Robot Adept

“Report to alcove for special instructions,” a low voice murmured from the speaker.

Surprised, she went to an alcove, where there was slightly greater privacy.

“Challenge the player on the eighth rung,” the speaker said.

“But don’t I have to climb step by step?” she asked.

“Not in this case. You are permitted two free challenges: one in the lowest ten, to register on the ladder, and one elsewhere, to establish your regular position. Thereafter you can ascend or descend only rung by rung, and need accept only a single challenge each day. If you win Rung Eight, and limit subsequent challenges to one a day, you can lose on the following two days and still qualify for the Tourney. You must achieve the rung now; pursuit is closing, and you will be protected while you remain at the qualifying level.”

She felt like melting. She had almost forgotten the danger she was in. “How do I challenge?”

“We shall enter it for you. Follow the line.”

She looked. The new line was there on the floor. “Thank you,” she said, but the speaker did not respond. She hadn’t known that the Game Computer itself was cooperating with the self-willed machines; probably it could get in serious trouble itself, if the Contrary Citizens learned of its part in this. That had to be why her double slip in naming herself and her nature had not given her away: the computer already knew her identity, and was covering for her.

She followed the line, still intrigued by the magic of this realm. It led to another console, where an older woman stood. She had only one arm. This, it seemed, was Number Eight on the Ladder.

“Fleta of Uni,” the woman said disapprovingly. “You breeze here from offplanet at the last minute and want to enter the Tourney and maybe win Citizenship, just like that?”

Fleta looked at the name on the screen. This was Stumpy of Proton. A cruel name for a long-time serf. “Citizenship?” she asked, alarmed. If the Citizens were already closing in…

Stumpy looked at her with open incredulity. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” Fleta asked, confused.

“Oh—you’re an android,” Stumpy said.

Fleta did not argue, as she was impersonating an android. A reputation for stupidity was an asset, for her. She smiled and looked appropriately blank.

“Well, let’s get this charade over with,” Stumpy said. She slapped her hand down on her screen.

Fleta had the letters again, so she took D. ANIMAL again. Immediately the screen showed Stumpy’s choice, 3. CHANCE. The square expanded.

Instead of a new grid, there was a message: BETTING ON ANIMAL CONTESTS. SELECT AN INCIPIENT CONTEST. ONGOING LIST FOLLOWS.

Below was a grid in which many animal contests were listed: races, fights and performances, between horses, dogs, fowl or other creatures.

Bemused by this approach, Fleta touched the column that contained horses, but immediately the chosen square brightened, and it was 1D7E: DOG FIGHT.

Well, she had watched werewolves fighting each other for status. Because she was the foal of Neysa, the friend of the entire local Pack, she had been privileged to witness rites that were ordinarily barred to outsiders. That was how she had become friends with Furramenin; she had been a foal and the werewolf a pup together. Dogs were similar creatures, though inferior; they bore about the same relation to werewolves as horses did to unicorns or monkeys to human folk. She should be able to judge a dog fight.

Now the screen became a picture, startling her. It showed a pit, with two snarling dogs being held by trainers. Fleta saw at a glance that one dog, though slightly smaller and leaner, had a more savage temperament; it would be more serious about the fight than the other.

SELECT VICTORIOUS DOG, the screen directed.

Fleta touched the screen where that dog was portrayed. But in a moment a message appeared: BETTORS SELECTED SAME ANIMAL. SELECT TIME OF DECISION: CLOSEST MARK.

A scale of times appeared, delineated in seconds and minutes and hours.

Fleta judged that the larger dog would quickly be cowed, and try to break off. Would the fight be halted at that point? Since the horses were owned by a Citizen who wanted them treated well, perhaps the dogs were similarly owned, and the fight would not be allowed to proceed beyond the point of evident advantage. That would keep it short. She touched the scale at one minute, ten seconds.

Stumpy’s mark showed: four minutes even. Now they had a viable bet.

The picture of the dogs reappeared, with the scale retreating to the bottom of the screen. Both bets were marked, and a pointer pointed at 0: the elapsed time of the fight.

Then the dogs were released. They sprang at each other, the larger one confident of the advantage. Indeed, for a few seconds he had it. But then blood flowed from grazing gashes, and the smaller dog went berserk. He attacked with such ferocity that the other was first surprised, then dismayed. Suddenly the other tried to break free—and nets came down, incapacitating both animals, and the fight was over.

The time was fifty-four seconds.