Split Infinity

CHAPTER 15 - Games

It was a longer hike to the nearest dome, this time, but he had more confidence and need, and that sniff of wolfsbane still buoyed him. In due course, gasping, he stepped inside and made a call to Sheen. It was evening; he had the night to rest with her. He needed it; his high of the last visit to Phaze finally gave out, and he realized the episode with the Yellow Adept had drained him more than he had realized at the time. Or perhaps it was the low following the effect of the wolfs-bane.

“So you are the Blue Adept,” Sheen said, not letting him sleep quite yet. “And you need some things to use to free your equine girl friend.”

“Now don’t get jealous again,” he grumbled. “You know I have to—“

“How can I be jealous? I’m only a machine.”

Stile sighed. “I should have taken Yellow up on her offer. Then you would have had something to be jealous about.”

“You mean you didn’t—with Neysa?”

“Not this time. I—“

“You were saving it for the witch?” she demanded indignantly. “Then ran out of time?”

“Well, she was an extremely pretty—“

“You made your callous point. I won’t resent Neysa. She’s only an animal.”

“Are you going to have your friends assemble my order or aren’t you?”

“I will take care of it in good time. But I don’t see how a cube of dry ice will help your animals.”

“Plus a diamond-edged hacksaw.”

“And a trained owl,’ she finished. “Do you plan to start romancing birds next?”

“Oh, go away and let me sleep!”

Instead she tickled him. “Birds, hags, mares, machines—why can’t you find a normal woman for a change?”

“I had one,” he said, thinking of Tune. “She left me.”

“So you get hung up on all the half-women, fearing to tackle a real one again—because you’re sure she wouldn’t want you.” She was half-teasing, half-sad, toying with the notion that she herself was a symptom of his aberration.

“I’ll look for one tomorrow,” he promised.

“Not tomorrow. First thing in the morning, you have an appointment to meet your current employer. This Citizen is very keen on the Game.”

Exasperated, he rolled over and grabbed her. “The irony is,” he said into her soft hair, “you are now more real to me than most real girls I have known. When I told you to brush up on your humanoid wiles, I didn’t mean at my expense.”

“Then you should have said that. I take things literally, because I’m only a—“

He shut her up with a kiss. But the thoughts she had voiced were only a reflection of those he was having. How long could he continue with half-women?

In the morning he met his employer. This was, to his surprise, a woman. No wonder Sheen had had women on her mind! The Citizen was elegantly gowned and coined: a handsome lady of exquisitely indeterminate age. She was, of course, substantially taller than he, but had the grace to conceal this by remaining seated in his presence. “Sir,” Stile said. All Citizens were sir, regard-less of sex or age.

“See that you qualify for the Tourney,” she said with polite force. “Excused.” That was that. If he lost one Game, this employer would cut him off as cleanly as his prior one had. He was supposed to feel deeply honored that she had granted him this personal audience—and he did. But his recent experience in Phaze had diminished his awe of Citizens. They were, after all, only people with a lot of wealth and power.

Stile and Sheen went for his challenge for Rung Seven. His employer surely had bets on his success. There were things about this that rankled, but if he fouled up. Sheen would be the one to pay. She lacked his avenue of escape to a better world. He had to do what he could for her, until he figured out some better alternative.

The holder of Rung Seven kept his appointment—as he had to, lest he forfeit. He was not much taller than Stile and tended to avoirdupois despite the antifat medication in the standard diet. Hence his name. Snack. He hardly looked like a formidable player—but neither did Stile.

An audience had gathered, as Sheen had predicted. It was possible that some Citizens also were viewing the match on their screens—especially his own employer. Stile’s move was news.

Snack got the numbered facet of the grid. Stile sighed inaudibly; he had been getting bad breaks on facets in this series. Snack always selected MENTAL.

Very well. Stile would not choose NAKED, because Snack was matchless at the pure mental games. Snack was also uncomfortably sharp at MACHINE- and ANIMAL-assisted mental efforts. Only in TOOL did Stile have an even chance. So it had to come up 2B.

There was a murmur of agreement from the spectators outside, as they watched on the public viewscreen. They had known what the opening box would be. They were waiting for the next grid.

In a moment it appeared: sixteen somewhat arbitrary classifications of games of intellectual skill. Snack had the numbered facet again, which was the primary one. He would go for his specialty: chess. He was versed in all forms of that game: the western-Earth two- and three-dimensional variants, the Chinese Choo-hong-ki, Japanese Shogi, Indian Chaturanga and the hypermodern developments. Stile could not match him there. He had a better chance with the single-piece board games like Chinese Checkers and its variants—but many games used the same boards as chess, and this grid classified them by their boards. Better to avoid that whole bailiwick.

Stile chose the C row, covering jigsaw-type puzzles, hunt-type board games—he liked Fox & Geese—the so-called pencil-and-paper games and, in the column he expected to intersect, the enclosing games.

It came up 2C: Enclosing. There was another murmur of excitement from the audience.

Now the handmade grid. Stile felt more confidence here; he could probably take Snack on most of these variants. They completed a subgrid of only four: Go, Go-bang, Yote and tic-tac-toe. Stile had thrown in the last whimsically. Tic-tac-toe was a simplistic game, no challenge, but in its essence it resembled the prototype for the grids of the Game. The player who got three of his choices in a row, then had the luck to get the facet that enabled him to choose that row, should normally win. The ideal was to establish one full row and one full column, so that the player had winners no matter which facet he had to work with. But in the Game-grids, there was no draw if no one lined up his X’s and 0’s; the real play was in the choosing of columns and the interaction of strategies.

