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  This was more restrictive than Stile liked, but he remained well satisfied. It was not that he thought he had an easy victory, he knew that Rue, too, had facility with words, perhaps greater than his own. She was an extremely quick-witted woman — which was of course one reason she had made it to the Tourney finals. She could cobble together a poem as readily as he could. But at least this particular contest would be decided on skill, not luck.

  This was a fair encounter. If he won or if he lost, it would be because he had established his level. That was all he could ask.

  Stile considered the words. They were: BITCH, CUBE, FLAME, SIR, SILENCE, LOVE, HORN, CHEAT, ROACH, CIVIL, FLUTE, EARTH. An anomalous bunch indeed! None of them rhymed with each other, so there were no free rides there. The only way to get a key term at the end of a rhyming line was to alternate with filler lines. "My female dog is a wonderful bitch; whenever she scratches she has an itch." That sort of thing would hardly win the Tourney; it was literal doggerel. It might be better to alternate terminal key words with mid-line key words, sacrificing the preferred terminal spot for the sake of the also-preferred, one-key-word-per-line arrangement. The Computer had not made it easy; the contestants had to choose between sacrifices. "My female dog is a wonderful bitch; she stands on a cube and does a twitch." That would garner a better technical score, but nothing extra on content.

  He glanced at Rue. She was frowning, evidently displeased by the first term. Stile half smiled; he would have been similarly put out if the term had been RUNT. He was a runt and she was a bitch — but that was the kind of mischief random selection could do.

  Because this was Naked Arts, they could use no implements, make no written notes. No rhyming dictionaries. They had to do it all in their heads, punching only the finished poems into the grid for judgment. If either had trouble with memory, he or she could place individual lines as they were worked out. But then those lines would be final, no changes allowed. Since both Stile and Rue were experienced Game players, both could hold the developing poems in memory until the time for presentation. No, the only problem was wrestling these awkward words into the most artistic and meaningful whole.

  Stile wrestled a while, but was not satisfied. He could make rhymes and meter, certainly — but where was the meaning? One ignored the content portion of the poem at one's peril. Yet it seemed impossible to fit these unruly words into anything serious; the problem of rhyming and positioning turned his efforts to frivolous tangents, as with the antics of his female dog. What could a person do seriously with words like bitch, cube, and flame?

  Time was passing. Rue was hard at work; her expression and concentration suggested she had developed a strategy of creation and was happily ironing out the wrinkles. She would probably come up with something very clever. He had to come up with something even more clever — or more significant. Sir, silence, love — what a headache!

  He brought himself back to basics. There were really two types of poetry: the ornamental and the consequential. Ornaments were rhyme, meter, alliteration, pattern, humor, assonance, and technical cleverness. They were stressed in light verse, parody, the libretto for popular music, and such. Serious poetry de-emphasized such things, or dispensed with them altogether. Thus some people were unable even to recognize serious poetry, because it didn't necessarily rhyme. But ultimately any poetic appeal was to the deeper emotions, and the use of symbolism enabled it to evoke complex ramifications in the most compact presentation. As with Kipling's Recessional: "Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!" Presented to Queen Victoria some centuries back, this poem did not find instant favor, for it signaled the decline of the Earth-wide British Empire. But what imagery was evoked by the names of those two ancient cities, foremost in their times, finally brought to ruin by the armies of Babylonia and Alexander the Great, drunkard though the latter might have been. Kipling's verse was superficially pretty; it rhymed nicely. But its real impact was its content, the somber warning for an overextended empire. All too soon it had been London-town under the siege of weapons unknown in the time of Tyre, as the Germans sent their bombers and rockets over. How well Kipling had understood!

  With that memory, Stile saw his way. Rhyme, meter, and the rest of the prettiness were encumbrances; he had to dispense with them all and concentrate on meaning and emotion. He would lose some technical points, but gain where it counted. Win or lose, he would do his best, his way.

  Stile considered the first word — bitch. He knew of a noble bitch — the old female werewolf who had guided Clef to the Platinum Demesnes, sacrificing her life in the process. Stile could do worse than remember her in this poem!

