It came up 4A. She had gone for ART.
4A? He had selected B!
But his entry was clear; he had miskeyed. Of all the times to do that! This carelessness could cost him the match!
No time for recrimination. The Naked Arts related to Singing, Dancing, Pantomime, Story Telling, Poetry, Humor and the like: presentations before an audience. Stile was good enough at these things; presumably Red was too. She had probably been gridding for Sculpture in 4B; had Stile played correctly, that might have come to pass. With her life’s work in fashioning amulets, she was thoroughly experienced and skilled at that sort of thing. Of course he would not have let her have it; he would have thrown it into Music. Against Clef he had been in trouble; against Red he was pretty sure he would have a decisive advantage in Music. But of course she would not have let him have it, either, so they would have gridded into something else, that perhaps neither of them had much experience in, such as Writing. So he might be just as well off here. He was versed in most of the Naked Arts, and expert in some. If she wanted to match him in the generation of original free verse—
But the grid turned up Dance. All right—he could dance too. Did she have some particular specialty, like the classical minuet? He did not care to risk that; better to throw it into a more creative form, where his imagination could score. Not Ballet, because his thigh injury could interfere, but perhaps something loosely related.
In the end it came to a structured free-form dramatic dance, paradoxical as that seemed. It had a script with set maneuvers, rather like a ballet, but within that frame the particular interpretations were left to the players. It was costumed; in this case it was considered that apparel was useful for effect without being a necessary tool. NAKED did not refer to the absence of clothing, since all serfs lacked that; it simply meant that a particular Game could be played without any device like a bat or computer or hunting dog. So for this nakedness, the participants were clothed, for the benefit of the audience. Stile, recently acclimatized to the conventions of Phaze, was able to take this in stride. Red of course had no difficulty at all.
All in all, he felt reasonably well off.
The Computer established the script. It had a good file of diverse story lines, and varied them enough so that there were few repeats in a given year. This did mean that some play-themes were fairly unusual, but that was all part of the challenge.
This one was based on a tale of the Arabian Nights, “The Afreet’s Beauty Contest.” Citizens tended to favor Arabian motifs, associating with the presumed opulence of ninth- and twentieth-century Arabian culture.
Stile had the role of Kamar Al Zaman, a bachelor prince, and Red the part of Princess Budur, Moon of Moons. Stile was not familiar with this particular story, but had a foreboding about it. These Arabian tales could get pretty fundamental. This one was obviously a romance, and the last thing he could stomach was a Game of Love with the enemy he had sworn to destroy. But there was no clean way out, now.
The Computer was the Narrator and stage director. A panel of performing-arts critics was the judge. They would take into consideration the responses of the audience, but would not be bound by it; it was known that audiences often had illiterate tastes and colossal ignorances. Stile was satisfied with this; it meant his performance would be judged on its esthetic merits rather than on his size or Red’s appearance.
Maybe, too, he was foolishly buoyed by his last experience with such a panel, in connection with the harmonica duet. He knew something like that was unlikely to happen again; still …
They took their places on the darkened stage. The light came on in Stile’s part of the set. It was not a fancy Arabian setting, to his surprise, but a simple two-level pseudo-stone alcove.
“Kamar Al Zaman, an Arabian prince, has been confined to his chamber by his father the King because Kamar refuses to marry any of the eligible girls of the kingdom or any of the princesses of friendly neighboring kingdoms. The King wishes to ensure the continuance of the royal line, and harbors a nagging suspicion that his son may be gay, so has taken stringent measures to force the issue and to conceal the situation from the public. Prince Kamar submits to this humiliation with genteel grace. He now does the Dance of the Unbowed Head, symbolizing his determination to pursue his own life without regard for the dictates of royal fashion.”
