emulating him, so as to improve verisimilitude—the appearance of authenticity. He analyzed the situation of the cards, then resumed play. He was deep in it when the door opened and Sheen appeared.
She was beautiful. She was only slightly taller than he, with over-perfect proportions—breasts slightly larger and firmer and more erect than the computer-standard ideal for her size and age; waist a trifle smaller, abdomen flatter, hips and buttocks fuller—and luxuriantly flowing fair hair. The average man wanted a better-than-average woman; in fact he wanted a better-than-ideal woman, his tastes distorted by centuries of commercialized propaganda that claimed that a woman in perfect health and fitness was somehow less than lovely. Stile’s tastes were average—therefore Sheen was far from average.
She reminded him moderately of another girl he had known, years ago: a woman smaller than himself, a female jockey he had thought he loved. Tune had been her name, and from that encounter on he had been addicted to music. Yet Sheen, he knew objectively, was actually a prettier and better woman. She had only one flaw—and he was not inclined to dwell on that at the moment. Stile rose and went to her, taking her in his arms. “Oh—is someone here?” she asked, surprised. “No one,” he said, bringing her in for a kiss. “Let’s make love.”
“With a robot? Don’t be silly.” She tried to break free of his embrace, but he only held her more tightly. “It is best with a robot,” he assured her.
“Oh.” She considered momentarily. “All right.” Oops. She was going along with it! “All right?” he de-manded. “Just how far do you go with robots?”
“My best friends aie robots,” she assured him. “Come to the bed.”
Angry now. Stile let her go. But she was laughing. “You amorous idiot!” she exclaimed. “Did you think I didn’t know you?” And she flung her arms about him and kissed him with considerably more passion than before.
“What gave me away?” Stile asked.
“Aside from the differences between man and robot that I, of all people, know?” she inquired mischievously. “Things like body radiation, perspiration, heartbeat, respiration and the nuances of living reactions?”
“Aside from those,” Stile said, feeling foolish. He should have known he couldn’t fool her even a moment.
“Your hands are tanned,” she said.
He looked at them. Sure enough, there was a distinct demarcation where his Phaze-clothing terminated, leaving his hands exposed to ‘the strong rays of the outdoor sun. All living-areas on Proton were domed, with the sunlight filtered to nondestructive intensity, so that only moderate tanning occurred. And of course there were no demarcations on the bodies of people who wore no clothing. Not only did this uneven tanning distinguish him from the robot, it distinguished him from the other serfs of Proton!
“I’ll have to start wearing gloves in Phaze!”
“No such heroic measures are necessary,” she assured him. She brought out some tinted hand lotion and worked it into his hands, converting them to untanned color. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Stile said grate-fully.
“You’d stay in Phaze the whole time, with that blue lady.”
“No doubt.”
“Well, this is another world,” she informed him. “I had a piece of you before you ever knew she existed. You have a good six hours before the first Game of the Tourney, and I know exactly how to spend it.”
She did, too. She was as amorous as she was lovely, and she existed only to guard and to please him. It was easy to yield to her. More than easy.
Afterward, as they lay on the bed, she inquired: “And how exactly are things in Phaze?”
“I killed the golem who was impersonating me, and gave my friend Kurrelgyre the werewolf advice on how to regain his standing in his pack—“
“I know about that. You returned here for the final pre-Tourney
She was beautiful. She was only slightly taller than he, with over-perfect proportions—breasts slightly larger and firmer and more erect than the computer-standard ideal for her size and age; waist a trifle smaller, abdomen flatter, hips and buttocks fuller—and luxuriantly flowing fair hair. The average man wanted a better-than-average woman; in fact he wanted a better-than-ideal woman, his tastes distorted by centuries of commercialized propaganda that claimed that a woman in perfect health and fitness was somehow less than lovely. Stile’s tastes were average—therefore Sheen was far from average.
She reminded him moderately of another girl he had known, years ago: a woman smaller than himself, a female jockey he had thought he loved. Tune had been her name, and from that encounter on he had been addicted to music. Yet Sheen, he knew objectively, was actually a prettier and better woman. She had only one flaw—and he was not inclined to dwell on that at the moment. Stile rose and went to her, taking her in his arms. “Oh—is someone here?” she asked, surprised. “No one,” he said, bringing her in for a kiss. “Let’s make love.”
“With a robot? Don’t be silly.” She tried to break free of his embrace, but he only held her more tightly. “It is best with a robot,” he assured her.
“Oh.” She considered momentarily. “All right.” Oops. She was going along with it! “All right?” he de-manded. “Just how far do you go with robots?”
“My best friends aie robots,” she assured him. “Come to the bed.”
Angry now. Stile let her go. But she was laughing. “You amorous idiot!” she exclaimed. “Did you think I didn’t know you?” And she flung her arms about him and kissed him with considerably more passion than before.
“What gave me away?” Stile asked.
“Aside from the differences between man and robot that I, of all people, know?” she inquired mischievously. “Things like body radiation, perspiration, heartbeat, respiration and the nuances of living reactions?”
“Aside from those,” Stile said, feeling foolish. He should have known he couldn’t fool her even a moment.
“Your hands are tanned,” she said.
He looked at them. Sure enough, there was a distinct demarcation where his Phaze-clothing terminated, leaving his hands exposed to ‘the strong rays of the outdoor sun. All living-areas on Proton were domed, with the sunlight filtered to nondestructive intensity, so that only moderate tanning occurred. And of course there were no demarcations on the bodies of people who wore no clothing. Not only did this uneven tanning distinguish him from the robot, it distinguished him from the other serfs of Proton!
“I’ll have to start wearing gloves in Phaze!”
“No such heroic measures are necessary,” she assured him. She brought out some tinted hand lotion and worked it into his hands, converting them to untanned color. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Stile said grate-fully.
“You’d stay in Phaze the whole time, with that blue lady.”
“No doubt.”
“Well, this is another world,” she informed him. “I had a piece of you before you ever knew she existed. You have a good six hours before the first Game of the Tourney, and I know exactly how to spend it.”
She did, too. She was as amorous as she was lovely, and she existed only to guard and to please him. It was easy to yield to her. More than easy.
Afterward, as they lay on the bed, she inquired: “And how exactly are things in Phaze?”
“I killed the golem who was impersonating me, and gave my friend Kurrelgyre the werewolf advice on how to regain his standing in his pack—“
“I know about that. You returned here for the final pre-Tourney
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