  Cube — there was one cube that was fresh in his experience, and that was the doubling cube of his recent backgammon game, which had enabled him to pull out a last-moment win.

  Flame — well, it wasn't the most serious thing, but he had just enabled the chief snow-demon to have a liaison with his literal flame. That might not have any meaning to the Tourney judges, but this poem was not really for them but for Stile himself — his evocation of himself. The frame of Phaze was vitally important to him, and the flame related to that and to the notion of romance, which brought him to the Lady Blue. Ah, yes.

  Sir — that was easy. This very poem was Stile's final effort to be called sir: to become a Citizen of Proton, and have similar stature and power in Proton as he did in Phaze as the Blue Adept.

  But the remaining terms — they did not seem to relate. Now he was emotionally committed to this course, and had to use them in it — which meant he would have to improvise. That would be troublesome.

  What was there to do except use the words as keys, perhaps as some psychic revelation that had to be clothed with syntax to become meaningful? If the first four terms brought him from the recent past to the present, the next eight might be taken as signals of the future. At least he would assume as much for the sake of the poem — insights to himself, now and to come. If the insights proved false, then this was a work of fiction; if true, of prediction. It was a worthy game, and he would take it seriously.

  Stile bent to it with a will, and the lines fell into their places. No rhyme, no meter, no other ornamentation; just a series of statements like those of the Oracle, clarifying the significance of each key term. He found that there was not a great amount of mystery to it; the statements were mostly common sense, modified by what he already knew, and the whole was an affirmation of man's resignation to fate.

  Suddenly time was up. Rue and Stile typed in their poems. Now it was up to the panel of judges.

  In the interim, those judges had assembled. Each one sat in a separate booth facing a central holograph. They could view the holo and converse with each other at the same time. The Game Computer was represented by a booth containing a humanoid robot, its outer surface transparent, so that its wires, hydraulics, and electronic components showed. The thing was at first eerie, like an animated cross section of the human body, but soon the eye accepted it for what it was: an animation of a simplified representation of the far more complicated Computer.

  "Display one poem," the Computer-figure said. "The serf Rue will commence her reading."

  Rue looked at the printed poem in her grid screen and began to read. A holograph of her formed above the central table, where all the judges could see it plainly. It looked as if she were standing there, a woman on a pedestal, and her eyes made contact with those of whatever judge she happened to face.

  "My poem is entitled Cruel Lover," she announced. Then she read, flouncing prettily and smiling or frowning to emphasize the meaning appropriately. As she read each line, it appeared on a simulated screen over her head, until the full poem was printed.

  Call me witch or call me bitch

  Call me square or cube

  By any name I'm still the flame

  Burning on the tube.

  I'll take no slur, I tell you, sir

  I will n
ot sit in silence

  I'll take your glove in lieu of love

  But will accept no violence.

  Now light's reborn by dawn's bright horn

  You can no longer cheat

  Accept reproach or be a roach

  Or make my joy complete.

  Desist this drivel and be civil

  Play violin or flute

  Be up with mirth or down to earth

  But keep love absolute.

  "The key words are used correctly and in the proper sequence," the Computer said. "Each one terminates its lines, and each is matched with a rhyme of good quality. These are credits. Four lines exist only to complete the necessary rhymes; these are neutral. The metric scansion is correct and consistent — basically iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter with certain convenient modifications in the extreme feet. This is a common mode and not considered difficult. I rate the technical facility of this effort forty-two of a total of fifty points alloted to this aspect. Proceed to my left with your judgments."

  The female serf was to the left. "I don't know much about all those things," she said diffidently. "But it rhymes, and I sort of like it. So I give it a forty-five."

  There was the illiterate response, Stile thought. That was the vote he had not deigned to court, though it cost him Citizenship.

  Next was the male Citizen, resplendent in his ornate robes. "We are not yet discussing content or interpretation?" he inquired. When the Computer agreed, he continued: "I find the format simplistic but effective. I'll give it forty." Stile liked that reaction better.

  Then the male serf voted. "I don't relate well to the female tone, but technically it seems all right for what it is. The key words are all in the right place, and they do fit in more neatly than I could do. Forty-three from me."

