Split Infinity

by Piers Anthony

  Stile nodded, relieved. No gross demerit! Had the foot been serious—

  “Any extenuating circumstances to report?” the foreman prodded.

  “No.” That galled Stile. The truth could have halved his punishment.

  “Then take off. You have one day to yourself.”

  Stile left. He was free, but it was no holiday. The demerits would be worked off in the course of three days low on the totem, but that suspension would go down on his permanent record, hurting his promotion prospects. In the case of equivalent qualifications, the person with such a mark on his record would suffer, and probably have to wait until the next occasion for improvement. That could be as little as a day, or as long as two months.

  Stile started off his free time by enlisting in a music-appreciation class. It was good stuff, but he was subdued by his chastisement. He would stick with it, however, and in time choose an instrument to play himself. The keyboard harmonica, perhaps.

  In the evening Tune searched him out. “It’s all over the dome,” she told him brightly. “I want you to know I think you did right, Stile.”

  “You’re a liar,” he said, appreciating her words.

  “Yes. You should have covered it up and escaped punishment, the way Bourbon did. But you showed you cared more about the horse than about your own record.” She paused, putting her hands on his shoulders, looking into his face. What lovely eyes she had! “I care about horses.” She drew him in and kissed him, and the pain of his punishment abated rapidly. “You’re a man,” she added. The words made him feel like one.

  She took him home to her private apartment—the affluence permitted ranking serfs. By morning she had shown him many things, not all of them musical or relating to horses, and he was hopelessly in love with her. He no longer regretted his punishment at all.

  When Stile returned to work next day, at the same hour he had departed, he discovered that he had been moved out of his cabin. He looked at the place his bunk had been, dismayed. “I know I fouled up, but—”

  “You don’t know?” a cabin mate demanded incredulously. “Where have you been all night?”

  Stile did not care to clarify that; he would be razzed. They would find out soon enough via the vine. Tune, though small, was much in the eye of the local serfs, and not just because of her position and competence. “I was on suspension.” He kept his voice steady. “Was it worse than I thought, on Spook? Something that showed up later?”

  “Spook’s okay.” His friend took his arm. “Come to the bulletin board.”

  Not daring to react further, Stile went with him. The electronic board, on which was posted special assignments, demerits, and other news of the day, had a new entry in the corner: STILE pmtd RIDER.

  Stile turned savagely on the other. “Some joke!”

  But the foreman had arrived. “No joke, Stile. You’re sharing the apartment with Turf. Familiarize yourself, then get down to the robot stall for instruction.”

  Stile stared at him. “But I fouled up!”

  The foreman walked away without commenting, as was his wont. He never argued demerits or promotions with serfs.

  Turf was waiting to break him in. It was a nice two-man apartment adjacent to the riding track, with a Game viewscreen, hot running water, and a direct exit to the main dome. More room and more privacy; more status. This was as big a step upward as his prior one from pasture to stable—but this time he had found no worm. There had to be some mistake—though he had never heard of the foreman making a mistake.

  “You sure came up suddenly, Stile!” Turf said. He was an okay guy; Stile had interacted with him on occasion, walk-cooling horses Turf had ridden, and liked him. “How’d you do it?”

  “I have no idea. Yesterday I was suspended for injuring Spook. Maybe our employer got his firing list mixed up with his promotion list.”

  Turf laughed. “Maybe! You know who’s waiting to give you riding lessons?”

  “Tune!” Stile exclaimed. “She arranged this!”

  “Oh, you’re thick with her already? You’re doubly lucky!”

  Disquieted, Stile proceeded to Roberta’s stall. Sure enough, there was Tune, brushing out the bay mare, smiling. “Long time no see,” she said playfully.

  Oh, she was lovely! He could have a thousand nights with her like the last one, and never get enough. But he was about to blow it all by his ingratitude. “Tune, did you pull a string?” he demanded.

  “Well, you can’t expect a jockey to date a mere stable hand.”

