Piers Anthony - Adept 01 - Split Infinity

Anthony, Piers - The Apprentice Adept - 1 - Split Infinity

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 1

Slide

He walked with the assurance of stature, and most others 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 convoluted perimeter of the hall, and a

throng milled in the center, making contacts. A cool, gentle, mildly

flower-scented draft wafted down from the vents in the ceiling, and the image

of the sun cast its light on the floor, making its own game of shadows.

Stile paused at the fringe of the crowd, disliking this forced mixing. It was

better when someone challenged him.

A young woman rose from one of the seats. She was nude, of course, but worthy

of a second glance because of the perfection of her 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 seem!

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; evidently she did not

recognize the child, but he did: Pollum. 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, unsagging, shifting eloquently

with her easy motion, and her legs were long and smooth. In other realms men

assumed 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.

She arrived at last. "Stile," she murmured.

He turned as if surprised, nodding. Her face was so lovely it startled him.

Her eyes were large and green, her hair light brown and light-bleached in

strands that expanded about her neck. There was a lot of art in the supposedly

natural falling of women's hair. Her features were even and possessed the

particular properties and proportions that appealed to him, though he could

not define precisely what these were. His shyness loomed up inside him, so

that he did not trust himself to speak.

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

She could not be a top player. Stile knew every ranking 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 selected

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

smallbreasted, 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 notoriety of his

company, and the known fact of his hesitancy 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.

They found an unoccupied cubicle. It had a column in the center, inset with

panels on opposite sides. Stile went to one side. Sheen on the other, and as

their weights came on the marked ovals to the floor before each panel, the

panels lighted. The column was low, so Stile could see Sheen's face across

from him; she was smiling at him.

Embarrassed by this open show of camaraderie. Stile looked down at his panel.

He hardly needed to; he knew exactly what it showed. Across the top were four

categories: PHYSICAL-MENTAL-CHANCE-ART, 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 competitors, but for him it was a great feeling, that

drew him back compulsively. He lived for the Game!

Even when his opponent was a pretty girl whose pert breasts peeked at him just

above the column. What was passing through her mind? Did she really think she

could beat him, or was she just out for the experience? Had she approached him

on a dare, or was she a groupie merely out for a date? If she were trying to

win, she would want to choose ART, possibly MENTAL, and would certainly avoid

PHYSICAL. If she were on a dare she would go for CHANCE, as that would require

little performance on her part. If she wanted experience, anything 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 prowess. 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 SURFACE-B. VARIABLE SURFACE-C. DISCONTINUITY-D. LIQUID. The letters were

highlighted; he had to choose from the down column this time. He didn't feel

like swimming or swinging from bars with her, though there could be intriguing

aspects to each, so the last two were out. He was an excellent long-distance

runner, but doubted Sheen would go for that sort of thing, which eliminated

the flat surface. So he selected B, the variable surface.

She chose 1. SEPARATE: no groupie after all! So they would be in a race of

some sort, not physically touching or directly interacting, though there were

limited exceptions. Good enough. He would find out what she was made of.

Now the panel displayed a listing of variable surfaces. 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.

"Do you concede?" he asked her, pressing the appropriate query button so that

the machine would know. She had fifteen seconds to negate, or forfeit the

game.

Her negation was prompt. "I do not."

"Draw?"

"No."

He had hardly expected her to do either. Concession occurred when one party

had such an obvious advantage that there was no point in playing, as when the

game was chess and one player 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 complete 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 neither for notoriety nor a dare, and he had

already determined 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 gametags 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 uncommitted people

from cluttering the premises or interfering with legitimate contests. Of

course children could and did entertain themselves by indulging in mock

contests, just for the pleasure of the facilities; to a child, the Gameannex

was a huge amusement park. But in so doing, they tended to get hooked on the

Game itself, increasingly as they aged, until at last they were thoroughgoing

addicts. That had been the way with Stile himself.

The Dust Slide was in another dome, so they took the tube 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 interesting 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 terminated at the edge of her desk. She was the desk, possessing

no legs at all. It was as if some celestial artisan had been carving her from

a block of metal, causing her to animate as he progressed-then left the job

unfinished at the halfway point. Stile felt a certain obscure sympathy for

her; did she have true consciousness, in that upper half? Did she long for a

completely humanoid body-or for a complete desk body? How did it feel to be a

half-thing?

She handed back his ticket, validated. Stile closed his fingers about her

delicate hand. "When do you get off work, curie?" he inquired with the lift of

an eyebrow. He was not shy around machines, of course.

