So that was the unit of currency—safely penny-ante after all. Relieved, Stile discarded his 10 of hearts, to keep his opponent from getting it and having a pair, and asked for Merle’s left-end card, which in a conventional arrangement might be her high one. Of course it wasn’t; she had not arranged her cards physically, either. Too much could be telegraphed that way. It was the jack of clubs.
Now he had ace of spades, 6 of hearts, jack of clubs, 4 of clubs and 2 of clubs. Perhaps three legs on a flush, if he didn’t lose his clubs to Merle’s drawings.
But he had to call, raise, or drop. He was unwilling to quit so early, so he called, contributing one white chip.
Merle discarded another, and drew his ace. She was having uncanny luck in destroying his hand! Then she added a red chip to the pot. She was raising the ante—five more grams.
The Rifleman passed Stile another replacement card. It was the king of clubs. Now Stile had four clubs—almost a flush. A full flush would very likely win the pot; only one hand in 200 was a flush. But by the same token, flushes were hard to come by. Merle would have four chances in five to steal away one of his clubs on her next turn. Should he call or fold?
He looked at Mellon. The serf nodded affirmatively, approving the bet. So Stile discarded the 6 of hearts, drew another card from Merle—and got the ace of spades back. Disappointed, he matched the red chip.
Merle frowned faintly within her helmet, and Stile was frustrated again, unable to gauge her true mood. With an unfamiliar game variant and an unfamiliar opponent, he could exercise little of his natural skill. A person’s eyes could tell a lot; if the pupils widened, the hand was positive. But her pupils were shadowed by that translucency.
She took another card: his king of clubs. He got an 8 of spades from the pack. Already his promised flush was fading, as he had feared. His hand still amounted to nothing.
Merle put in a blue chip. Another ten grams! That brought her total up to sixteen grams of Protonite. At the rate she was raising the ante, he could not afford to let this game continue too long. But he would surely lose if he stood pat now; she must have amassed at least one pair. He wanted to make a good showing, so that other Citizens would want to make wagers with him.
Stile decided to keep trying for the flush. Therefore he discarded his ace of spades, reckoning it too risky to hold for her possible reacquisition, and drew from Merle—his original 10 of diamonds. No good to him at all, at this stage, since he had discarded his matching 10 before. Again he matched her bet, though he thought it would have been smarter to drop. She probably had ten times as much wealth to gamble with as he did. If Mellon knew how week Stile’s hand was, the serf would hardly have tolerated this bet.
Merle took his jack of clubs, further decimating his flush. And she put five more blue chips into the pot. Sixty-six grams total: she surely had a good hand now!
Stile accepted the replacement card: the 6 of spades. Now his hand was the 8 and 6 of spades, 10 of diamonds, and 4 and 2 of clubs. No pairs, no flush, no high card—and a monstrous ante facing him if he wanted to keep playing.
Then something clicked. He had almost missed the forest for the trees!
“I stand pat on this hand,” Stile announced. “Adviser, may I bet my limit?”
Mellon agreed reluctantly. Stile put eight blue chips and four white ones into the pot, bringing his total to one hundred grams. Now it was Merle’s turn to call or fold; she could not raise during his turn. Would she be bluffed out?
She called, putting in another thirty-four grams. She laid down her hand, face up. “Blaze,” she said. “Two kings, two queens, one jack.”
That meant she had to have had one pair last round, perhaps two pairs, beating him. She had waited until she had what she wanted: a pat hand, all court cards. She had played with nerve.
But Stile had beaten her. “Skip straight,” he said, laying it out. “Ten-high.” There it was: 10–8–6–4–2: This hand was not as strong as a straight, but was stronger than any of the other hands from three of a kind down.
“Very nice, Stile,” she agreed. “The pot is yours.” She made a little gesture of parting and walked away.
“He took her,” one of the male Citizens said. “That’s one kilo for me.” Another nodded glumly.
“Very nice indeed,” the Rifleman said. “You have added another hundred to your estate. It is so recorded.”
