Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

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 dm. 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 leam 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 Tourney without being expert with cards. Why should Citizens cheat? They needed neither money nor fame, and cheating would destroy the natural suspense of gambling.

But Stile was nervous about this game. Poker players were a breed apart, and a Citizen poker player whose facial features were shrouded by a translucent helmet could be more of a challenge than Stile could handle at the moment. Yet Stile was good at poker, as he was in most games; he certainly should have a fighting chance, even against an expert—if he didn’t run afoul of his betting limit. Limits could be devastating in poker.

“Merle has chosen the game,” the Rifleman said. “Stile may choose the rules.”

“Standard fifty-two-card pack, no wild cards, standard wider galaxy hands in force, betting—“

“Sorry, Stile,” the Rifleman interjected. “You may not dictate the pattern of betting. That choice reverts to her, by Citizen custom.”

“Of course I will honor Citizen custom,” Stile said. “But I have hired a serf to supervise my estate, and he wants me to stay clear of large bets until I know my way around. So I might have to renege on the game, if—“

“A sensible precaution,” Merle said. “Seat your serf to the side; you may consult with him while betting.”

“That is gracious of you. Merle,” Stile said, forcing himself to speak her name, though his lifetime of serf conditioning screamed against it. “Please, in compensation, name the variant you prefer.”

“Certainly, Stile. Are you familiar with Lovers’ Quarrel?”

Oops. “I do not know that variant,” Stile admitted.

“It is a variety of Draw. Each player must draw from the hand of the other, one card at a time, which hand is replenished by the dealer. Betting occurs after each draw, until one player stands pat.”

Some variant! This had the double stress of involuntary loss of cards from one’s hand, and the opponent’s knowledge of an increasing portion of that hand. At some point they both should know what each had—but that would not necessarily make betting easier.

They took seats at the table, the Rifleman serving as dealer. Stile glanced at the knot of spectators. The males watched with poker faces, obviously intent on the proceedings. Mellon and Sheen stood impassively, but Stile knew that Sheen, at least, was controlling her emotional circuitry with difficulty. She loved him and wanted to protect him, and here she could not. This was also outside Mellon’s bailiwick; there was no way for him to draw on computer information to give Stile an advantage, and that was the way Stile preferred it. This was an honest game.

The Rifleman dealt five cards to each. Stile picked up his hand, holding it together so that only the bottom card showed, and that was concealed from all external view by his casually cupped hands. He riffled once through the comers, his trained eye photographing the hand and put ting it mentally in order: ace of spades, 10 of hearts, 10 of diamonds, 4 of dubs, 2 of clubs. A pair of tens. That was not much; in a two-player game, the odds were marginally in favor of this being high, but he would have similar odds on the flip of a coin. He did not want to bet on this.

“The lady may draw first,” the Rifleman said.