Juxtaposition (39 page)

Stile was becoming nervous about the time. “Do it quickly. Sheen. Thou wilt be inert again if the enemy Adepts discover our presence here and attack.” He was almost fidgeting.

“I think they are distracted by other events,” Brown said. “They know not what my golems are doing.”

Sheen completed her survey extremely quickly. “There is no dome. The air is natural. This is the other world.
 
Will I remain animate? I feel no different.”

“Yes,” the Brown Adept said. “My golems never die, unless they are destroyed.” Tactfully, she did not mention her ability to turn them off.

“Yet I am not alive,” Sheen concluded sadly.

“That is beyond the power of magic,” Brown agreed.
 

“And of science,” Stile added. “Now must we go.” He took Sheen’s hand and sang a spell to take them to a private section of the curtain. One thing he had done during his honeymoon was survey likely crossing places.
 
They landed in a secluded glade in the Purple Mountain foothills.

“Now that’s an experience!” Sheen exclaimed. “It really is a magic land.”

“It really is,” Stile agreed. “Art thou able to cross the curtain by thyself now?”

Sheen tried, but could not. “I am not alive,” she repeated. “I have no power to do what living creatures do.” Stile took her hand again and willed them across. They stood in a vehicle storage garage. “Do you remember?” he asked.

“I remember Phaze,” she said. “I have not changed.
 
Only your language has changed.”

“So there is no loss of continuity as you shift from magic to science.”

“None at all. I am the same. I wish I were not.”

“Now let’s get that book of magic before we are diverted again. We’re close to a Game Annex terminal, by no coincidence. I can contact the Game Computer privately there.”

“Let me do it,” Sheen said. “There may be another ambush.”

“You’re my fiancee. I shouldn’t let you take all the risks.”

“Without you, I am nothing. Without me, you are a leading Citizen and Adept, capable of saving Phaze and helping my friends. Stand back, sir.”

Stile smiled and shrugged.

“Give me the book of magic,” she said to the Game-access terminal, adding the code.
 

“Why?” the Computer asked.

“The Blue Adept means to return it to Phaze and there use it to abate the crisis.”

“One moment,” the machine said. “While it is on the way, will you accept a message for the Blue Adept?”

“Yes.”

“A consortium of opposition Citizens, interested in profiting from a necessary action, proffers this wager: the entire amount of Citizen Stile’s fortune at the time, that he will not survive until the start of tonight’s business meeting of Citizens.”

“I’ll take that bet!” Stile called, realizing that he could not lose it. If he died prematurely, all was lost anyway; if he lived, his fortune and power would be doubled again.
 
Double or nothing, right when he wanted it.
 

“Citizen Stile accepts the wager,” Sheen said. “If he dies, his estate will be liquidated and assigned to the consortium. If he appears at that meeting alive, his fortune will in that instant be doubled, and he will immediately be able to wield the full leverage of it.”

“The wager is so entered. The doubling cube has been turned.” The Game Computer made a bleep that was its way of coughing apologetically. “I have no part of this threat other than serving as a conduit for the wager. It was not necessary for the Citizen to be concerned about an ambush on my premises. Neither am I permitted to warn him of any potential threat immediately beyond my premises.”

“That’s warning enough,” Stile muttered. “Move out, Sheen!” Sheen paused only long enough to pick up the package the delivery slot delivered: the book of magic.
 
They fled down a hall. “Weapons are not permitted on Game premises unless part of a designated Game,” the Game Computer announced.

“It is not warning us, just making a public announcement—officially,” Stile said with a grim smile. “Is the Game Computer really one of your friends?”

“Yes,” she said.

A man appeared in the hall ahead. He looked like an ordinary serf, but he stood before them with a suggestive posture of readiness.

“That’s a robot,” Stile said.

“That’s a killer machine,” Sheen agreed. “Stile, I am a dual-purpose robot, designed for defense and personality.
 
That is a specialized attack vehicle. I am not equipped to handle it. You must flee it immediately; I can delay it only a moment.”

Stile dived for a panel. He tore open a section of the wall where he knew power lines ran. There they were, brightly colored cables, intended to be quite clearly coded for stupid maintenance personnel. He took a red one in both hands and yanked. It ripped free as the enemy robot came near.

“Get well away, Sheen!” he cried.

 
“Stile, you’ll electrocute yourself!” she cried in horror.
 
Now he took hold of a white cable. This, too, tore from its mooring, which was a magnetic clamp.
 
As the killer robot reached for him, Stile jammed both taw cable ends at its body. Power arced and crackled, electrifying the machine. The robot collapsed.
 

“You took a terrible chance!” Sheen admonished him as they hurried on. “You could have been electrocuted just pulling those cables out.”

“The power was cut off, to free the magnetic clamps,” Stile said. “The danger was apparent, not real.”

“How could you know that?” She sounded flustered.
 

“The Game Computer is one of your friends,” he re minded her.

“Oh.” For her friends stood ready to help him, covertly.
 
The Computer had cut off power, then restored it. How could such a brief collusion ever be spotted? Stile knew exactly how to use the assistance of the self-willed machines when he needed to: fortunately the specialized killer machine had been stupid.

The passage led to the minicar racing track, a favorite Game of the younger set. Stile had won many such races.
 
His small size gave him an advantage in these little vehicles. However, this time he only wanted to bypass the cars and reach the exit passage.

A man burst into the premises. This one was a genuine human serf—but he had a laser pistol. This was evidently the one the Game Computer had warned away. Unfortunately, outside the actual Games, the Computer had little power. It could protest and warn, not usually enforce. It could summon guards—but if it did so in this case, the other Citizens would be alerted, and that was not to Stile’s interest. Stile would have to fight this one out alone; the Computer had helped all it could.

