Stile was amazed and gratified. He had had no hint the Game Computer knew so much about him or the frame of Phaze, or that it could interpret oblique references with such dispatch. Now he realized that everything he had told Sheen, she had relayed to her machine friends. They in turn could have informed the Game Computer, who perhaps was one of their number. Certainly it possessed considerable self-will, backed by the phenomenal resources of the Computer memory banks and the experience of analyzing many thousands of Games. So this should not have surprised him at all.
It was the serf woman's turn to vote. 'Is there any cutting at the opponent?' she asked. The other heads indicated that no one perceived any. 'I'm not sure about all the business of the other frame; this is the first I've heard of it. But I can believe the Protonite won't last forever, and somehow this serf-Citizen setup must be called to account. So okay, I'll go with the warning. I rate it forty.'
This was better than Stile had hoped from her. She had given the other poem 50, and he had feared she was a man-hater.
'Good job,' the male Citizen said. 'Forty-five.'
'Just what kind of a person is he in that frame you talk about?' the serf man asked.
'He is what is called an Adept,' the Computer answered. 'That means he is a powerful magician.'
'Funny to hear a computer say that,' the man said. 'But I sort of go for that fantasy bit, even if it is all a story. Forty-two.'
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 bitch turns noble, 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
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 Citizenship and all appurtenances and privileges pertaining thereto, from this instant forward.'
The applause swelled massively. 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 re peated appellation 'sir' startled him. For a lifetime he had called others sir; now he had comprehensive conditioning to unlearn. 'Thank you,' he said, reaching 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 close, 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
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 embarrassing 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 hell 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