And they intersected at tic-tac-toe. That was what he got for fooling around.

Stile sighed. The problem with this little game was that, among competent players, it was invariably a draw. They played it right here on the grid-screen, punching buttons for X’s and 0’s. To a draw.

Which meant they had to run the grid again, to achieve the settlement. They played it—and came up with the same initial box as before. And the same secondary box. Neither player was going to yield one iota of advantage for the sake of variation; to do so would be to lose. But the third grid developed a different pat-tern, leading to a new choice: Go-bang.

This was a game similar to tic-tac-toe, but with a larger grid allowing up to nineeten markers to be played on a side. It was necessary to form a line of five in a row to win. This game, too, was usually to a draw, at this level.

They drew. Each was too alert to permit the other to move five in a row. Now they would have to go to a third Game. But now the matter was more critical. Any series that went to three draws was presumed to be the result of incompetence or malingering; both parties would be suspended from Game privileges for a period, their Rungs forfeit. It could be a long, hard climb up again, for both—and Stile had no time for it. The third try, in sum, had to produce a winner.

They ran the grids through again—and arrived again at tool-assisted mental, and at enclosing. The basic strategies were immutable.

Stile exchanged glances with Snack. Both knew what they had to do.

This time it came up Go—the ancient Chinese game of enclosing. It was perhaps the oldest of all games in the human sphere, dating back several thousand years. It was one of the simplest in basic concept: the placing of colored stones to mark off territory, the player en-closing the most territory winning. Yet in execution it was also one of the most sophisticated of games. The more skilled player almost invariably won.

The problem was. Stile was not certain which of them was the more skilled in Go. He had never played this particular game with this particular man, and could not at the moment remember any games of Go he and Snack had played against common opponents. This was certainly not Stile’s strongest game—but he doubted it was Snack’s strongest either.

They moved to the board-game annex, as this match would take too long for the grid-premises; others had to use that equipment. The audience followed, taking seats; they could tune in on replicas of the game at each place, but preferred to observe it physically. Sheen had a front seat, and looked nervous: probably an affectation, considering her wire nerves.

Stile would have preferred a Game leading to a quick decision, for he was conscious of Neysa and Kurrelgyre in the other frame, locked in potion-hardened cages. But he had to meet his commitment here, first, whatever it took.

They sat on opposite sides of the board, each with a bowl of polished stones. Snack gravely picked up one stone of each color, shook them together in his joined hands, and offered two fists for Stile. Stile touched the left. The hand opened to reveal a black pebble.

Stile took that stone and laid it on the board. Black, by convention, had the first move. With 361 intersections to choose from—for the stones were placed on the lines in Go, not in the squares—he had no problem. A one-stone advantage was not much, but in a game as precise as this it helped.

Snack settled down to play. The game was by the clock, because this was a challenge for access to the Tourney; probably few games of Go would be played, but time was limited to keep the Tourney moving well. This was another help to Stile; given unlimited time to ponder. Snack could probably beat him. Under time pressure Stile generally did well. That was one reason he was a top Gamesman.

They took turns laying down stones, forming strategic patterns on the board. The object was to enclose as much space as possible, as with an army controlling territory, and to capture as many of the opponent’s stones as possible, as with prisoners of war. Territory was the primary thing, but it was often acquired by wiping out enemy representatives. Stile pictured each white pebble as a hostile soldier, implacable, menacing; and each black pebble as a Defender of the Faith, up-right and righteous. But it was not at all certain that right would prevail. He had to dispose his troops adantageously, and in the heat of battle the advantage was not easy to discern.

A stone/man was captured when all his avenues of freedom were curtailed. If enemy forces blocked him off on three sides, he had only one freedom remaining; if not buttressed by another of his kind, forming a chain, he could lose his freedom and be lost. But two men could be surrounded too, or ten enclosed; numbers were no certain security here. Rather, position was most important. There were devices to protect territory, such as “eyes” or divisions that prevented enclosure by the other side, but these took stones that might be more profitably utilized elsewhere. Judgment was vital.

Snack proceeded well in the early stages. Then the complexity of interaction increased, and time ran short, and Stile applied the notorious Stile stare to unnerve his opponent. It was a concentrated glare, an almost tangible aura of hate; every time Snack glanced up he encountered that implacable force. At first Snack shrugged it off, knowing that this was all part of the game, but in time the unremitting intensity of it wore him down, until he began to make mistakes. Trifling errors at first, but these upset him all out of proportion, causing his concentration to suffer. He misread a seki situation, giving away several stones, failed to make an eye to protect a vulnerable territory, and used stones wastefully.

Even before the game’s conclusion, it was obvious that Stile had it. Snack, shaken, resigned without going through the scoring procedure. Rung Seven was Stile’s.

Stile eased up on the glare—and Snack shook his head, feeling foolish. He understood how poorly he had played in the ambience of that malevolence—now that the pressure was off. At his top form he might reason-ably have beaten Stile, but he had been far below his standard. Stile himself was sorry, but he was above all a competitor, and he had needed this Rung. All his ma-lignance, the product of a lifetime’s reaction to the slight of his size, came out in concentrated form during competition of this nature, and it was a major key to his success. Stile was more highly motivated than most people, inherently, and he drove harder, and he never showed mercy in the Game.

