“There’s an element of luck in most games. That lends a special fascination. The human species loves to gamble. Play, before you draw another delay-of-game penalty.” The Rifleman did not seem upset, perhaps because this change-of-possession was obviously no fault of his own. Hastily, Stile played. He accepted the hiked ball, faded back for a pass, found his receivers covered, saw three huge animals bearing down on him, dodged them all, circled behind one and safely overthrew his covered receiver. The moment he released the ball, he hunched over as though still carrying it. The turning android saw that and grabbed him, not having seen the ball go. The tackle was bruising despite the armor, but at least the padding protected him from more than superficial abrasion. A flag went down.
Roughing the passer. Fifteen-yard penalty. First down.
Once again Stile was within field goal range.
He drop-kicked again, of course. The audience cheered. The stadium was almost full now; news of this game was evidently spreading. But he had to keep his attention on the field. Now he had twelve points, and six minutes to go. Maybe he could pull it out after all.
But the Rifleman had the ball again, and now he was determined. There were not going to be any more breaks or mistakes.
Stile’s misgivings were well taken. The Rifleman shot his passes too high and fast for Stile to intercept, settling for swift, short gains. When Stile tried too hard he got tagged for interference. Slowly and erratically, but inevitably, the Citizen hammered out the yardage.
On Stile’s thirty-yard line, the Rifleman’s first pass attempt failed. On second down his run got nowhere. On third down Stile gambled on a blitz, sending eight of his animals in to overrun the quarterback before he could pass. It worked; the Rifleman was sacked. Loss of six yards.
Now it was fourth down, and the Rifleman had to kick out. He tried a placekick and field goal, but was too far out; the ball fell short, to Stile’s immense relief. Stile had the ball again, with four minutes remaining.
Time enough—if he could move the ball.
He moved it. He had his animals open a hole in the center, and he slipped through for several yards. He had his passer send a screen pass to him, and he dodged and raced up the sideline for several more yards. He was wise to the ways of the androids, now; he knew their little individual foibles. Some were faster than others; some were less stupid. One android did not have the wit to out-maneuver another, but Stile did. He could get past them—so long as he did it himself, not delegating the job to an animal of his own. So long as he carried the ball himself, he could progress; that was the key. That was why the Rifleman had succeeded so well in moving the ball at the outset, while Stile floundered. The Rifleman had drawn on his own abilities, not limited by those of the androids. Now Stile was doing it too—and had been doing it, every time he kicked. Now, so late in the game, understanding came. It really was a game of two, not of twenty-two. But this was bruising. The constant exertion and battering were taking it out of him, and Stile could not maintain the drive. It stalled out on the Rifleman’s forty-yard line. Too far for another field goal. Stile had to punt, regret-fully.
He went for the coffin comer, angling the ball out of bounds at the four-yard line. That forced the Rifleman to play in his own end zone.
The Citizen was showing overt nervousness now. He did not like being backed up this way. He tried a pass, but it was wobbly and off-target, incomplete.
Now it was time to strike. Stile caught the arm of his center as the lines reformed. “Make a hole to spring me through,” he said, and the creature nodded. The androids were slow thinkers, but they did orient somewhat on the needs of their supervisors. This one now understood what Stile wanted.
When the ball was hiked, the android shouldered into his opposite number, lifting him entirely off the ground. Stile scooted through, so low that his flexing knees hurt, and emerged directly in front of the Rifleman. “Oh, no!” the Citizen exclaimed. Losing his poise, he tried to run from Stile instead of throwing the ball away. It was a mistake; he moved right into a pocket of White linemen and was downed in his own end zone. It was a safety: two points. The score was now 15-14, with two minutes left to play. And Stile’s team would get the ball.
