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the saddling pen. Stile checked the horse’s head and mouth, ran his fingers through the luxurious mane, then picked up each foot in turn to check for stones or cracks. There were none, of course.   He gave Battleaxe a pat on the muscular shoulder, opened the shed, and brought out a small half-saddle that he set on the horse’s back.
    “No saddle blanket?” Sheen asked. “No girth? No stirrups?”
    “This is only to protect him from any possible damage. I don’t need any saddle to stay on, but if my bareback weight rubbed a sore on his backbone—“
    “Your employer would be perturbed,” she finished.
    “Yes. He values his horses above all else. Therefore I do, too. If Battleaxe got sick, I would move into the stable with him for the duration.”
    She started to laugh, then stopped. “I am not certain that is humor.”
    “It is not. My welfare depends on my employer—but even if it didn’t, I would be with the horses. I love horses.”
    “And they love you,” she said.
    “We respect each other,” he agreed, patting Battle-axe again. The horse nuzzled his hair.
    Molly arrived, with conventional bridle, saddle, and stirrups. Sheen mounted and took the reins, waiting for Stile. He vaulted into his saddle, as it could not be used as an aid to mounting. He was, of course, one of the leading gymnasts of the Game; he could do flips and cartwheels on the horse if he had to.
    The horses knew the way. They walked, then trotted along the path. Stile paid attention to the gait of his mount, feeling the easy play of the muscles. Battleaxe was a fine animal, a champion, and in good form today.   Stile knew he could ride this horse to victory in the afternoon. He had known it before he mounted—but he never took any race for granted. He always had to check things out himself. For himself, for his employer, and for his horse.
    Actually, he had not done his homework properly this time; he had squandered his time making love to Sheen. Fortunately he was already familiar with the other entrants in this race, and their jockeys; Battleaxe was the clear favorite. It wouldn’t hurt him to play just one race by feel.
    Having satisfied himself. Stile now turned his attention to the environment. The path wound between exotic trees: miniature sequoias, redwoods, and Douglas fir, followed by giant flowering shrubs. Sheen passed them with only cursory interest, until Stile corrected her. “These gardens are among the most remarkable on the planet. Every plant has been imported directly from Earth at phenomenal expense. The average girl is thrilled at the novelty; few get to tour this dome.”
    “I—was too amazed at the novelty to comment,” Sheen said, looking around with alacrity. “All the way from Earth? Why not simply breed them from standard stock and mutate them for variety?”
    “Because my employer has refined tastes. In horses and in plants. He wants originals. Both these steeds were foaled on Earth.”
    “I knew Citizens were affluent, but I may have underestimated the case,” she said. “The cost of shipping alone—“
    “You forget: this planet has the monopoly on protonite, the fuel of the Space Age.”
    “How could I forget!” She glanced meaningfully at him. “Are we private, here?”
    “No.”
    “I must inquire anyway. Someone sent me to you.   Therefore there must be some threat to you. Unless I represent a service by your employer?”
    Stile snapped his fingers. “Who did not bother to explain his loan.   I’d better verify, though, because if it was not he—“
    She nodded. “Then it could be the handiwork of another Citizen. And why would any other Citizen have reason to protect you, and from what? If it were actually some scheme to—oh. Stile, I would not want to be the agent of—“
    “I must ask him,” Stile said. Then, with formal reverence he spoke: “Sir.”
    There was a pause. Then a concealed speaker answered from the hedge. “Yes, Stile?”
    “Sir, I suspect a one-in-two