story. Forty-two.”
Stile’s hope was sailing. These were amazingly favorable responses. He was averaging 44. It would take a rating of 25 by the last panelist to bring him down to par with Rue. The lady Citizen seemed too perceptive for that—but she had surprised him before. He felt his hands getting sweaty as he waited for her answer.
“This mischief of love,” she said. “Is this person concerned about the feelings of the lady robot who loves him?”
“He may not answer,” the Computer reminded her. “We must divine that answer from his poem.”
“I wonder whether in fact it is his own personal reckoning he is most concerned with,” she said. “He says they must be civil, because what will be, will be. I am not sure I can accept that answer.”
Stile quailed. This woman had downgraded Rue’s verse for cruelty; was she about to do the same for his?
“Since he has a wife in the other frame, he really does not need a woman of any kind in this frame,” she continued. “It is unfair to keep her in doubt.”
“We may approve or disapprove the poet’s personal life,” the male Citizen said. “But we are here to judge only the merit of the poem. For what it’s worth, I see several indications that he recognizes the possibility of fundamental change. A bitch turns noble, defeat becomes victory, ice merges with flame, serf becomes Citizen, the fate of dragons and roaches is linked. Perhaps he is preparing his philosophy for the recognition that a living creature may merge with a machine. If this is the way fate decrees, he will accept it.”
She nodded. “Yes, the implication is there. The author of this poem, I think, is unlikely to be deliberately cruel. He is in a difficult situation, he is bound, he is civil. It is an example more of us might follow. I rate this work forty four.”
Stile’s knees almost gave way. She had not torpedoed him; his total score would be 82, comfortably ahead of Rue’s total.
“Do any wish to change their votes on either aspect of either poem?” the Computer inquired. “Your votes are not binding until confirmed.”
The panelists exchanged glances. Stile got tense again. It could still come apart!
“Yes, I do,” the serf woman said. Stile saw Rue tense; this was the one who had given her 50 on content. If she revised her grade on Stile’s poem downward—
“I believe I overreacted on that fifty score,” she said.
“Let’s call it forty-five for Cruel Lover.” Again Stile’s knees turned to goo. She had come down on his side!
“Final score eighty-two to seventy-seven in favor of Stile’s poem,” the Computer said after a pause. “He is the winner of this Tourney.”
Now there was applause from the hidden public address system. So quickly, so simply, he had won! But he saw Rue, standing isolated, eyes downcast. On impulse he went to her. “It was a good game,” he said. “You could easily have won it.”
“I still have life tenure,” she said, half choked with disappointment. Then, as an afterthought, she added:
“Sir.”
Stile felt awkward. “If you ever need a favor—“
“I did not direct my poem at you. Not consciously. I was thinking of someone who threw me over. Sir.” But now the crowd was closing in, and Stile’s attention was necessarily diverted.
“By the authority vested in me by the Council of Citizens of Planet Proton,” the Game Computer said, its voice emerging from every speaker under its control throughout the Game Annex, “I now declare that the serf Stile, having won the Tourney, is acquitted of serf status and endowed with Citizenship and all appurtenances and privileges pertaining thereto, from this instant forward.”
The applause swelled massively. The panelists joined in, serfs and Citizens alike.
A robot hastened forward with an ornate robe. “Sir, I belong to your transition estate. It is your privilege to wear any apparel or none. Yet to avoid confusion—“
Stile had thought he
Stile’s hope was sailing. These were amazingly favorable responses. He was averaging 44. It would take a rating of 25 by the last panelist to bring him down to par with Rue. The lady Citizen seemed too perceptive for that—but she had surprised him before. He felt his hands getting sweaty as he waited for her answer.
“This mischief of love,” she said. “Is this person concerned about the feelings of the lady robot who loves him?”
“He may not answer,” the Computer reminded her. “We must divine that answer from his poem.”
“I wonder whether in fact it is his own personal reckoning he is most concerned with,” she said. “He says they must be civil, because what will be, will be. I am not sure I can accept that answer.”
Stile quailed. This woman had downgraded Rue’s verse for cruelty; was she about to do the same for his?
“Since he has a wife in the other frame, he really does not need a woman of any kind in this frame,” she continued. “It is unfair to keep her in doubt.”
“We may approve or disapprove the poet’s personal life,” the male Citizen said. “But we are here to judge only the merit of the poem. For what it’s worth, I see several indications that he recognizes the possibility of fundamental change. A bitch turns noble, defeat becomes victory, ice merges with flame, serf becomes Citizen, the fate of dragons and roaches is linked. Perhaps he is preparing his philosophy for the recognition that a living creature may merge with a machine. If this is the way fate decrees, he will accept it.”
She nodded. “Yes, the implication is there. The author of this poem, I think, is unlikely to be deliberately cruel. He is in a difficult situation, he is bound, he is civil. It is an example more of us might follow. I rate this work forty four.”
Stile’s knees almost gave way. She had not torpedoed him; his total score would be 82, comfortably ahead of Rue’s total.
“Do any wish to change their votes on either aspect of either poem?” the Computer inquired. “Your votes are not binding until confirmed.”
The panelists exchanged glances. Stile got tense again. It could still come apart!
“Yes, I do,” the serf woman said. Stile saw Rue tense; this was the one who had given her 50 on content. If she revised her grade on Stile’s poem downward—
“I believe I overreacted on that fifty score,” she said.
“Let’s call it forty-five for Cruel Lover.” Again Stile’s knees turned to goo. She had come down on his side!
“Final score eighty-two to seventy-seven in favor of Stile’s poem,” the Computer said after a pause. “He is the winner of this Tourney.”
Now there was applause from the hidden public address system. So quickly, so simply, he had won! But he saw Rue, standing isolated, eyes downcast. On impulse he went to her. “It was a good game,” he said. “You could easily have won it.”
“I still have life tenure,” she said, half choked with disappointment. Then, as an afterthought, she added:
“Sir.”
Stile felt awkward. “If you ever need a favor—“
“I did not direct my poem at you. Not consciously. I was thinking of someone who threw me over. Sir.” But now the crowd was closing in, and Stile’s attention was necessarily diverted.
“By the authority vested in me by the Council of Citizens of Planet Proton,” the Game Computer said, its voice emerging from every speaker under its control throughout the Game Annex, “I now declare that the serf Stile, having won the Tourney, is acquitted of serf status and endowed with Citizenship and all appurtenances and privileges pertaining thereto, from this instant forward.”
The applause swelled massively. The panelists joined in, serfs and Citizens alike.
A robot hastened forward with an ornate robe. “Sir, I belong to your transition estate. It is your privilege to wear any apparel or none. Yet to avoid confusion—“
Stile had thought he
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