Piers Anthony - Adept 1 - Split Infinity

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He walked with the assurance of stature, and most oth -- ers deferred to

him subtly. When he moved in a given direction, the way before him

conveniently opened, by seeming coincidence; when he made eye contact,

the other head nodded in a token bow. He was a serf, like all of them,

naked and with no physical badge of status; indeed, it would have been the

depth of bad taste to accord him any overt recognition. Yet he was a giant,

here. His name was Stile.

Stile stood one point five meters tall and weighed fifty kilograms. In prior

parlance he would have stood four feet, eleven inches tall and weighed a

scant hundredweight or eight stone; or stood a scant fifteen hands and

weighed a hundred and ten pounds. His male associates towered above

him by up to half a meter and outweighed him by twenty-five kilos.

He was fit, but not extraordinarily muscled. Personable without being

handsome. He did not hail his friends heartily, for there were few he called

friend, and he was diffident about approaches. Yet there was enormous

drive in him that manifested in lieu of personal warmth.

He walked about the Grid-hall of the Game-annex, his favorite

place; beyond this region he reverted to the nonentity that others

perceived. He sought competition of his own level, but at this hour there

was none. Pairs of people stood in the cubicles that formed the con --

body. Stile averted his gaze, affecting not to be aware of her; he was

especially shy with girls.

A tall youth intercepted the woman. "Game, lass?" How easy he

made it seeml

She dismissed him with a curt downward flip of one hand and

continued on toward Stile. A child signaled her: "Game, miss?" The woman

smiled, but again negated, more gently. Stile smiled too, privately; evi --

dently she did not recognize the child, but he did: Pol -- lum. Rung Two on

the Nines ladder. Not in Stile's own class, yet, but nevertheless a

formidable player. Had the woman accepted the challenge, she would

probably have been tromped.

There was no doubt she recognized Stile, though. His eyes

continued to review the crowd, but his attention was on the woman. She

was of average height -- several centimeters taller than he -- but of more

than average proportions. Her breasts were full and perfect, unsag -- ging,

shifting eloquently with her easy motion, and her legs were long and

smooth. In other realms men as -- sumed that the ideal woman was a

naked one, but often this was not the case; too many women suffered in

the absence of mechanical supports for portions of their anatomy. This one,

approaching him, was the type who really could survive the absence of

clothing without loss of form.

"I am Sheen," she said. "I would like to challenge you to a Game."

She could not be a top player. Stile knew every rank -- ing player

on every age-ladder by sight and style, and she was on no ladder.

Therefore she was a dilettante, an occasional participant, possibly of some

skill in se -- lected modes but in no way a serious competitor. Her body was

too lush for most physical sports; the top females in track, ball games and

swimming were small -- breasted, lean-fleshed, and lanky, and this in no

way described Sheen. Therefore he would have no physical competition

here.

Yet she was beautiful, and he was unable to speak. So he nodded

acquiescence. She took his arm in an easy gesture of familiarity that

startled him. Stile had known women, of course; they came to him seeking

the no -- toriety of his company, and the known fact of his hesi -- tancy lent

them compensating courage. But this one was so pretty she hardly needed

to seek male company;

it would seek her. She was making it look as if he had sought and

won her. Perhaps he had, unknowingly: his prowess in the Game could

have impressed her enough from afar to bring her to him. Yet this was not

the type of conquest he preferred; such women were equally avid for

Game-skilled teeners and grayheads.

and down the left side were four more: NAKED -- TOOL -- MACHINE --

ANIMAL. For shorthand convenience they were also lettered and

numbered: 1 -- 2 -- 3 -- 4 across

the top, A -- B -- C -- D down the side. The numbers were

highlighted: the Grid had given him that set of choices, randomly.

THE GAME: PRIMARY GRID

1. PHYSICAL 2. MENTAL 3. CHANCE 4. ART

A. NAKED B. TOOL C. MACHINE D. ANIMAL

Stile studied Sheen's face. Now that she was in the Game, his

opponent, his diffidence diminished. He felt the mild tightening of his skin,

elevation of heartbeat, clarity of mind and mild distress of bowel that

presaged the tension and effort of competition. For some people such

effects became so strong it ruined them as com -- petitors, but for him it

on a dare she would go for CHANCE, as that would require little per --

formance on her part. If she wanted experience, any -- thing would do. If

she were a groupie, she would want PHYSICAL.

Of course she could not choose among these; he had the choice.

But his choice would be governed in part by his judgment of her intent and

ability. He had to think, as it were, with her mind, so that he could select

what she least desired and obtain the advantage.

Now he considered her likely choice, in the series she did control. A

true competitor would go for NAKED, for there was the essence of it:

unassisted personal prow -- ess. One wanting experience could go for

anything, again depending on the type of experience desired. A dare would

probably go for NAKED also; that choice would be part of the dare. A

groupie would certainly go for NAKED. So that was her most likely choice.

Well, he would call her bluff. He touched PHYSICAL, sliding his

hand across the panel so she couldn't tell his choice by the motion of his

arm.

Her choice had already been made, as anticipated. They were in

1A, PHYSICAL/NAKED.

The second grid appeared. Now the categories across the top were

1. SEPARATE -- 2. INTERACTIVE -- 3. COMBAT -- 4, COOPERATIVE,

and down the side were A. FLAT

a race of some sort, not physically touching or directly interacting, though

there were limited excep -- tions. Good enough. He would find out what she

was made of.

