the remaining Round One games to clear. Mach came to her, after passing through a thorough screening by the Game Computer to ensure that he was whom he claimed to be, and they had a little additional honeymoon. She cherished this brief experience with his own body; she had come to love him in Bane’s body, but this was his reality. If she managed to return to Phaze, this would be all she ever knew of the true Mach.

Then it was time for her Round Two match. This time her opponent was a young woman, of grim visage, and she knew there would be no courtly generosity. She had to win outright.

She got the numbers again, and chose ARTS again. The girl chose B, so they were in TOOL-ASSISTED ARTS: Painting, Sculpture, Costumed Drama, Decorative Sewing, Patterns with blocks, colored sand, grains of rice or whatever, Card Houses, Kaleidoscope, and Musical Instruments.

Fleta was encouraged; she understood most of these Arts. She played with confidence, and got Music. The other girl was plainly uncertain now. In the end they had to play music, each on her own instrument. The girl chose the piano, and Fleta chose the syrinx: otherwise known as the panpipes, her natural instrument as a unicorn. She had, as a matter of private challenge, learned to play the panpipes in girlform. This was difficult, because her girlfingers lacked the musical coordination of her horn, and her girlmouth could play only one note at a time, or adjacent notes. But fingers weren’t really necessary for this; hooves would have done to hold this instrument firm. She was unable to play two themes simultaneously, but the underlying harmonics came naturally, so she could do a creditable job. Whether she could do it in this alien body she wasn’t sure, but she thought she could. They followed the line to the appropriate chamber.

Again, they were to be judged by an audience. None of the listeners was the same as those of her prior game; the Computer was careful about that sort of thing.

Fleta had to play first. She took the instrument, which consisted of eight tubes of graduated lengths, bound together. She sounded each note by blowing across the top of the proper tube. She played a simple yet evocative melody that had given her pleasure as a filly at the end of a perfect day of grazing, as the sun settled slowly into the trees on the horizon, setting them afire, and the evening wind fanned the high fringe of the grass to be grazed on the morrow. As she played, Phaze seemed to form around her, so lovely, and then it seemed that Mach was there too, delighted by her music as he always was, and for this moment everything was perfect.

Then the tune was done, and it was Proton again. The audience was staring at her. Had she started to melt again? No, they merely liked the music, perhaps not having heard the panpipes as played by a unicorn before.

Her opponent looked at the piano. “I concede,” she said shortly, and walked out.

FLETA PROCEEDS TO ROUND THREE, the screen announced.

Just like that, she had won!

The audience filtered out, though several serfs glanced admiringly at the instrument as they passed.

“Clear the chamber,” the speaker said. “Citizen approaching.”

Fleta looked wildly around. “But I’m supposed to be protected!” she cried. “I’m still in the Tourney!”

“At ease, filly,” the Citizen said, entering the chamber. He stood somewhat shorter than she, but his brightblue robe identified him as far above her. “Not every Citizen be thine enemy.”

“The Blue Adept!” she exclaimed, astonished.

He smiled. “Now Citizen Blue. Thy secret has been kept; the Game Computer allowed news o’ thine identity to leak not beyond its annex. But I was o’ Phaze, and I know the music o’ the unicorn when I hear it. Ah, the memories it brought!”

“Mach’s sire,” she breathed.

“Aye. And thou’rt Neysa’s foal. Glad I am to meet thee at last, however briefly, though thou dost favor her not in this guise.” He squinted at her. “Best abolish the horn, though.”

Fleta touched her forehead. She had grown the button-horn! It must have happened while she was playing the panpipes. No wonder the audience had stared! Quickly she melted it; she was not trying to make a freak of herself, here.

“Mach be looking for Bane, now,” Citizen Blue said. “Must needs I tell thee what we be about. He has made truce with the Adverse Adepts, in Phaze, but Bane remains with us, in Proton. We oppose not thy union with him, or Bane’s with Agape. But the news he brought o’ the imbalance—that have we verified, and so it be true that thou canst not remain here. We shall get the four o’ ye together and make the exchange back—but with a change.” He looked penetratingly at her. “Only thou willst exchange, not the boys. That will give Mach power here, and Bane power there, to seek some better compromise than this truce. Mayhap Bane, being bound to us rather than to the other side, can find a way through. We seek not to void the deal Mach made with Translucent, only to provide us opportunity to explore the situation when the Adepts be off guard. I think thou canst go along with that.”

