Split Infinity by Piers Anthony Page B

enjoyable life when he retired from racing, with a mare in every stall. Stile would have a nice bonus payment when his tenure ended; he would be able to reside on some other planet a moderately wealthy man. Too bad that no amount of wealth could buy the privilege of remaining on Proton!
    They came out of the turn, still gaining—and Stile felt a momentary pain in his knees, as though he had flexed them too hard. They were under tension, of course, bearing his weight, springing it so that he did not bounce with the considerable motions of this powerful steed; the average man could not have stood up long to this stress. But Stile was under no unusual strain; he had raced this way hundreds of times, and he took good care of his knees. He had never been subject to stress injuries. Therefore he tried to dismiss it; the sensation must be a fluke.
    But it could not be dismissed. Discomfort progressed to pain, forcing him to uncramp his knees. This unbalanced him, and put the horse off his pace. They began to lose ground. Battleaxe was confused, not under-standing what Stile wanted, aware that something was wrong.
    Stile tried to resume the proper position, but his knees got worse, the pain becoming intense. He had to jerk his feet out of the stirrups and ride more conventionally, using saddle and leg pressure to retain his balance. The horse lost more ground, perplexed, more concerned about his rider than the race.
    Stile had never before experienced a problem like this. The other horses were overhauling Battleaxe rap-idly. He tried to lift his feet back into the stirrups for a final effort, but pain shot through his knees the moment he put pressure on them. It was getting worse! His joints seemed to be on fire.
    Now the other horses were abreast, passing him. Stile could do nothing; his weight, unsprung, was interfering with his steed’s locomotion. Battleaxe was powerful, but so were the competing animals; the difference between a champion and an also-ran was only seconds.   And Battleaxe was not even trying to race anymore. He hardly had a chance, with this handicap.
    All too soon, it was over. Stile finished last, and the track monitors were waiting for him. “Serf Stile, give cause why you should not be penalized for malfeasance.”
    They thought he had thrown the race! “Bring a medic; check my knees. Horse is all right.”
    A med-robot rolled up and checked his knees.   “Laser bum,” the machine announced. “Crippling in-jury.”
    Not that crippling; Stile found he could walk without discomfort, and bend his knees partway without pain.   There was no problem with weight support or control.   He merely could not flex them far enough to race a horse.
    Sheen ran to him. “Oh, Stile—what happened?”
    “I was lasered,” he said. “Just beyond the turn.”
    “And I did not protect you!” she exclaimed, horrified.
    The track security guard was surveying the audience with analysis devices. Stile knew it would be useless; the culprit would have moved out immediately after scoring. They might find the melted remains of a self-destruct laser rifle, or even of a complete robot, set to tag the first rider passing a given point. There would be no tracing the source.
    “Whoever sent me knew this would happen,” Sheen said. “Oh, Stile, I should have been with you—“
    “Racing a horse? No way. There’s no way to stop a laser strike except to be where it isn’t.”
    “Race voided,” the public-address system announced.
    “There has been tampering.” The audience groaned.
    A portly Citizen walked onto the track. All the serfs gave way before him, bowing; his full dress made his status immediately apparent. It was Stile’s employer!
    “Sir,” Stile said, beginning his obeisance.
    “Keep those confounded knees straight!” the Citizen cried. “Come with me; I’m taking you directly to surgery. Good thing the horse wasn’t hurt.”
    Numbly, Stile followed the Citizen, and Sheen came too. This was an