Now the panel displayed a listing of variable sur -- faces. Stile

glanced again at Sheen. She shrugged, so he picked the first: MAZE

PATH. As he touched it, the description appeared in the first box of a nine-

square grid.

She chose the second: GLASS MOUNTAIN. It appeared in the

second square.

He placed DUST SLIDE in the third square. Then they continued

with CROSS COUNTRY, TIGHTROPE, SAND DUNES,

GREASED HILLS, SNOW BANK, and LIMESTONE CLIFF. The

tertiary grid was complete.

Now he had to choose one of the vertical columns, and she had the

horizontal rows. He selected the third, she the first, and their game was

there: DUST SLIDE.

was a grandmaster while the other hadn't yet learned the moves. Or when

it was weight lifting, with one party a child and the other a muscle builder.

The dust slide was a harmless entertainment, fun to do even without the

competitive element; no one would concede it except perhaps one who had

a phobia about falling -- and such a person would never have gotten into

this category of game.

And so her reaction was odd. She should have laughed at his

facetious offers. Instead she had taken them seriously. That suggested she

was more nervous about

this encounter than she seemed.

Yet this was no Tourney match! If she were a com -- plete duffer

she could have accepted the forfeit and been free. Or she could have

agreed to the draw, and been able to tell her girlish friends how she had

tied with the notorious Stile. So it seemed she was out nei -- ther for

notoriety nor a dare, and he had already de -- termined she was not a

groupie. She really did want to compete -- yet it was too much to hope that

she had any

real proficiency as a player.

They vacated the booth after picking up the game -- tags extruded

from slots. No one was admitted solo to any subgame; all had to play the

grid first, and report in pairs to the site of decision. That prevented

transport. The vehicle door irised open at their approach, admitting them to

its cosy interior. Several other serfs were already in it: three middle-aged

men who eyed Sheen with open appreciation, and a child whose eye lit

with recognition. "You're the jockey!"

Stile nodded. He had no trouble relating to children.

He was hardly larger than the boy.

"You won all the races!" the lad continued.

"I had good horses," Stile explained.

"Yeah," the child agreed, satisfied.

Now the three other passengers turned their attention to Stile,

beginning to surmise that he might be as inter -- esting as the girl. But the

vehicle stopped, its door opened, and they all stepped out into the new

dome. In moments Stile and Sheen had lost the other travelers and were

homing in on the Dust Slide, their tickets ready.

The Slide's desk-secretary flashed Stile a smile as she validated

the tickets. He smiled back, though he knew this was foolish; she was a

robot. Her face, arms and upper torso were perfectly humanoid, with

shape, color and texture no ordinary person could have told from a living

woman, but her perfectly humanoid body termi -- nated at the edge of her

desk. She was the desk, possess -- ing no legs at all. It was as if some

celestial artisan had been carving her from a block of metal, causing her to

course. 7

She had been programmed for this. "Ssh. My boy -- friend's

watching." She used her free hand to indicate the robot next to her: a desk

with a set of male legs protruding, terminating at the inverted waist. They

demonstrated the manner the protective shorts should be worn for the

Slide. They were extremely robust legs, and the crotch region was

powerfully masculine.

Stile glanced down at himself, chagrined. "Oh, I can't compete with

him. My legs are barely long enough to reach the ground." A bygone Earth

author, Mark Twain, had set up that remark, and Stile found it useful on

occasion. He accepted Sheen's arm again and they

continued on to the Slide.

He thought Sheen might remark on the way he seemed to get

along with machines, but she seemed

oblivious. Ah, well.

The Slide was a convoluted mountain of channels looping and

diverging and merging. Dust flowed in them -- sanitary, nonirritating,

noncarcinogenic, neutral particles of translucent plastic, becoming virtually

uncouth for any serf to wear anything not strictly functional. More than

uncouth: it could be grounds for summary termination of tenure at Planet

Proton. Such Slide-shorts were functional, in these dusty environs; still, he

felt uncomfortable. Their constriction and location tended to stir him

sexually, and that was awkward in the company of a creature

like Sheen,

Sheen seemed to feel no such concern. Perhaps she was aware

that the partial concealment of the shorts attracted attention to those parts

they concealed, en -- hancing her sex appeal. Stile, like many serfs, found

a 8

certain illicit lure in clothing, especially clothing on the distaff sex; it

represented so much that serfs could only dream of. He had to keep his

eyes averted, lest he embarrass himself.

They took the lift to the Slide apex. Here at the top they were near

the curving dome that held in air and heat; through its shimmer Stile could

see the bleak landscape of Proton, ungraced by any vegetation. The hostile

atmosphere was obscured in the distance by clouds of smog.

The Slide itself was a considerable contrast. From this height six

channels coursed out and down, each half filled with flowing dust. Colored

lights shone up through it all, for the channels too were translucent. They

turned now red, now blue-gray and now yellow as the beams moved. The

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摘要：

Hewalkedwiththeassuranceofstature,andmostoth--ersdeferredtohimsubtly.Whenhemovedinagivendirection,thewaybeforehimconvenientlyopened,byseemingcoincidence;whenhemadeeyecontact,theotherheadnoddedinatokenbow.Hewasaserf,likeallofthem,nakedandwithnophysicalbadgeofstatus;indeed,itwouldhavebeenthedepthofbad...

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Piers Anthony - Adept 1 - Split Infinity

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