Suddenly Stile liked this tale better. He could dance this theme! He believed in individual freedom and initiative—especially since he had discovered what life was like in Phaze. Even when an infallible Oracle set a particular fate, man’s ingenuity could shape it into something profitable. Stile was a prince, in the terms of Phaze—and a peasant, in the terms of Proton. His participation in the Tourney, he realized now, was motivated by his desire to change his status. To become a prince.
Stile danced. His archaic costume was designed for dancing rather than for any historical accuracy. He wore white tights that left his legs completely free, and a flowing blue cape that flung out when he whirled. It was fun; he developed his presentation as he did it, showing his defiance of the system, his fierce will-to-succeed. It was Stile against the frame of Proton, Stile against adversity. He spun and leaped and spread his arms in the universal gestures of defiance, and finally wound down to passivity; for he was after all Kamar, imprisoned in the tower like a common serf for daring to choose his own mode of living and loving. No one could appreciate his defiance, here in the dark tower, and this made it empty.
Except for the audience. It was large, and it applauded vigorously when Stile finished. Maybe this was a rote-response, clapping because that was what was supposed to be done; but Stile hoped that he had in fact conveyed a mood that all of them could understand. Serf against Citizen …
The experts on the panel made notes. It had been an excellent dance, thematically and technically, a good start on this role. Maybe this would work out.
Now Stile’s portion of the stage darkened. Red’s illuminated. Hers was a very feminine set, with draperies and mirrors and a plush feather bed made up on the elevated rear section of the stage, and her costume fit right in. “Meanwhile, the Princess Budur, Moon of Moons, renowned for her beauty and accomplishments in a kingdom on the far side of the civilized world, has experienced similar difficulties. She has refused all suitors, finding none she likes, because she prefers to marry for love rather than prestige or convenience. Her father is furious, and has confined her to quarters until she becomes more amenable to reason. Now, alone, she performs the Dance of Blighted Hope, symbolizing her unrequited longing for true romance.”
Red danced. She wore a lovely red outfit with a full-circle skirt and gems that gleamed in the lights, huge rubies, making her motions sparkle. She was, Stile realized reluctantly, a beautiful woman, well-formed and healthy. Alone, her size was not apparent; she looked normal, as did Stile. Her life of malice had left her physically untouched.
She was an excellent dancer, too. Her symbolism came through exquisitely. She spun precisely, so that her skirt flared out and lifted to show perfectly proportioned legs. She made eloquent gestures of love-longing that could not be misinterpreted; her face became radiant with hope and pitiful with disappointment. Was she a consummate actress, or did she really feel these emotions? Stile felt uncomfortable doubt; it was awkward to maintain his hate at full intensity in the face of this exquisite presentation.
At last she collapsed in complete abandoned grief, ending the dance. Never had Hope appeared more Blighted, or a fate less deserved.
The audience burst into applause again. Stile realized with misgiving that Red had outdanced him. She had conveyed more emotion in a more effective manner than he had. He was going to have to work for this Round! To further enhance his discomfort, he realized now that if Red made it to Citizenship, she would have much greater resources than she had had before, and would not need to remain on the defensive; she could probably hire execution squads to dispatch him at her convenience. She did not have to kill him here; it was sufficient merely to defe
at him. His situation was looking worse as hers looked better.
“Both Kamar and Budur strip and sleep, for it is night,” the Narrator continued. Individual spotlights touched each person with gray light to suggest night, leaving the rest of the stage dark. Stile removed his costume and folded each piece carefully, as a prince would, then stretched out on the elevated back section of the stage, feigning sleep. There was surely more to this Dance than this! There had to be, for he was behind and needed to catch up.