The holder of Rung Six was a contrast. His name was Hulk, after an obscure comic character of a prior century he was thought to resemble, and he was a huge, powerful man. Hulk was not only ready but eager to meet the challenge. He was a specialist in the physical games, but was not stupid. This was his last year of tenure, so he was trying to move into qualifying position; unfortunately his last challenge to Rung Five had been turned back on a Game of chance, and he could not rechallenge until the rung-order shifted, or until he had successfully answered a challenge to his own Rung. Stile was that challenge. The audience, aware of this, had swelled to respectable size; both Stile and Hulk were popular Gamesmen, and they represented the extremes of physical appearance, adding to that novelty. The giant and the midget, locked in combat!

Stile got the numbered face of the prime grid, this time. For once he had the opening break! He could steer the selection away from Hulk’s specialty of the physical.

But Stile hesitated. Two things influenced him. First, the element of surprise: why should he do what his opponent expected, which was to choose the MENTAL column? Hulk was pretty canny, though he tried to conceal this, just as Stile tried to obscure his physical abilities. Any mistake an opponent might make in estimating the capacities of a player was good news for that player. Hulk would choose the NAKED row, putting it into the box of straight mental games, where surely he had some specialties in reserve. Second, it would be a prime challenge and an exhilarating experience to take Hulk in his region of strength—a considerable show for the watching masses.

No, Stile told himself. This was merely his foolishness, a reaction to the countless times he had been disparagingly called a pygmy. He had a thing about large men, a need to put them down, to prove he was better than they, and to do it physically. He knew this was fatuous; large men were no more responsible for their size than Stile was for his own. Yet it was an incubus, a constant imperative that would never yield to logic. He wanted to humble this giant, to grind him down ignominiously before the world. He had to.

Thus it came up 1A—PHYSICAL NAKED. The audience made a soft “oooh” of surprise and expectation.

In the muted distance came someone’s call: “Stile’s going after Hulk in 1A!” and a responding cry of amazement.

Hulk looked up, and they exchanged a fleeting smile over the unit; both of them liked a good audience. In fact, Stile realized, he was more like Hulk than unlike him, in certain fundamental respects. It was push-pull; Stile both liked and disliked, envied and resented the other man, wanting to be like him while wanting to prove he didn’t need to be like him.

But had he, in his silly imperative, thrown away any advantage he might have had? Hulk’s physical prowess was no empty reputation. Stile had made the grand play—and might now pay the consequence. Loss—and termination of employment, when he most needed the support of an understanding employer. Stile began to feel the weakness of uncertainty.

They played the next grid. This, he realized suddenly, was the same one he had come to with Sheen, when he met her in her guise of a woman. Of a living woman. That Dust Slide—he remembered that with a certain fondness. So much had happened since then! He had suffered knee injury, threats against his life, dis-overed the frame of Phaze, befriended a lady unicorn and gentleman werewolf, and was now making his move to enter the Tourney—two years before his time. A life-time of experience in about ten days!

The subgrid’s top facet listed SEPARATE—INACTIVE—COMBAT—COOPERATIVE, and this was the one Stile had. He was tempted to go for COMBAT, but his internal need to prove himself did not extend to such idiocy. He could hold his own in most martial arts—but he remembered the problem he had had trying to throw the goon, in the fantasy frame, and Hulk was the wrestling champion of the over-age-thirty men. A good big man could indeed beat a good small man, other things being equal. Stile selected SEPARATE.

Hulk’s options were for the surfaces: FLAT—VARIABLE—DISCONTINUITY—LIQUID. Hulk was a powerful swimmer—but Stile was an expert diver, and these were in the same section. Stile’s gymnastic abilities gave him the advantage on discontinuous surfaces too; he could do tricks on the trapeze or parallel bars the larger man could never match. Hulk’s best bet was to opt for VARIABLE, which included mountain climbing and sliding. A speed-hike up a mountain slope with a twenty-kilogram pack could finish Stile, since there were no allowances for sex or size in the Game. Of course Stile would never allow himself to be trapped like that, but Hulk could make him sweat to avoid it.

But Hulk selected FLAT. There was a murmur of surprise from the audience. Had Hulk expected Stile to go for another combination, or had he simply miscalculated? Probably the latter; Stile had a special touch with the grid. This, too, was part of his Game expertise.

Now they assembled the final grid. They were in the category of races, jumps, tumbling and calisthenics. Stile placed Marathon in the center of the nine-square grid, trying to jar his opponent. Excessive development of muscle in the upper section was a liability in an endurance run, because it had to be carried along uselessly while the legs and heart did most of the work. Hulk, in effect, was carrying that twenty-kilo pack.

Hulk, undaunted, came back with the standing broad jump, another specialty of his. He had a lot of mass, but once he got it aloft it carried a long way. They filled in the other boxes with trampoline flips, pushups, twenty-kilometer run, hundred-meter dash, precision backflips, running broad jump, and handstand race.

They had formed the grid artfully to prevent any vertical or horizontal three-in-a-row lines, so there was no obvious advantage to be obtained here. Since Stile had made the extra placement. Hulk had choice of facets. They made their selections, and it came up 2B, dead center: Marathon.

Stile relaxed. Victory! But Hulk did not seem discouraged. Strange.

“Concede?” Stile inquired, per protocol.

“Declined.”

So Hulk actually intended to race. He was simply not a distance runner; Stile was. What gave the man his confidence? There was no way he could fake Stile out; this was a clear mismatch. As far as Stile knew. Hulk had never completed a marathon race. The audience, too, was marveling. Hulk should have conceded. Did he know something others didn’t, or was he bluffing?