  “But I was in trouble! Suspended. There are several hands ahead of me. You can’t—”

  She put her fine little hand on his. “I didn’t, Stile. Really. I was just joshing you. It’s coincidence. I didn’t know you were being promoted right now; I figured in a month or so, since they brought me in. I’m training others, of course, but no sense to promote you after my tour here ends. So they moved it up, obviously. They don’t even know we’re dating.”

  But she was, by her own proclamation, a liar. The foreman surely knew where Stile had spent the night. How much could he afford to believe?

  “Ask me again tonight,” she murmured. “I never lie to a man I’m loving.”

  What an offer! “What, never?”

  “Hardly ever. You’re an operetta fan?”

  He looked at her blankly.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’m not lying to you now.”

  How he wanted to believe her!

  “Will you try it alone?” she inquired, indicating Roberta’s saddle. “Or do you prefer to hold on to me again, and bang your poor head?”

  “Both,” he said, and she laughed. She had asked him during the night whether his head hurt from what he had banged it into. He had admitted that there were some bruises he was prepared to endure.

  She had him mount, more successfully this time, and showed him how to direct the robot. Then she took him out on the track. Very quickly he got the hang of it.

  “Don’t get cocky, now, sorehead,” she warned. “Roberta is a horse of no surprises. A flesh horse can be another matter. Wait till they put you on Spook.”

  “Spook?” he cried, alarmed. He had daydreamed of exactly this, but the prospect of the reality scared him.

  She laughed again. She was a creature of fun and laughter. It made her body move pleasantly, and it endeared her to those she worked with. “How should I know whom you’ll ride? But we’ll get you competent first. A bad rider can ruin a good horse.”

  “Yes, the Citizen wouldn’t be very pleased if a serf fell on his head and splattered dirty gray brains on a clean horse.”

  It was a good lesson, and he returned to his new apartment exhilarated, only to discover more trouble. The foreman was waiting for him.

  “There is a challenge to your promotion. We have been summoned to the Citizen.”

  “We? I can believe there was a foul-up with me, that will now be corrected.” Though he had begun to hope that somehow this new life was real. Even braced for it as he was, this correction was hard to take. “But how do you relate? It wasn’t your fault.”

  The foreman merely took his elbow and guided him forward. This summons was evidently too urgent to allow time for physical preparation. Stile tried to smooth his hair with his hand, and to rub off stray rimes of dirt on his legs from the riding. He felt, appropriately, naked.

  In moments they entered a transport tunnel, took a private capsule, and zoomed through the darkness away from the farm. It seemed the Citizen was not at his farmside apartment at this hour. “Now don’t stare, keep cool,” the foreman told him. The foreman himself was sweating. That made Stile quite nervous, for the foreman was normally a man of iron. There must be quite serious trouble brewing! Yet why hadn’t they simply revoked Stile’s promotion without fuss?

  They debouched at a hammam. Stile felt the foreman’s nudge, and realized he was indeed staring. He stopped that, but still the environment was awesome.

  The hammam was a public bath in the classic Arabian mode
. A number of Citizens preferred this style, because the golden age of Arabian culture back on Earth had been remarkably affluent. Islam had had its Golden Age while Christianity had its Dark Ages. For the ruling classes, at any rate; the color of the age had never had much significance for the common man. Poverty was eternal.

  Thus there were mosque-type architecture, and turban headdress, exotic dancing, and the hammam. This one was evidently shared by a number of Citizens. It was not that any one of them could not have afforded it alone; rather, Citizens tended to specialize in areas of interest or expertise, and an Arabian specialist had a touch that others could hardly match. Stile’s employer had a touch with fine horses; another might have a touch with desert flora; here one had a touch with the hammam. On occasion other Citizens wished to ride the horses, and were invariably treated with utmost respect. The hammam was by nature a social institution, and a Citizen could only socialize properly with other Citizens, so they had to share.

