Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

She was a machine, but she was programmed for human emotion. How much did she resent the use he was making of her?

The event they attended turned out to be a routine Citizens’ ball. Sheen and Mellon, as favored servitors, were permitted to accompany Stile, but they kept subserviently behind him. At the entrance they outfitted Stile with a suitable costume for the occasion: a seemingly cumber some ancient spacesuit, puffed out around the limbs with huge joints at the elbows and knees, and a translucent helmet bubble. Actually, the material was very light and did not hamper movement at all.

They entered the ballroom—and Stile was amazed. It was outer space in miniature. Stars and planets, somewhat out of scale; comets and nebulae and meteors and dust clouds. The motif was not remarkable, but the execution was spectacular. The stars were light without substance, holographically projected, but they looked so real he was fearful of getting burned if he floated too near. For he was floating, in effect, on the invisible floor; the soles of his space boots were padded, so that his footsteps made no sound.

Citizens in assorted varieties of spacesuits floated in groups, their serf-servitors like satellites. One spotted him and moved across. It was the Rifleman. “I see you are mixing in, Stile. Excellent. Let me introduce you to key figures. What is your preference? Romance, camaraderie, or mischief?”

“Mischief,” Stile said, grateful for the man’s help. “I want to make some wagers.”

“Oh, that kind! It’s the gamesmanship in your blood. I know the feeling well. But we have some high rollers here; they’ll strip you down to your minimum estate in short order, if you let them. You can never bet all your wealth, you know; computer won’t allow any Citizen to wipe out. Bad for the image.”

“I understand. I have a competent monetary adviser.”

“You will need him. I warn you. Stile, there are barracuda in these waters. Best to play penny ante until you get to know them.”

By the same token, though, the barracuda would get to know him—and his adviser. That would not do. He needed to score rapidly, before others grew wary. “What is considered penny ante here?”

“One gram of Protonite.”

“That was all I was worth a few days ago.”

The Rifleman smiled. “I, too, in my day. Times change, Citizen. This is a whole new world.”

“I hope not to do anything foolish before I acclimatize.”

“Oh, by all means do be foolish,” the Rifleman said encouragingly. “It is expected of all new Citizens. You are the novelty of the day; enjoy it while you can.” All this time the Rifleman had been guiding Stile across the miniature galaxy. Now they came to a group of space suited Citizens hovering near a large dark nebula. The men were rotund and unhandsome; rich living had shaped them to porcine contours that even the ballooning suits could not ameliorate. This disgusted Stile; he knew that they could easily have kept their weight down by consuming diet food that tasted identical to the calorific food, or by having reductive treatments. Apparently they just didn’t care about appearance.

But the two women were a striking contrast. One was an hourglass, her breasts like pink melons, her waist so tiny Stile knew that surgery had reduced it, her hips resurging enormously, tapering into very large but well contoured legs. Stile found this exaggeration of female traits unpleasant, but even so, it had its impact upon him. Her breasts swelled like the tides of an ocean as she breathed, and her hips shifted elevation precipitously as she walked. Her suit was only remotely related to space; most of it was transparent, and much of the front was mere netting. It seemed to Stile that in real space those enormous mammaries would detach explosively and fly outward like the rings of gas and dust from old super novae. But she had a pretty face, almost elfin; surely the handiwork of a fine plastic surgeon.

The other woman was decorously garbed in an opaque cloth-type suit that covered every portion of her body. Her head was encased in a translucent bubble that shadowed her face and lent enticing mystery to her expression. She seemed almost too young to be a Citizen—but of course there was no age limit.

The Rifleman introduced the whole group, but the names of the men bounced off Stile’s awareness like rain water. 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 back, 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.