“Aye,” she said. “But that means—”

“That thou willst find thyself with Bane in Phaze—and must make it seem that he be Mach.”

“But—but I love Mach!” she protested, appalled.

“Aye. That be thy challenge, and why I speak to thee now. Agape must do likewise, here.”

“I—I will try,” she agreed faintly. What a position Blue was putting her in!

“Now let us play together,” he said. He brought out a harmonica, and put it to his mouth.

Relieved to have the subject change, she lifted the panpipes. Then the two of them played an impromptu melody, and Blue was a master musician, almost as good as a unicorn in the finesse with which he handled his instrument.

When it was done, she was melting again. “Thou didst depart Proton before I was foaled,” Fleta told him. “Yet do I feel I know thee well, now.”

“It were thy dam Neysa mine other self Stile knew,” he said. “So in any event, our acquaintance is based on that of two other folk. Yet be it good to renew.”

“O Adept, may I hug thee?”

“Hug me, ‘corn, and remember me to my homeland.”

She hugged him, finding him much like Bane, only older and smaller. His visit to her buoyed her immeasurably; now she knew that she and Mach were not fighting for their happiness alone. Stile had turned down her union with Mach, and for good reason; Blue was supporting it, and she hoped his reason was as good.

Then he departed, and she returned to her chamber. For the second time, the aftermath of a Tourney game had lifted her outlook. She no longer felt like a complete stranger here; indeed, her homesickness for Phaze was diminishing.

Two days later she had her Round Three match. This was against a humanoid robot who reminded her eerily of Mach, but he was not. She had the numbers again, but hesitated to choose ARTS, because the records of all prior games were available, and she knew that the robot could have looked up her games and discovered her preference, and calculated accordingly. So she touched 2. MENTAL. He chose A. NAKED, as she had thought he might; it could be tricky for a robot to use a tool, as robots really were tools in a manner of thinking, and even trickier for him to use a machine. He would naturally avoid her own strength, ANIMAL. So he depended on his own resources, as Mach tended to do. She felt a little guilty for using her knowledge of Mach to gain an advantage over this robot, but she knew she had to do it.

The secondary grid for MENTAL came up. She had the numbers again: 5. SOCIAL 6. POWER 7. MATH 8. HUMOR. What should she choose?

She looked at the robot’s choices: E. INFORMATION F. MEMORY G. RIDDLE H. MANIPULATION. What would he take? It depended on his type; if he were a sophisticated model, like Mach, he would have an enormous store of information, and a sizable temporary memory, but would be weak on mental tricks such as riddles. If he were a simpler model, his information and memory capacity might be much smaller, but he would still be good at manipulating what he had: numbers, for example. So she had better stay well clear of MATH!

She decided that her safest course was HUMOR. Mach had a sense of humor, though not on a par with hers, but other robots might not understand it at all.

She touched the word. Sure enough, he had chosen MANIPULATION, going for his strength. They were in 2A8H: SPURIOUS LOGIC. It came down to a contest in telling jokes, and topping them.

Again they had an audience. It seemed that most contestants resembled Fleta in this respect. They preferred to be judged by ordinary folk, not by the machine.

The robot was required to tell his joke first. He did so mechanically. “A smart humanoid robot was concerned that his employer was not satisfied with his performance and sought a pretext to fire him. The employer always assigned him the least rewarding tasks, such as supervising the maintenance menials. When the employer gave him an assignment to report to the robot repair annex, he feared he would be junked. So he tinkered with the wiring of a cleanup menial robot, an inferior machine, and caused it to respond to the humanoid’s identity command. Thus the menial went off to the repair annex for junking, instead of the smart humanoid!”

There was a robot in the audience who found this very funny, and two androids who smiled. But the joke fell somewhat flat for the human beings.