A total of 219 grams of Protonite added to his original thousand—in the course of just two supposedly penny-ante games. But Stile knew he could just as readily lose it again.
Mellon approached as the group of Citizens dispersed. “Sir, you must desist now.”
“I’ll be glad to. But what is the reason? I thought you would stop me from betting before.”
“This is the bait, sir. Now the serious bettors will seek you out.”
The serious bettors. Of course. Stile had, as it were, dipped his toe. He needed to announce himself, so that he could step into the real action, where the upper limit would rise. Obviously a gain of 219 grams was statistically insignificant, compared with the 2000 kilograms that was his target level. He had won only one ten-thousandth of his stake. This could be as difficult a climb as it had been through the levels of the Tourney.
Yet Mellon was not concerned about the luck of individual wagers. He had a certain program of challenge planned. His limit on Stile’s initial betting had been merely to prevent Stile from losing his stake in the course of making himself known to the key wagering clientele.
“Did I hear correctly?” Stile asked the Rifleman. “Did one of the spectators bet a full kilogram of Protonite on the outcome of my game with Merle?”
“He did,” the Rifleman agreed. “Citizens bet on anything.”
“Ten times what I bet—and he wasn’t even playing!”
The Rifleman smiled. “That’s the way it is. Your adviser protected you from getting into that level too soon. Come on—there’s more than wagering to get into.”
Stile allowed the Rifleman to show him around some more. There were different levels and slants and curves to the invisible floor, with refreshments on one tier, dancing on another, and conversation on a third. Coupled with the ubiquitous holographic astronomy, the effect was potent This was a wonderland, as impressive in its lavish expense as in its execution. Yet the Citizens, long used to this sort of thing, ignored the setting and socialized among themselves.
“You do get accustomed to it,” the Rifleman said, divining Stile’s thoughts. “This is merely a standard social occasion, a kind of Citizen concourse, where any can come for idle entertainment and socializing on an amicable plane. All comforts and amusements are available at every Citizen’s private residence, but they get bored. Of course they have holo contact, but you can’t actually touch a holo, or push it aside or make love to it.”
“You say they,” Stile observed.
“I’m still a serf at heart. You’ll be the same. The Citizens do not discriminate against our kind—to do so would be to dishonor their system—but we discriminate against ourselves, internally. We react to what is beneath their notice. Look there, for instance.” He gestured upward.
Stile looked. Above them was a transparent spaceship, inside which Citizens were dancing. The men wore archaic black tailed-coat costumes, the women white blouses and slippers and voluminous skirts. From this nether vantage he could see right up their prettily moving legs, under their skirts where the white bloomers took over. Stile had gotten used to nakedness in Proton and to clothing in Phaze, but this halfway vision was intensely erotic for him. He did have some acclimatizing to do, lest he embarrass himself.
Again the Rifleman was with him in spirit. “Yet we see excellent distaff flesh all about us, unconcealed,” he pointed out, indicating Sheen, who remained respectfully behind. Stile glanced back. Sheen was indeed the perfect figure of a young woman, with lovely facial features, fine large, upstanding breasts, and torso and legs that could hardly be improved upon. In terms of appearance she was s
tunning, far prettier than the exaggerated lady Citizen Fulca—yet she did not excite him sexually. This was not because he knew she was a machine, he decided; the robot was more human and caring than most flesh-women he knew. It was because she was a naked serf. Sheen had no secrets, so lacked novelty. In contrast, the peek up the skirts of the dressed ladies above—that, literally, clothed his fancy and set his pulse racing.
“But the average Citizen can look and yawn,” the Rifleman said, glancing again at the skirts above. “Clothing is no novelty here. Nothing is novelty, except assured victory in an honest game of chance. You made Merle’s day just now; you were an unknown quantity, giving her the thrill of uncertainty.”
That reminded Stile. “Just how old is she, and how much of her fortune would a hundred grams of Protonite represent, if it’s not uncouth to inquire?”
