Free Juxtaposition by Piers Anthony Page B

out! He insisted that his close friend the Adept stay for a proper feast that evening.
    It occurred to Stile that this hospitality could be useful.   “Do thou remain here while I perform a necessary chore in Proton,” he told the Lady. “I must attend the final Round of the Tourney, but should be back by noon.”
    “I know, my love. Is it selfish of me to hope that thou dost lose that Game and find thyself confined to Phaze?”
    He kissed her. “Yes, it is selfish. Sheen depends on me.”
    “Ah, yes—I forget the Lady Sheen. Methinks I shall consider her options whilst thou art gone.” Stile wasn’t certain what that would lead to. The Lady Blue could cross the curtain, but Sheen could not function in Phaze.
    “Until noon,” Stile said, then spelled himself to his usual curtain crossing.

CHAPTER 4 – Poem
    Stile’s opponent for the finals was a serf woman two years younger than he: Rue, a twenty-year-tenure veteran of the Game. Like himself, she had not qualified at the top of her age ladder; but also like himself, she was the best of her decade. She was one of the half-dozen serf players Stile was not eager to meet in the Tourney. He thought he could beat her, but he wasn’t sure.
    Rue had luck as well as skill, for she had lost no Rounds.   That meant that a single victory for her would bring her the prize, while one for Stile would merely bring him even.   To beat Rue twice in succession—that would be difficult.   They played the grid. Stile got the letters. Rue was good at all manner of tool and machine games, being in superb health; he was well skilled in these areas, too, and could take her in most tool games, but would be at a disadvantage in machine-assisted games. She would expect him to go for TOOL or ANIMAL, so instead he went for A.   NAKED. If she went for 4. ARTS, as he expected, this would foul her up.
    But she had done the unexpected too, going for 3.   CHANCE. With two chances to his one, the advantage would be with her on the straight gamble—if that was the way she wanted to play it. As evidently she did.   They played the subgrid, and finished with a very simple guessing game; each had to pick a number, and if the total of the two numbers was even. Stile won. Even, in this coding, was male; odd was female. This game was so simple it would be played on the grid. Each would enter his/her number, the total flashing on both screens only when both were entered.
    Would she choose her own code, an odd number? People tended to, unconsciously, feeling more at home with their own. If she chose odd and he chose even, she would win.   Obviously he should choose odd, to cancel her odd. But, as obviously, she would anticipate that and choose even.   Then the result would be. odd, and she would still win. It seemed she stood to win regardless.
    It came back to the subjective. Given no advantage between alternatives, a person normally selected what pleased him emotionally. Rue, in doubt, should go for odd. Therefore Stile overruled his preference for even and chose the number of letters in his name: five. He entered this on the grid and locked it; no way to change his mind now» Rue had not yet made up her mind. Now the onus was hers, and they both knew it, and the broadcast audience knew it. She could win or lose by her decision; Stile was passive. The pressure was on her.
    “Ten seconds until forfeit,” the voice of the Game Computer announced.
    Rue grimaced and punched in her number. She was pretty enough, with auburn hair, an extremely fit body, and only a few age creases forming on face and neck. She was thirty-three years old, her youth waning. If she won this one, she would be eligible for rejuvenation, and Stile suspected she desired that more than the actual wealth of Citizenship.
    The total showed eight. Rue had chosen the letters of her own name. Even—and Stile had won.
    Stile kept his face impassive. He had been lucky—but was keenly aware of the fickleness of that mistress. Rue