This one did not look speciaclass="underline" flowing yellow hair, a perfect figure—standard, since they could make humanoid robots any shape desired. Why make a grotesquerie? She seemed small to be a trainer—smaller than the fencing instructor he had worked with. She was a rider, obviously; was she also a jockey? To break in the most promising horses for racing? No robot-jockey could actually race, by law; but no living person had the programmed patience of a training machine, and the horses did well with such assistance.
“Roberta, follow me,” Stile said, and began walking along the access trail.
The robot did not follow. Stile paused and turned, annoyed. “Roberta, accompany me, if you please.” That last was a bit of irony, as robots lacked free will.
She merely looked at him, smiling.
Oh, no—was she an idiot model, not programmed for verbal directives? Yet virtually all humanoid robots were keyed to respond at least to their names. “Roberta,” he said peremptorily.
The mare perked her ears at him. The girl chuckled. “She only responds to properly couched directives,” she said.
Stile’s eyes passed from girl to mare. A slow flush forged up to his hairline. “The horse,” he said.
“Roberta, say hello to the red man,” the girl said, touching the horse’s head with her crop.
The mare neighed.
“A robot horse,” Stile repeated numbly. “A living girl.”
“You’re very intelligent,” the girl said. “What’s your name?”
“Uh, Stile.” Of all the pitfalls to fall into!
“Well, Uh-Stile, if you care to mount Roberta, you can take her in.”
His embarrassment was replaced by another kind of awkwardness. “I am a stable hand. I don’t ride.”
She dismounted smoothly. Afoot she was slightly shorter than he, to his surprise. She evinced the confidence normally associated with a larger person, though of course height was less important to women. “You’re obviously a jockey, Uh-Stile, as I am. Don’t try to fool me.”
“That’s Stile, no uh,” he said.
“Stile Noah? What an unusual appellation!”
“Just Stile. What’s your name?”
“I’m Tune. Now that the amenities are complete, get your butt on that robot.”
“You don’t understand. Stable hands tend horses; they don’t ride.”
“This is not a horse, it’s a robot. Who ever heard of a jockey who didn’t ride?”
“I told you I’m not—“ Then it burst upon him.
“That’s why my employer chose me! Because I’m small. He wanted a potential jockey!”
“Your comprehension is positively effulgent.”
“Do—do you really think—?”
“It is obvious. Why else would anyone want serfs our size? Your employer started you on the ground, huh? Slinging dung?”
“Slinging dung,” he agreed, feeling better. This girl was small; she was not really making fun of him; she was playfully teasing him. “Until I found a worm.”
“A whole worm?” she asked, round-eyed. “How did it taste?”
“A parasite worm. In the manure.”
“They don’t taste very good.”
“Now I’ve been a year in the stable. I don’t know a thing about riding.”
“Ha. You’ve watched every move the riders make,” Tune said. “I know. I started that way too. I wasn’t lucky enough to find a worm. I worked my way up. Now I race. Don’t win many, but I’ve placed often enough. Except that now I’m on loan to do some training. For those who follow after, et cetera. Come on—I’ll show you how to ride.”
Stile hesitated. “I don’t think I’m supposed to—“
“For crying in silence!” she exclaimed. “Do I have to hand-feed you? Get up behind me. Roberta won’t mind.”
“It’s not the horse. It’s my employer’s policy. He’s very strict about—“
“He told you not to take a lift on a robot?”
“No, but-“
“What will he say if you don’t get Roberta to your stable at all?”
Was she threatening him? Better her displeasure than that of his employer! “Suppose I just put you back on the horse and lead her in?”
Tune shrugged. She had the figure for it. “Suppose you try?”
Call one bluff! Stile stepped in close to lift her. Tune met him with a sudden, passionate kiss.
Stile reeled as from a body-block. Tune drew back and surveyed him from all of ten centimeters distance. “Had enough? You can’t lead Roberta anyway; she’s programmed only for riding.”
Stile realized he was overmatched. “We’ll do it your way. It’ll be your fault if I get fired.”
“I just knew you’d see the light!” she exclaimed, pleased. She put her foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. Then she removed her foot. “Use the stirrup. Hold on to me. Lift your left foot. It’s a big step, the first time.”
It was indeed. Sixteen hands was over 1.6 meters—a tenth of a meter taller than he was. He had to heft his foot up past waist-height to get it in the stirrup. He had seen riders mount smoothly, but his observation did not translate into competence for himself. Tune was in the way; he was afraid he’d bang his head into her left breast, trying to scramble up.
She chuckled and reached down with her left hand, catching him in the armpit. She hauled as he heaved, and he came up—and banged his head into her breast. “Swing it around behind, over the horse,” she said. Then, at his stunned pause, she added: “I am referring to your right leg, clumsy.”
Stile felt the flush burning right down past his collar-bone. He swung his leg around awkwardly. He kneed the horse, but managed to get his leg over, and finally righted himself behind Tune. No one would know him for a gymnast at this moment!
“That mounting should go down in the record books,” she said. “Your face is so hot it almost burned my—skin.” Stile could not see her face, but knew she was smiling merrily. “Now put your arms around my waist to steady yourself. Your employer might be mildly perturbed if you fell down and broke your crown. Good dungslingers are hard to replace. He’d figure Roberta was too spirited a nag for you.”
Numbly, Stile reached around her and hooked his fingers together across her small firm belly. Tune’s hair was in his face; it had a clean, almost haylike smell.
Tune shifted her legs slightly, and abruptly the robot horse was moving. Stile was suddenly exhilarated. This was like sailing on a boat in a slightly choppy sea—the miniature sea with the artificial waves that was part of the Game facilities. Tune’s body compensated with supple expertise. They proceeded down the path.
“I’ve seen you in the Game,” Tune remarked. “You’re pretty good, but you’re missing some things yet.”
“I started fencing lessons yesterday,” Stile said, half flattered, half defensive.
“That, too. What about the performing arts?”
“Well, martial art-“
She reversed her crop, put it to her mouth—and played a pretty little melody. The thing was a concealed pipe of some kind, perhaps a flute or recorder.
Stile was entranced. “That’s the loveliest thing I ever heard 1” he exclaimed when she paused. “Who’s steering the horse?”
“You don’t need reins to steer a horse; haven’t you caught on to that yet? You don’t need a saddle to ride, either. Not if you know your business. Your legs, the set of your weight—watch.”
Roberta made a steady left turn, until she had looped a full circle.
“You did that?” Stile asked. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Put your hand on my left leg. No, go ahead. Stile; I want you to feel the tension. See, when I press on that side, she bears right. When I shift my weight back, she stops.” Tune leaned back into Stile, and the horse stopped. “I shift forward, so little you can’t see it, but she can feel it—hold on to me tight, so you can feel my shift—that’s it.” Her buttocks flexed and the horse started walking again. “Did you feel me?”