Now it was Fleta’s task to top it. If she could do so, she would nullify it, and leave her opponent scoreless. She had to think quickly: what would reverse the situation in a funny manner? She thought again of Mach. What would he say to a joke like this? That gave her the key.

“But it turned out that the robot was being sent to the repair annex not for junking, but for upgrading to superior status,” she said. “When the menial robot returned, it was much smarter than the humanoid robot, and was made the new supervisor, bossing the humanoid himself.”

Several humans laughed, and the two androids smiled. They liked that reversal. Only the humanoid robot in the audience failed to see the humor of it. Fleta had succeeded in topping the joke.

Now it was her turn to start. She remembered a little story she had imagined as a young filly, back when she was learning to assume giriform. “A mean man of Phaze caught an innocent young unicorn in human form, when she was trying to learn the human ways so she could handle the form perfectly. He grabbed her and clapped his hand over her forehead, covering her horn button, so she could not change. ‘Now I won’t let you go unless you teach me how to change form as you do,’ he told her. ‘Teach me, or I will do something terrible for you but nice for me.’ She knew he would rape her if she did not agree, so she gave her word to help him change to equine form.

“He could not do it exactly the way she did, because he was not of her species, so she had to translate the magic to a verbal command that would work for him. Actually it was two commands: the second to change him back to manform. He tied her to a post and tried the first spell, and lo! He became his analogy of the equine form, which was a silly ass. Immediately he tried to change back, but he only brayed, because his assform was unable to speak in the human mode. He was stuck for the rest of his life as an ass.”

There were a few smiles in the audience, but it seemed that most of the serfs had been expecting something like this, so were not surprised. It was after all a pretty weak joke.

It was the robot’s turn to top it. Unfortunately, he had found the joke hilarious: man becoming ass! That was almost as funny as having a menial robot sent off to be junked in one’s place. He tried to come up with an improvement on it, but his thought circuits were inadequate, and he could not.

But he was not completely dull. “Maybe there is no topper,” he said. “If there is no topper, then it doesn’t count!”

AGREED, the screen printed. TELLER MUST TOP OWN JOKE FOR VICTORY.

Oops! Fleta had not anticipated that! She had never devised a reversal of this one, having had no motive. If she was a human being, and wanted to turn the joke to human account, how would she do it?

The challenge brought the response, and she had it. It was in the form of her worst fear as a young creature. “Then the unicorn changed to her natural form, for she was just coming into heat and needed to be far from here before the mating urge took her. But she forgot that she was still tied, and the rope was too strong for her to break. She was trapped—and there was this ass, smelling her condition, eager to—”

She was drowned out by a surge of laughter. The serfs found that fate very funny!

She had won the match—but at the cost of allowing her secret self to be raped by an ass. She was not completely pleased.

Mach visited her again. “I have located Bane,” he said. “I have explained what my father wants. He has agreed. But he says that Agape is far from here. He will have to go to her, and explain, and bring her here. It will take at least two days.”

“Then needs must I win again on the morrow,” she said.

“You have been doing very well,” he said. “You have qualified for Round Four; you are one of the final 128 contestants. Almost 900 have been eliminated.”

“That many!” she exclaimed in wonder. “But I be just lucky!”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure of that. I think you may be cut out to be a Game player. Your instincts have been good, and your play good. Considering your unfamiliarity with this culture and your inexperience with the Game, that suggests a very good potential.”

“Nay, it be but luck,” she protested. “I fear for each new contest, that I may muff what I might have played well.”

“Which is exactly the attitude of a superior gamesman.” He smiled. “In any event, you have to get through only one more, and then you can exchange.”

“One more—and then be separated from thee,” she said, with mixed emotions.

Her Round Four match was against a Citizen. Fleta saw him approaching the console with horror; how could she defeat such an opponent? Furthermore, she recognized him: he was the Purple Adept, here known as Citizen Purple.

Now she knew that the Contrary Citizens had caught on to her identity, and somehow arranged to get close to her within the Tourney. If she lost this one, Purple would have her, and Mach would be helpless. The alliance of Citizens and Adepts would have both sides of it, and Bane and Mach would have to work wholly for them. Their noose was closing.

