“Spook’s okay.” His friend took his arm. “Come to the bulletin board.”
Not daring to react further. Stile went with him. The electronic board, on which was posted special assignments, demerits, and other news of the day, had a new entry in the comer: STILE pmtd KDDER.
Stile turned savagely on the other. “Some joke!”
But the foreman had arrived. “No joke. Stile. You’re sharing the apartment with Turf. Familiarize yourself, then get down to the robot stall for instruction.”
Stile stared at him. “But I fouled up!”
The foreman walked away without commenting, as was his wont. He never argued demerits or promotions with serfs.
Turf was waiting to break him in. It was a nice two-man apartment adjacent to the riding track, with a Game viewscreen, hot running water, and a direct exit to the main dome. More room and more privacy; more status. This was as big a step upward as his prior one from pasture to stable—but this time he had found no worm. There had to be some mistake—though he had never heard of the foreman making a mistake.
“You sure came up suddenly. Stile!” Turf said. He was an okay guy; Stile had interacted with him on occasion, walk-cooling horses Turf had ridden, and liked him. “How’d you do it?”
“I have no idea. Yesterday I was suspended for injuring Spook. Maybe our employer got his firing list mixed up with his promotion list”
Turf laughed. “Maybe! You know who’s waiting to give you riding lessons?”
“Tune!” Stile exclaimed. “She arranged this!”
“Oh, you’re thick with her already? You’re doubly lucky!”
Disquieted, Stile proceeded to Roberta’s stall. Sure enough, there was Tune, brushing out the bay mare, smiling. “Long time no see,” she said playfully.
Oh, she was lovely! He could have a thousand nights with her like the last one, and never get enough. But he was about to blow it all by his ingratitude. “Tune, did you pull a string?” he demanded.
“Well, you can’t expect a jockey to date a mere stable hand.”
“But I was in trouble! Suspended. There are several hands ahead of me. You can’t—“
She put her fine little hand on his. “I didn’t. Stile. Really. I was just joshing you. Its coincidence. I didn’t know you were being promoted right now; I figured in a month or so, since they brought me in. I’m training others, of course, but no sense to promote you after my tour here ends. So they moved it up, obviously. They don’t even know we’re dating.”
But she was, by her own proclamation, a liar. The foreman surely knew where Stile had spent the night. How much could he afford to believe?
“Ask me again tonight,” she murmured. “I never lie to a man I’m loving.”
What an offer! “What, never?”
“Hardly ever. You’re an operetta fan?”
He looked at her blankly.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’m not lying to you now.”
How he wanted to believe her!
“Will you try it alone?” she inquired, indicating Roberta’s saddle. “Or do you prefer to hold on to me again, and bang your poor head?”
“Both,” he said, and she laughed. She had asked him during the night whether his head hurt from what he had banged it into. He had admitted that there were some bruises he was prepared to endure.
She had him mount, more successfully this time, and showed him how to direct the robot. Then she took him out on the track. Very quickly he got the hang of it.
“Don’t get cocky, now, sorehead,” she warned. “Roberta is a horse of no surprises. A flesh horse can be another matter. Wait till they put you on Spook.”
“Spook?” he cried, alarmed. He had daydreamed of exactly this, but the prospect of the reality scared him.
She laughed again. She was a creature of fun and laughter. It made her body move pleasantly, and it endeared her to those she worked with. “How should I know whom you’ll ride? But we’ll get you competent first. A bad rider can ruin a good horse.”
“Yes, the Citizen wouldn’t be very pleased if a serf fell on his head and splattered dirty gray brains on a clean horse.”
It was a good lesson, and he returned to his new apartment exhilarated, only to discover more trouble. The foreman was waiting for him.
“There is a challenge to your promotion. We have been summoned to the Citizen.”
“We? I can believe there was a foul-up with me, that will now be corrected.” Though he had begun to hope that somehow this new life was real. Even braced for it as he was, this correction was hard to take. “But how do you relate? It wasn’t your fault.”
The foreman merely took his elbow and guided him forward. This summons was evidently too urgent to allow time for physical preparation. Stile tried to smooth his hair with his hand, and to rub off stray rimes of dirt on his legs from the riding. He felt, appropriately, naked.
In moments they entered a transport tunnel, took a private capsule, and zoomed through the darkness away from the farm. It seemed the Citizen was not at his farmside apartment at this hour. “Now don’t stare, keep cool,” the foreman told him. The foreman himself was sweating. That made Stile quite nervous, for the foreman was normally a man of iron. There must be quite serious trouble brewing! Yet why hadn’t they simply revoked Stile’s promotion without fuss?
They debouched at a hammam. Stile felt the fore-man’s nudge, and realized he was indeed staring. He stopped that, but still the environment was awesome.
The hammam was a public bath in the classic Arabian mode. A number of Citizens preferred this style, because the golden age of Arabian culture back on Earth had been remarkably affluent. Islam had had its Golden Age while Christianity had its Dark Ages. For the ruling classes, at any rate; the color of the age had never had much significance for the common man. Poverty was eternal.
Thus there were mosque-type architecture, and turban headdress, exotic dancing, and the hammam. This one was evidently shared by a number of Citizens. It was not that any one of them could not have afforded it alone; rather. Citizens tended to specialize in areas of interest or expertise, and an Arabian specialist had a touch that others could hardly match. Stile’s employer had a touch with fine horses; another might have a touch with desert flora; here one had a touch with the hammam. On occasion other Citizens wished to ride the horses, and were invariably treated with utmost respect. The hammam was by nature a social institution, and a Citizen could only socialize properly with other Citizens, so they had to share.
There were many rooms here, clean and hot and steamy, with many serfs bearing towels, brushes, ointments, and assorted edibles and beverages. One large room resembled a swimming pool—but the water was bubbly-hot and richly colored and scented, almost like soup. Several Citizens were soaking in this communal bath, conversing. Stile knew they were Citizens, though they were naked, because of their demeanor and the deference the clustered serfs were paying. Clothing distinguished the Citizen, but was not the basis of Citizen-ship; a Citizen could go naked if he chose, and sacrifice none of his dignity or power. Nevertheless, some wore jewelry.
They came to a smaller pool. Here Stile’s employer soaked. Six extraordinarily voluptuous young women were attending him, rubbing oils into his skin, polishing his fingernails, even grooming his privates, which were supremely unaroused. An older man was doing the Citizen’s hair, meticulously, moving neatly with the Citizen to keep the lather from his face.
“Sir,” the foreman said respectfully.
The Citizen took no notice. The girls continued their labors. Stile and the foreman stood where they were, at attention. Stile was conscious again of the grime on him, from his recent riding lesson; what a contrast he was to these premises and all the people associated with them! Several minutes passed.