He had been going with Tune three months, the happiest time of his life, studying fencing and riding and music and love, when abruptly she said: “I’ve got to tell you. Stile. My second fault. I’m short on time. My tenure’s over.”
“You’re—“ he said, unbelievingly.
“I started at age ten. You didn’t think I got to be a jockey overnight, did you? My term is up in six months. I’m sorry I hid that from you, but I did warn you how I lied.”
“I’ll go with you!” he exclaimed with the passion of youth.
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t be foolish. I like you, Stile, but I don’t love you. Outside, you’d be twenty-one, and I’ll be twenty-nine, and no rejuve medicine. You can do better than that, lover.”
He thought he loved her, but he knew she was right, knew he could not throw away seventeen years of remaining tenure for a woman who was older than he and only liked him. “The Game!” he cried. “You must enter the Tourney, win more tenure—“
“That’s why I’m telling you now. Stile. This year’s Tourney begins tomorrow, and I’ll be in it. I am on Rung Five of the age-29 ladder, by the slick of my teeth. My tenure ends the moment I lose a Game, so this is our last night together.”
“But you might win!”
“You’re a dreamer. You might win, when your time comes; you’re a natural animal, beautifully skilled.
That’s why I wanted you, first time I saw you. I love fine animals! I was strongly tempted not even to try the Tourney, so as to be assured of my final six months with you—“
“You must try!”
“Yes. It’s futile, but I must at least take one shot at the moon, though it costs me six months of you.”
“What a way to put it!” Stile was torn by the horrors of her choice. Yet it was the type of choice that came to every serf in the last year of tenure, and would one day come to him.
“I know you’ll be a better jockey than I was; you’ll win your races, and be famous. I wanted a piece of you, so I took it, by means of the lie of my remaining time here. I’m not proud—“
“You gave me the best things of my life!”
She looked down at her breasts. “A couple of them, maybe. I hope so. Anyway, it’s sweet of you to say so, sorehead. Your life has only begun. If I have helped show you the way, then I’m glad. I won’t have to feel so guilty.”
“Never feel guilty!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, guilt can be great stuff. Adds savor to life.” But the spark was not in her humor, now.
They made love quickly, because he did not want to tire her right before the Tourney, but with inspired passion. He felt guilt for letting her go—and she was right, it did add a certain obscure quality to the experience.
Next day she entered the Tourney, and in her first match made a try on the Grid for music, and got trapped in dance instead. She was gone.
Stile pursued his musical studies relentlessly, driven by his waning guilt and love of her memory. Gradually that love transferred itself to the music, and became a permanent part of him. He knew he would never be a master musician, but he was a good one. He did enjoy the various instruments, especially the keyboard harmonica.
Three years later the foreman’s tenure expired.
“Stile, you’re good enough to qualify for my job,” he said in a rare moment of private candor. “You’re young yet, but capable and honest, and you have that unique touch with the horses. But there is one thing—“
“My size,” Stile said immediately.
“I don’t judge by that But there are others—“
“I understand. I will never be a leader.”
“Not directly. But for you there is a fine alternative. You can be promoted to jockey, and from there your skill can take you to the heights of fame available to a serf. I believe this is as good a life as anyone not a Citizen can have on Proton.”
“Yes.” Stile found himself choked up about the foreman’s departure, but could not find any appropriate way to express this. “I—you—“
“There’s one last job I have for you, a tough one, and how you acquit yourself may determine the issue. I am recommending you for immediate promotion to jockey, but the Citizen will decide. Do not disappoint me.”
“I won’t,” Stile said. “I just want to say—“
But the foreman was holding out his hand for parting. “Thank you,” Stile said simply. They shook hands, and the foreman departed quickly.
The job was to bring Spook back from another dome. The horse had grown more spooky with the years, and could no longer be trusted to vehicular transportation; the sound and vibration, however muted, set him off. The Citizen refused to drug him for the trip; he was too valuable to risk this way. Spook had won a number of races, and the Citizen wanted him back on the farm for stud. So Spook had to be brought home on foot. That could be difficult, for there were no walk-passages suitable for horses, and the outer surface of the planet was rough.
Stile planned carefully. He ordered maps of the region and studied them assiduously. Then he ordered a surface-suit, complete with SCOBA unit: SeIf-Contained Outside Breathing Apparatus. And a gyro monocycle, an all-band transceiver, and an information watch. He was not about to get himself lost or isolated on the inhospitable Proton surface!
That surface was amazingly rugged, once he was on it. There were mountain ranges to the north and south, the northern ones white with what little water this world had in free-state, as snow. There was the winding channel of a long-dead river, and a region of deep fissures as if an earthquake had aborted in mid-motion. He guided his monocycle carefully, counterbalancing with his body when its motions sent it into twists of precession; incorrectly handled, these machines could dump a man in a hurry, since the precession operated at right angles to the force applied. He located the most dangerous traps for a nervous horse, plotting a course well clear of them. Spook would be upset enough, wearing an equine face mask for his breathing and protection of his eyes and ears; any additional challenges could be disastrous. Which was of course why Stile was the one who had to take him through; no one else could do it safely.
Stile took his time, calling in regular reports and making up his route map. This was really a puzzle: find the most direct route that avoided all hazards. He had to think in equine terms, for Spook could spook at a mere patch of colored sand, while trotting blithely into a dead-end canyon.
Only when he was quite certain he had the best route did Stile report to the dome where Spook was stabled. He was confident, now, that he could bring the horse across in good order. It was not merely that this success would probably facilitate his promotion. He liked Spook. The horse had in his fashion been responsible for Stile’s last promotion.
When he arrived at that dome, he found a gram awaiting him. It was from offplanet: the first he had had since his parents moved out. STILE—AM MARRIED NOW—NAMED SON AFTER YOU. HOPE YOU FOUND YOURS—TUNE.
He was glad for her, though her loss hurt with sudden poignancy. Three months together, three years apart; he could not claim his world had ended. Yet he had not found another girl he liked as well, and suspected he never would. He found himself humming a melody; he had done that a lot in the first, raw months of loss, and it had coalesced into a nervous habit he did not really try to cure. Music would always remind him of her, and he would always pursue it in memory of those three wonderful months.
So she had named her son after him! She had not conceived by him, of course; no one conceived involuntarily on Proton. It was just her way of telling him how much their brief connection had meant to her. She had surely had many other lovers, and not borrowed from their names for this occasion. She said she had lied to him, but actually she had made possible an experience he would never have traded. Brevity did not mean in-consequence; no, never!