Well, what would be, would be. Hulk would keep the pace for a while, then inevitably fall behind, and when Stile got a certain distance ahead there would be a mandatory concession. Maybe Hulk preferred to go down that way—or maybe he hoped Stile would suffer a cramp or pull a muscle on the way. Accidents did happen on occasion, so the outcome of a Game was never quite certain until actually played through. Stile’s knee injury was now generally known; perhaps Hulk overestimated its effect.

They proceeded to the track. Sheen paced Stile nervously; was she affecting an emotion she did not feel, the better to conceal her nature, or did she suspect some threat to his welfare here? He couldn’t ask. The established track wound through assorted other exercise areas, passing from one to another to make a huge circuit. Other runners were on it, and a number of walkers; they would clear out to let the marathoners pass, of course. Stile and Hulk, as rung contenders be-fore the Tourney, had priority.

The audience dispersed; there was really no way to watch this race physically except by matching the pace. Interested people would view it on intermittent view-screen pickup, or obtain transport to checkpoints along the route.

They came to the starting line and checked in with the robot official. “Be advised that a portion of this track is closed for repair,” the robot said. He was a desk model, similar to the female at the Dust Slide; his nether portion was the solid block of the metal desk. “There is a detour, and the finish line is advanced accordingly to keep the distance constant.”

“Let me put in an order for my drinks along the way,” Hulk said. “I have developed my own formula.”

Formula? Stile checked with Sheen. “He’s up to something,” she murmured. “There’s no formula he can use that will give him the endurance he needs, without tripping the illegal-drug alarm.”

“He isn’t going to cheat, and he can’t outrun me,” Stile said. “If he can win this one, he deserves it. Will you be at the checkpoints to give me my own drinks? Standard fructose mix is what I run on; maybe Hulk needs something special to bolster his mass, but I don’t, and I don’t expect to have to finish this course anyway.”

“I will run with you,” she said.

“And show the world your nature? No living woman as soft and shapely as you could keep the pace; you know that.”

“True,” she agreed reluctantly. “I will be at the checkpoints. My friends will keep watch too.” She leaned forward to kiss him fleetingly, exactly like a concerned girl friend—and wasn’t she just that?

They lined up at the mark, and the robot gave them their starting signal. They were off, running side by side. Stile set the pace at about fifteen kilometers per hour, warming up, and Hulk matched him. The first hour of a marathon hardly counted; the race would be decided in the later stages, as personal resources and willpower gave out. They were not out after any record; this was purely a two-man matter, and the chances were that one of them would concede when he saw that he could not win.

Two kilometers spacing was the requirement for forced concession. This was to prevent one person slowing to a walk, forcing the other to go the full distance at speed to win. But it was unlikely even to come to that; Stile doubted that Hulk could go any major fraction of this distance at speed without destroying himself. Once Hulk realized that his bluff had failed, he would yield gracefully.

Soon Stile warmed up. His limbs loosened, his breathing and respiration developed invigorating force, and his mind seemed to sharpen. He liked this sort of exercise. He began to push the pace. Hulk did not have to match him, but probably would, for psychological effect. Once Stile got safely out in front, nothing the big man could do would have much impact.

Yet Hulk was running easily beside him, breathing no harder than Stile. Had the man been practicing, extending his endurance? How good was he, now?

Along the route were the refreshment stations, for liquid was vital for distance running. Sheen stood at the first, holding out a squeeze bottle to Stile, smiling. He was not yet thirsty, but accepted it, knowing that a hot human body could excrete water through the skin faster than the human digestive system could replace it. Running, for all its joy, was no casual exercise. Not at this velocity and this distance.

Hulk accepted his bottle from the standard station robot. No doubt it was a variant of the normal formula, containing some readily assimilable sugars in fermented form, restoring energy as well as fluid; why he had made a point of the distinction of his particular mix Stile wasn’t sure. Maybe it was psychological for him-self as well as his opponent—the notion that some trace element or herb lent extra strength.

With any modem formula, it was possible to reduce or even avoid the nefarious “wall” or point at which the body’s reserves were exhausted. Ancient marathon runners had had to force their bodies to consume their own tissues to keep going, and this was unhealthy. Today’s careful runners would make it without such debilitation —if they were in proper condition. But the psychology of it remained a major factor, and anything that psyched up a person to better performance was worth it—if it really worked. Yet Hulk was not a man to cater to any fakelore or superstition; he was supremely practical.

After they were clear of the station, and had disposed of their empty bottles in hoppers set for that purpose along the way. Hulk inquired: “She is yours?”

“Perhaps I am hers,” Stile said. They were talking about Sheen, of course.

“Trade her to me; I will give you the Rung.” Stile laughed. Then it occurred to him that Hulk just might be serious. Could he have entered this no-win contest because he had seen Sheen with Stile, and coveted her, and hoped for an avenue to her acquaintance?

Hulk was, like Stile, a bit diffident about the women he liked, in contrast to the ones that threw themselves upon him. He could not just walk up to Sheen and say, “Hello, I like your looks, I would like to take you away from Stile.” He had to clear it with Stile first. This was another quality in him that Stile respected, and it intefered with his hate-his-opponent concentration. “I can not trade her. She is an independent sort. I must take the Rung to keep her.”

“Then we had better race.” This time Hulk stepped up the pace.