“Now the tower in which Prince Kamar is confined happens to be haunted by a female afreet, a supernatural being of the tribes of the jinn,” the Computer Narrator continued. Stile smiled inwardly; how little the Computer knew that in Phaze, the alternate aspect of this planet, there really were tribes of jinn! This story could be literal, there. In fact it could be literal here, since Phaze overlapped Proton. Maybe the afreets were playing this out in this same spot at this moment. If they had any way to perceive what was happening here, without the use of the curtain.…
“This afreetah has been away for the day, going about her business of stirring up assorted mischief in human affairs, but at night she returns. She passes through the stone wall and enters the tower chamber, as she is invisible and immaterial to whatever extent she chooses to be. Lo, she discovers the sleeping Prince Kamar on her bed and is amazed by the handsomeness of this mortal creature. She admires him for some time, deeply regretting that he is not her kind. Then she flies out to tell her friends of this wonder. She encounters a male afreet, who informs her that he has found a mortal who is prettier than hers. Affronted, she challenges him to a beauty contest. They will place the two mortals beside each other and compare them directly.”
There was a pause while the lights dimmed. Stile had to get up and cross the stage and lie down beside Red on her feather bed; the afreets had carried him there, the sleeping prince. His foreboding increased again; he did not like this close a contact with her. But he had to follow the script; any minor deviation would penalize him, and a major deviation could disqualify him. He remained beside Red in play-sleep, wishing he could simply shove her off the planet. His healing bullet-wound began to bother him—psychological, but indicative.
“The two afreets study the unconscious mortals,” the Narrator said. “Each person is a virtually perfect specimen, and the afreets are unable to determine a winner. Finally they hit upon a scheme—let the mortals themselves decide which one is the prettiest. The afreets will wake each in turn and watch their reactions; the one who is least affected will win, since that means the other must be less beautiful.”
Like the harmonica contest, Stile thought; the one who changed least, won. He was becoming curious to know the outcome of this tale.
The light brightened so that the audience could see the scene clearly: prince and princess sleeping naked beside each other. This would have had no significance in ordinary Proton life, but after the elaborate costumes of the play the suggestion of intimacy was strong.
There was a moment of surprised silence. Then someone snickered. The mirth quickly spread across the hall.
Stile knew what it was. He had experienced this sort of thing all his life. The disparity in the size of the actors had become apparent, now that they were together. The Computer did not care, and the panel of experts could handle it, but the audience was less sophisticated. Which was why the audience had no vote in the determination of a winner, here.
“The Pygmy and the Amazon!” someone said, and the laughter swelled.
Abruptly a stasis field dropped over them all. No one could move, on stage or in the audience, though all could hear. Prolonged, such a field could cause bodily harm and eventually death; for a short period it was merely uncomfortable, since bodily functions slowed almost to a halt. “Single warning,” the Computer said emotionlessly. “Further interference from the audience or inappropriate reactions will result in expulsion of the audience.”
The stasis lifted. The audience was now completely sober. There would be laughter only if the script warranted it, and no extraneous remarks. The Game Computer was a strict taskmaster; even a few Citizens had been caught in the stasis. They, however, made no protest; it was to their interest to have discipline maintained.
Yet the damage had been done. The audience might be serious, now, but the dance had become ludicrous. Stile knew that behind those sober faces a maniacal laughter raged.
He fought to control his own embarrassment and anger. He drew on a device he had used long ago to reduce stage fright. He pictured each member of the audience as a gibbering demon, with huge pointed ears and a bare purple bottom, scratching at fleas, and whipping a barbed tail about to tickle his neighbors. He projected all the ludicrous feeling onto them, away from himself. I am a man; you are ape-things. Stare, you foolish creatures. Stew in your own drool.
It was not entirely effective, but it helped. He was aware of Red shivering with suppressed resentment beside him; this was striking her, too. To this extent, he agreed with her.
Yet there was nothing to do except continue. Pygmy and Amazon had a deadly serious Game to win. The panel of judges had not laughed, and that was the critical element of this scene. The play had to go on.
“Now the afreetah changes into a bug and bites Kamar on the leg,” the Computer said. “He wakes—”
Stile slapped his leg as if stung, and sat up. This was a place where the audience might legitimately have chuckled, but there was not a single gibber.
