Split Infinity

CHAPTER 9 - Promotion

Dreams came, replaying old memories ...

The weapon-program director stared down at him. “You sure you want to get into swords, lad? They get pretty heavy.” He meant heavy for someone Stile’s size.

Again that burgeoning anger, that hopeless wrath instigated by the careless affronts of strangers. That de-termination to damn well prove he was not as small as they saw him. To prove it, most of all, to himself. “I need a sword. For the Game.”

“Ah, the Game.” The man squinted at him judiciously. “Maybe I’ve seen you there. Name?”

“Stile.” For a moment he hoped he had some compensating notoriety from the Game.

The man shook his head. “No, must have been someone else. A child star, I think.”

So Stile reminded this oaf of a child. It didn’t even occur to the program director that such a reference might be less than complimentary to a grown man. But it would be pointless to react openly—or covertly. Why couldn’t he just ignore what others thought, let their opinions flow from his back like idle water? Stile was good at the Game, but not that good. Not yet. He had a number of weaknesses to work on—and this was one. “Maybe you’ll see me some time—with a sword.”

The director smiled condescendingly. “It is your privilege. What kind did you want?”

“The rapier.”

The man checked his list. “That class is filled. I can put you on the reserve list for next month.”

This was a disappointment. Stile had admired the finesse of the rapier, and felt that he could do well with it. “No, I have time available now.”

“The only class open today is the broadsword. I doubt you’d want that.”

Stile doubted it too. But he did not appreciate the director’s all-too-typical attitude. It was one thing to be looked down on; another to accept it with proper grace. “I’ll take the broadsword.”

The man could not refuse him. Any serf was entitled to any training available, so long as he was employed and the training did not interfere with his assigned duties. “I don’t know if we have an instructor your size.”

Stile thought of going up against a giant for his first lesson. He did not relish that either. “Aren’t you supposed to have a full range of robots?”

The man checked. He was obviously placing difficulties in the way, trying to discourage what he felt would be a wasted effort. He could get a reprimand from his own employer if he placed a serf in an inappropriate class and an injury resulted. “Well, we do have one, but-“

“I’ll take that one,” Stile said firmly. This oaf was not going to balk him!

The director shrugged, smiling less than graciously.

“Room 21.”

Stile was startled. That happened to be his age.

Twenty-one. He had been a stable hand for a year, now. Coincidence, surely. He thanked the director perfunctorily and went to room 21.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the instructor said, coming to life. “Please allow me to put this protective halter on you, so that no untoward accident can happen.” She held out the armored halter.

A female robot, programmed of course for a woman.

That was how the problem of size had been solved.

Stile imagined the director’s smirk, if he left now. He gritted his teeth. “I don’t need the halter. I am a man.” How significant that statement seemed! If only he could get living people to listen, too. He was a man, not a midget, not a child.

The robot hesitated. Her face and figure were those of a young woman, but she was not of the most advanced type. She was not programmed for this contingency. “Ma’am, it is required—“

Useless to argue with a mechanical! “All right.” Stile took the halter and tied it about his waist. There it might offer some modicum of protection for what a man valued.

The robot smiled. “Very good, ma’am. Now here are the weapons.” She opened the storage case.

It seemed an anomaly to Stile to have a female instructing the broadsword, but he realized that women played the Game too, and there were no handicaps given for size, age, experience or sex, and not all of them cared to default when it came to fencing. They felt as he did: they would go down fighting. Often a person with such an attitude did not go down at all; he/she won, to his/her surprise. Attitude was important.

The robot was not smart, but she was properly programmed. She commenced the course of instruction, leaving nothing to chance. Stance, motion, strategy, exercises for homework to increase facility. Safety pre-cautions. Scoring mechanisms and self-rating scale. Very basic, but also very good. When a program of instruction was instituted on Proton, it was the best the galaxy could offer.

Stile discovered that the broadsword had its own virtues and techniques. It had two cutting edges as well as the point, making it more versatile—for the person who mastered it. It did not have to be heavy; modern alloys and molecular-foam metals made the blade light yet keen. He soon realized that there could be a Game advantage in this weapon. Most opponents would expect him to go for the rapier, and would play to counter that. Of such misjudgments were Game decisions made.

Next morning he reported to the stables as usual. “Stile, we’re bringing in a robot trainer from another farm,” the foreman said. “Name’s Roberta. Get out to the receiving gate and bring her in.” And he smiled privately.

Stile went without question, knowing another stable hand would be assigned to cover his chores in the interim. He had been given a post of distinction: greeter to a new trainer. No doubt Roberta was a very special machine.

She was already at the gate when Stile arrived. She was in the shade of a dwarf eucalyptus tree, mounted on a fine bay mare about sixteen hands high. The gate-keeper pointed her out, half-hiding a smirk.

What was so funny about this robot? Stile was reminded uncomfortably of the weapon-program director, who had known about the female robot instructor. Being deceived in any fashion by a robot was always an embarrassment, since no robot intentionally deceived. Unless programmed to—but that was another matter.

This one did not look special: flowing yellow hair, a perfect figure—standard, since they could make humanoid robots any shape desired. Why make a grotesquerie? She seemed small to be a trainer—smaller than the fencing instructor he had worked with. She was a rider, obviously; was she also a jockey? To break in the most promising horses for racing? No robot-jockey could actually race, by law; but no living person had the programmed patience of a training machine, and the horses did well with such assistance.

“Roberta, follow me,” Stile said, and began walking along the access trail.

The robot did not follow. Stile paused and turned, annoyed. “Roberta, accompany me, if you please.” That last was a bit of irony, as robots lacked free will.

She merely looked at him, smiling.