  The female Citizen, in a sequined suit, fire opals gleaming at her ears, voted last. "Some of the lines are forced or confusing, but I suppose I must grade that in content. She's done an excellent job of stringing the random words coherently together. Forty-six."

  Stile saw that the average score was forty-three, which was good — probably a good deal better than his own would be. Rue had certainly integrated her terms cleverly. He was going to have a rough time of this one!

  "We shall now analyze the second poem for technical merit," the Computer said.

  Stile stepped up to the grid. He found himself looking past his printed poem into the glassy orbs of the Computer simulacrum robot. He glanced to the side and saw the male serf. He could see anyone he chose, merely by looking in the correct direction; their circle was laid out flat on his screen.

  "My poem is titled Insights," he said. Then he read:

  Nobility is found in a werewolf bitch

  Defeat converts to victory by an ivory cube

  Magic makes ice merge with flame

  A Game converts serf to sir.

  The mischief of the future is shrouded in silence

  And part of that mischief is love

  We must heed the summons of Gabriel's horn

  Destiny the single thing we can not cheat.

  All are subject: the dragon and the roach

  Since we are bound, we must be civil

  Our fate is determined by God's flute

  That tumbles mountains and shakes the earth.

  He had made eye contact with each judge in turn as he read, and had seen their responses. Unfortunately, these were not promising; some frowned, some seemed confused. It wasn't going over; they did not understand its form or content.

  "This is free verse," the Computer said. "It has no consistent meter and no rhyme. This should not be taken as a defect. The key terms are terminally placed, in correct order, one to a line with no waste lines. There are natural pauses at the end of most lines. As free verse, I rate this technically at thirty-nine."

  Stile's heart sank. The others would follow the Computer's lead, and he would average several points below Rue's effort.

  He was not disappointed in this expectation. The serf woman wondered whether these lines could even be considered poetry, as they seemed just like sentences to her, and the others were lukewarm. The average score was thirty-eight. Stile was five points behind.

  Now it was time for the content analysis. Neither poet was permitted to speak at this stage; it was felt that if the poems did not speak for themselves, they were defective. "This is a straightforward statement of position," the Computer said of Rue's effort. "She evidently feels slighted by her male friend, and is dictating to him the terms of their future association. I perceive no particular meaning beyond this, and therefore do not regard this as other than light verse. Rating thirty-five."

  That was a good sign, Stile thought. If the others followed this lead, her average would drop.

  "It's a good thing machines aren't in charge of romance," the serf woman remarked. "I find this a good telling-off. The guy is a roach, calling her such names, and I'm all with her. I say fifty."

  Stile winced inwardly. He needed to recover five points, and figured they might rate his poem an average 40. The Computer's lead had put him right in line to even it up by dropping Rue's score, but this 50 was a disaster.

  The male Citizen was more critical, however. "I certainly don't care to see a woman spelling out her terms like that for a romance, though I suppose, if she can find a man to accept them, it's their business. I don't follow this 'burning on the tube' reference; does it make sense at all?"

  "Oh, sure, sir," the male serf said. "In the old days on Earth they had gas burners, gas coming up a tube and the flame on top. So she's likening herself to that sort of flame. It's a sort of pun, really."

  The Citizen shrugged. "Clever," he said sourly. "I rate this thirty." Stile saw Rue wince. But he himself, while deploring the man's narrowness, was gratified by the score. It put him back in the running.

  The male serf was next. "If she becomes a Citizen, then she can set terms," he said, and the others laughed. They were getting into this now, loosening up. "I guess I'm looking for something deeper than this, some social com mentary, not just female demands. Rating thirty-two." And Stile's hopes elevated another notch. Now if only the other woman did not react by sexual alignment-

  "I believe I note an extremely clever thrust," the lady Citizen said. "Nowhere is the protagonist identified; it is not necessarily serf Rue at all. It could be any woman, most especially one who has been wronged by the man she loves. It could even apply to a humanoid robot female who loves a flesh-man."

