It began. Chance gave Stile’s team first possession of the ball. His animals were in white, the Rifleman’s in black. The opposing team lined up like faceless demons from the frame of Phaze, darkly formidable. They swept forward, kicking the ball ahead, converging on its locale as it landed. Stile’s receiver-android had no chance; he was down on the ten-yard line.
Yards, Stile thought. This was one of the few places where the old system of measurements prevailed on Planet Proton, because of the vintage and origin of this particular game. It was easiest to think of them as scant meters. Now the onus was on him to devise a strategy of play that would bring the football down the field and across the opposing goal line. Stile had a hunch this would not be easy. He assigned himself to be a pass receiver, and scheduled the play for his runner. That should keep Stile himself from getting crushed under a pile of android meat. Of course he knew the androids were programmed to be very careful of human beings; Still, a tackle was a tackle, and that could be bruising. He was thoroughly padded in his white playing suit, of course, but he knew accidents could happen.
The play proceeded. The pass receivers dodged the op-posing linemen and moved out on their patterns. Stile got downfield and cut back as if to receive the ball—and found himself thoroughly blocked off by the android pass de-fender. Catch the ball? He could not even see it! The only way he could hope to get it, had it been thrown to him, was if it passed between the animal’s legs. Fortunately he knew no pass was coming. Stile’s runner bulled into the line, making one yard before disappearing into the pileup. That, obviously, was not the way to go. Still, this first drive was mainly to feel his way. The nuances were already coming back to him, and he was getting a feel for the performance tolerances of the androids. He should be able to devise good strategy in due course.
Next play he tried a reverse end run. He lost a yard. But he was watching the Black team’s responses. The androids, of course, lacked imagination; a really novel play would fool them, and perhaps enable his team to make a big gain or even score.
On the third play he tried a screen pass to one of his receivers. The pass was complete, but the receiver advanced only to the line of scrimmage before getting dumped. No breakthrough here!
Fourth down and time to kick the ball downfield. Stile signaled his kicker to come in—and realized belatedly that he had selected no kicker. None of his animals specialized in any kind of kick, and therefore could not do it. If he had his quarterback make the attempt, the job would surely be bungled, and the other team would recover the ball quite near the goal line. Yet if he did not—
A whistle blew. The referee, penalizing his team for delay of game. Five yards. He had to kick it away! No help for it; Stile would have to kick it himself. He would not have the booming power of an android, and he dreaded the thought of getting buried under a mound of tackling animals, but at least he could accomplish some-thing. If he got the kick off promptly, he might get away without being bashed.
No time to debate with himself! He called the play, assigning the kick to himself. The teams lined up, the ball was snapped, and the enormous Black line converged on Stile like a smashing stone wave.
Stile stepped forward quickly and punted. Distracted by the looming linemen, he dropped the ball almost to the ground before his toe caught it. The ball shot forward, barely clearing the animals, and made a low arch down-field, angling out of bounds just shy of the fifty-yard line. Not bad, all things considered; he had gained about forty yards. He had been lucky, had the Black androids had the wit to expect an incompetent punt, they might have blocked it or caught it before it went out, and had an excellent runback.
Luck, however, seldom played consistent favorites. Stile had to do better, or the first bad break would put him behind.
Now it was the Rifleman’s turn on offense. The Citizen had stayed back during the prior plays, keeping himself out of mischief. Now he made his first substitution, bringing in one of his pass receivers. Stile exchanged one of his receivers for a pass defender. The first plays would probably be awkward, since most of Stile’s players were offensive and most of the Rifleman’s players defensive—but the longer the drive continued, the more qualified players could be brought in, at the rate of one per play. Of course the offensive and defensive lines were fairly similar, for Game purposes, so the exchange of as few as three backfield players could transform a team. All the same. Stile hoped the drive did not continue long.
