Juxtaposition (24 page)

“I am here. Yellow.”

“It is in the form of a package, my handsome,” she said, handing him a long box that appeared from her shawl.
 
Stile suddenly became conscious of his own apparel: the outfit of a Proton Citizen. In the rush of events he had not bothered to conjure Phaze clothing. But it hardly mattered; an Adept, like a Citizen, could wear what he pleased.
 
“I want thee to know I had no hand in this particular mischief. The item was delivered by conjuration with the message: Blue butt out. I hastened to bring it to thee, fearing further malice against thee an I delayed. My potions indicate that more than one Adept participates in this.”

She hurried back to her dragon-steed before Stile could open the package. “Wait, Yellow—I may wish to question thee about this!” Stile called. Something about the package gave him an extremely ugly premonition.
 

“I dare not stay,” she called back. “I would help thee if I could. Blue, for thou art a bonny lad. But I can not.” She spurred her dragon forward. The creature spread its wings and taxied along on six little legs, finally getting up to takeoff velocity. Once it was airborne, it was much more graceful. Soon it was flying high and away.
 
Stile unwrapped the package with a certain misgiving. It surely did not contain anything he would be glad to see.
 
Probably it was from Clip’s captor; some evidence that the unicorn was indeed hostage, such as a hank of his blue mane.

As the package unwrapped, two red socks fell out.
 
Clip’s socks, which could be magically removed and used separately, in the same manner as Neysa’s white socks.
 
But there was something else in the package. Stile un wrapped it—and froze, appalled. All the others stared, not at first believing it.

It was a severed unicorn horn.

Stile’s hands began to shake. He heard the Lady Blue’s quick intake of breath. Neysa blew a note of purest agony.

Slowly Stile lifted the horn to his mouth. He blew into the hollow base. The sound of an ill-played saxophone emerged. It was definitely Clip’s horn.

Neysa fell to the ground as if stricken by lightning. The Lady Blue dropped down beside her, putting her arms about the unicorn’s neck in a futile attempt to console her.
 
Stile stood stiffly, his mind half numbed by the horror of it. To a unicorn, the horn was everything, the mark that distinguished him from the mere horse.

More than that, he realized, the horn was the seat of the unicorn’s magic. Without it. Clip could not change form or resist hostile spells. He would be like a man blinded and castrated—alive without joy. There could be no worse punishment.

The Herd Stallion was back in man-form. He put forth his large hand to take the horn. His eyes were blazing like the windows of a furnace, and steam was rising from him.
 
“They dare I” he rasped, staring at the member.
 

“For this will I visit a conflagration on the Demesnes of every Adept involved!” Stile said, finding his voice at last.
 
“On every creature who cooperated. I will level mountains to get at them. What the Blue Adept did to the trolls and jackals shall be as nothing.” Already the air was becoming charged with the force of his developing oath; dark coils of fog were swirling. “Only let me make my music, find my rhyme—“

“Nay, Adept,” the Herd Stallion said gruffly. “He is of my herd. Not thine but mine is this vengeance.”

“But thou canst not leave thy herd unguarded,” Stile protested.

“Another Stallion will assist, for this occasion.”

“And thou canst not face Adepts alone. Only an Adept can oppose an Adept.”

The Stallion snorted smoke from his human nostrils, heeding Stile’s caution through his fury. “True. Not alone can I accomplish it. Only half the vengeance is mine to claim.”

“Just give me a steed, and I will—“

“I will be thy steed!” the Stallion said.
 
Neysa, on the ground, perked up her ears. The Lady Blue’s eyes widened as she recognized the possibilities. No human being had ever ridden a Herd Stallion, virtually a breed apart. Yet if the power of an Adept coordinated with that of a unicorn Stallion—

Stile could not decline. They shared a vengeance.

“So I have most of twenty-four hours in Proton,” Stile said to Sheen, “before the Stallion and I commence our mission of rescue and vengeance. I’ll have to spend some of that time in sleep, gathering my strength. I trust you have my business here well organized.”

