Clef to the Platinum Demesnes, sacrificing her life in the process. Stile could do worse than remember her in this poem!
Cube - there was one cube that was fresh in his experience, and that was the doubling cube of his recent backgammon game, which had enabled him to pull out a last-moment win.
Flame - well, it wasn't the most serious thing, but he had just enabled the chief snow-demon to have a liaison with his literal flame. That might not have any meaning to the Tourney judges, but this poem was not really for them but for Stile himself - his evocation of himself. The frame of Phaze was vitally important to him, and the flame related to that and to the notion of romance, which brought him to the Lady Blue. Ah, yes.
Sir - that was easy. This very poem was Stile's final effort to be called sir: to become a Citizen of Proton, and have similar stature and power in Proton as he did in Phaze as the Blue Adept.
But the remaining terms - they did not seem to relate. Now he was emotionally committed to this course, and had to use them in it - which meant he would have to improvise. That would be troublesome.
What was there to do except use the words as keys, perhaps as some psychic revelation that had to be clothed with syntax to become meaningful? If the first four terms brought him from the recent past to the present, the next eight might be taken as signals of the future. At least he would assume as much for the sake of the poem - insights to himself, now and to come. If the insights proved false, then this was a work of fiction; if true, of prediction. It was a worthy game, and he would take it seriously.
Stile bent to it with a will, and the lines fell into their places. No rhyme, no meter, no other ornamentation; just a series of statements like those of the Oracle, clarifying the significance of each key term. He found that there was not a great amount of mystery to it; the statements were mostly common sense, modified by what he already knew, and the whole was an affirmation of man's resignation to fate.
Suddenly time was up. Rue and Stile typed in their poems. Now it was up to the panel of judges.
In the interim, those judges had assembled. Each one sat in a separate booth facing a central holograph. They could view the holo and converse with each other at the same time. The Game Computer was represented by a booth containing a humanoid robot, its outer surface transparent, so that its wires, hydraulics, and electronic components showed. The thing was at first eerie, like an animated cross section of the human body, but soon the eye accepted it for what it was: an animation of a simplified representation of the far more complicated Computer.
'Display one poem,' the Computer-figure said. 'The serf Rue will commence her reading.'
Rue looked at the printed poem in her grid screen and began to read. A holograph of her formed above the central table, where all the judges could see it plainly. It looked as if she were standing there, a woman on a pedestal, and her eyes made contact with those of whatever judge she happened to face.
'My poem is entitled
'The key words are used correctly and in the proper sequence,' the Computer said. 'Each one terminates its lines, and each is matched with a rhyme of good quality. These are credits. Four lines exist only to complete the necessary rhymes; these are neutral. The metric scansion is correct and consistent - basically iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter with certain convenient modifications in the extreme feet. This is a common mode and not considered difficult. I rate the technical facility of this effort forty-two of a total of fifty points alloted to this aspect. Proceed to my left with your judgments.'
The female serf was to the left. 'I don't know much about all those things,' she said diffidently. 'But it rhymes, and I sort of like it. So I give it a forty-five.'
There was the illiterate response, Stile thought. That was the vote he had not deigned to court, though it cost him Citizenship.
Next was the male Citizen, resplendent in his ornate robes. 'We are not yet discussing content or interpretation?' he inquired. When the Computer agreed, he continued: 'I find the format simplistic but effective. I'll give it forty.' Stile liked that reaction better.
Then the male serf voted. 'I don't relate well to the female tone, but technically it seems all right for what it is. The key words are all in the right place, and they do fit in more neatly than I could do. Forty-three from me.'
The female Citizen, in a sequined suit, fire opals gleaming at her ears, voted last. 'Some of the lines are forced or confusing, but I suppose I must grade that in content. She's done an excellent job of stringing the random words coherently together. Forty-six.'
Stile saw that the average score was forty-three, which was good - probably a good deal better than his own would be. Rue had certainly integrated her terms cleverly. He was going to have a rough time of this one!
'We shall now analyze the second poem for technical merit,' the Computer said.
Stile stepped up to the grid. He found himself looking past his printed poem into the glassy orbs of the Computer simulacrum robot. He glanced to the side and saw the male serf. He could see anyone he chose, merely by looking in the correct direction; their circle was laid out flat on his screen.
'My poem is titled
