Suddenly he realized that the game was not quite over. The play was still in session. Until he was tackled, it was not finished.
But the Rifleman, more alert to the situation than Stile had been, was now between him and the goal line. The Citizen was calling directions to his troops. Stile knew he could not make it all the way.
He began running across the field, toward the center, where more of his own animals were. “Protect me!” he bawled.
Dully, they responded. They started blocking off the pursuit. Stile cut back toward the goal, making it to the ten-yard line, the five—
A Black android crashed through the interference and caught Stile from behind. Stile whomped down in a forward fall, and the ball squirted from his grasp. A fumble at the worst possible time! The androids knew what to do with a loose ball. Animals of both teams bellyflopped to cover it. In a moment the grandest pileup of the game developed. The whistle blew, ending the play and the game.
The delirious cheering of the crowd abruptly stilled. Obviously the ball had been recovered—but where, and by whom? It was impossible to tell.
Slowly, under the supervision of the referees, the androids were unpiled. The bottom one wore a White suit, and lay just within the end zone.
Stile had six more points.
Now the crowd went absolutely crazy. Serfs and Citizens alike charged onto the field. “Let’s get out of here before we’re both trampled to death!” the Rifleman exclaimed, heading for the exit tunnel.
“Yes, sir!” Stile agreed.
“By the way—congratulations. It was an excellent Game.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They drew up inside the tunnel. Here they were safe; the crowd was attacking the goal posts in some kind of insane tradition that went back before Planet Proton had been colonized. “I have not forgotten our private wager,” the Rifleman said. “You played fair and tough and made a remarkable game of it, and you prevailed. I shall be in touch with you at another time.”
“Thank you, sir,” Stile said, unable to think of anything better.
“Now let’s get out of these uniforms.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then Sheen was trotting toward them, her breasts bouncing handsomely. She was ready to assume control of Stile’s remaining time in this frame. It would be several days before all of the Round One matches cleared, since there were 512 of them. But Stile would not be able to linger long in Proton-frame; he had to get back to Phaze and find out how to handle the Unicorn Herd Stallion in combat. Otherwise his tenure in Phaze could become even shorter than his tenure in Proton.
But Sheen was aware of all this. She took him in tow, stripping him of his armor in literal and figurative fashion.
Stile was able to tune out the contemporaneous proceedings. How good it was to have a friend like Sheen here, and one like Neysa there!
CHAPTER 4 - The Little People
Stile stepped through the curtain into the deep and pleasant forest of Phaze. He recovered his clothing, dressed, then hummed up an ambience of magic. He could signal Neysa with a spell, and she would come for him.
Then it occurred to him that this would consume time that would be better spent otherwise. Why not experiment, and discover whether he could indeed transport himself? He pondered a moment, finding himself quite nervous, then singsonged a spell: “Transport this man to the Blue Castle’s span.” It was not good verse, but that didn’t matter; abruptly he stood in the castle court. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Either he had done an in-expert job, or transporting himself was not good procedure. Certainly he would not try that again in a hurry; it had gotten him here, but at the expense of his feeling of equilibrium and well-being.
Neysa was in the court, nibbling on the magic patch of bluegrass. Every bite she took was immediately restored, so there was no danger of overgrazing, despite the smallness of the patch. She looked up the moment he appeared, her ears swiveling alertly. Then she bounded across to join him.
“Careful! Thou wilt spear me!” he protested, grabbing her about the neck and hanging on to steady himself. She snorted. She had perfect control of her horn, and would never skewer something she didn’t mean to, or miss something she aimed for. She blew a questioning note.
“Nice of thee to inquire,” Stile said, ruffling her sleek black mane with his fingers. He was feeling better already; there was a healing ambience about unicorns. “But it’s nothing. Next time I’ll have thee carry me; thou dost a better job.”
The unicorn made another note of query. “Oh, that,” he replied. “Sheen took care of me and got me to the Game on time. I had to match with a Citizen, a former Tourney winner. He nearly finished me.” She blew a sour note.
