Juxtaposition

by Piers Anthony

  The male serf was next. “If she becomes a Citizen, then she can set terms,” he said, and the others laughed. They were getting into this now, loosening up. “I guess I’m looking for something deeper than this, some social commentary, not just female demands. Rating thirty-two.” And Stile’s hopes elevated another notch. Now if only the other woman did not react by sexual alignment—

  “I believe I note an extremely clever thrust,” the lady Citizen said. “Nowhere is the protagonist identified; it is not necessarily serf Rue at all. It could be any woman, most especially one who has been wronged by the man she loves. It could even apply to a humanoid robot female who loves a flesh-man.”

  Oh, no! Had Rue slanted her verse to pillory Stile? He saw the judges turning to look at him, and at Sheen in the small physical audience permitted. They knew!

  “The references to square and cube fall into place,” the lady Citizen continued. “A robot is a creature of geometrical parts, supposedly, animated by electric power from a tiny furnace fed by Protonite. She is certainly burning, internally! She must accept a man’s attentions—I understand that is what that type is primarily designed for—but can not have his love, since he knows she is a machine. Yet she can be programmed for emotion; she loves him, knowing that love is not returned. Perhaps the man she serves is a musician, playing the violin or flute—”

  Sheen got up from her seat in the audience and walked toward the exit. Stile felt acute pity for her. She was not supposed to be the target!

  “One moment,” the male Citizen said. “That’s her, isn’t it? I want to question her.”

  “That would be involving her in the panel’s deliberation,” the female Citizen said. “I doubt that’s legitimate.”

  “The judges may seek any source of information they wish,” the Computer said. “Except the author of the piece in question.”

  “Female robot—how do you feel about this poem?” the male Citizen called.

  Sheen stopped and faced him. “Sir, I prefer not to answer, if I am to be considered an interested party.”

  “Answer!” he directed, with supreme indifference to her feelings.

  “You may answer,” the Computer said. “You have not volunteered your influence; you have been summoned by this panel as a material witness. We are trying to determine whether there is substance to the hypothesis that the poem in question represents your viewpoint.”

  Sheen’s mouth firmed. Her human mannerisms had become so facile that in no physical way was her machine nature evident. She was a beautiful woman, naked of body and perhaps of mind. “Then you shall have my viewpoint, sir. If the poem concerns me, it is not intended as a compliment. It is intended as an attack on the man I love, using me as an involuntary weapon. I am a machine—but I think that even were I alive, I would not care so cynically to hurt a living person in this fashion. This poem is crueler than anything the man I love might do. I am sure his own poem is not of this nature.”

  The Citizen nodded. “That’s some machine,” he murmured.

  The female Citizen considered, pursing her lips. Her opals flashed. “I am left with a choice. Either this poem is not directed at, shall we say, real people, in which case it is not remarkable—or it is so directed, in which case its brilliance is nullified by its cruelty. In either case, I can not respect it. I rate it twenty-five.”

  That was disaster for Rue. It made her average score The other panelists could reconsider their votes if they wished, but seemed content to let them stand. Rue’s poem had a cumulative score of 77½. Stile had a fair chance to beat that, thanks to Sheen. All he needed was forty points.

  Now the judges considered Stile’s effort for content. “This poem is more serious and obscure than the other,” the Computer said. “Some may not be aware that there exists an alternate frame of reality of this planet within which other laws of physics govern. The author is able to enter that frame, where he is a person of power and has an elegant wife. Several of the first six lines evidently refer to that frame. There was a female wolf who sacrificed her life for her duty, and a magical encounter between a creature of ice and another of fire. The future in that frame can occasionally be foreseen by magical means, and it contains extraordinary mischief, part of which is the conflict of love loyalties. Two lines refer to the Tourney now being concluded, which will lead to Citizenship for one of these serfs. Thus the first portion of the poem is relevant to the larger situation here and must be accorded credit. The second portion appears to be an advisory essay. The Angel Gabriel is destined mythologically to blow his trumpet on Judgment Day for living persons—and that call is the one no one can evade or cheat. This poem extends this concept to creatures both fanciful and repulsive. It concludes that these people and creatures must accept the inevitable with civility, and reminds us that, according to the legend of the other frame, the powerful flute—perhaps an alternate designation of Gabriel’s horn—has already announced itself by shaking the earth, in the form of the tremors recently experienced here. Allowing for a considerable figurative element, I find this poem serious and valid. The tremors were actually caused by the collapse of overworked Protonite mines in the southern range, but this can be taken as a warning: the mineral on which this planet’s power is literally based is not inexhaustible, and we shall suffer an accounting when that mineral is at last depleted. Already we have suffered a not-inconsequential damage to a number of our facilities. I therefore take this poem as a well-conceived and serious warning, and on that basis I rate it forty-eight.”

