Split Infinity

Was she threatening him? Better her displeasure than that of his employer! “Suppose I just put you back on the horse and lead her in?”

Tune shrugged. She had the figure for it. “Suppose you try?”

Call one bluff! Stile stepped in close to lift her. Tune met him with a sudden, passionate kiss.

Stile reeled as from a body-block. Tune drew back and surveyed him from all of ten centimeters distance.  “Had enough? You can’t lead Roberta anyway; she’s programmed only for riding.”

Stile realized he was overmatched. “We’ll do it your way. It’ll be your fault if I get fired.”

“I just knew you’d see the light!” she exclaimed, pleased. She put her foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. Then she removed her foot. “Use the stirrup. Hold on to me. Lift your left foot. It’s a big step, the first time.”

It was indeed. Sixteen hands was over 1.6 meters—a tenth of a meter taller than he was. He had to heft his foot up past waist-height to get it in the stirrup. He had seen riders mount smoothly, but his observation did not translate into competence for himself. Tune was in the way; he was afraid he’d bang his head into her left breast, trying to scramble up.

She chuckled and reached down with her left hand, catching him in the armpit. She hauled as he heaved, and he came up—and banged his head into her breast.  “Swing it around behind, over the horse,” she said.  Then, at his stunned pause, she added: “I am referring to your right leg, clumsy.”

Stile felt the flush burning right down past his collar-bone. He swung his leg around awkwardly. He kneed the horse, but managed to get his leg over, and finally righted himself behind Tune. No one would know him for a gymnast at this moment!

“That mounting should go down in the record books,” she said. “Your face is so hot it almost burned my—skin.” Stile could not see her face, but knew she was smiling merrily. “Now put your arms around my waist to steady yourself. Your employer might be mildly perturbed if you fell down and broke your crown. Good dungslingers are hard to replace. He’d figure Roberta was too spirited a nag for you.”

Numbly, Stile reached around her and hooked his fingers together across her small firm belly. Tune’s hair was in his face; it had a clean, almost haylike smell.

Tune shifted her legs slightly, and abruptly the robot horse was moving. Stile was suddenly exhilarated. This was like sailing on a boat in a slightly choppy sea—the miniature sea with the artificial waves that was part of the Game facilities. Tune’s body compensated with supple expertise. They proceeded down the path.

“I’ve seen you in the Game,” Tune remarked.  “You’re pretty good, but you’re missing some things yet.”

“I started fencing lessons yesterday,” Stile said, half flattered, half defensive.

“That, too. What about the performing arts?”

“Well, martial art-“

She reversed her crop, put it to her mouth—and played a pretty little melody. The thing was a concealed pipe of some kind, perhaps a flute or recorder.

Stile was entranced. “That’s the loveliest thing I ever heard 1” he exclaimed when she paused. “Who’s steering the horse?”

“You don’t need reins to steer a horse; haven’t you caught on to that yet? You don’t need a saddle to ride, either. Not if you know your business. Your legs, the set of your weight—watch.”

Roberta made a steady left turn, until she had looped a full circle.

“You did that?” Stile asked. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Put your hand on my left leg. No, go ahead. Stile; I want you to feel the tension. See, when I press on that side, she bears right. When I shift my weight back, she stops.” Tune leaned back into Stile, and the horse stopped. “I shift forward, so little you can’t see it, but she can feel it—hold on to me tight, so you can feel my shift—that’s it.” Her buttocks flexed and the horse started walking again. “Did you feel me?”

“You’re fantastic,” Stile said.

“I referred to the guidance of the horse. I already know about me.”

“Uh, yes.”

“Roberta responds only to correct signals; she has no idiosyncrasies, as a living animal might. You have to do it just right, with her. That’s why she’s used for training. So the horses won’t teach the riders any bad habits.  You noted how she ignored you when you spoke to her from the ground. She responds only to her rider. She’s not a plow horse, after all.”

“She’s fantastic too.”

“Oh, she is indeed! But me—I do have two cute little faults.”

Stile was inordinately interested now. “What are they?”

“I lie a little.”

Meaning he could not trust all of what she had been telling him? Discomforting thought! “What about the other?”

“How could you believe it?”

There was that. If she lied about it—

Tune played her instrument again. It was, she explained, a keyboard harmonica, with the keys concealed; she blew in the end, and had a scale of two and a half octaves available at her touch. Her name was fitting; her music was exquisite. She was right: he needed to look into music.