  There were many rooms here, clean and hot and steamy, with many serfs bearing towels, brushes, ointments, and assorted edibles and beverages. One large room resembled a swimming pool—but the water was bubbly-hot and richly colored and scented, almost like soup. Several Citizens were soaking in this communal bath, conversing. Stile knew they were Citizens, though they were naked, because of their demeanor and the deference the clustered serfs were paying. Clothing distinguished the Citizen, but was not the basis of Citizenship; a Citizen could go naked if he chose, and sacrifice none of his dignity or power. Nevertheless, some wore jewelry.

  They came to a smaller pool. Here Stile’s employer soaked. Six extraordinarily voluptuous young women were attending him, rubbing oils into his skin, polishing his fingernails, even grooming his privates, which were supremely unaroused. An older man was doing the Citizen’s hair, meticulously, moving neatly with the Citizen to keep the lather from his face.

  “Sir,” the foreman said respectfully.

  The Citizen took no notice. The girls continued their labors. Stile and the foreman stood where they were, at attention. Stile was conscious again of the grime on him, from his recent riding lesson; what a contrast he was to these premises and all the people associated with them! Several minutes passed.

  Stile noted that the Citizen had filled out slightly in the past year, but remained a healthy and youngish-looking man. He had fair muscular development, suggesting regular exercise, and obviously he did not overeat—or if he did, he stayed with non-nutritive staples. His hair looked white—but that was the effect of the lather. His pubic region was black. It was strange seeing a Citizen in the same detail as a serf!

  Two more men entered the chamber. One was Billy, the roving security guard for the farm; the other was Bourbon. “Sir,” Billy said.

  Now the Citizen nodded slightly to the foreman. “Be at ease,” the foreman said to the others. Stile, Billy, and Bourbon relaxed marginally.

  The Citizen’s eyes flicked to Bourbon. “Elucidate your protest.”

  Bourbon, in obvious awe of his employer, swallowed and spoke. “Sir, I was passed over for promotion in favor of Stile, here, when I have seniority and a better record.”

  The Citizen’s eyes flicked coldly to the foreman. “You promoted Stile. Justify this.”

  The foreman had promoted him? Stile had not been aware that the man had such power. He had thought the foreman’s authority ended with discipline, record-keeping, and perhaps the recommendation of candidates. The Citizen might have gotten mixed up, not paying full attention to the details of serf management, but the foreman should never have erred like this! He was the one who had suspended Stile, after all.

  “Sir,” the foreman said, ill at ease himself. “It is my considered judgment that Stile is the proper man to fill the present need. I prefer to have him trained on the robot horse, which will only be with us three months.”

  The Citizen’s eyes flicked back to Bourbon. “You are aware that the foreman exists to serve my interests. He is not bound by guidelines of seniority or record. It is his prerogative and mandate to place the proper personnel in the proper slots. I do not permit this of him, I require it. You have no case.”

  “Sir,” Bourbon said rebelliously.

  The Citizen’s eyes touched the foreman. There was no trace of humor or compassion in them. “Do you wish to permit this man to pursue this matter further?”

  “No, sir,” the foreman said.

  “Overruled. Bourbon, make your specifics.”

  What was going on here? Why should the Citizen waste his time second-guessing his own foreman, whose judgment he obviously trusted? If the foreman got reversed, it would be an awkward situation.

  “Sir, Stile has the favor of the visiting instructor, Tune. I believe she prevailed on the foreman to promote Stile out of turn, though he fouled up only yesterday, injuring one of your race horses. My own record is clean.”

  For the first time the Citizen showed emotion. “Injured my horse? Which one?”

  “Spook, sir.”

  “My most promising miler!” The Citizen waved one arm, almost striking a girl. She teetered at the edge of the pool for a moment before recovering her balance. “Fall back, attendants!” he snapped. Now that emotion had animated him, he was dynamic.

  Instantly the seven attendants withdrew to a distance of four meters and stood silently. Stile was sure they were just as curious about this business as he was, though of course less involved.

  Now there was something ugly about the Citizen’s gaze, though his face was superficially calm. “Foreman, make your case.”

  The foreman did not look happy, but he did not hesitate. “Sir, I will need to use the vidscreen.”