“Sheen, get out of here,” he whispered urgently. “Use the service passages and airless sections to confound human pursuit. Get the book of magic across the curtain.”

“But I must protect you!” she protested.
 

“You can protect me best by getting away from me right now. I can do tricks alone that I can’t with company.
 
Meet me later—“ He paused to decide on a suitably unlikely place. “Meet me at Merle’s dome. They’ve booby trapped that once; they won’t expect me to go near it again. If you prefer, wait for me just beyond the curtain, in Phaze—oh, I forget, you can’t cross by yourself! Maybe Merle will help you cross.”

She did not argue further. “I love you.” She faded away.
 
Stile jumped into the nearest car and accelerated it into the main playing grid. Ordinarily he would have had to obtain license from the Game Computer to play, but Citizens were exempt from such rules. The pursuing man, however, was a serf; he had to honor this rule, or the Computer would close down the Game, apply a stasis field, and arrest him. Here the Computer had power, when there was a valid pretext to exert it. As it was, the Computer knew the man was up to mischief, and had already warned him about carrying the pistol.

The various ramps, intersections, and passing zones were arrayed in three-dimensional intricacy, so that the total driving area was many kilometers long despite the confinement of the dome. Stile was well familiar with this layout.

The armed man had been stalking him cautiously. Now the man had to get into another car to keep up. To do this, he had to get a partner and enlist in the Game. But he was prepared for this; a henchman got into another car and started the pursuit. Theoretically, they were chasing each other; actually, they were both after Stile.
 
Stile smiled grimly. These would-be killers would have more of a chase than they liked. They were up against an expert Gamesman: a Tourney winner, in fact.
 
Stile could shoot his car through the maze of paths. He could exit quickly. But that would only mean the armed man would follow him. It was better to handle this situation here, where the terrain favored Stile, and then escape cleanly.

A beam of light passed to Stile’s right. The armed man had fired his laser, missing because of the difficulty of aiming when the cars were going in different directions at different speeds. But the shot was close enough so that Stile knew the man had some skill; he would score if given a better opportunity. Now the Computer could not shut down the Game, though the laser shot had provided sufficient pretext, because when the cars stopped, the assassin would score on Stile.

Stile swung around a turn, putting a lamp between him self and the pursuer. He checked the minicar, but there was nothing in it he could throw. He would have to maneuver until he could find a way to put the man out of commission.

The problem was, these vehicles were small but safe.
 
They would not travel fast enough to leave the track, and the set was designed to prevent collisions. Such Games were supposed to seem far more dangerous than they were in fact. Stile might scare his opponent, but could not actually hurt him with the car. Still, there were ways.
 
Stile slowed his car, allowing the man to catch up somewhat. Then, just as the man was leveling his laser, Stile accelerated into a loop, going up and over and through. The man, caught by surprise, had to accelerate his own car and hang on. The cars could not fall, even if they stalled upside down at the top of a loop, and the automatic seat belts would hold the occupants fast. The man evidently did not know that.

Stile moved on into a roller-coaster series, going up and down at increasing velocity. The man followed, looking uncomfortable. He was fairly solid, and his belly lightened and settled with each change of elevation. That could start the queasies. Then Stile looped into a tunnel with a good lead, emerged to spin into a tight turn, and crossed over the other track just as the pursuer shot out of the tunnel.
 
Stile had removed his robe. He dropped it neatly over the man’s head.

The man reacted violently, clawing at the voluminous material that the wind plastered to his face, while the car continued along the track. Stile slowed his own car, letting the other catch up. Just as the man managed to get free of the robe. Stile jumped from one car to the other, having also circumvented the seat restraint. He caught the man’s neck in a nerve-strangle, rendering him instantly unconscious, and took the laser pistol from his hand. Then he jumped back to his own car and accelerated away. Such jumps from car to car were supposed to be impossible, but Stile was a skilled gymnast, able to do what few others could contemplate.

Now he zoomed for the exit. He had left his robe be hind; it made identification too easy for his assassination minded pursuers. Still, being a serf was not enough camouflage. There would be other assassins on the prowl for him, closing on this region. The majority of Citizens, like the Adepts, seemed to be against him; they had tremendous resources that would be overpowering once they got the focus. He needed to get far away from here in a hurry.

Could he retreat to the curtain, as he had done when the Adepts had had him pinned in the cavern? No, they would be watching the segments of it through which he had entered Proton this time. He had to surprise them.
 
Camouflage seemed to be the answer—but what kind?
 
Already Stile was making his decision. The most common and least noticed entities in Proton were machines, ranging from self-propelled hall-brushers to humanoid robots. Some were sophisticated emulations of individuality like Sheen, but most were cruder. Stile paused at a food machine and got some nutri-taffy; this he used to shape bulges at his knees and elbows, and to change the configuration of his neck and crotch. He now resembled a small, sexless menial humanoid robot that had been used in a candy kitchen. He walked somewhat stiffly and set a fixed smile on his face, since this grade of machine lacked facial mobility. Stile was, of course, a practiced mimic. He was unable to eliminate his natural body heat, but hoped no one would check him that closely.

It worked. Serfs passed him without paying any attention. There was a checkpoint guarded by two brute androids, but they were looking for a man, not a taffy odored machine. Stile walked stiffly by, unchallenged.
 
He was probably safe now, but he did not gamble. He continued his robot walk to a transport capsule and rode to the vicinity of Merle’s dome, then took the service entrance. Even here there was no challenge. Functionaries were constantly in and out of Citizens’ estates on myriad errands.