Part 5 (2/2)

Stile's hope was sailing. These were amazingly favorable responses. He was averaging 44. It would take a rating of 25 by the last panelist to bring him down to par with Rue. The lady Citizen seemed too perceptive for that-but she had surprised him before. He felt his hands getting sweaty as he waited for her answer.

”This mischief of love,” she said. ”Is this person concerned about the feelings of the lady robot who loves him?”

”He may not answer,” the Computer reminded her. ”We must divine that answer from his poem.”

”I wonder whether in fact it is his own personal reckoning he is most concerned with,” she said. ”He says they must be civil, because what will be, will be. I am not sure I can accept that answer.”

Stile quailed. This woman had downgraded Rue's verse for cruelty; was she about to do the same for his?

”Since he has a wife in the other frame, he really does not need a woman of any kind in this frame,” she continued. ”It is unfair to keep her in doubt.”

”We may approve or disapprove the poet's personal life,” the male Citizen said. ”But we are here to judge only the merit of the poem. For what it's worth, I see several indications that he recognizes the possibility of fundamental change. A b.i.t.c.h turns n.o.ble, defeat becomes victory, ice merges with flame, serf becomes Citizen, the fate of dragons and roaches is linked. Perhaps he is preparing his philosophy for the recognition that a living creature may merge with a machine. If this is the way fate decrees, he will accept it.”

She nodded. ”Yes, the implication is there. The author of this poem, I think, is unlikely to be deliberately cruel. He is in a difficult situation, he is bound, he is civil. It is an example more of us might follow. I rate this work forty four.”

Stile's knees almost gave way. She had not torpedoed him; his total score would be 82, comfortably ahead of Rue's total.

”Do any wish to change their votes on either aspect of either poem?” the Computer inquired. ”Your votes are not binding until confirmed.”

The panelists exchanged glances. Stile got tense again. It could still come apart!

”Yes, I do,” the serf woman said. Stile saw Rue tense; this was the one who had given her 50 on content. If she revised her grade on Stile's poem downward- ”I believe I overreacted on that fifty score,” she said.

”Let's call it forty-five for Cruel Lover.” Again Stile's knees turned to goo. She had come down on his side!

”Final score eighty-two to seventy-seven in favor of Stile's poem,” the Computer said after a pause. ”He is the winner of this Tourney.”

Now there was applause from the hidden public address system. So quickly, so simply, he had won! But he saw Rue, standing isolated, eyes downcast. On impulse he went to her. ”It was a good game,” he said. ”You could easily have won it.”

”I still have life tenure,” she said, half choked with disappointment. Then, as an afterthought, she added: ”Sir.”

Stile felt awkward. ”If you ever need a favor-”

”I did not direct my poem at you. Not consciously. I was thinking of someone who threw me over. Sir.” But now the crowd was closing in, and Stile's attention was necessarily diverted.

”By the authority vested in me by the Council of Citizens of Planet Proton,” the Game Computer said, its voice emerging from every speaker under its control throughout the Game Annex, ”I now declare that the serf Stile, having won the Tourney, is acquitted of serf status and endowed with Citizens.h.i.+p and all appurtenances and privileges pertaining thereto, from this instant forward.”

The applause swelled ma.s.sively. The panelists joined in, serfs and Citizens alike.

A robot hastened forward with an ornate robe. ”Sir, I belong to your transition estate. It is your privilege to wear any apparel or none. Yet to avoid confusion-”

Stile had thought he was braced for this, but the repeated appellation ”sir” startled him. For a lifetime he had called others sir; now he had comprehensive conditioning to unlearn. ”Thank you,” he said, leaching for the robe. The robot skittered to the side.

”Allow me, sir,” it said, and Stile realized it wanted to put the robe on him. It did not behoove a Citizen to serve himself, though he could if he wanted to. Stile suffered himself to be dressed, holding a mental picture of a horse being saddled.

”Thank, you,” he repeated awkwardly.

The machine moved dose, getting the robe on and adjusted. ”A Citizen need not thank a machine-or anyone,” it murmured discreetly in Stile's ear.

”Oh. Yes. Thank-uh, yes.”

”Quite all right, sir,” the machine said smoothly.

Now a lady Citizen approached. It was Stile's employer. Former employer, he reminded himself. ”I am gratified, Stile,” she said. ”You have made me a winner too.”

”Thank you, sir.” Then Stile bit his tongue.

She smiled. ”Thank you, sir.” And she leaned forward to kiss him on the right eyebrow. ”I profited a fantastic amount on your success. But more than that is the satisfaction of sponsoring a Tourney winner. You will find me appreciative.” She walked away.

Now the Citizen known as the Rifleman approached. ”I know exactly how you feel,” he said. That was no exaggeration; the Rifleman had won his own Tourney fifteen years before. Stile had encountered him in the first Round of this Tourney and barely pulled out the victory. The Rifleman had been an excellent loser.

”Accept some private advice. Citizen: get away from the public for several days and drill yourself in the new reality. That will cure you of embarra.s.sing slips. And get yourself someone to explain the ropes in nontechnical terms-the extent of your vested estate, the figures, the prerogatives. There's a h.e.l.l of a lot to learn fast, if you don't want to be victimized by predatory Citizens.”

”But aren't all Citizens-that is, don't they respect the estates of other Citizens?”

”Your minimum share of the Protonite harvest can not be impinged upon-but only your luck and competence and determination can establish your place in the Citizen heirarchy. This is a new game. Stile-oh, yes. Citizens have names; we are merely anonymous to the serfs. You may wish to select a new name for yourself-”

”No need.”

”It is a game more intricate and far-reaching than any within the Tourney. Make a point to master its nuances, Stile-soon.” And the Rifleman gave him a meaningful glance.

The audience was dissipating as the novelty of the new Citizen wore off. Stile signaled Sheen. ”Can your friends provide me with a mentor conversant with the nuances of Citizen behavior?”

”They can, sir,” she said. ”Or they could program me-”

”Excellent! Get yourself programmed. They'll know what I need. And do it soon.”

Sheen left. Stile found it incongruous that she should remain naked while he was now clothed. Yet of course she remained a serf-an imitation serf-now in his employ; she would remain naked the rest of her life. Her life? Stile smiled, a trifle grimly. He was forgetting that she had no life. Yet she was his best friend in this frame.

Stile turned to the robot who had brought his robe.

”Take me to my estate,” he ordered it.

The machine hesitated. ”Sir, you have none.”

”None? But I thought all Citizens-”

”Each Citizen has a standard share of the Protonite mines. All else follows.”

”I see.” It seemed there was much that was not handed to a Citizen on a platter. He needed that manual of Citizens.h.i.+p! Where was Sheen? Her programming should have been quick.

Then she appeared. ”I have it, sir,” she said.

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