“Have no concern. I could block your magic by a single note, but don’t have to. I trust you to get me to the Oracle in good order.”
Stile paused in the air lock. “We may not meet again, but we shall be working together.” He proffered his hand.
“Surely we shall meet,” Clef said warmly, taking the hand, forgetting his own prior doubt on this score.
Then they opened the air lock, held their breath, and charged out to intersect the faintly scintillating curtain ahead. The air-lock door swung closed automatically behind them. It was camouflaged to resemble an outcropping of rock; Stile had passed it during his honeymoon without ever noticing.
They stepped through together. The bleak, barren desert became lush wilderness. Stile played a few bars on the harmonica, summoning his magic. Now he was conscious of the spirit of his other self within the instrument, facilitating his performance. No doubt he had been able to practice magic much more readily and effectively because of this help than would otherwise have been possible. “Adepts be deaf; computer get Clef,” Stile sang. He was trying to conceal his magic from the awareness of the enemy; he wasn’t sure that aspect would work.
Clef vanished. Stile played some more, restoring the expended potency of the magic. This time he was conscious of its source, Phazite, with an ambience of magic like a magnetic field; the music intensified and focused this on Stile, as a magnifying glass might do with a beam of sunshine. The transfer of Phazite to Proton-frame would diminish this ambience, robbing his spells of half their potency. Still, Phaze would be a magic realm—and of course he would probably leave it, so as to make it safe. “Conduct me whole,” he sang, “to the East Pole.”
He splashed in water. Naturally that was why this region was not a tourist attraction. The water was foul too; the universal Proton pollution was slopping through. All the more reason for tourists to stay clear!
Stile trod water and played his music again. “Set it up solo: a floating holo.”
A buoyed holographic transceiver appeared. Stile had really strained to get the concept detail on this one. This was to be his contact station, so that he could stay in touch with the two frames from either side. Because it was at the deserted, unpleasant East Pole, it should be secure for some time from the depredations of other Adepts or Citizens. He was sure that by this time the enemy Adepts had booby-trapped his fixture at the West Pole and would not expect this alternate ploy. Satisfied, Stile played more music. “Take me down to see Brown.”
He arrived at the wooden castle of the Brown Adept, feeling nauseous. Self-transport never was comfortable, and he had done it twice rapidly.
In a moment the pretty, brown-haired, brown-eyed child dashed up to him. “Oh, Blue,” she cried. “I was so afraid they had hurt thee!”
Stile smiled wanly. “I had the same fear for thee. Thou alone didst side with me, of all the Adepts.”
She scowled cutely. “Well, they did tie me up with a magic rope or something. I was going to get a golem to loose me, but then Yellow came and let me go. She’s real pretty in her potion-costume! She said all the others were after thee, and she really didn’t like it but couldn’t go against her own kind. Is that what I’m doing?”
“Thou art helping save Phaze from disaster,” he assured her.
“Oh, goody!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
Stile had a second thought about using Brown as an ally. Could a child have proper responsibility? Yet he didn’t seem to have much choice. She had at least had the courage to oppose the other Adepts, which was more than Yellow had had. “I need thy help in an important capacity,” he said. “There may be hard work and even danger.”
“If Phaze is in trouble, I’m already in danger,” she said brightly.
“Aye. The other Adepts prefer to risk disaster later, for the sake of power now. I must do something that will make magic less effective, but will save Phaze for future centuries. Then must I leave Phaze.”
“Leave Phaze!” she exclaimed, horrified. “I was only just getting to know thee!”
“I do not wish to leave, but a prophecy of the Oracle suggests Phaze will not be safe until I do. I love Phaze too much to hurt it by remaining.”
A soulful tear rolled down her cheek. “Oh, Blue—I like this not!”
“I fear the Lady Blue will like it even less,” Stile said, choking somewhat himself. “Neither will my friend Neysa the unicorn. But what must be, must be. Now must I cross the curtain before the other Adepts spot me. They tried to trap me in the goblins’ demesnes, and now that I escaped, they will be attacking me anywhere they find me. In any event, there is something I must fetch in Proton-frame. So must I ask thee to be my coordinator in Phaze.”
Her young brow furrowed. “What is this?”
“The creatures of Phaze must be warned. They must be told that the Oracle predicts disaster if certain things be not done, and that the Blue Adept is trying to do these things and may need their help. That the other Adepts are trying to prevent this program from being implemented and may attack any creatures who help me. Canst thou go to the creatures and tell them?”
“Oh, sure, I can send my golems,” she said. “If they are not stopped by magic, they will speak the message.”
“Excellent. I have set up a spell to keep thee in touch, so that thou canst check with me across the curtain. When I have what I need, I will return.”
“I hope thy business there takes not long. This frightens me, Blue.”
“It frightens me too! But I think we can get through.” Stile played his harmonica, then sang: “Create a crystal ball, for Brown Adept to call.”
The ball appeared. Stile presented it to her. “Speak to this when thou must reach me. I will answer if I can.”
