The lady Citizen frowned again. “I have entered this serf in the Tourney,” she said to Satan. “He has won two Rounds. I dislike such interference.”
“I dislike such intrusion on my premises,” the male Citizen said.
“Of course. I’m sure I would not care to intrude on such premises. I shall initiate an investigation, as should you. But considering that the serfs are in fact blameless, will you not release them unharmed?”
“They have intruded!” the Satan-Citizen said. “The penalty is death!”
“I’ve already suffered it,” Stile muttered.
“Not for my serfs,” the female Citizen retorted, showing more spirit. “If I lose this chance to score in the Tourney, I shall be most upset.”
“I am already upset, and I care not a fig for the Tourney. The intruders must die, and good riddance.”
The female Citizen frowned once more. “It is unseemly for Citizens to bicker in the presence of serfs. Otherwise I could mention a drone missile currently oriented on your dome, capable of disrupting your power supply and irradiating your personnel: a certain inconvenience, I might suppose. I mean to have that serf.”
This gave the devil pause to consider. “I agree. Citizens do not debate before serfs. Otherwise I could mention a couple things myself, such as an antimissile laser oriented on—“
“Perhaps a fair compromise,” she said. “Give the serfs a fair start, and we shall wager on the outcome.” The devil brightened. “Their lives—plus one kilogram of Protonite.”
Stile almost gasped. A single gram of Protonite was worth the twenty-year tenure severance pay of a serf, a fee that would set him up comfortably for life elsewhere in the galaxy. These Citizens threw wealth around like sand.
“Only one kilo?” the female Citizen inquired. Stile could not tell whether that was irony or disdain. “Plus you,” Satan amended. “For a week.”
“Outrageous!”
He sighed. “A day, then.”
“Agreed.” She faced Stile. “You will have two minutes to make your escape unfettered. Thereafter the full resources of this dome will be brought to bear against you. I suggest you make good use of the time. I do not wish to have to spend a day with this ilk.”
“Now!” Satan cried.
“Follow me,” Sheen said, and took off. Stile followed her without question; she was programmed for exactly this sort of thing. He remained bemused by the negotiation and terms agreed upon by the Citizens. His Employer wasn’t concerned about the kilo of Protonite, but about a day with Satan—yet she had made the wager. What did that tell about the values of Citizens? He really wasn’t sure. His Employer might be upset with him if she lost the wager—but he would already be dead. Perhaps this only indicated the relative values of things: the life of a favored serf, one kilo of Protonite, one day with a boor. Three things of equivalent merit.
Sheen had evidently surveyed this layout and resources of this dome, using her machine capabilities. She knew where everything was. Stile realized that his life was on the line, but he expected to retain it—because the Satan-Citi-zen evidently was not aware that Sheen was a robot. Their resources were greater, in the purely limited scope of pursuit, than the Citizen knew. Stile’s Employer knew, of course, and had played her game adroitly. She expected to win her wager.
Sheen paused at a panel, opened it, and did something to its innards. “That will give us an extra minute,” she said. “I put in a sixty-second implement-delay signal. By the time they notice it, it will have expired—and we have a minute more time.” Then she took off again.
They came to a tank-reserve unit. Sheen opened the hatch to one of the tiny vehicles. “Get in.” “But there’s only room for one person!” “I don’t need to breathe,” she reminded him. “I will ride outside.” When Stile looked doubtful, she said: “We’re already into our extra minute. Get in! You know how to operate this device?”
“Yes.” Stile had played Games with similar equipment; he could handle a tank adroitly. This one was armed with small explosive shells, however, instead of the colored-light imitation-laser of a Game tank. This was a real war machine, and that made him nervous.
“I can’t help you once we get outside,” Sheen said quickly. “Try to mimic the other tanks, so they don’t know you’re a fugitive. Then break for the mountains or another dome. They won’t pursue beyond this Citizen’s demesnes.” Demesnes. Like those of the Adepts of Phaze. “Hang on,” Stile said. He closed the hatch, fastened it down, and started the tank.
The motor roared into life. He ground down the exit tunnel, then up to ground level. Immediately he saw the ring of other tanks. He angled across to merge with their line. Protective mimicry—an excellent device! But they were on to him. Maybe it was Sheen, clinging to the top, or maybe the Citizen’s robot-personnel had noted the identity of his machine. The nearest tank oriented on him, its cannon swinging balefully about.