She had been programmed for this. "Ssh. My boyfriend'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 liquid in the aggregate,

and quite slippery. The whole was dramatic, suggesting frothing torrents of

water in sluices, or rivulets of snow in an avalanche.

They donned the skin-shorts and filter masks required for protection on the

Slide. The dust was harmless, but it tended to work its way into any available

crevices, and the human body had a number. This was one thing Stile did not

like about this particular subgame: the clothing. Only Citizens wore clothing,

in the normal course, and it was 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,

enhancing her sex appeal. Stile, like many serfs, found a 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 tangle of paths formed a

flowerlike pattern, supremely beautiful. If Stile found the clothing

physically and emotionally awkward, he was compensated by the view from this

vantage, and always stood for a moment in minor awe.

For any given channel the colors seemed random, but for the arrangement as a

whole they shaped in shirting contours roses, lilies, tulips, violets and

gardenias. Air jets emitted corresponding perfumes when applicable. An artist

had designed this layout, and Stile admired the handiwork. He had been here

many times before, yet the novelty had not worn off.

Sheen did not seem to notice. "On your mark," she said, setting the random

starter. The device could pop instantly or take two minutes. This time it

split the difference. The channel barriers dropped low, and Sheen leaped for

the chute nearest her.

Stile, surprised by her facility, leaped after her. They accelerated, shooting

down feet first around a broad bright curve of green, then into the first

white vertical loop. Up and over, slowing dizzily at the top, upside down,

then regaining velocity in the downshoot.

Sheen was moving well. Her body had a natural rondure that shaped itself well

to the contour of the chute. The dust piled up behind her, shoving her

forward. Stile, following in the same channel, tried to intercept enough dust

to cut off her supply and ground her, but she had too big a lead and was

making too good use of her resources.

Well, there were other ways. This channel passed through a partial-gravity

rise that was slow. Another channel crossed, going into a corkscrew. Stile

took this detour, zipped through the screw, and shot out ahead of the girl.

She took another connection and got in behind him, cutting off his dust. This

was the aspect of the Slide that was interactive: the competition for dust.

Stile was grounded, his posterior scraping against the suddenly bare plastic

of the chute. No dust, no progress!

He put his hand to the side, heaved, and flipped his body into the adjoining

channel. This was a tricky maneuver, legitimate but not for amateurs. Here he

had dust again, and resumed speed-but he had lost the momentum he had before.

Sheen continued on in her channel, riding the piled dust, moving ahead of him-

and now they were halfway down.

Stile realized that he had a real race on his hands. This girl was good!

He vaulted back into her channel, cutting off her dust again-but even as he

did, she vaulted into his justvacated channel, maintaining her lead. Apt move!

Obviously she had raced here many times before, and knew the tricks, and had

more agility under that sweet curvature of body than he had suspected. But now

he had the better channel, and he was unmatchable in straight dust-riding; he

moved ahead. She jumped across to cut him off, but he was already jumping into

a third chute. Before she could follow him, the two diverged and he was safe.

They completed the race on separate channels. She had found a good one, and

was gaining on him despite his careful management of dust. He finished barely

ahead. They shot into the collection bin, one-two, to the applause of the

other players who were watching. It had been a fine race, the kind that

happened only once or twice on a given day.

Sheen got up and shook off the dust with a fascinating shimmy of her torso.

"Can't win them all," she remarked, unperturbed.

She had made an excellent try, though! She had come closer than anyone in

years. Stile watched her as she stripped off mask and shorts. She was

stunningly beautiful-more so than before, because now he realized that her

body was functional as well as shapely.

"You interest me," he told her. In this aftermath of a good game he was

flushed with positive feeling, his shyness at a minimum.

Sheen smiled. "I hoped to."

"You almost beat me."

"I had to get your attention somehow."

Another player laughed. Stile had to laugh too. Sheen had proved herself, and

now he wanted to know why. The mutual experience had broken the ice; the

discovery of a new challenge completed his transition from diffidence to

normal masculine imperative.

He didn't even have to invite her to come home with him. She was already on

her way.

CHAPTER 2

Sheen

Sheen moved into his apartment as if it were her own. She punched the buttons

of his console to order a complete light lunch of fruit salad, protein bread

and blue wine.

"You evidently know about me," Stile said as they ate. "But I know nothing of

you. Why did you-want to get my attention?"

"I am a fan of the Game. I could be good at it. But I have so little time-only

three years tenure remaining -I need instruction. From the best. From you. So

I can be good enough–”

"To enter the Tourney," Stile finished. "I have the same time remaining. But

there are others you could have checked. I am only tenth on my ladder–”

"Because you don't want to have to enter the Tourney this year," she said.

