Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

Numbly, Stile reached around her and hooked his fingers together across her small firm belly. Tune’s hair was in his face; it had a clean, almost haylike smell.

Tune shifted her legs slightly, and abruptly the robot horse was moving. Stile was suddenly exhilarated. This was like sailing on a boat in a slightly choppy sea—the miniature sea with the artificial waves that was part of the Game facilities. Tune’s body compensated with supple expertise. They proceeded down the path.

“I’ve seen you in the Game,” Tune remarked. “You’re pretty good, but you’re missing some things yet.”

“I started fencing lessons yesterday,” Stile said, half flattered, half defensive.

“That, too. What about the performing arts?”

“Well, martial art-“

She reversed her crop, put it to her mouth—and played a pretty little melody. The thing was a concealed pipe of some kind, perhaps a flute or recorder.

Stile was entranced. “That’s the loveliest thing I ever heard 1” he exclaimed when she paused. “Who’s steering the horse?”

“You don’t need reins to steer a horse; haven’t you caught on to that yet? You don’t need a saddle to ride, either. Not if you know your business. Your legs, the set of your weight—watch.”

Roberta made a steady left turn, until she had looped a full circle.

“You did that?” Stile asked. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Put your hand on my left leg. No, go ahead. Stile; I want you to feel the tension. See, when I press on that side, she bears right. When I shift my weight back, she stops.” Tune leaned back into Stile, and the horse stopped. “I shift forward, so little you can’t see it, but she can feel it—hold on to me tight, so you can feel my shift—that’s it.” Her buttocks flexed and the horse started walking again. “Did you feel me?”

“You’re fantastic,” Stile said.

“I referred to the guidance of the horse. I already know about me.”

“Uh, yes.”

“Roberta responds only to correct signals; she has no idiosyncrasies, as a living animal might. You have to do it just right, with her. That’s why she’s used for training. So the horses won’t teach the riders any bad habits. You noted how she ignored you when you spoke to her from the ground. She responds only to her rider. She’s not a plow horse, after all.”

“She’s fantastic too.”

“Oh, she is indeed! But me—I do have two cute little faults.”

Stile was inordinately interested now. “What are they?”

“I lie a little.”

Meaning he could not trust all of what she had been telling him? Discomforting thought! “What about the other?”

“How could you believe it?”

There was that. If she lied about it—

Tune played her instrument again. It was, she explained, a keyboard harmonica, with the keys concealed; she blew in the end, and had a scale of two and a half octaves available at her touch. Her name was fitting; her music was exquisite. She was right: he needed to look into music.

Tune and Roberta began training the new riders. Stile returned to his routine duties. But suddenly it was not as interesting, handling the horses afoot. His mind was elsewhere. Tune was the first really attractive girl he had encountered who was smaller than he was. Such a little thing, physical height, but what a subjective difference it could make!

Today he was lunging the horses. Lunging consisted of tying them to a fixed boom on a rotating structure, so they had to stay in an exact course, and making them trot around in a circle. It was excellent exercise, if dull for both man and horse. Some horses were too temperamental for the mechanical lead, so he had to do them by hand. He simply tied a rope to an artificial tree, and stood with his hand on that line while he urged the animal forward.

Stile had a way with horses, despite his size. They tended to respond to him when they would not do a thing for other stable hands. This, unfortunately, meant that he got the most difficult horses to lunge. No horse gave trouble about feeding or going to pasture, but a number could get difficult about the more onerous labors.

The first horse he had to lunge was Spook—the worst of them. Spook was jet black all over, which perhaps accounted for his name. He was also extremely excitable—which was a more likely reason for his name. He could run with the best—the very best—but had to be kept in top condition.

“Come on. Spook,” Stile said gently. “You wouldn’t want to get all weak and flabby, would you? How would you feel if some flatfooted mare beat your time in a race? You know you have to exercise.”

Spook knew no such thing. He aspired to a life career of grazing and stud service; there was little room in his itinerary for exercise. He had quite an arsenal of tricks to stave off the inevitable. When Stile approached, Spook retreated to the farthest comer of his pen, then tried to leap away when cornered. But Stile, alert, cut him off and caught his halter. He had to reach up high to do it, for this horse could look right over Stile’s head without elevating his own head. Spook could have flattened Stile, had he wanted to; but he was not a vicious animal, and perhaps even enjoyed this periodic game.

Spook tried to nip Stile’s hand. “No!” Stile said sharply, making a feint with his free hand as if to slap the errant nose, and the horse desisted. Move and countermove, without actual violence. That was the normal language of horses, who could indulge in quite elaborate series of posturings to make themselves accurately understood.

They took a few steps along the path, then Spook balked, planting all four feet in the ground like small tree trunks. He was of course far too heavy for even a large man to budge by simple force. But Stile slapped him lightly on the flank with the free end of the lead-line, startling him into motion. One thing about being spooky: it was hard to stand firm.

Spook moved over, trying to shove Stile off the path and into a building, but Stile shoved the horse’s head back, bracing against it. Control the head, control the body; he had learned that principle in martial art, winning matches by hold-downs though his opponents might outweigh him considerably—because their greater mass became useless against his strategy. Few creatures went far without their heads.

Spook tried to lift his head too high for Stile to control. Stile merely hung on, though his feet left the ground. After a moment the dead weight became too much, and the horse brought his head down. Other stable hands used a martingale on him, a strap to keep the head low, but that made this horse even more excitable. Stile preferred the gentle approach.

At last he got Spook to the lunging tree. “Walk!” he commanded, making a token gesture with the whip. The horse sighed, eyed him, and decided to humor him this once. He walked.

Every horse was an individual. “Spook, you’re more trouble than a stableful of rats, but I like you,” Stile said calmly. “Let’s get this over with, work up a sweat, then I’ll rub you down. After that, it’s the pasture for you. How does that sound?”

Spook glanced at him, then made a gesture with his nose toward the pasture. Horses’ noses, like their ears, were very expressive; a nose motion could be a request or an insult. “Lunge first,” Stile insisted.

Spook licked his lips and chewed on a phantom delicacy. “Okay!” Stile said, laughing. “A carrot and a rubdown. That’s my best offer. Now trot. Trot!”

It was all right. The horse broke into a classy trot Any horse was pretty in that gait, but Spook was prettier than most; his glossy black hide fairly glinted, and he had a way of picking up his feet high that accentuated the precision of his motion. The workout was going to be a success.