“We do,” she agreed brightly. “Mellon has lined up a number of wealthy Citizens who are eager to wipe you out financially. My friends have worked out a way to trace the original message to Citizen Kalder—but only you, an interested Citizen, can implement it. And there is reaction approaching suppressed riot to the news of the designation of your heir.”

“That’s enough to start on,” Stile said. “Maybe it will distract me for the moment from my real concern in Phaze. Let’s see how much we can sandwich in. I don’t know how long my next adventure in Phaze will hold me.”

“Perhaps forever,” she said darkly. Then, mechanically, she reverted to immediate business. “Start on which, sir?
 
You can’t do everything at once.”

“Why not?”

“The bettors are in the Stellar Lounge, as before. The panel for your heir-designation hearing is in another dome, a hundred kilometers distant. And the first obscurity in the message chain is at a dome fifty kilometers beyond that, in the private property of a Citizen. Any one of these situations can monopolize your available time.”

“You think too much like a machine,” he chided her.
 
“Take me to the hearing. Meanwhile, call the Stellar Lounge.”

Frowning, she set the travel capsule in motion and placed the call. Mellon appeared in three-dimensional image. “So good to see you, sir. May I notify the Citizens that you are ready for action?”

“Do so,” Stile said. “But advise them that I have unusual and challenging bets in mind and will welcome them at the site of my heir-designation hearing. You be there too.”

“Yes, sir.” Mellon faded out.

Immediately there was an incoming call. It was Citizen Merle. “My intercept notified me you were back in town,” she said brightly. “Have you considered my invitation of the morning?”

Not this again! “Merle, I remain flattered. But there are things you should know.”

“About your lovely wife in the other frame? Stile, that has no force in Proton.”

“About my engagement to the serf Sheen, here,” Stile said, unpleased about Merle’s conversance with his private life. Too many Citizens were learning too much about him.

“Yes, I mean to place a bet on the outcome of your hearing,” Merle agreed. “I’m rooting for you. Stile; I’m betting you will gain approval, after a struggle. Citizens are by no means limited in their liaisons. I have gifted my husband with a number of fine concubines, and he has sent me whichever males he suspects will appeal to my tastes. In any event, you need have no concern about the feelings of a serf.”

Stile suffered an explosive reaction of anger. Sheen made an urgent signal: do not offend this Citizen!
 
Then Stile had a tactical inspiration. “Merle, I do care about the feelings of this serf. I was until very recently a serf myself. Until I have a better notion of her willingness to share, I can not give you a decision.”

Merle smiled. “Oh, I do like you, little man! You are like a splendid fish, fighting the line. I shall be in touch with you anon.” She faded.

“Sir, I never denied you the right to—“ Sheen began.

“Secure our privacy!” he snapped.

She adjusted the communication controls. “Secure, sir.”

‘Then why are you calling me sir?”

“Stile, our relationship has changed. We are no longer even nominally members of the same society, and I prefer to recognize that in the established way. Sir.”

“You’re mad at me?”

“A machine can not be angry, sir.”

Fat chance! “Sheen, you know that our marriage is one of convenience. I’m doing it to give your friends leverage in their suit for recognition. The upcoming hearing will be a crucial step. If we prevail there, it will be a big stride forward for your kind. I do like you, in fact I love you—but the Lady Blue will always hold the final key to my heart.”

“I understand, sir.” Her face was composed.
 
“So being faithful to you, in this frame, is moot,” he continued, wishing she would show more of the emotion he knew she felt. “It is the Lady Blue I am faithful to. But aside from that, there is the matter of appearances. If I am engaged to you, but have liaisons with fleshly women—especially Citizens—that could be taken as evidence that I am marrying you in name only, to designate a convenient heir, and that could destroy the leverage we hope to gain.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed noncommittally.

“So there is no way I will make an assignation with Merle. If I do that with anyone in this frame, it will be you. Because you are my fiancee, and because there is no one in this frame I would rather do it with. So, in that sense, I am true to you. I wanted to be sure you under stand.”

“I understand, sir. There is no need to review it.”

So he hadn’t persuaded her. “Yes, I needed to review it.
 