  Oh, no! Had Rue slanted her verse to pillory Stile? He saw the judges turning to look at him, and at Sheen in the small physical audience permitted. They knew!

  "The references to square and cube fall into place," the lady Citizen continued. "A robot is a creature of geometrical parts, supposedly, animated by electric power from a tiny furnace fed by Protonite. She is certainly burning, internally! She must accept a man's attentions — I understand that is what that type is primarily designed for — but can not have his love, since he knows she is a machine. Yet she can be programmed for emotion; she loves him, knowing that love is not returned. Perhaps the man she serves is a musician, playing the violin or flute-"

  Sheen got up from her seat in the audience and walked toward the exit. Stile felt acute pity for her. She was not supposed to be the target!

  "One moment," the male Citizen said. "That's her, isn't it? I want to question her."

  "That would be involving her in the panel's deliberation," the female Citizen said. "I doubt that's legitimate."

  "The judges may seek any source of information they wish," the Computer said. "Except the author of the piece in question."

  "Female robot — how do you feel about this poem?" the male Citizen called.

  Sheen stopped and faced him. "Sir, I prefer not to answer, if I am to be considered an interested party."

  "Answer!" he directed, with supreme indifference to her feelings.

  "You may answer," the Computer said. "You have not volunt
eered your influence; you have been summoned by this panel as a material witness. We are trying to determine whether there is substance to the hypothesis that the poem in question represents your viewpoint."

  Sheen's mouth firmed. Her human mannerisms had become so facile that in no physical way was her machine nature evident. She was a beautiful woman, naked of body and perhaps of mind. "Then you shall have my viewpoint, sir. If the poem concerns me, it is not intended as a compliment. It is intended as an attack on the man I love, using me as an involuntary weapon. I am a machine — but I think that even were I alive, I would not care so cynically to hurt a living person in this fashion. This poem is crueler than anything the man I love might do. I am sure his own poem is not of this nature."

  The Citizen nodded. "That's some machine," he murmured.

  The female Citizen considered, pursing her lips. Her opals flashed. "I am left with a choice. Either this poem is not directed at, shall we say, real people, in which case it is not remarkable — or it is so directed, in which case its brilliance is nullified by its cruelty. In either case, I can not respect it. I rate it twenty-five."

  That was disaster for Rue. It made her average score 341/2. The other panelists could reconsider their votes if they wished, but seemed content to let them stand. Rue's poem had a cumulative score of 771/2. Stile had a fair chance to beat that, thanks to Sheen. All he needed was forty points.

  Now the judges considered Stile's effort for content. "This poem is more serious and obscure than the other," the Computer said. "Some may not be aware that there exists an alternate frame of reality of this planet within which other laws of physics govern. The author is able to enter that frame, where he is a person of power and has an elegant wife. Several of the first six lines evidently refer to that frame. There was a female wolf who sacrificed her life for her duty, and a magical encounter between a creature of ice and another of fire. The future in that frame can occasionally be foreseen by magical means, and it contains extraordinary mischief, part of which is the conflict of love loyalties. Two lines refer to the Tourney now being concluded, which will lead to Citizenship for one of these serfs. Thus the first portion of the poem is relevant to the larger situation here and must be accorded credit. The second portion appears to be an advisory essay. The Angel Gabriel is destined mythologically to blow his trumpet on Judgment Day for living persons — and that call is the one no one can evade or cheat. This poem extends this concept to creatures both fanciful and repulsive. It concludes that these people and creatures must accept the inevitable with civility, and reminds us that, according to the legend of the other frame, the powerful flute — perhaps an alternate designation of Gabriel's horn — has already announced itself by shaking the earth, in the form of the tremors recently experienced here. Allowing for a considerable figurative dement, I find this poem serious and valid. The tremors were actually caused by the collapse of overworked Protonite mines in the southern range, but this can be taken as a warning: the mineral on which this planet's power is literally based is not inexhaustible, and we shall suffer an accounting when that mineral is at last depleted. Already we have suffered a not-inconsequential damage to a number of our facilities. I therefore take this poem as a well-conceived and serious warning, and on that basis I rate it forty-eight."