Oh, no—was she an idiot model, not programmed for verbal directives? Yet virtually all humanoid robots were keyed to respond at least to their names. “Roberta,” he said peremptorily.

The mare perked her ears at him. The girl chuckled. “She only responds to properly couched directives,” she said.

Stile’s eyes passed from girl to mare. A slow flush forged up to his hairline. “The horse,” he said.

“Roberta, say hello to the red man,” the girl said, touching the horse’s head with her crop.

The mare neighed.

“A robot horse,” Stile repeated numbly. “A living girl.”

“You’re very intelligent,” the girl said. “What’s your name?”

“Uh, Stile.” Of all the pitfalls to fall into!

“Well, Uh-Stile, if you care to mount Roberta, you can take her in.”

His embarrassment was replaced by another kind of awkwardness. “I am a stable hand. I don’t ride.”

She dismounted smoothly. Afoot she was slightly shorter than he, to his surprise. She evinced the confidence normally associated with a larger person, though of course height was less important to women. “You’re obviously a jockey, Uh-Stile, as I am. Don’t try to fool me.”

“That’s Stile, no uh,” he said.

“Stile Noah? What an unusual appellation!”

“Just Stile. What’s your name?”

“I’m Tune. Now that the amenities are complete, get your butt on that robot.”

“You don’t understand. Stable hands tend horses; they don’t ride.”

“This is not a horse, it’s a robot. Who ever heard of a jockey who didn’t ride?”

“I told you I’m not—“ Then it burst upon him.

“That’s why my employer chose me! Because I’m small. He wanted a potential jockey!”

“Your comprehension is positively effulgent.”

“Do—do you really think—?”

“It is obvious. Why else would anyone want serfs our size? Your employer started you on the ground, huh? Slinging dung?”

“Slinging dung,” he agreed, feeling better. This girl was small; she was not really making fun of him; she was playfully teasing him. “Until I found a worm.”

“A whole worm?” she asked, round-eyed. “How did it taste?”

“A parasite worm. In the manure.”

“They don’t taste very good.”

“Now I’ve been a year in the stable. I don’t know a thing about riding.”

“Ha. You’ve watched every move the riders make,” Tune said. “I know. I started that way too. I wasn’t lucky enough to find a worm. I worked my way up. Now I race. Don’t win many, but I’ve placed often enough. Except that now I’m on loan to do some training. For those who follow after, et cetera. Come on—I’ll show you how to ride.”

Stile hesitated. “I don’t think I’m supposed to—“

“For crying in silence!” she exclaimed. “Do I have to hand-feed you? Get up behind me. Roberta won’t mind.”

“It’s not the horse. It’s my employer’s policy. He’s very strict about—“

“He told you not to take a lift on a robot?”

“No, but-“

“What will he say if you don’t get Roberta to your stable at all?”

Was she threatening him? Better her displeasure than that of his employer! “Suppose I just put you back on the horse and lead her in?”

Tune shrugged. She had the figure for it. “Suppose you try?”

Call one bluff! Stile stepped in close to lift her. Tune met him with a sudden, passionate kiss.

Stile reeled as from a body-block. Tune drew back and surveyed him from all of ten centimeters distance. “Had enough? You can’t lead Roberta anyway; she’s programmed only for riding.”

Stile realized he was overmatched. “We’ll do it your way. It’ll be your fault if I get fired.”

“I just knew you’d see the light!” she exclaimed, pleased. She put her foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. Then she removed her foot. “Use the stirrup. Hold on to me. Lift your left foot. It’s a big step, the first time.”

It was indeed. Sixteen hands was over 1.6 meters—a tenth of a meter taller than he was. He had to heft his foot up past waist-height to get it in the stirrup. He had seen riders mount smoothly, but his observation did not translate into competence for himself. Tune was in the way; he was afraid he’d bang his head into her left breast, trying to scramble up.

She chuckled and reached down with her left hand, catching him in the armpit. She hauled as he heaved, and he came up—and banged his head into her breast. “Swing it around behind, over the horse,” she said. Then, at his stunned pause, she added: “I am referring to your right leg, clumsy.”

Stile felt the flush burning right down past his collar-bone. He swung his leg around awkwardly. He kneed the horse, but managed to get his leg over, and finally righted himself behind Tune. No one would know him for a gymnast at this moment!

“That mounting should go down in the record books,” she said. “Your face is so hot it almost burned my—skin.” Stile could not see her face, but knew she was smiling merrily. “Now put your arms around my waist to steady yourself. Your employer might be mildly perturbed if you fell down and broke your crown. Good dungslingers are hard to replace. He’d figure Roberta was too spirited a nag for you.”

Numbly, Stile reached around her and hooked his fingers together across her small firm belly. Tune’s hair was in his face; it had a clean, almost haylike smell.

Tune shifted her legs slightly, and abruptly the robot horse was moving. Stile was suddenly exhilarated. This was like sailing on a boat in a slightly choppy sea—the miniature sea with the artificial waves that was part of the Game facilities. Tune’s body compensated with supple expertise. They proceeded down the path.

“I’ve seen you in the Game,” Tune remarked. “You’re pretty good, but you’re missing some things yet.”

“I started fencing lessons yesterday,” Stile said, half flattered, half defensive.

“That, too. What about the performing arts?”

“Well, martial art-“

She reversed her crop, put it to her mouth—and played a pretty little melody. The thing was a concealed pipe of some kind, perhaps a flute or recorder.

Stile was entranced. “That’s the loveliest thing I ever heard 1” he exclaimed when she paused. “Who’s steering the horse?”