“The fortunes of all Citizens are a matter of public record. She’s worth about ten kilos; I can get the precise figure for the moment, if you wish. The Records Computer—”
“No, no need. So my wager did not hurt her.”
“Not at all. Age is also on record. Merle is sixty-one years old. She’s had rejuvenation, of course, so she has the face and body of a serf girl of thirty. But her mind is old. I dare say she knows more about sex than you and I combined.”
Stile had noticed that most Citizen women were physically attractive, in contrast with the men. Rejuvenation would of course account for this. It would not prolong life significantly, but it would make a person seem young on the day he died of age. The vanity of women caused them to go this route.
Stile turned to the Rifleman. “I thank you for the courtesy of your time. You have facilitated my education. Now I think I will go home and assimilate my impressions, if I may do so without offense to this gathering.”
“No offense. You have made your appearance and performed on stage; all interested Citizens have had opportunity to examine you. Go and relax, Stile.”
“I really did not meet many Citizens. I suppose I’m not much of a novelty.”
The Rifleman smiled. “Allow me to detain you for one more thing.” He led Stile to an especially thick dust cloud. Set just within its opacity was a control panel. A touch on this, and an image formed above—Stile, playing poker with Merle. The view shifted perspective as if the camera were dollying around, showing Stile from all sides. An inset showed the poker hands of each, changing as the play progressed.
“I’ve been recorded!” Stile exclaimed.
“Exactly,” the Rifleman agreed. “All interested Citizens are able to tune in on you—or on any other person here. This is open territory, unprivate.” He touched the controls again, and the nether view of the dancing Citizens appeared. “So-called X-ray views are also available, for those who wish.” Now the skirts and bloomers faded out, leaving the Citizens dancing naked, looking exactly like serfs.
Stile was alarmed. “You mean viewers can strip me like that, holographically?” He was concerned about exposure of his physical reaction when viewing the inner skirts before.
“Indeed. Voyeurism is a prime Citizen pastime. That particular thrill seems never to become passé.”
Stile sighed inwardly. He surely had provided the voyeurs some innocent entertainment today! “I appreciate your advising me,” he said, somewhat faintly.
“Welcome, Stile. I thought you would want to know. Citizenship is not completely idyllic, and there are many ways to be savaged unknowingly. Many Citizens prefer the complete privacy of their domes.”
“I can see why.” And on that amicable note they parted.
Back in his transparent capsule, Stile relaxed. It had actually been a joke on him, he decided, and harmless. The Citizens had really looked him over and found him human. He would be more alert in future.
But the joke had not finished. A call came in to the travel capsule. When he acknowledged, the head of Merle formed. Without her space helmet, she was revealed as a rather pretty young woman, with the same delicate rondure to her facial features as had been suggested by her suit-shrouded torso. “I have decided I like you, Stile,” she said. “Would you care for an assignation?”
“Uh, what?” he asked awkwardly.
She laughed. “Oh, you are so refreshing! It has been decades since I’ve had a truly naïve man.” The scope of the image expanded, to reveal the upper half of her body hanging in the air before him like a statuette, her small but excellent breasts shrouded by a translucent shawl. She must have viewed the holographic record of Stile’s recent experience and grasped his susceptibility to partial clothing on women. “You can see that I am moderately endowed, but please accept my assurance that I am expert with what I have.”
Stile proved his naïveté by blushing. “Sir, you catch me unprepared. Uh—”
She actually clapped her hands in glee. “Oh, absolute delight! I must have you!”
“I can’t say I care to have holographs made of me performing in such a situation,” Stile said, his face burning.
Merle pursed her lips. “But holos are the best part of it, so that one can review the occasion at proper leisure and improve technique.”
Out of range of the holo pickup, Sheen signaled imperatively. She did not want Stile to offend the Citizen. Mellon nodded agreement.
Stile took their advice. “Merle, as you can see, I’m flattered to the point of confusion. This is more than I can handle right now. Could you, would you grant me a stay of decision?”
“Gladly, Stile,” she agreed merrily. “I will contact you tomorrow.”
