course there was no age limit.
The Rifleman introduced the whole group, but the names of the men bounced off Stile's awareness like rainwater. Only the two women registered consciously; he had never before heard the name of a female Citizen, and it affected him with an almost erotic force. '... Fulca, with the fulsome figure,' the Rifleman was concluding. 'And Merle, known to her illustrious enemies as the Blackbird.'
Illustrious enemies? Blackbird? If this were not mere posturing, this was a Citizen to be wary of.
The two women nodded as their names were spoken. 'You're the new franchise, aren't you?' Fulca inquired.
'Yes, sir,' Stile said, then visibly bit his tongue. Both women smiled.
'Stile would like to wager,' the Rifleman said. 'He's a Gamesman, you know, with an eye to pulchritude.'
The male Citizens stood bade, curious but not participating, as if more intrigued by the manner in which the females would handle this upstart than by the prospect of making some profit 'Anything,' Fulca agreed. 'Choose your mode, bantam.'
There was that ubiquitous reference to his size. He would probably never be free of such disparagement. No sense in letting it rattle him. He had what he wanted - someone to wager with.
Stile's imagination suddenly deserted him. 'Uh, small, to start. Very small. And simple.'
Her glance traversed him merrily. 'For a small, simple man. Agreed.'
Was that another cut at him? Probably not; it was evident that Citizens treated each other very casually. What did they have to prove? They were all elite. Or maybe this was part of his initiation. The watching males gave no sign.
'Uh, scissors-paper-stone?' Stile asked, casting about for something suitable and drawing no inspiration from the environment. Without the Game's preliminary grid, he lacked notions.
'Ah, a noncontact game,' she said as if surprised. Now one of the watching males nodded at another, as if the two had made a bet on the matter that had now been decided. So that was the nature of their interest - to wager on Stile's performance with the voluptuous woman. No doubt many men sought to get close to her on one pretext or another. This actually encouraged Stile; he was beginning to grasp the situation. 'Small and simple,' he repeated.
'Shall we say one gram, doubled each round, seven rounds?' Fulca suggested.
Stile glanced at Mellon, who made an almost perceptible nod of assent. The final bet would fall within the limitation, though the total amount of the series would not. These Citizens were indeed a fast crowd! Again one of the males nodded, having a point decided - what level Stile was playing at.
'May I call the throws?' the Rifleman asked. 'On the count of two, spaced one second; late throw means default, which Merle will call. For one gram of Protonite: on your mark, one-two.'
Stile, caught off-guard by this ready procedure, put out his forked fingers a shade late. Fulca was there with a flat hand. 'Default,' Merle said, her voice soft, like dusk wind in pines.
'Agreed,' Stile said, embarrassed. He had made the winning throw - too late. Some beginning; he had already thrown away the twenty-year ransom of one serf.
'For two grams,' the Rifleman said. 'One-two.'
This time Stile was on time, with scissors again. Fulca also showed scissors. 'No decision,' Merle breathed.
Stile marveled that it could really be this simple. He had thought of Citizens as a class apart, devoted to pursuits beyond the comprehension of mere serfs. But in fact Citizens were serflike in their entertainment - or so it seemed so far.
The Rifleman continued without pause. 'Balance of one gram to Fulca. For four grams: one-two.'
Stile's mind was racing as he warmed to the game. Theoretically random, these combinations were actually not Each person was trying to figure the strategy of the other. Stile himself was very good at analyzing patterns and moods; he did it almost instinctively. The first throw had been random; the normal course, for an inexperienced person, would be to go on the next throw to whatever choice had won before. Thus Fulca had gone from paper to scissors. Stile, testing, had held firm. Did he have the pattern solved? If so, Fulca would go next to the stone. So he would match that, verifying. The early bets were for analyzing; the later ones counted. Even as this flashed through his mind, his hand was flinging out the closed fist.
Fulca matched his stone. 'No decision,' Merle said. It seemed they did not play these over, but just continued the series.
'For eight grams: one-two.'
This time Stile went for the win. He expected Fulca to go for paper, to wrap the last throw's stone. So he threw scissors again - and won.
'Scissors cuts paper; Stile wins,' Merle announced.
'Balance of seven games to Stile,' the Rifleman said. 'For sixteen grams: one-two.'
Would the hourglass lady Citizen be foolish enough to go for stone again, fighting the last war too late? Or would she stick with paper, expecting him to go for stone? Stile decided to play her for the fool. He threw out the flat hand. And won.
'Paper wraps stone; Stile,' Merle said.
'Balance of twenty-three grams to Stile,' the Rifleman said. 'I warned you girls he was a Gamesman, like me. He can play. For thirty-two grams: one-two.'
Stile continued the fool-play, throwing out the closed fist. Fulca threw the forked fingers. She winced as she saw the combination.
'Stone crushes scissors. Stile wins.' Merle smiled within her dusky helmet. Evidently these people enjoyed a good challenge.
'You beat me with the ones I lose with!' Fulca exclaimed.
That was another way of looking at it. He had cut her paper, then shifted to paper and wrapped her stone, then had his stone crush her scissors. The losing throws became the winners of the next throw. 'Beginner's luck,' Stile said apologetically.
One of the males snorted. 'His mind is on the wager, not her body,' he murmured.
'Balance of fifty-five grams to Stile,' the Rifleman said. 'For sixty-four grams: one-two.'
Fulca had caught on to his pattern; had she the wit to take advantage of it? This single throw could reverse the entire game. Stile thought she would not learn quickly enough, so he threw scissors, trusting her to throw paper. She did.
'Scissors cuts paper. Stile wins,' Merle said.
'He sure cut your paper!' the male Citizen remarked to Fulca with satisfaction. He had evidently won his private bet on the outcome of this contest.
'Balance of one hundred nineteen grams to Stile. End of series,' the Rifleman said. 'So entered in the credit record; Stile has increased his Citizen's stake by more than ten percent, fleecing his first ewe. Instant analysis: he lost one, drew two, and won four. Was this luck or skill?'
'Skill,' Merle said. 'He is a master Gamesman - as is unsurprising.'
Fulca shrugged, and her torso undulated in vertical stages. 'There are other games.'
'Uh-uh, dear,' the Rifleman said with a reproving smile. 'You had your crack at him and lost, as I did in the Tourney. If you want to seduce him, you'll have to wait your next turn. Now he enters the second round.'
'Second round?' Stile asked.
This time all the male Citizens chuckled. Merle tapped herself lightly between her muted breasts. 'Do you care to try your skill with me, serf-Citizen?'
'I do still have the urge,' Stile said, catching Mellon's affirmative nod. But he felt uneasy; he now perceived that Merle was not nearly as young as she had first seemed. In fact, she was somewhat older than he, and her manner was that of a completely self-assured person. She was probably a power among Citizens; one of the barracuda he had been warned against But he would have to tackle this kind some time.
'Then let us play a hand of poker,' she said.
The serfs hastily brought a pack of playing cards, poker chips, an opaque table, and chairs. The Rifleman took
the cards, spread them out, and pronounced them fit to play with; Stile believed him. No one got through the
