Stile, playing back and often below the level of the table, had greater leeway in this respect, now, than Hair did. Hair knew it and was nervous—and doubly careful. He could not uncork full slams lest the hidden spin of the ball send them wide. Stile’s proficiency in the mode was increasing, and the advantage was coming to him, at last. But that seven-point deficit—
Stile delivered a swooping undercut sidespin ball that struck the table and took off at an impressive angle. But Hair was ready for it. He countered the spin in the course of a soft-shot. The ball barely cleared the net, and would have dribbled three times on Stile’s side before it cleared the table—had not Stile dived to intercept it in time. As it was, he got it back—but only in the form of a high spinless setup.
Hair pounced on his opportunity. He slammed the ball off the backhand comer. Stile leaped back to intercept it, getting it safely over the net—but as another setup. Hair slammed again, this time to Stile’s forehand comer, forcing him to dive for it. Stile felt a pain in his rib cage; he got the ball back, but at the expense of aggravating his recent injury. He was in extra trouble now! But he would not give up the point; he had worked too hard for it already.
Hair slammed again, driving him back. Had Hair been a natural offense player. Stile would have been finished; but these slams lacked the authority they needed. Stile managed to return it, again without adequate spin. Hair slammed yet again, harder. Stile re-treated far to the rear, getting on top of it, and sent it back. But he had misjudged; the ball cleared the net, but landed too near it and bounced too high. Hair had a put-away setup. Stile braced desperately for the bullet to come—
And Hair made a dropshot. The ball slid off his paddle, bounced over the right edge of Stile’s court, and headed for the floor. A sucker shot. Stile had fallen for it.
Stile, nonsensically, went for it. He launched himself forward, paddle hand outstretched. His feet left the floor as he did a racing bellyflop toward that descending ball. He landed and slid, his ribs parting further-but got his paddle under the ball three centimeters above the floor and flicked it up, violently.
From the floor Stile watched that ball sail high, spinning. Up, up, toward the ceiling, then down. Would it land on the proper side of the net? If it did, Hair would put it away, for Stile could never scramble back in time. Yet he had aimed it to—
The ball dropped beyond his line of sight. Hair hovered near, hardly believing his shot had been returned, primed for the finishing slam when the ball rebounded high. It was clearing the net, then!
Stile heard the strike of the ball on the table. Then hell broke loose. There was a gasp from the audience as Hair dived around the table, reaching for an impossible shot, as Stile had done. But Hair could not make it; he fell as his hand smacked into the net support. Then Hair’s shoulder took out the center leg of the table, and the table sagged.
Underneath that impromptu tent. Hair’s gaze met Stile’s as the robot scorekeeper announced: “Point to Stile. Score 17-11.”
“Your backspin carried the ball into the net before I could get to it,” Hair explained. “Unless I could fetch it from the side as it dribbled down—“
“You didn’t need to try for that one,” Stile pointed out. “I made a desperation move because I’m up against my point of no return, but you still have a six-point margin.”
“Now he tells me,” Hair muttered ruefully. “I don’t think of that sort of thing when I’m going for a point.”
“Your hand,” Stile said. “It’s bleeding.”
Hair hauled his paddle hand around. “Bleeding? No wonder! I just broke two fingers—going for a point I didn’t need.”
It was no joke. A robot medic examined the hand as they climbed from the wreckage of the table, and sprayed an anesthetic on it. Shock had prevented Hair from feeling the pain initially, but it was coming now. Little scalpels flashed as the robot went to work, opening the skin, injecting bone restorative, resetting the breaks, binding the fingers in transparent splint-plastic.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to finish the game,” Hair said. “I’m not much for left-handed play.”
“Stile—by TKO!” someone in the audience exclaimed. Then there was foolish applause.
Rung Five was his. Stile had qualified for the Tourney. But he did not feel elated. He had wanted to win it honestly, not by a fluke. Now no one would believe that he could have done it on his own.
Hulk intercepted them as they left the Game premises. He looked a little wobbly, but was definitely on the mend. He had a rugged constitution. “Stile, about that offer-“
“Still open,” Stile said with sudden gladness.
“Your girl was persuasive.”
“Sheen has a logical mind,” Stile agreed.
“I have nothing to lose,” Hulk said. “I don’t believe in magic, but if there’s a primitive world there, where a man can prosper by the muscle of his arm and never have to say ‘sir’ to a Citizen—“
“See for yourself. I’m going there now.”
“Stile, wait,” Sheen protested. “You have injuries! You’re worn out. You need rest, attention—“
Stile squeezed her hand. “There is none better than what you provide. Sheen. But across the curtain is a Lady and a unicorn, and I fear they may be jealous of each other. I must hurry.”
“I know about Neysa,” she said. “She’s no more human than I am, and why she puts up with you is beyond my circuitry. But now you have a lady too? A real live girl? What about my jealousy?”
“Maybe I broke in at the wrong time,” Hulk said.
“Do not be concerned,” Sheen told him sweetly. “I’m only a machine.”
Stile knew he was in trouble again.
“You are a robot?” Hulk asked, perplexed. “You made a reference, but I thought it wasn’t serious.”
“All metal and plastics and foam rubber,” Sheen assured him. “Therefore I have no feelings.”
Hulk was in difficulty. His eyes flicked to the lusher portions of her anatomy that jiggled in most humanly provocative fashion as she walked, then guiltily away. “I thought—you certainly fooled me!” He bit his lip.
“About the feelings, I mean, as well as—“
“She has feelings,” Stile said. “She’s as volatile as any living creature.”
“You don’t have to lie for me. Stile,” Sheen said, with just that stiffness of body and voice that put him in his place. She had become expert at the human manner!
“Lie?” Hulk shook his head. “There’s one thing you should know about Stile. He never—“
“She knows it,” Stile said tiredly. “She’s punishing me for my indiscretion in finding a living woman.”
“Sorry I mixed in,” Hulk muttered.
Stile turned to Sheen. “I did not know I would encounter the Lady in the Blue Demesnes. I did not realize at first what she was. I destroyed the golem that had impersonated me, but did not realize the complications until later.”
“And now that you do realize, you are eager to return to those complications,” Sheen said coldly. “I understand that is man’s nature. She must be very pretty.”
“You want me to look out for Neysa’s interest, don’t you?” Stile said desperately, though he had the sensation of quicksand about his feet. “She’s there in the Blue Castle, alone—“
“The Lady,” Sheen interrupted with new insight. “The Lady Blue? The one your alternate self married?”
“Oh-oh,” Hulk murmured.
Stile spread his hands. “What can I do?”
“Why couldn’t I have been programmed to love a male robot!” Sheen exclaimed rhetorically. “You flesh-men are all alike! The moment you find a flesh-woman-“