Yet before they departed entirely, the soul of Serrilryan paused. She looted back toward Clef, and he knew she was thanking him for a gift as unexpected as it was gratifying. Her sinful human component had been juxtaposed with her pure wolf component in death, nearer perfection than they had been in life, and the forces of Heaven had prevailed. She sent to earth one glance of purest appreciation that made the air about Clef sparkle. Then she turned again and loped on toward Heaven with her divine companions.
The Purple Mountains continued to shake and settle. Dragons flew up from the southern marches; creatures stirred all over Phaze. But Clef would not stop playing until the bitch was safely ensconced in Heaven. He would permit no loophole, no reversal.
Stile woke in alarm. The building was shaking!
'There seems to be an earthquake in progress,' Sheen said. 'The Purple Mountain range is settling.'
'That's no natural phenomenon! That's the Foreordained!' Stile cried. 'Now I realize that Clef is indeed the ultimate magician, with power to level mountains and delicacy to send souls to Heaven.'
'The Foreordained,' Sheen repeated. 'Clef is the one destined to save Phaze?'
'He played the Platinum Flute, and the mountain trembled and tumbled. That's the signal. I saw it in my dream - and now I know it's true. My vision has caught up to the present and affirmed it.'
Sheen checked the newsscreen. 'There has certainly been a shake-up in Proton. Power has been disrupted all along the southern range. Mine shafts have collapsed. If that's the result of one melody on one flute, it means magic is spilling over into the science frame.'
'So it seems. I'm sure my encounter with Clef was not coincidental. It was - foreordained. And my dream of his progress - there has to be some reason for that. I suspect he and I are destined to meet again.'
'You could never stay out of mischief,' she agreed. 'Now it's time to get ready for your Tourney match.'
'Did anyone ever tell you you are inhumanly practical? The end of the split infinity may be in the offing, and you pack me off to a Game.'
'Your match is foreordained too,' she said complacently.
?2. Backgammon (SF)
It was Round Thirteen of the annual Tourney. Only three players remained, two with one loss each. These two had to play each other; the loser would be eliminated from the Tourney, and the winner would meet the single undefeated player.
The two who played were as different as seemed possible. One was a huge, fat, middle-aged man in voluminous and princely robes inset with glittering gems. The other was a tiny naked man, muscular and fit, in his thirties.
'Ah, Stile,' the clothed man said affably. 'I was hoping to encounter you.'
'You know of me, sir?'
'I always research my prospective opponents, serf. You have been extremely busy recently. You have been chasing around the landscape, crashing vehicles, and disappearing between Rounds.'
Stile was noncommittal. 'My time between Rounds is my own, sir.'
'Except for what that girl robot demands. Is it fun making time with a sexy machine?'
Stile knew the Citizen was trying to rattle him, to get him tangled up emotionally so that he could not concentrate properly on the Game. It was a familiar technique. Stile could not return the favor because all Citizens were virtually anonymous to serfs, and in any event a serf could not treat a Citizen with disrespect. So Stile would have to take it - and play his best regardless. He was experienced at this sort of thing; the Citizen would probably rattle himself before he got to Stile.
It was time for the grid. Each man stood on one side of the unit, looking at the screen. There were sixteen boxes facing Stile, labeled across the top: 1. PHYSICAL 2. MENTAL 3. CHANCE 4. ARTS, and down the side: A. NAKED B. TOOL C. MACHINE D. ANIMAL. Stile's panel was lighted by the letters.
'That was a very neat stunt you worked, last Round,' the Citizen remarked. 'Making that Amazon throw away her win. Of course you know you won't be able to trick
'Of course not, sir.' Stile touched the TOOL indication. That was his line of greatest strength.
The subgrid showed: 3B, Tool-Assisted Chance. Stile groaned inwardly. The CHANCE column was the bane of good players. It was difficult to make his skill count here.
'You don't like it, huh?' the Citizen taunted. 'Figure it to come up another slot machine, wash you out painlessly, eh?'
This man really had researched Stile's prior Games of the Tourney. The lone Game Stile had lost had been just that way. 'I am not partial to it, sir.' As long as he handled the needling without heat, he was gaining.
'Well, I'm partial to it! Know why? Because I'm lucky. Try me on poker, Stile; I'll come up with a full house and tromp you. Try me on blackjack; I'm all twenty-ones. The breaks always go my way! That scares you, huh?'
The Citizen protested too much. That could indicate weakness - or could be a ruse. Stile actually could handle himself in games of chance; often there was more skill than showed. He would try for a suitable variant. 'Luck is impartial, sir.'
'You believe that? You fool! Try me on dice, if you doubt!'
Stile made his selection. The Citizen had already made his. The third grid showed: Board Games of Chance.
'Okay, sucker, try me on Monopoly!' the Citizen urged.
But when they played it through, it came up backgammon. 'My favorite!' the Citizen exclaimed. 'Dice and betting! Watch me move!'
Stile thought he was bluffing. That bluff would be called. Stile was expert at backgammon. It was only technically a game of luck; skill was critical.
They adjourned to the boardroom. The table was ready.
There was no physical audience; the holograph would take care of that.
'Now you know this game represents a year,' the Citizen said. 'Twenty-four points for the hours of the day, thirty pieces for the days of the month, twelve points in each half-section for the months in the year.'
'And the seven spots on the opposites of a die are the days of the week,' Stile said. 'The two dice are day and night. It hardly matches the symbolism of the ordinary deck of playing cards or the figures of the chess set - sir.'
They were playing a variant deriving in part from Acey-Deucy, traditionally a navy game. The games of Mother Earth had continued to evolve in the fashion of human society, with some variants prospering and others becoming extinct. In this one, no pieces were placed on the board at the start; all started from the bar.
It was not necessary to enter all fifteen pieces on the board before advancing the leaders. Yet it was still backgammon, the 'back game,' with pieces constantly being sent back to the bar while they ran the gauntlet of opposing pieces. People were apt to assume that a given game had an eternally fixed set of rules, when in fact there were endless variations. Stile had often obtained an advantage by steering a familiar game into an unfamiliar channel.
The Citizen was, as he claimed, lucky. He won the lead, then forged ahead with double sixes, while Stile had to settle for a two-to-one throw of the dice. Doubles were valuable in backgammon, because each die could be used twice. Thus the citizen's throw enabled him to enter four men to the sixth point, while Stile entered only two. This continued fairly steadily, the Citizen soon had all fifteen men entered and well advanced, while Stile was slower.
Soon the two forces interacted. The Citizen hit the first blot - in layman's language, he placed one of his men on the spot occupied by one of Stile's men. That sent Stile's man home to the bar, the starting place. 'Sent you home to your slut machine, didn't I?' he chortled. 'Oh, let there be no moaning at the bar!'
That was a literary allusion to an ancient poem by Tennyson of Earth. Stile was conversant with historical literature, but made no response. The Citizen was showing pseudoerudition; he was not the type to know any but the most fashionable of quotes, and he had gotten this one wrong. The correct line was, 'and may there be no moaning of the bar.' Yet, mentally, Stile filled in the remainder: 'when I put out to sea.' Tennyson had then been