Purple looked at her, and grinned. “I mean to have your hide, animal,” he said. “You have led a charmed existence, but I have a score to settle.”

Terror coursed through her. This man was serious—and deadly. Mach had said something about the way Agape had escaped captivity by this man, and Mach himself had escaped, in a violent confrontation. Certainly Purple had a score to settle—and she knew he was an evil man.

“Thou canst not touch me in the Tourney,” she said with as much bravado as she could muster. She had to cling to the console, for her knees were melting.

“But the moment you wash out, as you are about to, I shall preempt the deportation process and take you with me,” he said. “Citizenship hath its privileges.”

Could he do that? She feared he could. The Game Computer had protected her from external threats, but could not bar a legitimate contestant, and Citizens did have special powers. She had to win! But could she? She greatly feared that this man had her number, as the serfs put it.

Her screen showed that she had the letters. That meant she could choose ANIMAL. But Purple would be ready for that, and have some devastating trap ready. What, then, was left? What she understood least was MACHINES, having had no experience with them prior to her meeting with Mach. Purple knew that too, and he was of course thoroughly conversant with the most sophisticated machines. It would be folly for her to choose that category.

So it was between NAKED and TOOL. In her own unicorn body she would have been confident with NAKED, but in this Amoeba body she was doubtful. It was a wonderful body, but she hardly understood it well enough to trust it to direct physical competition—and she was afraid that that was exactly what Purple would choose. TOOL? That could be anything, including weapons; he was surely skilled with those, while she understood only the weapon of her horn—which she lacked, here. She seemed to have no good choices!

But maybe she could surprise him! With sudden resolve, she touched the very worst of her choices: MACHINE.

He had chosen PHYSICAL, as she had surmised.

Maybe Mach was right: she did have a touch for the Game, being able to judge her opponent’s likely choice. But she was still stuck in a box she didn’t like.

She hoped she would get the numbers, this time, so she could avoid INTERACTIVE or COMBAT and perhaps COOPERATIVE; she wanted no contact with this brutal man!

Luck did not help her. She got the letters again, and had to choose between E. EARTH F. FIRE G. GAS and H. H2O. She had learned that EARTH meant a flat surface, such as a ball could roll on, and that FIRE meant a variable surface that a stick might help to cross, and GAS meant a broken surface, such as might have been carved up by a knife, and that H2O meant water, where anything went. She didn’t trust any of them, but as a unicorn she preferred the flat surface, such as might be grazed or run on. Therefore she avoided that, still trying to surprise the Citizen, to get into some combination that, however bad it might be for her, would be worse for him. So she touched FIRE, with a sense of futility.

He had chosen 6. INTERACTIVE. Thus they were in 1C6F: Machine-assisted physical activity on a variable surface, interactive. That, when they played through the choices, turned out to be SNOWMOBILE BUMPING.

“Well,” Purple said, making a motion as of lathering his hands. “It will be a pleasure to return to this sport.”

She realized that she had nothing to lose except the game, and her freedom. There was no point trying to placate the Citizen, but perhaps she could learn something from him. “Thou wast good at this?”

“I was good at everything, in my youth,” he said. “But especially mountainside sports, because of my association with the mountain range.”

The Purple Mountain range, of course. That made sense. She had after all walked into the worst of choices!

They adjourned to the Snow Sports range. The snowmobiles turned out to be machines that could cruise rapidly up and down slopes. A steeply banked track circled the central housing. The route was not long, but had plenty of variety, and because it circled, there was no end to it. The two would circle until one bumped the other out of the track.

Suddenly Fleta realized that this was very much like a game she had played with others of her Herd. They had gone up into the snowy regions and beaten out a track, then ran in it, trying to shoulder each other out of it. She had not been the best, because she lacked the mass and power of some of the others, but she had been good, because she was fast and sure. Had her physical assets matched the others’, pound for pound, she would have been the best.