  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 m
ay 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 Cruel Lover.”

  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 repeated 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 you, sir.” And she leaned forward to kiss him on the right eyebrow. “I profited a fantastic amount on your success. But more than that is the satisfaction of sponsoring a Tourney winner. You will find me appreciative.” She walked away.

  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 she remained a serf—an imitation serf—now in his employ; she would remain naked the rest of her life.

  Her life? Stile smiled, a trifle grimly. He was forgetting that she had no life. Yet she was his best friend in this frame.

  Stile turned to the robot who had brought his robe. “Take me to my estate,” he ordered it.

  The machine hesitated. “Sir, you have none.”

  “None? But I thought all Citizens—”

  “Each Citizen has a standard share of the Protonite mines. All else follows.”

  “I see.” It seemed there was much that was not handed to a Citizen on a platter. He needed that manual of Citizenship! Where was Sheen? Her programming should have been quick.

  Then she appeared. “I have it, sir,” she said.

  “Excellent. Take me to an appropriate and private place, and deliver.”

  “Don’t I always—sir?” She led the way out of the Game Annex.

  The place turned out to be a temporary minidome set up on the desert. Its generator tapped an underground power cable, so as to form the force field that prevented the thin, polluted outside atmosphere from penetrating. A portable unit filled the dome with pleasant, properly cooled air. Sheen set up a table for two, put out crackers, cheese, and mock wine, adjusted the field to turn opaque, and planted a spy-disrupter device on the ground. “Now we are private, sir,” she said.

  “You don’t have to say sir to me,” he protested.

  “Yes, I do, sir. You are a Citizen and I am a naked serf. We violate this convention at our peril.”

  “But you’ve been my friend all along!”

  “And once more than that, sir,” she reminded him. She had come to him as guardian and mistress, and had been good in both capacities. His marriage to the Lady Blue had deleted the second. Sheen, a machine supposedly without any human emotion not programmed into her, had tried to commit suicide—self-destruction. She had become reconciled after meeting the Lady Blue. Sheen still loved him, and for that Stile felt guilty.

  “It occurs to me that, as a Citizen, I could have you reprogrammed to have no personal feeling toward me,” he said.

 
“This is true, sir.”

  “Do you wish it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sheen, I value you greatly. I do not want you to suffer. That poem of Rue’s—I am absolutely opposed to giving you cause to feel that way. Is there anything within my present power I can do to make you happy?”

  “There is, sir. But you would not.”

  She was uncompromising. She wanted his love again, physically if not emotionally, and that he could not give. “Aside from that.”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “But I may be able to make your friends happy. As Citizen, I can facilitate their recognition as sapient entities.” Her friends were the self-willed machines of Proton who, like Sheen herself, had helped him survive Citizen displeasure in the past. He had sworn never to act against their interests so long as they did not act against the interests of man, and both parties honored that oath. Stile did not regard their desire to achieve serf status as contrary to the oath; he agreed they should have it. But such status was not easy to achieve; the Citizens were devoted to the status quo.

  “All in good time, sir. Now shall we review the appurtenances and privileges of Citizenship?”

  “By all means.”

  Rapidly, in simple language, she acquainted him with his situation. He was entitled to use the proceeds from his share of the mines to purchase or construct a physical estate, to staff it with serfs, robots, androids, cyborgs, or anything else, and to indulge in any hobbies he wished. The amount of credit available from his share was sufficient to enable him to construct a moderate palace, hire perhaps twenty-five serfs, and buy six robots of Sheen’s type. Expensive hobbies like exotic horse breeding or duplicating the Hanging Gardens of Babylon would have to wait until the palace was complete. The income of a Citizen was not limitless; it only seemed that way to serfs.

  It was possible, however, to increase one’s resources by making and winning large wagers with other Citizens. Bets of a year’s income were not uncommon. However, if a Citizen got two years in arrears, further wagers would not be honored until he caught up. It was never permitted for a Citizen to become destitute; a basic lifestyle had to be maintained. Appearance was vital.