“The two afreets study the unconscious mortals,” the Narrator said. “Each person is a virtually perfect specimen, and the afreets are unable to determine a winner. Finally they hit upon a scheme—let the mortals themselves decide which one is the prettiest. The afreets will wake each in turn and watch their reactions; the one who is least affected will win, since that means the other must be less beautiful.” Like the harmonica contest. Stile thought; the one who changed least, won. He was becoming curious to know the outcome of this tale.
The light brightened so that the audience could see the scene clearly: prince and princess sleeping naked beside each other. This would have had no significance in ordinary Proton life, but after the elaborate costumes of the play the suggestion of intimacy was strong. There was a moment of surprised silence. Then someone snickered. The mirth quickly spread across the hall. Stile knew what it was. He had experienced this sort of thing all his life. The disparity in the size of the actors had become apparent, now that they were together. The Computer did not care, and the panel of experts could handle it, but the audience was less sophisticated. Which was why the audience had no vote in the determination of a winner, here.
“The Pygmy and the Amazon!” someone said, and the laughter swelled.
Abruptly a stasis field dropped over them all. No one could move, on stage or in the audience, though all could hear. Prolonged, such a field could cause bodily harm and eventually death; for a short period it was merely uncomfortable, since bodily functions slowed almost to a halt.
“Single warning,” the Computer said emotionlessly. “Further interference from the audience or inappropriate reactions will result in expulsion of the audience.” The stasis lifted. The audience was now completely sober. There would be laughter only if the script warranted it, and no extraneous remarks. The Game Computer was a strict taskmaster; even a few Citizens had been caught in the stasis. They, however, made no protest; it was to their interest to have discipline maintained. Yet the damage had been done. The audience might be serious, now, but the dance had become ludicrous. Stile knew that behind those sober faces a maniacal laughter raged.
He fought to control his own embarrassment and anger. He drew on a device he had used long ago to reduce stage fright. He pictured each member of the audience as a gibbering demon, with huge pointed ears and a bare purple bottom, scratching at fleas, and whipping a barbed tail about to tickle his neighbors. He projected all the ludicrous feeling onto them, away from himself. I am a man; you are ape-things. Stare, you foolish creatures. Stew in your own drool.
It was not entirely effective, but it helped. He was aware of Red shivering with suppressed resentment beside him; this was striking her, too. To this extent, he agreed with her.
Yet there was nothing to do except continue. Pygmy and Amazon had a deadly serious Game to win. The panel of judges had not laughed, and that was the critical element of this scene. The play had to go on.
“Now the afreetah changes into a bug and bites Kamar on the leg,” the Computer said. “He wakes—“ Stile slapped his leg as if stung, and sat up. This was a place where the audience might legitimately have chuckled, but there was not a single gibber.
“And spies the Princess Budur, Moon of Moons, lying next to him. Kamar is amazed; he does not realize that he is in a far-distant place, so intent is he on this marvel. He inspects her, touches her to make certain she is real and not a dream-segment, and tries to wake her. But she is under a spell of sleep and can not be roused.” Stile went through the motions, in no way betraying his preference for throttling her. She was his enemy; why couldn’t she be the size of Neysa in girl-form, so that he did not look ridiculous in her company? Insult added to injury. Yet at the same time he had to concede again, inwardly, that she was a remarkable figure of a woman, one that in other circumstances—but no, he hated her, and could not forget that for an instant.
Then he saw the healing scar on her head, beneath her red hair, where his rock had gashed her. He did not know how to feel about that.
“It occurs to Kamar that this may be one of the ladies his father has in mind for him to marry, and that this is a device of his father’s to persuade him. Kamar does not like such strategy, but Budur is so beautiful that he is instantly won over. He resolves to tell his father in the morning that he is now amenable to the union. Meanwhile, he will not soil his future wife by unfair attentions during her repose. Kamar lies down and sleeps again.”