Some stay! “Thank you,” he said, conscious that his blush had intensified. He was thirty-five years old and hardly inexperienced with women, but his underlying awe of Citizens had betrayed him.
The moment the connection terminated, he snapped: “Block off all other calls! I don’t want any more of that!”
“We dare not block off Citizen calls,” Sheen said. “But I’ll ask my friends to make an inoffensive excuse message for you, and filter out as much as possible.”
“Thanks.” He caught her hand. “You’re beautiful, Sheen.”
“I wish I could move you the way Citizen Merle did,” she grumbled.
“She moved me to naked terror!”
“Naked, yes; terror, no.”
“She’s a sixty-year-old woman!”
“In that respect I can not compete. I was made less than a year ago.”
That reminded him. “Sheen, has there been any progress on your origin? Have your friends discovered who sent you to me and why?”
“I will query them,” Sheen said, but paused. “Oops—a call.”
“I told you, I don’t want—”
“From her.”
There was only one person Sheen referred to that way. “Oh. Put her on, of course.”
The image formed. The Lady Blue faced him. “My Lord, I dislike bothering thee, but I fear mischief.”
“What mischief?” he demanded, instantly concerned. The Lady Blue was no more beautiful, by objective standards, than Sheen, but she had completely captured his love. It bothered him to have the fact so evident in Sheen’s presence, but there really was no way to avoid it in this situation.
“Clip says he winds ogres.” She glanced nervously about. “We know not why such creatures should be on the isle of the West Pole.”
“I’ll rejoin thee,” Stile said.
“Nay, my Lord. Clip will guard me from harm. I merely advise thee, just in case any difficulty arises.”
“Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. “But if there’s any sign of menace, call me right away. It will take me a while to reach Phaze.”
“I love thee, Lord Blue,” she said, flashing her smile, making the air about her brighten. Stile always liked that magic effect. She faded out.
“Nevertheless,” Stile said grimly to Sheen, “I want to get closer to a curtain-crossing point. Or anywhere along the curtain; once I step across, I can spell myself immediately to the West Pole.”
Mellon w
as looking at him strangely. Stile smiled. “Have Sheen fill you in more thoroughly; you machines need to know this. I go to a world of magic, where I have a lovely wife and am important.”
“Yes, sir,” Mellon said dubiously. “I trust this will not interfere with your program of estate development.”
“Please infer no insult from this,” Stile told him. “But if my Lady Blue is in danger, my entire Citizenship estate can drop into deep space without a ship.”
“Thank you for clarifying your priorities, sir,” Mellon said stiffly.
“Oh, don’t be stuffy,” Sheen reproved the other robot. “You have to take Stile on his own peculiar terms.”
“Of course. He is a Citizen.”
She turned to Stile. “My friends have a report.”
“Let’s have it.” Stile was discovering that a lot of business could be done on the move.
The image of a desk robot appeared. “Sir, the machine of your inquiry was purchased by Citizen Kalder ten weeks ago, programmed to love and protect the serf Stile, and sent to said serf.”
“But why?” Stile demanded. “Why should a Citizen make an anonymous and expensive gift to a serf he does not employ?”
“That information is not available, sir. I suggest you contact Citizen Kalder.” The image faded.
“At least now I have a name,” Stile said. He pondered briefly. “How much does such a robot cost?”
“Approximately five grams of Protonite, sir,” Mellon replied. “This is my own value, which is typical for the type.”
“That is quintuple the twenty-year hire of a serf,” Stile said. “Maybe peanuts for a Citizen, but still out of proportion for a throwaway gift. Easier to send a serf bodyguard.” Another thought occurred. “Has my own estate been docked that amount for you and the other special personnel?”
“We are rented, sir,” Mellon said. “By special arrangement.”
That meant that the self-willed machines had set it up. They were covertly helping him, so that he could help them. “What do your friends think of our engagement, Sheen?”
“Sir, they are amazed, to the extent their circuitry and programming permit. This changes the situation, giving them the chance for recognition much sooner than otherwise. There are grave risks, but they are willing to follow this course.”