Because now I have it in mind to do something extremely cynical. An act worthy of a true Citizen. And I need your help.”

“You have it, sir.”

“I want you to have your friends arrange a blind bet on the outcome of Merle’s suit. An anonymous, coded bet amounting to my entire available net worth at the time of decision—that I will not complete that liaison. I will of course deny any intent to make that liaison, but I may at times seem to waver. You and I know the outcome, but other Citizens may wish to bet the other way. It would be a foolish bet for them—but they seem to like such foolishness.”

Sheen smiled. “That is indeed cynical, sir. I shall see to it.”

“And it would not hurt if you permitted yourself some trifling show of jealousy, even if you feel none.”

She paused. “You are devious, sir.”

“I have joined a devious society. Meanwhile, I shall remain on the fence with Merle, in all but words, as long as I can stimulate interest. See that Mellon is privately notified; he definitely has the need to know.” The capsule arrived at the dome of the hearing. They emerged into a white-columned court, floored with marble, spacious and airy as a Greek ruin. Three Citizens sat be hind an elevated desk. A fourth Citizen stood before the desk, evidently with another case; Stile’s turn had not yet come.

The betting Citizens were arriving. A rotund man garbed like a Roman senator approached, hand extended.
 
“Greeting, Stile. I am Waldens, and I’m interested in your offer. What is its nature?”

“Thank you, Waldens. I am about to face a hearing on the validity of my designation of my fiancee, a humanoid robot, as my heir to Citizenship. I proffer a wager as to the panel’s decision.”

“Most interesting!” Waldens agreed. “I doubt they will approve the designation.”

“I am prepared to wager whatever my financial adviser will permit, that they will approve it,” Stile said. “It is, after all, a Citizen’s right to designate whom he pleases.”

“Ah, yes—but a robot is not a ‘whom’ but an ‘it.’ Only recognized people can inherit Citizenship.”

“Is there a law to that effect?”

“Why, I assume so. It is certainly custom.”

Now Mellon arrived. Stile quickly acquainted him with the situation. “How much will you let me bet?” he asked, knowing that Mellon, as a self-willed machine in touch with the network of his kind, would have a dear notion of the legalistic background.

But the serf hesitated. “Sir, this is an imponderable. The decision of the panel is advisory, without binding force. If there is a continuing challenge, a formal court will be convened—“

“Come off it, serf!” Waldens snapped. “We’re only bet ting on this particular decision. What the court does later will be grist for another wager. How much Protonite can Stile afford to risk?”

“He has limited me to one hundred grams,” Stile said, catching Sheen’s covert affirmative signal. That meant the machines had researched the issue, and believed the odds were with Stile. He should win this bet. But he was going to play it carefully.

“A hundred grams!” Waldens laughed. “I did not come all the way here in person for such minor action!”

“I regret that my estate is as yet minimal,” Stile said.
 
“But it is growing; I have won all bets made so far. I assure you that I have an appetite for larger bets—when I can afford them. I plan to increase my estate enormously.”

“All right. Stile. You’re peanuts, but I like your spirit.
 
Should be good entertainment here. I’ll play along with a small bet now—but I’ll expect a big one later, if you’re in shape for it. Shall we compromise at half a kilo now?”

Mellon looked pained, but under Walden’s glare he slowly acquiesced. “Half a kilogram of Protonite,” Stile agreed, putting on a pale face himself. Five hundred grams was half the ransom of a Citizen, and more than half Stile’s entire available amount for betting. His fortune stood at 1,219 grams, but he had to hold 250 for living expenses. What he was laying on the line now was enough to buy a hundred sophisticated robots like Sheen and Mellon, or to endow the tenure of Eve hundred serfs. All in a single bet—which his opponent considered to be a minor figure, a nuisance indulged in only for entertainment! Meanwhile, other Citizens had arrived, intrigued by the issue. Novelty was a precious commodity among those who had everything. Two paired off, taking the two sides with matching half-kilo bets. Two more bet on whether there would be an immediate appeal of the panel’s recommendation, whatever it was. Citizens certainly loved to gamble!