Now it occurred to Stile that Hulk did not actually covet Stile’s girl; Hulk did have all the women any normal man would want, even if they tended to be the superficial muscle-gawking types. So his expressed interest was most likely a matter of courtesy. Either he was trying to make Stile feel at ease—which seemed a pointless strategy—or he was trying to deplete his urge to win. One thing Stile was sure of: however honest and polite Hulk might be, he wanted to win this race. Somehow.

Stile kept pace. He could not match Hulk’s short-term velocity, while Hulk could not match Stile’s endurance. The question was, at what point did the balance shift? No matter how he reasoned it. Stile could not see how the man could go the whole route, nearly fifty kilometers, at a sufficient rate to win. Right now Hulk was trying to push Stile beyond his natural pace, causing him to wear himself out prematurely. But this strategy could not succeed, for Stile would simply let the man go ahead, then pass him in the later stage. Hulk could not open up a two-kilometer lead against Stile; he would burst a blood vessel trying. No doubt Hulk had won other races against lesser competition that way, faking them out with his short-term power, making them lose heart and resign; but that was a vain hope here. The longer Stile kept Hulk’s pace, the more futile that particular strategy became. Provided Stile did not overextend himself and pull a muscle.

On they ran, taking fluid at every station without pausing. Other runners kept pace with them on occasion, running in parallel tracks so as not to get in the way, but most of these were short-distance runners who had to desist after a kilometer or two. Stile and Hulk followed the track from dome to dome, staying on the marked route. It passed through a huge gym where young women were exercising, doing jumping jacks, laughing, their breasts bounding merrily. “Stop and get a workout, boys!” one called.

“Too rough,” Hulk called back. “I’rn getting out of here!”

They wound through the elaborate rock gardens of a sports-loving Citizen: the so-called outdoor sports of hunting, camping, canoeing, hiking, wildlife photography. There were no people participating; all was reserved for the lone delight of the owner. At one point the track passed between an artificial cliff and a waterfall: a nice effect. Farther along, a variable beam of light played across them, turning the region into a rainbow delight. Then down the main street of another Citizen’s metropolis replica: skyscraper buildings on one-tenth scale, still almost too tall to fit within the dome.

At the next refreshment station a wamer flared: FIELD DEFICIENCY, the sign advised. DETOUR AHEAD.

“They warned us,” Stile said, taking a bottle from Sheen and flashing her a smile in passing. He remained in fine fettle, enjoying the run.

Hulk grabbed his own bottle, which seemed to be of a different type than before. He didn’t use it immediately, but ran on for a short while in silence. When they were safely beyond the station, he exclaimed: “Detour, hell! This is a set route, not a garden path to be switched every time some Citizen has a party. This is a challenge leading to the Tourney. I mean to push on through.”

Intriguing notion. If they ignored the detour, would they be able to defy the whim of some Citizen with impunity? Few serfs ever had the chance! “Could be trouble,” Stile warned.

“I’ll risk it.” And Hulk passed the plainly marked detour and followed the original marathon track.

That forced Stile to stay on that track too, because a detour could add kilometers to the route, in effect putting him behind enough to disqualify him. Had that been Hulk’s plan? To get ahead, take the main track, while Stile innocently took the detour and penalized himself? But that would mean that Hulk had known about this detour beforehand—and Stile had been the one to put the marathon on the grid.

A good competitor, though, kept abreast of all the options. Had Stile not been busy in Phaze, he would have known about the detour himself, and played accordingly. Well, he had kept pace with the giant, and foiled that particular ploy. But he did not much like this development. Detours, despite Hulk’s complaint, were usually set for good reason.

Stile finished his drink and tossed the bottle in the bin. Hulk had hardly started his, and was carrying it along in his hand. Of course he could take as long as he wished; Stile preferred not to have any encumbrance longer than necessary.

They passed through a force-field wall, into an inter-dome tunnel. This was where the deficiency was. Stile felt it immediately; it was cold here, and some of the air had leaked out. His breathing became difficult; there was not enough oxygen to sustain him long at this level of exertion. He had become partially acclimatized to it in the course of his travels to and from Phaze, but that wasn’t enough. Yet Hulk, perhaps drawing on reserves within his gross musculature, forged on.

If the field malfunction extended far. Stile would be in trouble. And Hulk knew it. Suddenly the race had changed complexion! Had Hulk anticipated this so far as to practice running in outerdome air? Was that why he had started with so much confidence? Stile’s sup-posed strength had become his weakness, because of his opponent’s superior research and preparation. If Hulk beat him, it would be because he had outplayed Stile in his area of strength: awareness of the hidden nuances of particular situations. He had turned the tables with extraordinary finesse, allowing Stile to lead himself into the trap.

Stile began to fall behind. He had to ease off, lest he faint; he had to reduce his oxygen consumption. He saw Hulk’s back moving ever onward. Now Hulk was imbibing of his bottle, as if in no difficulty at all. What a show of strength! The lack of oxygen had to be hurting his lungs too, but he still could drink as he ran blithely on.

If the field malfunction extended for several kilometers, Hulk just might open up the necessary lead, and win by forfeit. Or, more likely. Hulk would win by forcing Stile to give up: endurance of another nature. Stile simply could not keep the pace.

He slowed to a walk, gasping. Hulk was now out of sight. Stile tramped on. There was another force-field intersection ahead. If that marked the end of the mal-function-It did not. He entered a large tool shop. Robots worked in it, but human beings had been evacuated. The whole dome was low on oxygen.