“You don’t need reins to steer a horse; haven’t you caught on to that yet? You don’t need a saddle to ride, either. Not if you know your business. Your legs, the set of your weight—watch.”

Roberta made a steady left turn, until she had looped a full circle.

“You did that?” Stile asked. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Put your hand on my left leg. No, go ahead. Stile; I want you to feel the tension. See, when I press on that side, she bears right. When I shift my weight back, she stops.” Tune leaned back into Stile, and the horse stopped. “I shift forward, so little you can’t see it, but she can feel it—hold on to me tight, so you can feel my shift—that’s it.” Her buttocks flexed and the horse started walking again. “Did you feel me?”

“You’re fantastic,” Stile said.

“I referred to the guidance of the horse. I already know about me.”

“Uh, yes.”

“Roberta responds only to correct signals; she has no idiosyncrasies, as a living animal might. You have to do it just right, with her. That’s why she’s used for training. So the horses won’t teach the riders any bad habits. You noted how she ignored you when you spoke to her from the ground. She responds only to her rider. She’s not a plow horse, after all.”

“She’s fantastic too.”

“Oh, she is indeed! But me—I do have two cute little faults.”

Stile was inordinately interested now. “What are they?”

“I lie a little.”

Meaning he could not trust all of what she had been telling him? Discomforting thought! “What about the other?”

“How could you believe it?”

There was that. If she lied about it—

Tune played her instrument again. It was, she explained, a keyboard harmonica, with the keys concealed; she blew in the end, and had a scale of two and a half octaves available at her touch. Her name was fitting; her music was exquisite. She was right: he needed to look into music.

Tune and Roberta began training the new riders. Stile returned to his routine duties. But suddenly it was not as interesting, handling the horses afoot. His mind was elsewhere. Tune was the first really attractive girl he had encountered who was smaller than he was. Such a little thing, physical height, but what a subjective difference it could make!

Today he was lunging the horses. Lunging consisted of tying them to a fixed boom on a rotating structure, so they had to stay in an exact course, and making them trot around in a circle. It was excellent exercise, if dull for both man and horse. Some horses were too temperamental for the mechanical lead, so he had to do them by hand. He simply tied a rope to an artificial tree, and stood with his hand on that line while he urged the animal forward.

Stile had a way with horses, despite his size. They tended to respond to him when they would not do a thing for other stable hands. This, unfortunately, meant that he got the most difficult horses to lunge. No horse gave trouble about feeding or going to pasture, but a number could get difficult about the more onerous labors.

The first horse he had to lunge was Spook—the worst of them. Spook was jet black all over, which perhaps accounted for his name. He was also extremely excitable—which was a more likely reason for his name. He could run with the best—the very best—but had to be kept in top condition.

“Come on. Spook,” Stile said gently. “You wouldn’t want to get all weak and flabby, would you? How would you feel if some flatfooted mare beat your time in a race? You know you have to exercise.”

Spook knew no such thing. He aspired to a life career of grazing and stud service; there was little room in his itinerary for exercise. He had quite an arsenal of tricks to stave off the inevitable. When Stile approached, Spook retreated to the farthest comer of his pen, then tried to leap away when cornered. But Stile, alert, cut him off and caught his halter. He had to reach up high to do it, for this horse could look right over Stile’s head without elevating his own head. Spook could have flattened Stile, had he wanted to; but he was not a vicious animal, and perhaps even enjoyed this periodic game.

Spook tried to nip Stile’s hand. “No!” Stile said sharply, making a feint with his free hand as if to slap the errant nose, and the horse desisted. Move and countermove, without actual violence. That was the normal language of horses, who could indulge in quite elaborate series of posturings to make themselves accurately understood.

They took a few steps along the path, then Spook balked, planting all four feet in the ground like small tree trunks. He was of course far too heavy for even a large man to budge by simple force. But Stile slapped him lightly on the flank with the free end of the lead-line, startling him into motion. One thing about being spooky: it was hard to stand firm.

Spook moved over, trying to shove Stile off the path and into a building, but Stile shoved the horse’s head back, bracing against it. Control the head, control the body; he had learned that principle in martial art, winning matches by hold-downs though his opponents might outweigh him considerably—because their greater mass became useless against his strategy. Few creatures went far without their heads.

Spook tried to lift his head too high for Stile to control. Stile merely hung on, though his feet left the ground. After a moment the dead weight became too much, and the horse brought his head down. Other stable hands used a martingale on him, a strap to keep the head low, but that made this horse even more excitable. Stile preferred the gentle approach.

At last he got Spook to the lunging tree. “Walk!” he commanded, making a token gesture with the whip. The horse sighed, eyed him, and decided to humor him this once. He walked.

Every horse was an individual. “Spook, you’re more trouble than a stableful of rats, but I like you,” Stile said calmly. “Let’s get this over with, work up a sweat, then I’ll rub you down. After that, it’s the pasture for you. How does that sound?”

Spook glanced at him, then made a gesture with his nose toward the pasture. Horses’ noses, like their ears, were very expressive; a nose motion could be a request or an insult. “Lunge first,” Stile insisted.

Spook licked his lips and chewed on a phantom delicacy. “Okay!” Stile said, laughing. “A carrot and a rubdown. That’s my best offer. Now trot. Trot!”

It was all right. The horse broke into a classy trot Any horse was pretty in that gait, but Spook was prettier than most; his glossy black hide fairly glinted, and he had a way of picking up his feet high that accentuated the precision of his motion. The workout was going to be a success.

