Juxtaposition by Piers Anthony Page A

was braced for this, but the repeated appellation “sir” startled him. For a lifetime he had called others sir; now he had comprehensive conditioning to unlearn. “Thank you,” he said, leaching for the robe.   The robot skittered to the side.
    “Allow me, sir,” it said, and Stile realized it wanted to put the robe on him. It did not behoove a Citizen to serve himself, though he could if he wanted to. Stile suffered himself to be dressed, holding a mental picture of a horse being saddled.
    “Thank, you,” he repeated awkwardly.
    The machine moved dose, getting the robe on and adjusted. “A Citizen need not thank a machine—or anyone,” it murmured discreetly in Stile’s ear.
    “Oh. Yes. Thank—uh, yes.”
    “Quite all right, sir,” the machine said smoothly.
    Now a lady Citizen approached. It was Stile’s employer.   Former employer, he reminded himself. “I am gratified, Stile,” she said. “You have made me a winner too.”
    “Thank you, sir.” Then Stile bit his tongue.  
    She smiled. “Thank you, sir.” And she leaned forward to kiss him on the right eyebrow. “I profited a fantastic amount on your success. But more than that is the satisfaction of sponsoring a Tourney winner. You will find me appreciative.” She walked away.
    Now the Citizen known as the Rifleman approached. “I know exactly how you feel,” he said. That was no exaggeration; the Rifleman had won his own Tourney fifteen years before. Stile had encountered him in the first Round of this Tourney and barely pulled out the victory. The Rifleman had been an excellent loser.
    “Accept some private advice. Citizen: get away from the public for several days and drill yourself in the new reality. That will cure you of embarrassing slips. And get yourself someone to explain the ropes in nontechnical terms—the extent of your vested estate, the figures, the prerogatives. There’s a hell of a lot to learn fast, if you don’t want to be victimized by predatory Citizens.”
    “But aren’t all Citizens—that is, don’t they respect the estates of other Citizens?”
    “Your minimum share of the Protonite harvest can not be impinged upon—but only your luck and competence and determination can establish your place in the Citizen heirarchy. This is a new game. Stile—oh, yes. Citizens have names; we are merely anonymous to the serfs. You may wish to select a new name for yourself—“
    “No need.”
    “It is a game more intricate and far-reaching than any within the Tourney. Make a point to master its nuances, Stile—soon.” And the Rifleman gave him a meaningful glance.
    The audience was dissipating as the novelty of the new Citizen wore off. Stile signaled Sheen. “Can your friends provide me with a mentor conversant with the nuances of Citizen behavior?”
    “They can, sir,” she said. “Or they could program me—“
    “Excellent! Get yourself programmed. They’ll know what I need. And do it soon.”
    Sheen left. Stile found it incongruous that she should remain naked while he was now clothed. Yet of course she remained a serf—an imitation serf—now in his employ; she would remain naked the rest of her life.   Her life? Stile smiled, a trifle grimly. He was forgetting that she had no life. Yet she was his best friend in this frame.
    Stile turned to the robot who had brought his robe.
    “Take me to my estate,” he ordered it.
    The machine hesitated. “Sir, you have none.”
    “None? But I thought all Citizens—“
    “Each Citizen has a standard share of the Protonite mines. All else follows.”
    “I see.” It seemed there was much that was not handed to a Citizen on a platter. He needed that manual of Citizenship! Where was Sheen? Her programming should have been quick.
    Then she appeared. “I have it, sir,” she said.  
    “Excellent. Take me to an appropriate and private place, and deliver.”
    “Don’t I always—sir?” She led the way out of the Game Annex.
    The place turned out to be a