The stands of the arena, which on Alpha Centauri III had been of some brown, concretelike material, seemed here to be made of white marble. Everything was white, everywhere—even the sand on the floor of the arena was as white as snow.
Jim bent down, opened one of his luggage cases, and took out the large cape, the small cape, and the sword. He did not bother to take out his costume. He closed the luggage cases and put them behind one of the barreras. Music suddenly began, emanating from some unknown source. It was the right music, and moving with it, Jim lined up before his cuadrilla and began the slow walk across the ring toward a section of seats outlined in red that was plainly the Imperial box.
From Jim’s standpoint, it was almost eerie. The longhaired little brown men moved through their motions, not only with professional certainty but also in exact imitation of the men he had left behind on Alpha Centauri III. Even small, useless, personal actions were copied. Evidently all these had been remembered by either Afuan or someone else of the High-born and faithfully fed into whatever programming was controlling the men who were now playing their parts with the bull. Where a man had leaned upon a barrera during an inactive moment, his duplicate here on the Throne World copied the pose exactly, on the equivalent barrera, and to an inch of the spot equivalent to where the original had placed his elbows. But the eerieness of duplication grew even stronger when Jim went out to work the bull himself with the large cape. For the duplication was doubled. There was even a sort of wry humor to it, thought Jim. The High-born had produced an imitation bull, programmed to follow exactly the motions of a live bull they had watched, but which they did not know had also been programmed by the biological sciences of Earth to go through exactly those same motions.
They carried through the whole business to the moment of the kill. When Jim’s sword went in, the mechanical creature obediently collapsed, exactly as the real one had done back on Alpha Centauri III. Jim looked around at his pupils, wondering if it was time to stop; but they seemed quite rested and evidently were expecting to continue.
It was the second time through the whole pantomime that Jim began to spare attention from his own work with the imitation animal to study the actions of the men he was training. For the first time, he noticed that although they moved with a great deal of sureness, there was a certain amount of clumsiness in their efforts. It was not a clumsiness of the mind as much as the muscles. These men were doing what they had been programmed or instructed to do—doing it promptly and well. But the instinctive responses of their bodies were not yet there.
Jim ran through the complete performance two more times before calling it a day. By that time, although his own responses to the artificial animal had become automatic and without tension, he himself was thoroughly tired. Still, on the succeeding four days he continued to run through the bullfight as it had happened on Alpha Centauri III, until the responses of the small men with the long hair began to be not so much a matter of programming as of experience and natural reflex.
It was somewhere along in this period that he discovered that he could vary the actions of the bull by the same sort of deliberate mental imagery that Ro had taught him to use aboard the ship. Somewhere aboard the Throne World there was a master power source performing the same function for him with regard to the bullring that its counterpart had provided aboard the ship. Therefore, on the sixth day, he introduced his new cuadrilla to a different version of a bullfight.
The truth of the matter was, each of the bulls in cryogenic storage that he had brought with him had been programmed differently—just in case it should be suspected that they had been programmed at all. Jim himself had rehearsed each set of programming. Now he put his new assistants to work in the pattern they would encounter with the last bull in cryogenic storage. He used the last bull advisedly, hoping either that he would never have to use it in actuality or that his makeshift cuadrilla would have forgotten its specific and unvarying actions if he did have to use it.
During all these days he had discovered that he had what appeared to be a suite of rooms in some endless, one-story structure. Unlike the rooms aboard ship, the rooms here on the Throne World had doors and corridors; moreover, he seemed free to wander about at will, which he did. But though he explored outward from his rooms through a number of other parts of the building, across an open courtyard and through gardens, he encountered no High-born and only a few other men and women of what were clearly the lesser races—obviously servants here on the Throne World.
Ro had not come near him. On the other hand, Afuan had appeared several times, inquired briefly as to how the training sessions were coming along, and disappeared again. She showed neither pleasure nor impatience with the time he was taking; but when the day finally came that he told her he judged his trainees were ready, her reaction was prompt.
“Excellent!” she said. “You’ll put on a show for the Emperor, then—within the next day or two.”
She disappeared, to return briefly the following morning and announce that the bullfight would take place in the arena within a certain span of the Imperial time scale roughly equivalent to about forty minutes.
“I can’t get one of my bulls thawed and revived that quickly,” Jim said.
“That’s already been taken care of,” Afuan answered, and disappeared again. Jim began rather hastily to get into his suit of lights. Theoretically, he should have had an assistant help him to dress; but there was no chance for it. He had managed to struggle into about half the costume when the humor of it struck him. He laughed out loud.
“Where are you when I need you, Ro?” he asked the bare white walls of his room humorously. To his utter astonishment, Ro suddenly materialized before him as if she had been a genie summoned from a bottle.
“What do you want me to do?” she demanded.
He stared at her for a second, then laughed again.
“Don’t tell me you heard what I said?” he asked her.
“Why, yes,” she answered, looking a little surprised. “I set up a notice to let me know if you ever called for me. But you never did.”
He laughed again. “I’d have called you before this,” he said, “if I knew that was all I had to do to get hold of you.”
He was treated to the sight of one of her astonishing blushes.
“But I want to help you!” she said. “Only—you didn’t seem to be needing any help.”
At that he sobered.
“I’m afraid I’m not in the habit of asking for it, usually,” he said.
“Well, never mind now!” she said energetically. “What do you want me to do?”
“Help me into these clothes,” he said. Unexpectedly, she giggled; and he stared at her in puzzlement.
“No, no. It’s all right,” she said. “It’s just that that’s the sort of thing a servant, a human of one of the lesser races, is supposed to do for a High-born. Not the other way around.”
She picked up his hat.
“Where does this go?” she asked.
“It doesn’t go—not yet. That’s the last item,” he told her. Obediently she put it down, and under his instructions began to help him into the rest of the costume.
When he was fully dressed, she looked at him with interest.
“You look strange—but good,” she said.
“Didn’t you see me in the arena at Alpha Centauri III?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I was busy on the ship—and I really didn’t expect it to be too interesting.” She stared at him with interest as he took his two capes and sword from the larger luggage case. “What’re those for?”
“The pieces of cloth,” he said, “are to attract the attention of the bull. The sword”—he pulled it a little way out of its scabbard to show her its blade—“is to kill him, at the end.”