Stile’s mind drifted. The girl. Tune—could she be right about his destiny? There were stringent rules about horse competition, because of the ubiquitous androids, cyborgs, and robots. Horses had to be completely natural, and raced by completely natural jockeys. The less weight a horse carried, the faster it could go; there were no standardized loads, here. So a man as small as Stile—yes, it did make sense, in Citizen terms. Citizens did not care about serf convenience or feelings;

Citizens cared only about their own concerns. Stile’s aptitude in the Game, his intelligence in schooling—these things were irrelevant. He was small and healthy and coordinated, therefore he was slated to be a jockey. Had he been three meters tall, he would have been slated for some Citizen’s classical basketball team. He didn’t have to like it; he worked where employed, or he left Proton forever. That was the nature of the system.

Still, would it be so bad, racing? Tune herself seemed to like it. Aboard a horse like Spook, here, urging him on to victory, leaving the pack behind, hearing the crowd cheering him on ... there were certainly worse trades than that! He did like horses, liked them well. So maybe the Citizen had done him a favor, making his size an asset. A lout like the stable hand Bourbon might eventually become a rider, but he would never be a racer. Only a small person could be that. Most were women, like Tune, because women tended to be smaller, and gentler. Stile was the exception. Almost, now, he was glad of his size.

And Tune herself—what a woman! He would have to take up music. It had never occurred to him that an ordinary serf could create such beauty. Her—what was that instrument? The keyboard harmonica—her musical solo, emerging as it were from nowhere, had been absolute rapture! Yes, he would have to try his hand at music. That might please her, and he wanted very much to please her.

She could, of course, have her pick of men. She had poise and wit and confidence. She could go with a giant if she wanted. Stile could not pick among women; he had to have one shorter than he. Not because he demanded it, but because society did; if he appeared among serfs with a girl who outmassed him, others would laugh, and that would destroy the relationship. So he was the least of many, from Tune’s perspective, while she was the only one for him.

The trouble was—now that he knew he wanted her—his shyness was boiling up, making any direct approach difficult. How should he—

“One side, shorty!” It was Bourbon, the stable hand who was Stile’s greatest annoyance. Bourbon was adept at getting Stile into mischief, and seemed to resent Stile because he was small. Stile had never understood that, before; now with the realization of his potential to be a jockey, the resentment of the larger person was beginning to make sense. Bourbon liked to make dares, enter contests, prevail over others—and his size would work against him, racing horses. Today Bourbon was leading Pepper, a salt-and-pepper speckled stallion. “Make way for a man and a horse!”

Spook spooked at the loud voice. He leaped ahead. The lead-rope jerked his muzzle around. The horse’s body spun out, then took a roll. The line snapped, as it was designed to; a horse could get hurt when entangled.

Pepper also spooked, set off by the other horse. He careened into a wall, squealing. The genuine imported wood splintered, and blood spattered to the ground.

Stile ran to Spook. “Easy, Spook, easy! You’re okay! Calm! Calm!” He flung his arms about Spook’s neck as the horse climbed to his feet, trying to steady the animal by sheer contact.

Bourbon yanked Pepper’s head about, swearing.

“Now see what you’ve done, midget!” he snapped at Stile. “Of all the runty, oink-headed, pygmy-brained—“

That was all. A fracas would have alerted others to the mishap, and that would have gotten both stable hands into deep trouble. Bourbon led his horse on, still muttering about the incompetence of dwarves, and Stile succeeded in calming Spook.

All was not well. Stile seethed at the insults added to injury, knowing well that Bourbon was responsible for all of this. The horse had a scrape on his glossy neck, and was favoring one foot Stile could cover the scrape with fixative and comb the mane over it, concealing the evidence until it healed, but the foot was another matter. No feet, no horse, as the saying went. It might be only a minor bruise—but it might also be more serious.

He couldn’t take a chance. That foot had to be checked. It would mean a gross demerit for him, for he was liable for any injury to any animal in his charge. This could set his promotion back a year, right when his aspirations had multiplied. Damn Bourbon! If the man hadn’t spoken sharply in the presence of a horse known to be excitable—but of course Bourbon had done it deliberately. He had been a stable hand for three years and believed he was overdue for promotion. He took it out on others as well as on Stile, and of course he resented the way Stile was able to handle the animals.

Stile knew why Bourbon had been passed over. It wasn’t his size, for ordinary riders and trainers could be any size. Bourbon was just as mean to the horses, in little ways he thought didn’t show and could not be proved. He teased them and handled them with unnecessary roughness. Had he been lunging Spook, he would have used martingale and electric prod. Other hands could tell without looking at the roster which horses Bourbon had been handling, for these animals were nervous and shy of men for several days thereafter.

Stile would not report Bourbon, of course. He had no proof-of-fault, and it would be contrary to the serf code, and would gain nothing. Technically, the man had committed no wrong; Stile’s horse had spooked first. Stile should have been paying better attention, and brought Spook about to face the intrusion so as not to be startled. Stile had been at fault, in part, and had been had. Lessons came hard.

Nothing for it now except to take his medicine, fig- uratively, and give Spook his, literally. He led the horse to the office of the vet. “I was lunging him. He spooked and took a fall,” Stile explained, feeling as lame as the horse.

The man examined the injuries competently. “You know I’ll have to report this.”

“I know,” Stile agreed tightly. The vet was well-meaning and honest; he did what he had to do.

“Horses don’t spook for no reason, not even this one. What set him off?”

“I must have been careless,” Stile said. He didn’t like the half-truth, but was caught between his own negligence and the serf code. He was low on the totem, this time.

The vet squinted wisely at him. “That isn’t like you, Stile.”

“I had a girl on my mind,” Stile admitted.

“Ho! I can guess which one! But this is apt to cost you something. I’m sorry.” Stile knew he meant it. The vet would do a serf a favor when he could, but never at the expense of his employer.