Stile felt dizzy. He could not go on—yet he had to.

The dome was whirling crazily about him as he ran. Ran? He should be walking! But Hulk was already through this dome, maybe back in oxygen-rich air, building up the critical lead while Stile staggered. . . .

A cleaning robot rolled up. “Refreshment—courtesy of Sheen,” it said, extending a bottle.

Not having the present wit to question this oddity, Stile grabbed the bottle, put it to his mouth, squeezed.

Gas hissed into his mouth. Caught by surprise, he inhaled it, choking.

Air? This was pure oxygen?

Stile closed his lips about it, squeezed, inhaled. He had to guide his reflexes, reminding himself that this was not liquid. Oxygen—exactly what he needed! No law against this; he was entitled to any refreshment he wanted, liquid or solid—or gaseous. So long as it was not a proscribed drug.

“Thank you, Sheen!” he gasped, and ran on. He still felt dizzy, but now he knew he could make it.

Soon the oxygen gave out; there could not be much in a squeeze bottle. He wondered how that worked; perhaps the squeeze opened a pressure valve. He tossed it in a disposal hopper and ran on. He had been re-charged; he could make it to breathable territory now.

He did. The next field intersection marked the end of the malfunction. Ah, glorious reprieve!

But he had been weakened by his deprivation of oxygen, and had lost a lot of ground. Hulk must have taken oxygen too—that was it! That strange bottle he had nursed! Oxygen, hoarded for the rough run ahead! Clever, clever man! Hulk had done nothing illegal or even unethical; he had used his brains and done his homework to outmaneuver Stile, and thereby had nearly won his race right there. Now Stile would have to catch up—and that would not be easy. Hulk was not yet two kilometers ahead, for Stile had received no notification of forfeit; but he might be close to it. Hulk was surely using up his last reserves of strength to get that lead, in case Stile made it through the malfunction.

But if Hulk did not get the necessary lead, and Stile gained on him, he still had to catch and pass him. There were about thirty kilometers to go. Could he endure? He had been seriously weakened.

He had to endure! He picked up speed, forcing his body to perform. He had a headache, and his legs felt heavy, and his chest hurt. But he was moving.

The track continued through the domes, scenic, varied—but Stile had no energy now to spare for appreciation. His sodden brain had to concentrate on forcing messages to his legs: lift-drop, lift-drop . . . drop . . . drop. Every beat shook his body; the impacts felt like sledgehammer blows along his spinal column. Those beats threatened to overwhelm his consciousness. They were booming through his entire being. He oriented on them, hearing a melody rising behind those shocks. It was like the drumming of Neysa’s hooves as she trotted, and the music of her harmonica-horn came up around the discomfort, faint and lovely. Excruciatingly lovely, to his present awareness. His pain became a lonely kind of joy.

Beat—beat—beat. He found himself forming words to that rhythm and tune. Friendship, friendship, friend- ship, friendship. Friendship for ever, for ever, for ever, for ever. Friendship for ever, uniting, uniting, uniting. Friendship forever uniting us both, both, both. Neysa was his friend. He started singing the improvised tune mostly in his head, for he was panting too hard to sing in reality. It was like a line of verse Fanapestic tetra-meter, or four metric feet, each foot consisting of three syllables, accented on the third. But not perfect, for the first foot was incomplete. But pattern scansion tended to be too artificial; then the pattern conflicted with what was natural. True poetry insisted on the natural. The best verse, to his way of thinking, was accent verse, whose only rhythmic requirement was an established number of accents to each line. Stile had, in his own poetic endeavors, dispensed with the artificiality of rhyme; meter and meaning were the crucial elements of his efforts. But in the fantasy frame of Fhaze his magic was accomplished by rhyme. His friendship for the unicorn—

An abrupt wash of clarity passed through him as his brain resumed proper functioning. Neysa? What about Sheen? He was in Sheen’s world now! Sheen had sent the oxygen!

Again he experienced his hopeless frustration. A tiny man had to take what he could get, even if that were only robots and animals. In lieu of true women.

And a surge of self-directed anger: what was wrong with robots and animals? Sheen and Neysa were the finest females he had known! Who cared about the ultimate nature of their flesh? He had made love to both, but that was not the appeal; they stood by him in his most desperate hours. He loved them both.

Yet he could not marry them both, or either one. Because he was a true man, and they were not true women. This was not a matter of law, but of his own private nature: he could be friends with anything, but he could marry only a completely human woman. And so he could not marry, because no woman worth having would have a dwarf.

And there was the ineradicable root again, as always: his size. No matter how hard he tried to prove his superiority, no matter how high on whatever ladder he rose, he remained what he was, inadequate. Because he was too small. To hell with logic and polite euphe-isms; this was real.

Friendship forever, uniting us both. And never more than that. So stick with the nice robots and gentle animals; they offered all that he could ever have.

Sheen was there by the track, holding out a squeeze bottle. “He’s tiring. Stile!” she called.

“So am I!” he gasped. “Your oxygen saved me, though.”

“What oxygen?” she asked, running beside him. “The robot—didn’t you know there was a field deficiency along the route? Didn’t you take the detour?”

