Sheen took the card. “Oh, no!” she complained. “We have only half an hour to get there, and it’s at an isolated dome. I had hoped to have time to—“
“For a machine, you’re certainly hung up on one thing,” Stile teased her.
“I’m programmed to be!” she snapped.
She had been fashioned to appeal to his tastes, and evidently his tastes ran to beauty, intelligence and desire for his attention. Stile realized again, not comfortably, that he was in this respect a typical man. His human interests seemed unconscionably narrow when reflected so obviously. Yet Sheen was, in all respects but one, his ideal mate. That one canceled out the rest: she was not alive. She was a construct of metal and pseudoflesh and artificial intellect.
Yet he knew now that even had Sheen been a real person—a real live person—she would not have been able to retain his full devotion after he encountered the Lady Blue. Because what had been his ideal woman two months ago was that no longer. The Lady Blue had a detailed and fascinating past as well as a future; she was changing with the passage of time, as Sheen could not, and so was matching Stile’s own development. The Lady Blue had reshaped his ideal, conforming it to her likeness in flesh and personality and history. He was becoming acclimatized to the world of Phaze, and was losing identification with the world of Proton.
It was not merely a matter of women; he would have loved Phaze regardless. Magic had become a more intriguing challenge than the Game. But he had a commitment here in Proton, and he would see it through. And he had a gnawing need to ferret out his anonymous enemy and bring that person to an accounting. Who had lasered his knees? Who had sent Sheen to guard him? He could never rest content in Phaze until he knew the answers. But Sheen was already bustling him out. “We can’t keep a Citizen waiting; we have to get to that address in time.” “I suppose so,” Stile agreed, resenting the waste of time. In one sense, a serf’s employment by a Citizen ended when that serf entered the Tourney, since all tenure was terminated by such entry. But in another sense employment continued, for Citizens identified with those of their serfs who entered, making bets on their success. Many Citizens gave serfs time off to practice for the Tourney, so as to do better; Stile’s own Employer had done that. And if he won an extension of tenure, he would still need an Employer for that period. So whatever the technical status, he had better act in a manner conducive to the Citizen’s good will.
“I didn’t know she had a dome at this address,” Sheen remarked as they hurried to a subtube station. As a machine, she had little genuine curiosity, but with her programming and under Stile’s tutelage she had mastered this most feminine quality. Hardly ever did she make errors of characterization, now. “But of course all Citizens are obscenely rich. She must be watching the Tourney from a private retreat.”
They boarded the tube shuttle. A third passenger joined them—a middle-aged serf woman, well-formed. She was naked, like all serfs, and carrying a sealed freezer-container. “My Employer insists the ice cream from one particular public foodmart tastes better than the ice cream from anywhere else,” she confided, tapping the container. “So every day I have to make the trip and bring it back by hand. She thinks robot delivery distorts the flavor.”
“It probably does,” Sheen said, smiling obscurely.
“Citizens are like that,” Stile said, falling into the ready camaraderie of serfs. “I’m entered in the Tourney, but my Employer requires a personal report instead of the official one, so I’m making a trip every bit as foolish.” He had no worry about visual and auditory perception devices that might report this conversation to the Citizens; of course they existed, but Citizens had no interest in the opinions of serfs, and expected them to grumble privately.
“That’s funny,” the woman said. “There are only three Citizens at this terminus. Mine has no interest in the Tourney, and another’s off-planet on business, and the third—“ She broke off.
Sheen became alert. “What about the third?”
“Well, he hates the Tourney. Says it’s a waste of time and only generates new Citizens when the planet has too many already. You couldn’t be seeing him.”
“My Employer is a woman,” Stile said.
“Mine is the only woman on this annex—and she surely is not sponsoring you.”
Stile showed her the address-card.
“That’s the Tourney-hater!” the woman exclaimed. “He’s no woman!” She made a small, significant gesture near her midsection. “I know.”
Stile exchanged a glance with Sheen. The woman had signified that the Citizen borrowed her for sexual purpose, as was his right so long as her own Employer acquiesced. Citizens of either sex could use serfs of either sex this way, and surely a woman knew the sex of her user.
“My Employer is female,” Stile said, suffering a new qualm. Could she have summoned him in the flesh because she wanted to dally with a serf? He would not be able to refuse her, but this was a complication he did not want. “Are you sure that address hasn’t changed ownership recently?”
“Quite sure. I was there only two days ago.” Again the gesture. “Heaven and Hell.”
“Maybe my Employer is visiting him,” Stile said. “That must be it,” the woman agreed. “He has quite a taste for women, and does prefer Citizens when he can get them. Is she pretty?”
“Handsome,” Stile said. “As you are.”
She nodded knowingly. “But you,” she said to Sheen. “You had best keep that luscious body out of his sight, or you could mess it up for your mistress.” Stile smiled. Naturally the serf assumed Sheen was also an employee. Sheen could mess it up for any rival woman, and not just because of her beauty.
The shuttle slowed. “This is my station,” the woman said. “Yours is next. Good luck!”
When they were alone. Stile turned to Sheen. “I don’t like this. We can’t skip out on a command appearance, but something seems wrong. Could the message be faked?”
“It’s genuine,” Sheen said. She was a machine; she could tell. “But I agree. Something is funny. I’m summoning help.”
“I don’t think you should involve your friends in this. They don’t want to call the attention of a Citizen to them-selves.”
“Only to trace the origin of that message,” she said. “And to rouse your robot double. I think we can stall a few minutes while he travels by fast freight.” The shuttle stopped. They got out and moved to a local food dispenser, using up the necessary time. Sheen ate a piece of reconstituted carrot. She was a machine but could process food through her system, though it never was digested. Stile contented himself with a cup of nutro-cocoa. In a surprisingly short time a freight hatch opened and the Stile-robot emerged, carrying a shipment tag. “Start breathing,” Sheen told it, and the model animated. “Take this card, report to this address. Broadcast continuously to me.”
Without a word the robot took the card, glanced at it, and walked down the passage. The thing looked so small! Stile was embarrassed to think that this was the way he appeared to others: a child-man, thirty-five years old but the size of a twelve-year-old boy.
“Move,” Sheen murmured, guiding him through a service aperture. “If there is trouble, we need to vanish.” She located a storage chamber, and they settled down to wait. “Now,” she said, putting her arms about him and kissing him. She was fully as soft and sensual as any live woman. But she froze in midkiss. “Oops.”
“What—my lips lose their living flavor?”
“I’m getting the report from the robot.” Sheen used the term without self-consciousness. She was to an ordinary robot as a holograph was to a child’s crayon-picture. “It is a mistake. The male Citizen has no visitor, and he sent no message. Oooh!” She shook her head. “That hurt.” How could she feel pain?