The foreman arrived. He was never far from the action. That was his business. Stile wondered, as he often did, how the man kept so well abreast of events even before they were reported to him, as now. “Damage?”

“Slight sprain,” the vet reported. “Be better in a few days. Abrasion on neck, no problem.”

The foreman glanced at Stile. “You’re lucky. Three demerits for carelessness, suspension for one day. Next time pay better attention.”

Stile nodded, relieved. No gross demerit! Had the foot been serious—

“Any extenuating circumstances to report?” the fore-man prodded.

“No.” That galled Stile. The truth could have halved his punishment.

“Then take off. You have one day to yourself.”

Stile left. He was free, but it was no holiday. The demerits would be worked off in the course of three days low on the totem, but that suspension would go down on his permanent record, hurting his promotion prospects. In the case of equivalent qualifications, the person with such a mark on his record would suffer, and probably have to wait until the next occasion for improvement. That could be as little as a day, or as long as two months.

Stile started off his free time by enlisting in a music-appreciation class. It was good stuff, but he was subdued by his chastisement. He would stick with it, however, and in time choose an instrument to play himself. The keyboard harmonica, perhaps.

In the evening Tune searched him out. “It’s all over the dome,” she told him brightly. “I want you to know I think you did right. Stile.”

“You’re a liar,” he said, appreciating her words.

“Yes. You should have covered it up and escaped punishment, the way Bourbon did. But you showed you cared more about the horse than about your own record.” She paused, putting her hands on his shoulders, looking into his face. What lovely eyes she had! “I care about horses.” She drew him in and kissed him, and the pain of his punishment abated rapidly. “You’re a man,” she added. The words made him feel like one.

She took him home to her private apartment—the affluence permitted ranking serfs. By morning she had shown him many things, not all of them musical or relating to horses, and he was hopelessly in love with her. He no longer regretted his punishment at all.

When Stile returned to work next day, at the same hour he had departed, he discovered that he had been moved out of his cabin. He looked at the place his bunk had been, dismayed. “I know I fouled up, but—“

“You don’t know?” a cabin mate demanded incredulously. “Where have you been all night?”

Stile did not care to clarify that; he would be razzed. They would End out soon enough via the vine. Tune, though small, was much in the eye of the local serfs, and not just because of her position and competence. “I was on suspension.” He kept his voice steady. “Was it worse than I thought, on Spook? Something that showed up later?”

“Spook’s okay.” His friend took his arm. “Come to the bulletin board.”

Not daring to react further. Stile went with him. The electronic board, on which was posted special assignments, demerits, and other news of the day, had a new entry in the comer: STILE pmtd KDDER.

Stile turned savagely on the other. “Some joke!”

But the foreman had arrived. “No joke. Stile. You’re sharing the apartment with Turf. Familiarize yourself, then get down to the robot stall for instruction.”

Stile stared at him. “But I fouled up!”

The foreman walked away without commenting, as was his wont. He never argued demerits or promotions with serfs.

Turf was waiting to break him in. It was a nice two-man apartment adjacent to the riding track, with a Game viewscreen, hot running water, and a direct exit to the main dome. More room and more privacy; more status. This was as big a step upward as his prior one from pasture to stable—but this time he had found no worm. There had to be some mistake—though he had never heard of the foreman making a mistake.

“You sure came up suddenly. Stile!” Turf said. He was an okay guy; Stile had interacted with him on occasion, walk-cooling horses Turf had ridden, and liked him. “How’d you do it?”

“I have no idea. Yesterday I was suspended for injuring Spook. Maybe our employer got his firing list mixed up with his promotion list”

Turf laughed. “Maybe! You know who’s waiting to give you riding lessons?”

“Tune!” Stile exclaimed. “She arranged this!”

“Oh, you’re thick with her already? You’re doubly lucky!”

Disquieted, Stile proceeded to Roberta’s stall. Sure enough, there was Tune, brushing out the bay mare, smiling. “Long time no see,” she said playfully.

Oh, she was lovely! He could have a thousand nights with her like the last one, and never get enough. But he was about to blow it all by his ingratitude. “Tune, did you pull a string?” he demanded.

“Well, you can’t expect a jockey to date a mere stable hand.”

“But I was in trouble! Suspended. There are several hands ahead of me. You can’t—“

She put her fine little hand on his. “I didn’t. Stile. Really. I was just joshing you. Its coincidence. I didn’t know you were being promoted right now; I figured in a month or so, since they brought me in. I’m training others, of course, but no sense to promote you after my tour here ends. So they moved it up, obviously. They don’t even know we’re dating.”

But she was, by her own proclamation, a liar. The foreman surely knew where Stile had spent the night. How much could he afford to believe?

“Ask me again tonight,” she murmured. “I never lie to a man I’m loving.”

What an offer! “What, never?”

“Hardly ever. You’re an operetta fan?”

He looked at her blankly.

“Never mind,” she said. “I’m not lying to you now.”

How he wanted to believe her!

“Will you try it alone?” she inquired, indicating Roberta’s saddle. “Or do you prefer to hold on to me again, and bang your poor head?”

“Both,” he said, and she laughed. She had asked him during the night whether his head hurt from what he had banged it into. He had admitted that there were some bruises he was prepared to endure.

She had him mount, more successfully this time, and showed him how to direct the robot. Then she took him out on the track. Very quickly he got the hang of it.

“Don’t get cocky, now, sorehead,” she warned. “Roberta is a horse of no surprises. A flesh horse can be another matter. Wait till they put you on Spook.”

“Spook?” he cried, alarmed. He had daydreamed of exactly this, but the prospect of the reality scared him.