  “Do so.” The Citizen made a signal with one finger, and the entire ceiling brightened. It was a giant video receiver, with special elements to prevent condensation on its surface. “Respond to the serf’s directives, ad hoc.”

  The foreman spoke a rapid series of temporal and spatial coordinates. A picture formed on the screen. Stile and the others craned their necks to focus on it. It was the stable, with the horse Spook looking out. A running film-clock showed date and time: yesterday morning.

  “Forward action,” the foreman said, and the film jumped ahead to show Stile approaching the pen.

  Stile watched, fascinated. He had had no idea this was being filmed. He looked so small, the horse so large—yet he was confident, the horse nervous. ‘Come on, Spook,’ his image said, encouraging the horse. But Spook was not cooperative.

  The film went through the whole ugly sequence relentlessly, as Stile gentled and bluffed and fought the great stallion, forcing him to proceed to the lunging tree.

  “As you can see, sir,” the foreman said. “This man was dealing with an extremely difficult animal, but was not fazed. He used exactly that amount of force required to bring the horse in line. I have handled Spook myself; I could not have gotten him to lunge on that morning.”

  “Why didn’t you send help?” the Citizen demanded. “I would have had difficulty myself, in that situation.” This was no idle vanity; the Citizen was an expert horseman.

  “Because, sir, I knew Stile could handle it. The presence of other serfs would only have alarmed the horse. This is why Stile was assigned to this animal on this day; Spook needed to be exercised and disciplined with competence. He had thrown his rider on the prior day.”

  “Proceed.”

  Under the foreman’s direction the scene now shifted to Pepper’s stall. Pepper showed no nervousness as Bourbon approached, but he laid back his ears as he recognized the stable hand. Bourbon brought him out roughly, slapping him unnecessarily, but the horse behaved well enough.

  “This man, sir, was handling a docile animal brusquely,” the foreman said. “This is typical of his manner. It is not a fault in itself, as some animals do respond to unsubtle treatment, but had he been assigned to exercise Spook—”

  “Point made,” the Citizen said, nodding. He was well attuned to the mannerisms of horses.
“Get on with it.”

  Stile glanced at Bourbon. The stable hand was frozen, obviously trapped in an exposé he had never anticipated.

  The film-Bourbon came up behind Stile, who now had Spook trotting nicely. The animal was magnificent. A small, stifled sigh of appreciation escaped one of the watching girls of the hammam. Girls really responded to horses!

  Bourbon chose his time carefully. “One side, shorty!” he exclaimed almost directly behind Stile and the horse. There was no question about the malice of the act.

  Spook spooked. The rest followed.

  “Enough film,” the Citizen said, and the ceiling screen died. “What remedial action did you take?”

  “Sir, Stile reported the injury to his horse. I gave him three demerits and a one-day suspension. He made no issue. I felt that his competence and discretion qualified him best for the position, so I promoted him. I am aware that he had an acquaintance with the lady trainer, but this was not a factor in my decision.”

  “The other,” the Citizen said grimly.

  “Bourbon did not report the injury to his horse. I felt it more important to preserve the privacy of my observations than to make an overt issue. I passed him over for promotion, but did not suspend him, since the injury to the horse in his charge was minor.”

  “There are no minor injuries to horses!” the Citizen cried, red-faced. Veins stood out on his neck, and lather dripped unnoticed across his cheek. He would have presented a comical figure, were he not a Citizen. “You are rebuked for negligence.”

  “Yes, sir,” the foreman said, chastened.

  The Citizen turned to Stile. “Your promotion holds; it was merited.” He turned to Bourbon, the cold eyes swiveling like the sights of a rifle. “You are fired.”

  When a serf was fired for cause, he was finished on Planet Proton. No other Citizen would hire him, and in ten days his tenure would be aborted. Bourbon was through. And Stile had learned a lesson of an unexpected nature.

  He had been going with Tune three months, the happiest time of his life studying fencing and riding and music and love, when abruptly she said: “I’ve got to tell you, Stile. My second fault. I’m short on time. My tenure’s over.”