"You won't enter it until your last year of tenure, because all tenure ends

when a serf enters the Tourney. But you could advance to Rung One on the

Age-35 ladder any time you wished, and the top five places of each adult

ladder are automatically entered in the–”

"Thank you for the information," Stile said with gentle irony.

She overlooked it. "So you keep yourself in the second five, from year to

year, low enough to be safe in case several of the top rungers break or try to

vacate, high enough to be able to make your move any time you want to. You are

in fact the most proficient Gamesman of our generation–”

"This is an exaggeration. I'm a jockey, not a–”

“–and I want to learn from you. I offer–”

"I can see what you offer," Stile said, running his eyes over her body. He

could do this now without embarrassment, because he had come to know her; his

initial shyness was swinging to a complementary boldness. They had, after all,

Gamed together. "Yet there is no way I could inculcate the breadth of skills

required for serious competition, even if we had a century instead of a mere

three years. Talent is inherent, and it has to be buttressed by constant

application. I might be able to guide you to the fifth rung of your

ladder-which one would that be?"

"Age 23 female."

"You're in luck. There are only three Tourney-caliber players on that ladder

at present. With proper management it would be possible for a person of

promise to take one of the remaining rungs. But though you gave me a good race

on the Slide, I am not sure you have sufficient promise-and even if you

qualified for the Tourney, your chances of progressing far in it would be

vanishingly small. My chances are not good-which is why I'm still working hard

at every opportunity to improve myself. Contrary to your opinion, there are

half a dozen players better than I am, and another score of my general

caliber. In any given year, four or five of them will enter the Tourney, while

others rise in skills to renew the pool. That, combined with the vagaries of

luck, gives me only one chance in ten to win. For you–”

"Oh, I have no illusions about winning!" she said. "But if I could make a high

enough rank to obtain extension of tenure, if only a year or two–”

"It's a dream," he assured her. "The Citizens put such prizes out as bait, but

only one person in thirty-two gains even a year that way."

"I would be completely grateful for that dream," she said, meeting his gaze.

Stile was tempted. He knew he would not have access to a more attractive

woman, and she had indeed shown promise in the Game. That athletic ability

that had enabled her so blithely and lithely to change chutes would benefit

her in many other types of competition.

He could have a very pleasant two years, training her. Extremely pleasant.

That itself gave him caution. He had loved before, and lost, and it had taken

years to recover completely -if he really had. Tune, he thought, with

momentary nostalgia. There were ways in which Sheen resembled that former

girl.

Still, what promise did he have beyond his remaining three years, anyway? All

would be lost, once he left Proton. Oh, he would have a nice nest egg to

establish galactic residence, and might even go to crowded Earth itself, but

all he really wanted to do was remain on Proton. Since it was unlikely that he

could do that, he might as well make these years count. She had mentioned that

her own tenure was as short as his, which meant she would have to leave at the

same time. That could be very interesting, if they had a firm relationship.

"Tell me about yourself," he said.

"I was born five years before my parents' tenure ended," Sheen said, putting

down her leaf of lettuce. She had eaten delicately and quite sparingly, as

many slender women did. "I obtained a position with a Lady Citizen, first as

errand girl, then as nurse. I was a fan of the Game as a child, and had good

aptitude, but as my employer grew older she required more care, until–” She

shrugged, and now with the pleasant tingle of the wine and the understanding

they were coming to, he could appreciate the way her breasts moved with that

gesture. Oh yes, it was a good offer she made-yet something nagged him. "I

have not been to a Game for seven years," she continued, "though I have viewed

it often on my employer's screens, and rehearsed strategies and techniques

constantly in private. My employer has a private exercise gym her doctor

recommended; she never used it, so I did, filling in for her. Last week she

died, so I have been released on holiday pending settlement of her estate and

the inventory her heir is taking. Her heir is female, and healthy, so I do not

think the burden will be onerous."

It could have been quite a different matter. Stile reflected, with a young,

healthy male heir. Serfs had no personal rights except termination of tenure

in fit physical and mental condition, and no sane person would depart Proton

even a day ahead of schedule. Serfs could serve without concern as concubines

or studs for their employers-or for each other as private or public

entertainment for their employers. Their bodies were the property of the

Citizens. Only in privacy, without the intercession of a Citizen, did

interpersonal relations between serfs become meaningful. As now.

"So you came to me," Stile said. "To trade your favors for my favor."