She laughed again. She was a creature of fun and laughter. It made her body move pleasantly, and it endeared her to those she worked with. “How should I know whom you’ll ride? But we’ll get you competent first. A bad rider can ruin a good horse.”

“Yes, the Citizen wouldn’t be very pleased if a serf fell on his head and splattered dirty gray brains on a clean horse.”

It was a good lesson, and he returned to his new apartment exhilarated, only to discover more trouble. The foreman was waiting for him.

“There is a challenge to your promotion. We have been summoned to the Citizen.”

“We? I can believe there was a foul-up with me, that will now be corrected.” Though he had begun to hope that somehow this new life was real. Even braced for it as he was, this correction was hard to take. “But how do you relate? It wasn’t your fault.”

The foreman merely took his elbow and guided him forward. This summons was evidently too urgent to allow time for physical preparation. Stile tried to smooth his hair with his hand, and to rub off stray rimes of dirt on his legs from the riding. He felt, appropriately, naked.

In moments they entered a transport tunnel, took a private capsule, and zoomed through the darkness away from the farm. It seemed the Citizen was not at his farmside apartment at this hour. “Now don’t stare, keep cool,” the foreman told him. The foreman himself was sweating. That made Stile quite nervous, for the foreman was normally a man of iron. There must be quite serious trouble brewing! Yet why hadn’t they simply revoked Stile’s promotion without fuss?

They debouched at a hammam. Stile felt the fore-man’s nudge, and realized he was indeed staring. He stopped that, but still the environment was awesome.

The hammam was a public bath in the classic Arabian mode. A number of Citizens preferred this style, because the golden age of Arabian culture back on Earth had been remarkably affluent. Islam had had its Golden Age while Christianity had its Dark Ages. For the ruling classes, at any rate; the color of the age had never had much significance for the common man. Poverty was eternal.

Thus there were mosque-type architecture, and turban headdress, exotic dancing, and the hammam. This one was evidently shared by a number of Citizens. It was not that any one of them could not have afforded it alone; rather. Citizens tended to specialize in areas of interest or expertise, and an Arabian specialist had a touch that others could hardly match. Stile’s employer had a touch with fine horses; another might have a touch with desert flora; here one had a touch with the hammam. On occasion other Citizens wished to ride the horses, and were invariably treated with utmost respect. The hammam was by nature a social institution, and a Citizen could only socialize properly with other Citizens, so they had to share.

There were many rooms here, clean and hot and steamy, with many serfs bearing towels, brushes, ointments, and assorted edibles and beverages. One large room resembled a swimming pool—but the water was bubbly-hot and richly colored and scented, almost like soup. Several Citizens were soaking in this communal bath, conversing. Stile knew they were Citizens, though they were naked, because of their demeanor and the deference the clustered serfs were paying. Clothing distinguished the Citizen, but was not the basis of Citizen-ship; a Citizen could go naked if he chose, and sacrifice none of his dignity or power. Nevertheless, some wore jewelry.

They came to a smaller pool. Here Stile’s employer soaked. Six extraordinarily voluptuous young women were attending him, rubbing oils into his skin, polishing his fingernails, even grooming his privates, which were supremely unaroused. An older man was doing the Citizen’s hair, meticulously, moving neatly with the Citizen to keep the lather from his face.

“Sir,” the foreman said respectfully.

The Citizen took no notice. The girls continued their labors. Stile and the foreman stood where they were, at attention. Stile was conscious again of the grime on him, from his recent riding lesson; what a contrast he was to these premises and all the people associated with them! Several minutes passed.

Stile noted that the Citizen had filled out slightly in the past year, but remained a healthy and youngish-looking man. He had fair muscular development, suggesting regular exercise, and obviously he did not over-eat—or if he did, he stayed with non-nutritive staples. His hair looked white—but that was the effect of the lather. His pubic region was black. It was strange seeing a Citizen in the same detail as a serf!

Two more men entered the chamber. One was Billy, the roving security guard for the farm; the other was Bourbon. “Sir,” Billy said.

Now the Citizen nodded slightly to the foreman. “Be at ease,” the foreman said to the others. Stile, Billy and Bourbon relaxed marginally.

The Citizen’s eyes nicked to Bourbon. “Elucidate your protest.”

Bourbon, in obvious awe of his employer, swallowed and spoke. “Sir, I was passed over for promotion in favor of Stile, here, when I have seniority and a better record.”

The Citizen’s eyes flicked coldly to the foreman.

“You promoted Stile. Justify this.”

The foreman had promoted him? Stile had not been aware that the man had such power. He had thought the foreman’s authority ended with discipline, record-keeping, and perhaps the recommendation of candidates. The Citizen might have gotten mixed up, not paying full attention to the details of serf management, but the foreman should never have erred like this! He was the one who had suspended Stile, after all.

“Sir,” the foreman said, ill at ease himself. “It is my considered judgment that Stile is the proper man to fill the present need. I prefer to have him trained on the robot horse, which will only be with us three months.”

The Citizen’s eyes flicked back to Bourbon. “You are aware that the foreman exists to serve my interests. He is not bound by guidelines of seniority or record. It is his prerogative and mandate to place the proper personnel in the proper slots. I do not permit this of him, I require it. You have no case.”

“Sir,” Bourbon said rebelliously.

The Citizen’s eyes touched the foreman. There was no trace of humor or compassion in them. “Do you wish to permit this man to pursue this matter further?”

“No, sir,” the foreman said.

“Overruled. Bourbon, make your specifics.”

What was going on here? Why should the Citizen waste his time second-guessing his own foreman, whose judgment he obviously trusted? If the foreman got re-versed, it would be an awkward situation.

