Piers Anthony - Blue Adept

Now the top line was 1. SEPARATE 2. INTERACTIVE 3. COMBAT 4. COOPERATIVE, and the sideline was A.

FLAT B. VARIABLE C. DISCONTINUITY D. LIQUID.

Stile had the letters again, which was fine. Horseracing was on a flat surface, and he had control of the surfaces. He did not want to get involved with trained sharks or squid wrestling in the LIQUID medium, and feared the Rifleman might be experienced in falconing in DISCONTINUITY, i.e., air. Mountain Rodeo would be all right, in the VARIABLE surface; Stile had bulldogged mountain goats before. But that category also included python tug-of-war in trees, and Stile did not care for that. So he stuck with A. FLAT.

The Rifleman selected 2. INTERACTIVE. So they were in box 2A. No horseracing, but there could be two-horse polo or—

The new grid was upon them, nine squares to be filled in by turns. Lists of games and animals appeared. The Rifleman met Stile’s gaze over the column. “Take it,” he said, smiling. He was giving Stile the advantage of first selection, rather than requiring the Game Computer to designate the turn randomly. Such minor courtesies were permitted; they facilitated the selection process. “Thank you, sir.” Stile designated POLO/HORSE in the center box.

The Citizen put BASEBALL/ANDROID in the right upper box.

Oh, no! Stile had not considered that androids counted as animals for Game purposes. Baseball was played by modified twentieth-century rules: nine players per team. It was a ballgame, but there was some overlap in categories; ballgames could appear in several sections of the master grid. This was an animal-assisted ballgame, as was polo. The difference was, there were a number of animals here, not used as steeds but as actual players. Obviously the Rifleman was expert at this sort of game, while Stile was only fair. He had walked into a trap.

Sure enough, while Stile filled in other individual animal contests, the Rifleman filled in android team games: Soccer, Basketball, Football. And when they played the grid, the Citizen won: FOOTBALL/ANDROID.

Disaster! Stile had not played team football in a long time. He could pass, kick and catch a football, but an hour-long session with twenty bruisingly huge androids? What a horror!

There was no chance now to brush up on the antique Earth-planet Americana the Rifleman evidently liked. Stile had to play immediately, or forfeit. The Citizen did not bother to ask him to concede, knowing he would not. For better or worse, this had to be fought out on the field. They adjourned to the bowl-stadium. It was sparsely attended by spectators, since there were several hundred Games in progress and serf interest was divided. However, a number began to file in as the news of a Citizen-serf-android match spread. It was not that serfs were interested in Stile, at this point; they merely hoped to see a Citizen get knocked about a little with impunity.

“In the interest of economy of time and efficient use of facilities, this Game will be abbreviated to thirty minutes playing time without interruption,” the Game Computer announced. “Each party will select twenty animal players, from which a continuous playing roster of ten will be maintained. Substitutions are limited to one per team per play, performed between plays. Proceed.” The computer was certainly moving it along! And no wonder, for a second playing field was already being utilized, and the remaining two would surely be in use before Stile’s game finished.

They reviewed the androids. The artificial men stood in a line, each hulking and sexless and stupid but well muscled. Each carried a placard labeling its specialty: FULL-BACK, HALFBACK, QUARTERBACK, and an array of offensive and defensive linemen. The capability of each was set within a standard tolerance; an android could per-form exactly what it was supposed to do, no more and no less. Thus the outcome of the Game would be determined by the management and strategy and participation of the two human players, not the skill of the androids. The largest imponderable was that of human skill. For this was not a remote-control game; the androids were there merely to assist the real players, who could occupy any position on their teams, but had to participate continuously. A good contestant would enable his team to prevail; a bad one would drag his team down to defeat. Stile feared that the Rifleman would prove to be good, while Stile himself, partly because of his size, would be less-than-good.

The Rifleman selected four pass receivers and a solid offensive line. He was going for an aerial offense, without doubt! Stile chose pass receivers too, and a passing quarter-back, then concentrated on his defensive line. He had to hope for a stalled game and errors; as he saw it, defense was the refuge of incompetence, and that was apt to be him. He dreaded this Game!

It began. Chance gave Stile’s team first possession of the ball. His animals were in white, the Rifleman’s in black. The opposing team lined up like faceless demons from the frame of Phaze, darkly formidable. They swept forward, kicking the ball ahead, converging on its locale as it landed. Stile’s receiver-android had no chance; he was down on the ten-yard line.

Yards, Stile thought. This was one of the few places where the old system of measurements prevailed on Planet Proton, because of the vintage and origin of this particular game. It was easiest to think of them as scant meters. Now the onus was on him to devise a strategy of play that would bring the football down the field and across the opposing goal line. Stile had a hunch this would not be easy. He assigned himself to be a pass receiver, and scheduled the play for his runner. That should keep Stile himself from getting crushed under a pile of android meat. Of course he knew the androids were programmed to be very careful of human beings; Still, a tackle was a tackle, and that could be bruising. He was thoroughly padded in his white playing suit, of course, but he knew accidents could happen.

The play proceeded. The pass receivers dodged the op-posing linemen and moved out on their patterns. Stile got downfield and cut back as if to receive the ball—and found himself thoroughly blocked off by the android pass de-fender. Catch the ball? He could not even see it! The only way he could hope to get it, had it been thrown to him, was if it passed between the animal’s legs. Fortunately he knew no pass was coming. Stile’s runner bulled into the line, making one yard before disappearing into the pileup. That, obviously, was not the way to go. Still, this first drive was mainly to feel his way. The nuances were already coming back to him, and he was getting a feel for the performance tolerances of the androids. He should be able to devise good strategy in due course.

Next play he tried a reverse end run. He lost a yard. But he was watching the Black team’s responses. The androids, of course, lacked imagination; a really novel play would fool them, and perhaps enable his team to make a big gain or even score.

On the third play he tried a screen pass to one of his receivers. The pass was complete, but the receiver advanced only to the line of scrimmage before getting dumped. No breakthrough here!

Fourth down and time to kick the ball downfield. Stile signaled his kicker to come in—and realized belatedly that he had selected no kicker. None of his animals specialized in any kind of kick, and therefore could not do it. If he had his quarterback make the attempt, the job would surely be bungled, and the other team would recover the ball quite near the goal line. Yet if he did not—

A whistle blew. The referee, penalizing his team for delay of game. Five yards. He had to kick it away! No help for it; Stile would have to kick it himself. He would not have the booming power of an android, and he dreaded the thought of getting buried under a mound of tackling animals, but at least he could accomplish some-thing. If he got the kick off promptly, he might get away without being bashed.