The snowmobiles were machines, all the same size and shape and power. The only difference in the contestants would be that of their own body masses—and their skills in the game. Fleta had never before used such a machine, but she suspected that once she became accustomed to it, she would be able to compete with anyone.

The Citizen thought he had an easy victory. He might discover he had no victory at all!

They donned heavy clothing, for the range was cold. This was one of the few occasions when serfs were permitted apparel. The attendant explained the use of the machines, which turned out to be simple: a wheel mounted sidewise for steering, and a pedal to set the speed.

They got into their mobiles and exited simultaneously on opposite sides. They would circle left. It was possible for the two to avoid contact by traveling at constant speed on opposite sides, but if too long a period elapsed without a bump, both would be disqualified, and both would be out of the Tourney, with a bye granted to whatever contestant would have encountered the winner in the next round. Purple might be satisfied with that, but Fleta couldn’t afford it. She hoped that Purple’s pride would require him to mix it up, and not go for the ignominious disqualification, just to get control of her.

As she moved out into the snow, she concentrated on attuning to the machine. She had only a little time to ascertain the range of its capabilities. How fast could it gallop? How quickly could it slow? How well could it maneuver? She had to get the feel of it, so that she could use it without thinking, exactly as she would her own body.

She pushed down on the pedal, and the mobile leaped ahead, spewing out snow behind. She lifted her foot, and the thing stopped so suddenly that only her restraining harness prevented her body from being thrown forward and out of it, while snow flew up in a small cloud.

The machine was responsive!

That made her think of Mach, the most responsive of machines.

But Purple was overhauling her rapidly. She leaped forward again, lest he ram her and bump her out before she got started. As she did, she steered to the side, and the machine quickly swerved. This was an excellent unicorn!

Now she was ready, and barely in time, for Citizen Purple’s mobile was upon her. It had maintained speed while she experimented, and she could not gain on it from a standing start. The Citizen was aiming to ram her, he being on the inside of the track and she moving more slowly on the outside. She would be out of control in a moment if he scored.

But she had a body that was close enough in principle to her own, and experience in exactly this kind of tactic. She gauged the likely point of impact, and as he speeded up to add more impetus to the bump, she cut suddenly left, crossing in front of him, and abruptly slowed.

Caught by surprise, he struck her right flank and caromed off to the right. She was already steering left again, countering the shove of her rear. Then, as he tried to compensate for his unexpected impetus, she cut right, accelerated, and bumped him hard from the inside.

He careened out of the track so violently that his vehicle collided with the outer retaining wall. A buzzer sounded: the contest was over.

Fleta had not only won, she had won decisively. She had made an experienced gamesman look like a duffer. “How dost thou like that manure, Citizen?” she called gleefully.

Then, realizing that caution was in order, she guided her snowmobile quickly inside, and departed before Purple could get there.

As she returned to her chamber, she knew she had secured her chance to return to Phaze. But now, oddly, she wished she did not have to go just yet. After all, she had just qualified for Round Five, one of only sixty-four survivors! That was halfway through the rounds! Who knew how far she could go if she remained in the Tourney!

But Mach was waiting at the chamber. “Don’t get notions, filly,” he said severely. “You’re safe, now—but if you play again and lose, we might not be able to coordinate the exchange before you got shipped offplanet.”

That sobered her. “Agape will have to play in my stead,” she said regretfully. “Mayhap she will win the Tourney and become the next Citizen!”

“Maybe,” he agreed. Then they made love, for it would be their last night together for a time.

“Remember,” he said in the morning. “Keep the secret. Bane tells me that the Adverse Adepts are raising an army. He has to learn more about their plans, and only he can spy on them without their knowledge; I am too much a duffer at magic, and if they mean to betray us and break the truce—”

“Aye,” she said. “That other tourney be not over yet.”

Then, before the call for the next game came, Bane arrived. There was no sign of him, but Mach could tell. “She’s with him,” he said. “Come, embrace me, and concentrate on Phaze: your desire to return.”

“Aye,” she repeated, embracing him with mixed emotions.

Now she felt the presence of the others. She willed herself to Phaze, to the lovely open plain that occupied this spot there, and the exchange took hold.