“Sir, Stile has the favor of the visiting instructor, Tune. I believe she prevailed on the foreman to promote Stile out of turn, though he fouled up only yesterday, injuring one of your race horses. My own record is clean.”

For the first time the Citizen showed emotion. “Injured my horse? Which one?”

“Spook, sir.”

“My most promising miler!” The Citizen waved one arm, almost striking a girl. She teetered at the edge of the pool for a moment before recovering her balance. “Fall back, attendants!” he snapped. Now that emotion had animated him, he was dynamic.

Instantly the seven attendants withdrew to a distance of four meters and stood silently. Stile was sure they were just as curious about this business as he was, though of course less involved.

Now there was something ugly about the Citizen’s gaze, though his face was superficially calm. “Foreman, make your case.”

The foreman did not look happy, but he did not hesitate. “Sir, I will need to use the vidscreen.”

“Do so.” The Citizen made a signal with one finger, and the entire ceiling brightened. It was a giant video receiver, with special elements to prevent condensation on its surface. “Respond to the serf’s directives, ad hoc.”

The foreman spoke a rapid series of temporal and spatial coordinates. A picture formed on the screen. Stile and the others craned their necks to focus on it. It was the stable, with the horse Spook looking out. A running film-clock showed date and time: yesterday morning.

“Forward action,” the foreman said, and the film jumped ahead to show Stile approaching the pen.

Stile watched, fascinated. He had had no idea this was being filmed. He looked so small, the horse so large—yet he was confident, the horse nervous. ‘Come on, Spook,’ his image said, encouraging the horse. But Spook was not cooperative.

The film went through the whole ugly sequence relentlessly, as Stile gentled and bluffed and fought the great stallion, forcing him to proceed to the lunging tree.

“As you can see, sir,” the foreman said. “This man was dealing with an extremely difficult animal, but was not fazed. He used exactly that amount of force required to bring the horse in line. I have handled Spook myself; I could not have gotten him to lunge on that morning.”

“Why didn’t you send help?” the Citizen demanded. “I would have had difficulty myself, in that situation.” This was no idle vanity; the Citizen was an expert horseman.

“Because, sir, I knew Stile could handle it. The presence of other serfs would only have alarmed the horse. This is why Stile was assigned to this animal on this day; Spook needed to be exercised and disciplined with competence. He had thrown his rider on the prior day.”

“Proceed.”

Under the foreman’s direction the scene now shifted to Pepper’s stall. Pepper showed no nervousness as Bourbon approached, but he laid back his ears as he recognized the stable hand. Bourbon brought him out roughly, slapping him unnecessarily, but the horse b-haved well enough.

“This man, sir, was handling a docile animal brusquely,” the foreman said. “This is typical of his manner.

It is not a fault in itself, as some animals do respond to unsubtle treatment, but had he been assigned to exercise Spook—“

“Point made,” the Citizen said, nodding. He was well attuned to the mannerisms of horses. “Get on with it.”

Stile glanced at Bourbon. The stable hand was frozen, obviously trapped in an expose he had never anticipated.

The film-Bourbon came up behind Stile, who now had Spook trotting nicely. The animal was magnificent. A small, stifled sigh of appreciation escaped one of the watching girls of the hammam. Girls really responded to horses!

Bourbon chose his time carefully. “One side, shorty!” he exclaimed almost directly behind Stile and the horse. There was no question about the malice of the act.

Spook spooked. The rest followed.

“Enough film,” the Citizen said, and the ceiling screen died. “What remedial action did you take?”

“Sir, Stile reported the injury to his horse. I gave him three demerits and a one-day suspension. He made no issue. I felt that his competence and discretion qualified him best for the position, so I promoted him. I am aware that he had an acquaintance with the lady trainer, but this was not a factor in my decision.”

“The other,” the Citizen said grimly.

“Bourbon did not report the injury to his horse. I felt it more important to preserve the privacy of my observations than to make an overt issue. I passed him over for promotion, but did not suspend him, since the injury to the horse in his charge was minor.”

“There are no minor injuries to horses!” the Citizen cried, red-faced. Veins stood out on his neck, and lather dripped unnoticed across his cheek. He would have presented a comical figure, were he not a Citizen. “You are rebuked for negligence.”

“Yes, sir,” the foreman said, chastened.

The Citizen turned to Stile. “Your promotion holds; it was merited.” He turned to Bourbon, the cold eyes swiveling like the sights of a rifle. “You are fired.”

When a serf was fired for cause, he was finished on Planet Proton. No other Citizen would hire him, and in ten days his tenure would be aborted. Bourbon was through. And Stile had learned a lesson of an unexpected nature.

He had been going with Tune three months, the happiest time of his life, studying fencing and riding and music and love, when abruptly she said: “I’ve got to tell you. Stile. My second fault. I’m short on time. My tenure’s over.”

“You’re—“ he said, unbelievingly.

“I started at age ten. You didn’t think I got to be a jockey overnight, did you? My term is up in six months. I’m sorry I hid that from you, but I did warn you how I lied.”

“I’ll go with you!” he exclaimed with the passion of youth.

She squeezed his hand. “Don’t be foolish. I like you, Stile, but I don’t love you. Outside, you’d be twenty-one, and I’ll be twenty-nine, and no rejuve medicine. You can do better than that, lover.”

He thought he loved her, but he knew she was right, knew he could not throw away seventeen years of remaining tenure for a woman who was older than he and only liked him. “The Game!” he cried. “You must enter the Tourney, win more tenure—“

“That’s why I’m telling you now. Stile. This year’s Tourney begins tomorrow, and I’ll be in it. I am on Rung Five of the age-29 ladder, by the slick of my teeth. My tenure ends the moment I lose a Game, so this is our last night together.”

