Juxtaposition Read Online Free PDF Page B

the spot occupied by one of Stile’s men. That sent Stile’s man home to the bar, the starting place. “Sent you home to your slut machine, didn’t I?” he chortled. “Oh, let there be no moaning at the bar!” That was a literary allusion to an ancient poem by Tennyson of Earth. Stile was conversant with historical literature, but made no response. The Citizen was showing pseudoerudition; he was not the type to know any but the most fashionable of quotes, and he had gotten this one wrong. The correct line was, “and may there be no moaning of the bar.” Yet, mentally. Stile filled in the remainder: “when I put out to sea.” Tennyson had then been late in life, knowing he would die before too long. That poem, Crossing the Bar, had been a kind of personal epitaph.   When he put out to sea, in the figurative fashion of the Norse boats for the dead, he hoped to see his Pilot, the Deity, face to face. Those left behind in life should feel no sorrow for him, for he, like the werewolf, had found his ideal resting place. It was generally best to read the full works of past literary figures, and to understand their backgrounds, rather than to memorize quotes out of con text. But it was no use to go into all that with this great boor and bore of a Citizen.
    Well, Stile intended to send this obnoxious Citizen out to sea. It was already apparent that the man was not a top player; he depended on his luck too heavily, and on a basic strategy of “making” points—of setting up two or more men on a point, so that the opponent could neither land there nor hit a blot. Luck and conservative play—a good enough strategy for most occasions. Three out of four times, a winning strategy.
    But Stile was not an ordinary player. He depended not on luck but on skill. Luck tended to equalize, especially on an extended series, while skill was constant. That was what gave the superior player the advantage, even in a game of chance. It was necessary to take risks in order to progress most efficiently. There would be some losses because of these risks, but, overall, that efficiency would pay off. Stile was already grasping the weakness of the Citizen’s mode of play. Probably the man had an imperfect notion of the strategy of the doubling cube—and that could make all the difference, regardless of his vaunted luck.   Soon the Citizen had a number of men in his home board, ready to be borne off. The first player who bore off all fifteen men would win the game, but not necessarily the Round. This modification was scored by points; each man left in play when the opponent finished was one point.   One hundred points was the Game. It could take several games to accumulate the total. The key was to minimize one’s losses in a losing game, and maximize one’s winnings in a winning game. That was where the doubling cube came in.
    Best to test the man’s level, however. Stile needed to have a very clear notion of his opponent’s vulnerability, because the Citizen was not a complete duffer; he was” just good enough to be dangerous. Luck did play an important part in backgammon, just as muscle did in wrestling; it had to be taken into account.   Stile rolled 3-2. As it happened, he was able to enter two men and hit blots on the second and third points. It was a good break, for the Citizen left few blots he could possibly avoid. Thus Stile’s 2 and 3 dice canceled the effect of cumulative scores of twenty-one and twenty-two on the Citizen’s dice. Stile was making his limited luck match the effect of his opponent’s good luck. It was a matter of superior management.
    But the Citizen was hardly paying attention to the moves. He was trying to undermine Stile’s confidence, convinced that even in a game of chance, a person’s certainty counted most. “A number of people have been wondering where you disappear to between Rounds, little man. You seem to walk down a certain service corridor, and never emerge at the far end. Hours or even days