"The key words are used correctly and in the proper sequence," the Computer said. "Each one terminates its lines, and each is matched with a rhyme of good quality. These are credits. Four lines exist only to complete the necessary rhymes; these are neutral. The metric scansion is correct and consistent — basically iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter with certain convenient modifications in the extreme feet. This is a common mode and not considered difficult. I rate the technical facility of this effort forty-two of a total of fifty points alloted to this aspect. Proceed to my left with your judgments."
The female serf was to the left. "I don't know much about all those things," she said diffidently. "But it rhymes, and I sort of like it. So I give it a forty-five."
There was the illiterate response, Stile thought. That was the vote he had not deigned to court, though it cost him Citizenship.
Next was the male Citizen, resplendent in his ornate robes. "We are not yet discussing content or interpretation?" he inquired. When the Computer agreed, he continued: "I find the format simplistic but effective. I'll give it forty." Stile liked that reaction better.
Then the male serf voted. "I don't relate well to the female tone, but technically it seems all right for what it is. The key words are all in the right place, and they do fit in more neatly than I could do. Forty-three from me."
The female Citizen, in a sequined suit, fire opals gleaming at her ears, voted last. "Some of the lines are forced or confusing, but I suppose I must grade that in content. She's done an excellent job of stringing the random words coherently together. Forty-six."
Stile saw that the average score was forty-three, which was good — probably a good deal better than his own would be. Rue had certainly integrated her terms cleverly. He was going to have a rough time of this one!
"We shall now analyze the second poem for technical merit," the Computer said.
Stile stepped up to the grid. He found himself looking past his printed poem into the glassy orbs of the Computer simulacrum robot. He glanced to the side and saw the male serf. He could see anyone he chose, merely by looking in the correct direction; their circle was laid out flat on his screen.
"My poem is titled Insights," he said. Then he read:
He had made eye contact with each judge in turn as he read, and had seen their responses. Unfortunately, these were not promising; some frowned, some seemed confused. It wasn't going over; they did not understand its form or content.
"This is free verse," the Computer said. "It has no consistent meter and no rhyme. This should not be taken as a defect. The key terms are terminally placed, in correct order, one to a line with no waste lines. There are natural pauses at the end of most lines. As free verse, I rate this technically at thirty-nine."
Stile's heart sank. The others would follow the Computer's lead, and he would average several points below Rue's effort.
He was not disappointed in this expectation. The serf woman wondered whether these lines could even be considered poetry, as they seemed just like sentences to her, and the others were lukewarm. The average score was thirty-eight. Stile was five points behind.
Now it was time for the content analysis. Neither poet was permitted to speak at this stage; it was felt that if the poems did not speak for themselves, they were defective. "This is a straightforward statement of position," the Computer said of Rue's effort. "She evidently feels slighted by her male friend, and is dictating to him the terms of their future association. I perceive no particular meaning beyond this, and therefore do not regard this as other than light verse. Rating thirty-five."
That was a good sign, Stile thought. If the others followed this lead, her average would drop.
"It's a good thing machines aren't in charge of romance," the serf woman remarked. "I find this a good telling-off. The guy is a roach, calling her such names, and I'm all with her. I say fifty."
Stile winced inwardly. He needed to recover five points, and figured they might rate his poem an average 40. The Computer's lead had put him right in line to even it up by dropping Rue's score, but this 50 was a disaster.
The male Citizen was more critical, however. "I certainly don't care to see a woman spelling out her terms like that for a romance, though I suppose, if she can find a man to accept them, it's their business. I don't follow this 'burning on the tube' reference; does it make sense at all?"
"Oh, sure, sir," the male serf said. "In the old days on Earth they had gas burners, gas coming up a tube and the flame on top. So she's likening herself to that sort of flame. It's a sort of pun, really."
The Citizen shrugged. "Clever," he said sourly. "I rate this thirty." Stile saw Rue wince. But he himself, while deploring the man's narrowness, was gratified by the score. It put him back in the running.
The male serf was next. "If she becomes a Citizen, then she can set terms," he said, and the others laughed. They were getting into this now, loosening up. "I guess I'm looking for something deeper than this, some social com mentary, not just female demands. Rating thirty-two." And Stile's hopes elevated another notch. Now if only the other woman did not react by sexual alignment-
"I believe I note an extremely clever thrust," the lady Citizen said. "Nowhere is the protagonist identified; it is not necessarily serf Rue at all. It could be any woman, most especially one who has been wronged by the man she loves. It could even apply to a humanoid robot female who loves a flesh-man."
Oh, no! Had Rue slanted her verse to pillory Stile? He saw the judges turning to look at him, and at Sheen in the small physical audience permitted. They knew!
"The references to square and cube fall into place," the lady Citizen continued. "A robot is a creature of geometrical parts, supposedly, animated by electric power from a tiny furnace fed by Protonite. She is certainly burning, internally! She must accept a man's attentions — I understand that is what that type is primarily designed for — but can not have his love, since he knows she is a machine. Yet she can be programmed for emotion; she loves him, knowing that love is not returned. Perhaps the man she serves is a musician, playing the violin or flute-"