“But you might win!”

“You’re a dreamer. You might win, when your time comes; you’re a natural animal, beautifully skilled.

That’s why I wanted you, first time I saw you. I love fine animals! I was strongly tempted not even to try the Tourney, so as to be assured of my final six months with you—“

“You must try!”

“Yes. It’s futile, but I must at least take one shot at the moon, though it costs me six months of you.”

“What a way to put it!” Stile was torn by the horrors of her choice. Yet it was the type of choice that came to every serf in the last year of tenure, and would one day come to him.

“I know you’ll be a better jockey than I was; you’ll win your races, and be famous. I wanted a piece of you, so I took it, by means of the lie of my remaining time here. I’m not proud—“

“You gave me the best things of my life!”

She looked down at her breasts. “A couple of them, maybe. I hope so. Anyway, it’s sweet of you to say so, sorehead. Your life has only begun. If I have helped show you the way, then I’m glad. I won’t have to feel so guilty.”

“Never feel guilty!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, guilt can be great stuff. Adds savor to life.” But the spark was not in her humor, now.

They made love quickly, because he did not want to tire her right before the Tourney, but with inspired passion. He felt guilt for letting her go—and she was right, it did add a certain obscure quality to the experience.

Next day she entered the Tourney, and in her first match made a try on the Grid for music, and got trapped in dance instead. She was gone.

Stile pursued his musical studies relentlessly, driven by his waning guilt and love of her memory. Gradually that love transferred itself to the music, and became a permanent part of him. He knew he would never be a master musician, but he was a good one. He did enjoy the various instruments, especially the keyboard harmonica.

Three years later the foreman’s tenure expired.

“Stile, you’re good enough to qualify for my job,” he said in a rare moment of private candor. “You’re young yet, but capable and honest, and you have that unique touch with the horses. But there is one thing—“

“My size,” Stile said immediately.

“I don’t judge by that But there are others—“

“I understand. I will never be a leader.”

“Not directly. But for you there is a fine alternative. You can be promoted to jockey, and from there your skill can take you to the heights of fame available to a serf. I believe this is as good a life as anyone not a Citizen can have on Proton.”

“Yes.” Stile found himself choked up about the foreman’s departure, but could not find any appropriate way to express this. “I—you—“

“There’s one last job I have for you, a tough one, and how you acquit yourself may determine the issue. I am recommending you for immediate promotion to jockey, but the Citizen will decide. Do not disappoint me.”

“I won’t,” Stile said. “I just want to say—“

But the foreman was holding out his hand for parting. “Thank you,” Stile said simply. They shook hands, and the foreman departed quickly.

The job was to bring Spook back from another dome. The horse had grown more spooky with the years, and could no longer be trusted to vehicular transportation; the sound and vibration, however muted, set him off. The Citizen refused to drug him for the trip; he was too valuable to risk this way. Spook had won a number of races, and the Citizen wanted him back on the farm for stud. So Spook had to be brought home on foot. That could be difficult, for there were no walk-passages suitable for horses, and the outer surface of the planet was rough.

Stile planned carefully. He ordered maps of the region and studied them assiduously. Then he ordered a surface-suit, complete with SCOBA unit: SeIf-Contained Outside Breathing Apparatus. And a gyro monocycle, an all-band transceiver, and an information watch. He was not about to get himself lost or isolated on the inhospitable Proton surface!

That surface was amazingly rugged, once he was on it. There were mountain ranges to the north and south, the northern ones white with what little water this world had in free-state, as snow. There was the winding channel of a long-dead river, and a region of deep fissures as if an earthquake had aborted in mid-motion. He guided his monocycle carefully, counterbalancing with his body when its motions sent it into twists of precession; incorrectly handled, these machines could dump a man in a hurry, since the precession operated at right angles to the force applied. He located the most dangerous traps for a nervous horse, plotting a course well clear of them. Spook would be upset enough, wearing an equine face mask for his breathing and protection of his eyes and ears; any additional challenges could be disastrous. Which was of course why Stile was the one who had to take him through; no one else could do it safely.

Stile took his time, calling in regular reports and making up his route map. This was really a puzzle: find the most direct route that avoided all hazards. He had to think in equine terms, for Spook could spook at a mere patch of colored sand, while trotting blithely into a dead-end canyon.

Only when he was quite certain he had the best route did Stile report to the dome where Spook was stabled. He was confident, now, that he could bring the horse across in good order. It was not merely that this success would probably facilitate his promotion. He liked Spook. The horse had in his fashion been responsible for Stile’s last promotion.

When he arrived at that dome, he found a gram awaiting him. It was from offplanet: the first he had had since his parents moved out. STILE—AM MARRIED NOW—NAMED SON AFTER YOU. HOPE YOU FOUND YOURS—TUNE.

He was glad for her, though her loss hurt with sudden poignancy. Three months together, three years apart; he could not claim his world had ended. Yet he had not found another girl he liked as well, and suspected he never would. He found himself humming a melody; he had done that a lot in the first, raw months of loss, and it had coalesced into a nervous habit he did not really try to cure. Music would always remind him of her, and he would always pursue it in memory of those three wonderful months.

So she had named her son after him! She had not conceived by him, of course; no one conceived involuntarily on Proton. It was just her way of telling him how much their brief connection had meant to her. She had surely had many other lovers, and not borrowed from their names for this occasion. She said she had lied to him, but actually she had made possible an experience he would never have traded. Brevity did not mean in-consequence; no, never!

“Thank you. Tune,” he murmured.