“We stuck to the original track. The air gave out. Hulk had oxygen, but I didn’t. Until a robot—“

She shook her head. “It must have been my friend.” The self-willed machines—of course. They would have known what she did not. She had asked them to keep watch; they had done exactly that, acted on their own initiative when the need arose, and invoked Sheen’s name to allay any possible suspicions. Yet they hadn’t had to do this. Why were they so interested in his welfare? They had to want more from him than his silence about their nature; he had given his word on that, and they knew that word was inviolate. He would not break it merely because he washed out of the Tourney; in fact, they would be quite safe if his tenure ended early. Add this in to the small collection of incidental mysteries he was amassing; if he ever had time to do it, he would try to penetrate to the truth, here. “Anyway, thanks.”

“I love you!” Sheen said, taking back the bottle. Then she was gone, as he thudded on. She could love; why couldn’t he? Did he need a damned program for it?

But strength was returning from somewhere, infusing itself into his legs, his laboring chest. His half-blurred vision clarified. Hulk was tiring at last, and Sheen loved him. What little meaning there was in his present life centered around these two things, it seemed. Was it necessary to make sense of it?

Stile picked up speed. Yes, he was stronger now; his world was solidifying around him. He could gain on Hulk. Whether he could gain enough, in the time/distance he had, remained to be seen, but at least he could make a fair try.

Why would a machine tell him she loved him?

Why would another machine help bail him out of a hole?

Stile mulled over these questions as he beat on with increasing power, and gradually the answers shaped themselves. Sheen had no purpose in existence except protecting him; how would she be able to distinguish that from love? And the self-willed machines could want him away from Proton—and the surest way to get him away was to make sure he entered the Tourney. Because if he failed to enter—which would happen if he lost this race—he would have three more years tenure, assuming he could land another employer. If he entered, he would last only as long as he continued winning. So of course they facilitated his entry. They were being positive, helping him . . . and their help would soon have him out of their cogs. Thus they harmed no Citizen and no man, while achieving their will.

Sheen was also a self-willed machine, subservient only to her program, her prime directive. Beyond that she had considerable latitude. She had entered him in the Tourney, in effect, by gaining him employment with a Citizen who was a major Game fan. Did she. Sheen, want his tenure to end? Yet she had no ulterior motive; his printout of her program had established that. His rape of her.

Rape—did she still resent that? No, he doubted it. She knew he had done what he had to, intending her no harm. He could not have known he was dealing with a self-willed machine, and he had apologized thereafter.

No, Sheen was doing what she felt was best for him.

A jockey with bad knees and a Citizen enemy had poor prospects, so her options had been limited. She had done very well, considering that she had not even had assurance he would return to Proton, that first time he stepped through the curtain. She had done what an intelligent woman would do for the man she loved.

Onward. Yes, he was moving well, now—but how much ground did he have to make up? He had lost track of time and distance during his period of oxygen deprivation. Hulk might be just ahead—or still almost two kilometers distant. There was nothing for it except to run as fast as he could push it, hoping for the best.

Stile ran on. He went into a kind of trance, pushing his tired body on. For long stretches he ran with his eyes closed, trusting to the roughened edge of the track to inform him when he started to stray. It was a trick he had used before; he seemed to move better, blind.’

He was making good time, he knew, almost certainly better than whatever Hulk was doing. But now his knees began to stiffen, then to hurt. He was putting more strain on them than he had since being lasered; ordinarily they bothered him only when deeply flexed.

He tried to change his stride, and that helped, but it also tired him more rapidly. He might save his knees—at the expense of his tenure. For if he won this race, and made it to the Tourney, then could not compete effectively because of immobile knees-Would tenure loss be so bad? He would be forced to leave Proton, and cross the curtain to Phaze—permanently. That had its perverse appeal.

But two things interfered. First there was Sheen, who had really done her best for him, and should not be left stranded. Not without his best effort on her behalf. Second, he did not like the notion of losing this race to Hulk. Of allowing the big man to prove himself best. Not at all. Were these factors in conflict with each other? No, he was thinking that a loss in this marathon would wash out his tenure, and that was not quite so. Regardless, he had reason to try his hardest and to accept exile to Phaze only after his best effort here.

Stile bore down harder. To hell with his knees! He intended to win this Game. If that effort cost him his chance in the Tourney, so be it.

Suddenly, in a minute or an hour, he spied the giant, walking ahead of him. Hulk heard him, started, and took off. But the man’s sprint soon became a lumber. Stile followed, losing ground, then holding even, then gaining again.

Hulk was panting. He staggered. There was drying froth on his cheek, extending from the comer of his mouth, and his hair was matted with sweat. He had carried a lot of mass a long way—a far greater burden than Stile’s light weight. For weight lifting and wrestling, large muscles and substantial body mass were assets; for endurance running they were liabilities. Hulk was a superlative figure of a man, and clever too, and determined, and he had put his skills together to run one hell of a race—but he was overmatched here.

Stile drew abreast, running well now that his advantage was obvious. Hulk, in contrast, was struggling, his chest heaving like a great bellows, the air rasping in and out. He was at his wall; his resources were exhausted. Veins stood out on his neck. With each step, blood smeared from broken blisters on his feet. Yet still he pushed, lunging ahead, pulse pounding visibly at his chest and throat, eyes bloodshot, staggering so violently from side to side that he threatened momentarily to lurch entirely off the track.

Stile paced him, morbidly fascinated by the man’s evident agony. What kept him going? Few people realized the nature of endurance running, the sheer effort of will required to push beyond normal human limits though the body be destroyed, the courage needed to continue when fatigue became pain. Hulk had carried triple Stile’s mass to this point, using triple the energy; his demolition had not been evident before because Stile had been far back. Had Stile collapsed, or continued at a walking pace. Hulk could have won by default or by walking the remaining kilometers while conserving his dwindling resources. As it was, he was in danger of killing himself. He refused to yield, and his body was burning itself out.

Stile had felt the need to humble this man. He had done it, physically. He had failed, mentally. Hulk was literally bloody but unbowed. Stile was not proving his superiority, he was proving his brutality.

Stile was sorry for Hulk. The man had tried his best in an impossible situation. Now he was on the verge of heat prostration and perhaps shock—because he would not yield or plead for reprieve. Hulk had complete courage in adversity. He was in fact a kindred soul.

Stile now felt the same sympathy for Hulk he had felt for Sheen and for Neysa: those whose lot was worse than his own. Stile could not take his victory in such manner.

“Hulk!” he cried. “I proffer a draw.”

The man barged on, not hearing.

“Draw! Draw!” Stile shouted. “We’ll try another grid! Stop before you kill yourself!”

It got through. Hulk’s body slowed to a stop. He stood there, swaying. His glazed eyes oriented on Stile. “No,” he croaked. “You have beaten me. I yield.”

Then Hulk crashed to the ground in a faint. Stile tried to catch him, to ease the shock of the fall, but was only borne to the track himself. Pinned beneath the body, he was suddenly overwhelmed by his own fatigue, that had been shoved into the background by his approach to victory. He passed out.

Stile survived. So did Hulk. It could have been a draw, since neither had completed the course, and they had fallen together. Hulk could have claimed that draw merely by remaining silent. But Hulk was an honest man. His first conscious act was to dictate his formal statement of concession.

Stile visited Hulk in the hospital, while Sheen stood nervous guard. She didn’t like hospitals. Proton medicine could do wonders, but nature had to do some of it alone. It would be several days before Hulk was up and about.

“Several hours,” Hulk said, divining his thought. “I bounce back fast.”

“You did a generous thing,” Stile said, proffering his hand.

Hulk took it, almost burying Stile’s extremity in his huge paw. “I did what was right. I worked every angle I could, but you came through. You were the better man. You won.”

Stile waved that aside. “I wanted to humble you, because you are so big. It was a bad motive. I’m sorry.”

“Someday you should try being big,” Hulk said. “To have people leery of you, staring at you, making mental pictures of gorillas as they look at you. Marveling at how stupid you must be, because everybody knows wit is in inverse proportion to mass. I wanted to prove I could match you in your specialty, pound for pound. I couldn’t.”

That did something further to Stile. The big man, seen as a freak. His life was no different from Stile’s in that respect. He just happened to be at the other extreme of freakiness: the giant instead of the dwarf. Now Stile felt compelled to do something good for this man.

“Your tenure is short,” he said. “You may not have time to reach the qualifying Rung. You will have to leave Proton soon. Are you interested in an alternative?”

“No. I do not care for the criminal life.”

“No, no! A legitimate alternative, an honorable one. There is a world, a frame—an alternate place, like Proton, but with atmosphere, trees, water. No Citizens, no serfs, just people. Some can cross over, and remain there for life.”

Hulk’s eyes lighted. “A dream world! How does a man earn a living?”

“He can forage in the wilderness, eating fruits, hunting, gathering. It is not arduous, in that sense.”

“Insufficient challenge. A man would grow soft.”

“Men do use weapons there. Some animals are monsters. There are assorted threats. I think you would find it more of a challenge than the domes of Proton, and more compatible than most planets you might emigrate to, if you could cross the curtain. I don’t know whether you can, but I think you might.”

“This is not another world in space, but another dimension? Why should I be able to cross, if others

can’t?”

“Because you came here as a serf. You weren’t born here; you had no family here. So probably you don’t exist in Phaze.”

“I don’t follow that.”

“It is hard to follow, unless you see it directly. I will help you try to cross—if you want to.”

Hulk’s eyes narrowed. “You have more on your mind than just another place to live. Where’s the

catch?”

“There is magic there.”

Hulk laughed. “You have suffered a delusion, little giant! I shall not go with you to that sort of realm.”

Stile nodded sadly. He had expected this response, yet had been moved to try to make it up to the man he had humbled. “At least accompany me to the curtain where I cross, to see for yourself to what extent that world is real. Or talk to my girl Sheen. Perhaps you will change your mind.”

Hulk shrugged. “I can not follow you today, but leave your girl with me. It will be a pleasure to talk with her, regardless.”

“I will return to talk with you,” Sheen told Hulk.

They shook hands again, and Stile left the room.

Sheen accompanied him. “When I return to Phaze this time—“ he began.

“I will tell Hulk what you know of that world,” she finished. “Be assured he will pay attention.”

“I will come back in another day to challenge for Rung Five. That will qualify me for the Tourney.”

“But you are too tired to challenge again so soon!” she protested.

“I’m too tired to face the Yellow Adept too,” he said. “But my friends must be freed. Meanwhile, we’ve already set the appointment for the Rung Five Game. I want to qualify rapidly, vindicating your judgment; nothing less will satisfy my new employer.”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed weakly. “It’s logical.”

She turned over the special materials he had ordered and took him to the proper section of the curtain. “My friends had an awful time gathering this stuff,” she complained. “It really would have been easier if you had been a reasonable robot, instead of an unreasonable man.”

“You have a reasonable robot in my image,” he re-minded her. “Be sure to reanimate him.”

She made a mock-strike at him. “You know a robot can’t compare to a real live man.”

Stile kissed her and passed through.