it mandated a penalty for deliberate grounding, but none was called. Because if deliberate grounding of the ball was done with discretion, it was presumed to be a throwing error instead of what it obviously was. Presumably this sort of thing added luster to the game.
On the second down the Rifleman tried a pass to the double-covered receiver, but two androids were better than one and again it went incomplete. Good: one more such failure and he’d have to turn over the ball on a kick. Stile was at last managing to stifle the Citizen’s passing attack. On third down, the Rifleman rifled the ball directly to the receiver Stile was covering. He aimed it high, to be out of Stile’s reach, but reckoned without Stile’s acrobatic ability. Stile leaped high to intercept it—and was banged aside by the receiver, who had not realized what he was going to do. No android would have leaped like that. A referee’s flag went down.
The penalty was offensive pass interference. Stile’s team had the ball again. This time the Rifleman’s congratulation was definitely perfunctory.
The ball was on the Black thirty-five-yard line. Time remaining was nine minutes. Those incomplete passes had expended very little time. Still, Stile was getting nervous; he really needed to break loose and score a touchdown. “Number 81—can you receive a lateral?” he asked. “Yuh,” the animal agreed after a brief pause for thought. “Then follow me and be ready.” Stile turned to a line-man. “When the ball is hiked, you turn, pick me up, and heave me over the Black line.” He seemed to remember an ancient penalty for such a trick, but it was not part of the Game rules.
“Duh?” the android asked. The concept was too novel for his intellectual capacity. Stile repeated his instructions, making sure the animal understood what to do, if not why.
When the ball was hiked. Stile tucked it into his elbow and stepped into his lineman’s grasp. The android hurled him up and over. Stile had been given such a lift in the course of gymnastic stunts, and was pretty much at home in the air. He flipped, rolled off a lineman’s back, landed neatly on his feet and charged forward toward the goal line.
This time, however, the Rifleman had a couple of guards in the backfield, and they intercepted Stile before he had gone more than ten yards.
Now Stile lateraled to Number 81, who was right where he was supposed to be. What these creatures did, they did well! The android caught the ball and bulled ahead for eight more yards before being stopped.
They were within kicking range again. Stile decided not to gamble on another running play; he drop-kicked another field goal. The score was now 15-9, with eight minutes remaining. At this rate, he could do it—provided he had no bad breaks. Unfortunately, he was overdue for one of those. He had been playing extremely chancy ball. Should he try another onside kick? No, that would only cost him yardage at this stage. He had to make the Rifle-man travel as far across the field as possible, so that he had the maximum opportunity to make an error. So Stile played it straight.
This time he managed to put the ball all the way into the end zone. The Rifleman put it into play on the twenty-yard line. This time, wary of passing into Stile’s double cover-age, he handed it off to his runner. But the android pr-ceeded without imagination and was downed at the line of scrimmage. Any play left purely to the animals was basically wasted time; the capacities of the androids had evidently been crafted for that. The human players had to make their physical and/or mental skills count. Now Stile was sure the Citizen was beginning to sweat. The Rifleman knew that if he failed to move the ball, he would have to turn it over—and then Stile would find some devious way to score. A touchdown and extra point would put Stile ahead in the closing minutes. But the Citizen was unable to advance the ball. What was he to
On the second down the Rifleman tried a pass to the double-covered receiver, but two androids were better than one and again it went incomplete. Good: one more such failure and he’d have to turn over the ball on a kick. Stile was at last managing to stifle the Citizen’s passing attack. On third down, the Rifleman rifled the ball directly to the receiver Stile was covering. He aimed it high, to be out of Stile’s reach, but reckoned without Stile’s acrobatic ability. Stile leaped high to intercept it—and was banged aside by the receiver, who had not realized what he was going to do. No android would have leaped like that. A referee’s flag went down.
The penalty was offensive pass interference. Stile’s team had the ball again. This time the Rifleman’s congratulation was definitely perfunctory.
The ball was on the Black thirty-five-yard line. Time remaining was nine minutes. Those incomplete passes had expended very little time. Still, Stile was getting nervous; he really needed to break loose and score a touchdown. “Number 81—can you receive a lateral?” he asked. “Yuh,” the animal agreed after a brief pause for thought. “Then follow me and be ready.” Stile turned to a line-man. “When the ball is hiked, you turn, pick me up, and heave me over the Black line.” He seemed to remember an ancient penalty for such a trick, but it was not part of the Game rules.
“Duh?” the android asked. The concept was too novel for his intellectual capacity. Stile repeated his instructions, making sure the animal understood what to do, if not why.
When the ball was hiked. Stile tucked it into his elbow and stepped into his lineman’s grasp. The android hurled him up and over. Stile had been given such a lift in the course of gymnastic stunts, and was pretty much at home in the air. He flipped, rolled off a lineman’s back, landed neatly on his feet and charged forward toward the goal line.
This time, however, the Rifleman had a couple of guards in the backfield, and they intercepted Stile before he had gone more than ten yards.
Now Stile lateraled to Number 81, who was right where he was supposed to be. What these creatures did, they did well! The android caught the ball and bulled ahead for eight more yards before being stopped.
They were within kicking range again. Stile decided not to gamble on another running play; he drop-kicked another field goal. The score was now 15-9, with eight minutes remaining. At this rate, he could do it—provided he had no bad breaks. Unfortunately, he was overdue for one of those. He had been playing extremely chancy ball. Should he try another onside kick? No, that would only cost him yardage at this stage. He had to make the Rifle-man travel as far across the field as possible, so that he had the maximum opportunity to make an error. So Stile played it straight.
This time he managed to put the ball all the way into the end zone. The Rifleman put it into play on the twenty-yard line. This time, wary of passing into Stile’s double cover-age, he handed it off to his runner. But the android pr-ceeded without imagination and was downed at the line of scrimmage. Any play left purely to the animals was basically wasted time; the capacities of the androids had evidently been crafted for that. The human players had to make their physical and/or mental skills count. Now Stile was sure the Citizen was beginning to sweat. The Rifleman knew that if he failed to move the ball, he would have to turn it over—and then Stile would find some devious way to score. A touchdown and extra point would put Stile ahead in the closing minutes. But the Citizen was unable to advance the ball. What was he to
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