"Yes." There needed to be no hesitancy or shame to such acknowledgment. Since

serfs had no monetary or property credit, and no power during their tenure,

Game-status and sex were the chief instruments of barter.

"I am minded to try it out. Shall we say for a week, then reconsider? I might

become tired of you."

Again there was no formal cause for affront; male-female interactions among

serfs were necessarily shallow, though marriage was permitted and provided

for. Stile had learned the hard way, long ago, not to expect permanence.

Still, he expected a snappy retort to the effect that she would more likely

grow tired of him first.

There was no such byplay. "As part of my rehearsal for the Game, I have

studied the art of pleasing men," Sheen said. "I am willing to venture that

week."

A fair answer. And yet, he wondered, would not an ordinary woman, even the

most abused of serfs, have evinced some token ire at the callousness of his

suggestion? He could have said, "We might not be right for each other." He had

phrased it most bluntly, forcing a reaction. Sheen had not reacted; she was

completely matter-of-fact. Again he was nagged. Was there some catch here?

"Do you have special interests?" Stile inquired.

"Music?" He hadn't really wanted to ask that, but it had come out. He

associated love with music, because of his prior experience.

"Yes, music," Sheen agreed.

His interest quickened. "What kind?"

She shrugged again. "Any kind."

"Vocal? Instrumental? Mechanical?"

Her brow furrowed. "Instrumental."

"What instrument do you play?"

She looked blank.

"Oh-you'll just listen," he said. "I play a number of instruments, preferring

the woodwinds. All part of the Game. You will need to acquire skill in at

least one instrument, or Game opponents will play you for a weakness there and

have easy victories."

"Yes, I must learn," she agreed.

What would she have done if he had gone for AKT instead of PHYSICAL in their

match? With her prior choice of NAKED, the intersection would have put them in

song, dance or story: the a capella performances. Perhaps she was a

storyteller. Yet she did not seem to have the necessary imagination.

"Let's do it right," he said, rising from his meal. "I have a costume–” He

touched a button and the costume fell from a wall vent into his hand. It was a

filmy negligee.

Sheen smiled and accepted it. In the privacy of an apartment, clothing was

permitted, so long as it was worn discreetly. If there should be a video call,

or a visitor at his door. Sheen would have to hide or rip off the clothing

lest she be caught by a third party in that state and be compromised. But that

only added to the excitement of it, the special, titillating naughtiness of

their liaison. It was, in an unvoiced way, the closest any serf could come to

emulating any Citizen.

She donned the costume without shame and did a pirouette, causing the material

to fling out about her legs. Stile found this indescribably erotic. He shut

down the light, so that the material seemed opaque, and the effect

intensified. Oh, what clothing did for the woman, creating shadows where

ordinarily there were none, making mysteries where none had been before!

Yet again, something ticked a warning in Stile's mind. Sheen was lovely,

yes-but where was her flush of delighted shame? Why hadn't she questioned his

possession of this apparel? He had it on loan, and his employer knew about it

and would in due course remember to reclaim it-but a person who did not know

that, who was not aware of the liberalism of this particular employer with

respect to his favored serfs, should be alarmed at his seeming hoarding of

illicit clothing. Sheen had thought nothing of it.

They were technically within the law-but so was a man who thought treason

without acting on it. Stile was an expert Gamesman, attuned to the nuances of

human behavior, and there was something wrong with Sheen. But what was it?

There was really nothing in her behavior that could not be accounted for by

her years of semi-isolation while nursing her Citizen.

Well, perhaps it would come to him. Stile advanced on Sheen, and she met him

gladly. None of this oh-please-don't-hurt-me-sir, catch-me-if-you-can drama.

She was not after all very much taller than he, so he had to draw her down

only marginally to kiss her. Her body was limber, pliable, and the feel of the

gauze between their skins pitched him into a fever of desire. Not in years had

he achieved such heat so soon.

She kissed him back, her lips firm and cool. Suddenly the little nagging

observations clicked into a comprehensible whole, and he knew her for what she

was. Stile's ardor began sliding into anger.

He bore her back to the couch-bed. She dropped onto it easily, as if this type

of fall were commonplace for her. He sat beside her, running his hands along

her thighs, still with that tantalizing fabric in place between them. He moved

on to knead her breasts, doubly erotic behind the material. A nude woman in

public was not arousing, but a clothed one in private...

His hands were relaxed, gentle-but his mind was tight with coalescing ire and

apprehension. He was about to trigger a reaction that could be hazardous to

Piers Anthony - Adept 01 - Split Infinity

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: