Juxtaposition (10 page)

Rue looked at the printed poem in her grid screen and began to read. A holograph of her formed above the central table, where all the judges could see it plainly. It looked as if she were standing there, a woman on a pedestal, and her eyes made contact with those of whatever judge she happened to face.

“My poem is entitled Cruel Lover,” she announced.
 
Then she read, flouncing prettily and smiling or frowning to emphasize the meaning appropriately. As she read each line, it appeared on a simulated screen over her head, until the full poem was printed.

Call me witch or call me bitch

Call me square or cube

By any name I’m still the flame

Burning on the tube.

I’ll take no slur, I tell you, sir

I will not sit in silence

I’ll take your glove in lieu of love

But will accept no violence.

Now light’s reborn by dawn’s bright horn

You can no longer cheat

Accept reproach or be a roach

Or make my joy complete.

Desist this drivel and be civil

Play violin or flute

Be up with mirth or down to earth

But keep love absolute.

“The key words are used correctly and in the proper sequence,” the Computer said. “Each one terminates its lines, and each is matched with a rhyme of good quality.
 
These are credits. Four lines exist only to complete the necessary rhymes; these are neutral. The metric scansion is correct and consistent—basically iambic tetrameter alternating with iambic trimeter with certain convenient modifications in the extreme feet. This is a common mode and not considered difficult. I rate the technical facility of this effort forty-two of a total of fifty points alloted to this aspect. Proceed to my left with your judgments.”

The female serf was to the left. “I don’t know much about all those things,” she said diffidently. “But it rhymes, and I sort of like it. So I give it a forty-five.” There was the illiterate response. Stile thought. That was the vote he had not deigned to court, though it cost him Citizenship.

Next was the male Citizen, resplendent in his ornate robes. “We are not yet discussing content or interpretation?” he inquired. When the Computer agreed, he continued: “I find the format simplistic but effective. I’ll give it forty.” Stile liked that reaction better.
 

Then the male serf voted. “I don’t relate well to the female tone, but technically it seems all right for what it is. The key words are all in the right place, and they do fit in more neatly than I could do. Forty-three from me.”

The female Citizen, in a sequined suit, fire opals gleaming at her ears, voted last. “Some of the lines are forced or confusing, but I suppose I must grade that in content.
 
She’s done an excellent job of stringing the random words coherently together. Forty-six.”

Stile saw that the average score was forty-three, which was good—probably a good deal better than his own would be. Rue had certainly integrated her terms cleverly.
 
He was going to have a rough time of this one!
 
“We shall now analyze the second poem for technical merit,” the Computer said.

Stile stepped up to the grid. He found himself looking past his printed poem into the glassy orbs of the Computer simulacrum robot. He glanced to the side and saw the male serf. He could see anyone he chose, merely by looking in the correct direction; their circle was laid out flat on his screen.

“My poem is titled Insights,” he said. Then he read:

Nobility is found in a werewolf bitch

Defeat converts to victory by an ivory cube

Magic makes ice merge with flame

A Game converts serf to sir.

The mischief of the future is shrouded in silence

And part of that mischief is love

We must heed the summons of Gabriel’s horn

Destiny the single thing we can not cheat.

All are subject: the dragon and the roach

Since we are bound, we must be civil

Our fate is determined by God’s flute

That tumbles mountains and shakes the earth.
 

He had made eye contact with each judge in turn as he read, and had seen their responses. Unfortunately, these were not promising; some frowned, some seemed confused. It wasn’t going over; they did not understand its form or content.

“This is free verse,” the Computer said. “It has no consistent meter and no rhyme. This should not be taken as a defect. The key terms are terminally placed, in correct order, one to a line with no waste lines. There are natural pauses at the end of most lines. As free verse, I rate this technically at thirty-nine.”

Stile’s heart sank. The others would follow the Computer’s lead, and he would average several points below Rue’s effort.

He was not disappointed in this expectation. The serf woman wondered whether these lines could even be considered poetry, as they seemed just like sentences to her, and the others were lukewarm. The average score was thirty-eight. Stile was five points behind.
 
Now it was time for the content analysis. Neither poet was permitted to speak at this stage; it was felt that if the poems did not speak for themselves, they were defective.
 

“This is a straightforward statement of position,” the Computer said of Rue’s effort. “She evidently feels slighted by her male friend, and is dictating to him the terms of their future association. I perceive no particular meaning beyond this, and therefore do not regard this as other than light verse. Rating thirty-five.”

That was a good sign. Stile thought. If the others followed this lead, her average would drop.
 

“It’s a good thing machines aren’t in charge of romance,” the serf woman remarked. “I find this a good telling-off. The guy is a roach, calling her such names, and I’m all with her. I say fifty.”

Stile winced inwardly. He needed to recover five points, and figured they might rate his poem an average 40. The Computer’s lead had put him right in line to even it up by dropping Rue’s score, but this 50 was a disaster.
 
The male Citizen was more critical, however.

“I certainly don’t care to see a woman spelling out her terms like that for a romance, though I suppose, if she can find a man to accept them, it’s their business. I don’t follow this ‘burning on the tube’ reference; does it make sense at all?”

“Oh, sure, sir,” the male serf said. “In the old days on Earth they had gas burners, gas coming up a tube and the flame on top. So she’s likening herself to that sort of flame.
 
It’s a sort of pun, really.”

The Citizen shrugged. “Clever,” he said sourly. “I rate this thirty.” Stile saw Rue wince. But he himself, while deploring the man’s narrowness, was gratified by the score.
 
It put him back in the running.