“And spies the Princess Budur, Moon of Moons, lying next to him. Kamar is amazed; he does not realize that he is in a far-distant place, so intent is he on this marvel. He inspects her, touches her to make certain she is real and not a dream-figment, and tries to wake her. But she is under a spell of sleep and can not be roused.”
Stile went through the motions, in no way betraying his preference for throttling her. She was his enemy; why couldn’t she be the size of Neysa in girl-form, so that he did not look ridiculous in her company? Insult added to injury. Yet at the same time he had to concede again, inwardly, that she was a remarkable figure of a woman, one that in other circumstances—but no, he hated her, and could not forget that for an instant.
Then he saw the healing scar on her head, beneath her red hair, where his rock had gashed her. He did not know how to feel about that.
“It occurs to Kamar that this may be one of the ladies his father has in mind for him to marry, and that this is a device of his father’s to persuade him. Kamar does not like such strategy, but Budur is so beautiful that he is instantly won over. He resolves to tell his father in the morning that he is now amenable to the union. Meanwhile, he will not soil his future wife by unfair attentions during her repose. Kamar lies down and sleeps again.”
Almost, a peep escaped from a member of the audience. Would a virile young man actually do this, in the presence of a lovely and sleeping young woman? Well, perhaps one who had refrained from marrying any eligible girl because of the principle of pursuing his own life, and who would actually suffer confinement rather than permit his will to be abridged. It was, at least, an ideal for the audience to ponder. Stile felt, with a certain smugness, that he had faced just such a test in his contact with the Lady Blue, and had reacted similarly.
Stile lay down, relieved. It could have been much worse! The script could have required an act of love. That sort of thing was part of the Game—but it might have washed Stile out of the Tourney at this point. How could he do any such thing with his enemy, regardless of the script?
“The afreet now changes into a bug and bites the Princess Budur in a tender spot,” the Computer continued. Stile almost thought it had been about to say that the Moon of Moons was bitten on a moon; he had to suppress a role-destroying mirth. In tight situations, even deadly serious ones, minor things could seem impossibly funny. “She wakes, while Kamar remains under the enchantment of sleep.”
Red went through the sequence. “She is amazed to find this strange man in her bed. At first
horrified, she soon realizes that his presence has occasioned her no harm. She is impressed; he is the handsomest man she has ever seen.” Again, there was not even the hint of a snicker from the audience. “She concludes that her father has placed him here, to show her what she has been missing. She is moved; she calls herself a fool for her prior intransigence. Had she but known! This is the kind of man she could love! She attempts to rouse him, but he sleeps on.” Stile thought Red might shake him violently, trying to do him surreptitious harm, but she was careful, adhering to the script. She knew she was ahead on scoring, and had merely to maintain that lead.
“Princess Budur, overcome by passion for the Prince, embraces him and kisses him, pleading for him to awaken.” Even this directive Red got through, with Stile lying like a dead man. But as she brushed his left ear with her lips, she whispered: “I will torture thee for this indignity, foul man! Never has thy ilk touched me before in other than combat.”
She hated men! Not just him, but all men! She was a true Amazon! That remark from the audience must have stung her fully as much as it stung him. For her, an act of love with a man was impossible; she considered the entire opposite sex to be “ilk.”
Yet she was a consummate actress, as so many women seemed to be. No one in panel or audience had any hint of her true feeling. She had a will of iron; she would do whatever it took to win this Round. Stile could not even play upon her anger, for the script was too specific. He was officially sound asleep.
“Finally she gives up. She clasps him tightly and falls asleep.” Red put her left arm across his chest, snuggled close, set her lips against his left ear again, and slowly, methodically bit into it.
Stile could not jump or scream, for that would have cost him more points. Yet her position was such that her foul was not evident to the panel. She seemed to be kissing his ear—a natural enough action for the role. Stile had to hold himself frozen while the pain burgeoned.
This was, indeed, going to be a rough Game.