The male serf was next. “If she becomes a Citizen, then she can set terms,” he said, and the others laughed. They were getting into this now, loosening up. “I guess I’m looking for something deeper than this, some social commentary, not just female demands. Rating thirty-two.” And Stile’s hopes elevated another notch. Now if only the other woman did not react by sexual alignment—

“I believe I note an extremely clever thrust,” the lady Citizen said. “Nowhere is the protagonist identified; it is not necessarily serf Rue at all. It could be any woman, most especially one who has been wronged by the man she loves. It could even apply to a humanoid robot female who loves a flesh-man.”

Oh, no! Had Rue slanted her verse to pillory Stile? He saw the judges turning to look at him, and at Sheen in the small physical audience permitted. They knew!

“The references to square and cube fall into place,” the lady Citizen continued. “A robot is a creature of geometrical parts, supposedly, animated by electric power from a tiny furnace fed by Protonite. She is certainly burning, internally!
 
She must accept a man’s attentions—I under stand that is what that type is primarily designed for—but can not have his love, since he knows she is a machine.
 
Yet she can be programmed for emotion; she loves him, knowing that love is not returned. Perhaps the man she serves is a musician, playing the violin or flute—“ Sheen got up from her seat in the audience and walked toward the exit. Stile felt acute pity for her. She was not supposed to be the target!

“One moment,” the male Citizen said. “That’s her, isn’t it? I want to question her.”

“That would be involving her in the panel’s deliberation,” the female Citizen said. “I doubt that’s legitimate.”

“The judges may seek any source of information they wish,” the Computer said. “Except the author of the piece in question.”

“Female robot—how do you feel about this poem?” the male Citizen called.

Sheen stopped and faced him. “Sir, I prefer not to answer, if I am to be considered an interested party.”

“Answer!” he directed, with supreme indifference to her feelings.

“You may answer,” the Computer said. “You have not volunteered your influence; you have been summoned by this panel as a material witness. We are trying to deter mine whether there is substance to the hypothesis that the poem in question represents your viewpoint.”

Sheen’s mouth finned. Her human mannerisms had be come so facile that in no physical way was her machine nature evident. She was a beautiful woman, naked of body and perhaps of mind. “Then you shall have my viewpoint, sir. If the poem concerns me, it is not intended as a compliment. It is intended as an attack on the man I love, using me as an involuntary weapon. I am a machine—but I think that even were I alive, I would not care so cynically to hurt a living person in this fashion. This poem is crueler than anything the man I love might do. I am sure his own poem is not of this nature.”

The Citizen nodded. “That’s some machine,” he murmured.

The female Citizen considered, pursing her lips. Her opals flashed. “I am left with a choice. Either this poem is not directed at, shall we say, real people, in which case it is not remarkable—or it is so directed, in which case its brilliance is nullified by its cruelty. In either case, I cannot respect it. I rate it twenty-five.” That was disaster for Rue. It made her average score 34. The other panelists could reconsider their votes if they wished, but seemed content to let them stand. Rue’s poem had a cumulative score of 77’. Stile had a fair chance to beat that, thanks to Sheen. All he needed was forty points.

Now the judges considered Stile’s effort for content.
 
“This poem is more serious and obscure than the other,” the Computer said. “Some may not be aware that there exists an alternate frame of reality of this planet within which other laws of physics govern. The author is able to enter that frame, where he is a person of power and has an elegant wife. Several of the first six lines evidently refer to that frame. There was a female wolf who sacrificed her life for her duty, and a magical encounter between a creature of ice and another of fire. The future in that frame can occasionally be foreseen by magical means, and it contains extraordinary mischief, part of which is the conflict of love loyalties. Two lines refer to the Tourney now being concluded, which will lead to Citizenship for one of these serfs. Thus the first portion of the poem is relevant to the larger situation here and must be accorded credit. The second portion appears to be an advisory essay. The Angel Gabriel is destined mythologically to blow his trumpet on Judgment Day for living persons—and that call is the one no one can evade or cheat. This poem extends this concept to creatures both fanciful and repulsive. It concludes that these people and creatures must accept the inevitable with civility, and reminds us that, according to the legend of the other frame, the powerful flute—perhaps an alternate designation of Gabriel’s horn—has already announced it self by shaking the earth, in the form of the tremors recently experienced here. Allowing for a considerable figurative element, I find this poem serious and valid. The tremors were actually caused by the collapse of over worked Protonite mines in the southern range, but this can be taken as a warning: the mineral on which this planet’s power is literally based is not inexhaustible, and we shall suffer an accounting when that mineral is at last depleted.
 
Already we have suffered a not-inconsequential damage to a number of our facilities. I therefore take this poem as a well-conceived and serious warning, and on that basis I rate it forty-eight.”

Stile was amazed and gratified. He had had no hint the Game Computer knew so much about him or the frame of Phaze, or that it could interpret oblique references with such dispatch. Now he realized that everything he had told Sheen, she had relayed to her machine friends. They in turn could have informed the Game Computer, who per haps was one of their number. Certainly it possessed considerable self-will, backed by the phenomenal resources of the Computer memory banks and the experience of analyzing many thousands of Games. So this should not have surprised him at all.

It was the serf woman’s turn to vote. “Is there any cutting at the opponent?” she asked. The other heads indicated that no one perceived any. “I’m not sure about all the business of the other frame; this is the first I’ve heard of it. But I can believe the Protonite won’t last forever, and somehow this serf-Citizen setup must be called to account. So okay, I’ll go with the warning. I rate it forty.” This was better than Stile had hoped from her. She had given the other poem 50, and he had feared she was a man hater.