She smiled, her spirit rebounding quickly at the prospect of this new toy. “That should be fun!”
“Now must I go,” Stile said. He sang a routine spell to take him to a little-used section of the curtain, then stepped across into a maintenance hall in Proton.
Soon he was in touch with Sheen and riding with her in a private Citizen capsule. “What is the present state of my fortune?” he inquired.
“Mellon has manipulated it into about sixty kilograms.”
“Sixty kilos of Protonite? Already he’s doubled it?”
“He’s one of my friends,” she reminded him. That meant Mellon had access to information not generally available to others, including Citizens—such as what supposedly random numbers might be generated by the Game Computer. That would of course be an enormous advantage. Stile did not like all of the implications, but decided not to inquire about the details.
“However,” she said, “several things are disturbing the Citizens and making mischief for you. It may be difficult in the next few hours.”
“It may indeed,” he agreed. “The countdown for the juxtaposition of frames has commenced. I’ve already set most of the other Adepts against me, and soon the same will happen with most of the Citizens.”
“Yes. First there is the matter of your rapid increase in fortune. They are concerned where it will stop, understandably. Second, they don’t like your designating me as your heir. The panel approved it, but now many more Citizens are becoming aware of it. A robot with such a fortune would be awkward. Third, there is a rumor you mean to destroy the society of Proton. That notion is not at all popular.”
“I should think not,” Stile agreed. “As it happens, they are not far wrong.”
“Will you update me, briefly? I fear things will complicate rapidly, now that you have reappeared, and I lack the living capacity to adapt to totally changed situations. Some Citizens even expressed hope you were dead, and in that hope their action was held in abeyance.”
“So now they may seek to render me dead,” Stile said. “I thought Citizenship would alleviate my problems somewhat, but they have only intensified. Very well—you get me to the Game Computer, and I’ll fill you in.”
“What do you want with the Game Computer?”
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“It has the book of magic that will make me instantly more powerful than any person in Phaze has been before. I’ll need it to protect myself from the massed power of all the other Adepts and to facilitate the transfer of Phazite across the curtain. Here it will be Protonite, with scientific energy instead of magical energy. Then the frames will separate forever, and the curtain will be gone.”
She was quick to catch on. “Which world will you be in, then, Stile?”
Stile sighed. “You know I want to be in Phaze, with the Lady Blue. But I am of Proton, and there is a prophecy that tells me to get clear of Phaze. So I will be here.”
He thought she would be pleased, but she was not. “The Lady Blue is to be widowed again?” she asked sharply.
“I could bring her here to Proton. But she is of Phaze; I fear it would destroy her to leave it forever. I don’t think she would come here anyway, because here I am to marry you.”
“So it is my fault you have to widow her?”
How had he gotten into this? “It is the fault of fate. I simply am not destined to be happy after my job is done.” Then he bit his tongue. What an insult he had given Sheen!
“I will put in for reprogramming, so she can come here. You do not need to marry me.”
Stile refused to take the bait. It was surely poisoned. Sheen might be less complicated than a living woman, but she did have depths. “I will marry you. It is the way it has to be.”
“Have you informed the Lady Blue of this?” she inquired coldly.
“Not yet.” There was a dreadful task!
They were silent for a while. Stile felt the weight of the harmonica in his pocket and brought it out for contemplation. “I wish you could come out,” he said to it.
Sheen looked at him questioningly.
“My other self’s soul is in this instrument,” Stile explained. “Clef’s Flute evoked it. Apparently the original Blue Adept conjured his spirit into his favorite possession. It helped me play the harmonica beyond my natural ability, and maybe won a round of the Tourney for me. So he helped me—but I can’t help him. He’s dead.”
“This soul—you saw it in Phaze?”
“No. In Proton.”
“But there’s no magic in Proton.”
Stile nodded thoughtfully. “I’m getting so used to magic, I’m forgetting where I am. That Platinum Flute can’t evoke spirits in Proton—yet I swear it did. We thought maybe some magic leaked through, but that couldn’t really happen.”
“Unless this imbalance you talk of is getting worse. The fabric is starting to tear.”
“That could be. The Flute did reach across to shake the mountains of Proton and perhaps also to give me the dream-vision of Clef’s journey to the Little Folk. Juxtaposition of one kind or another is occurring; the boundaries are fogging. Which is why action is required now. I wish there were some way to restore my other self to life. Then he could go back to Phaze, his job done.”
“Why not? All he needs is a body.”
“Like that of a robot or android? They can’t function in Phaze.”
“Perhaps a magic body, then. One that resembles you. With his soul in it—”
“Ridiculous. You assume that such things can be assembled like the parts of a robot.” But Stile wondered. What was a person, other than a body with a soul?
“If I had a soul, I’d be real,” Sheen said wistfully.
Stile had given up arguing that case. “The Brown Adept animates golems, but they’re made of wood. Robots are made of metal and plastic. Androids are living flesh, but imperfect; they are stupid and often clumsy. If it were possible to fashion a golem made of flesh, with a mind like yours and a human spirit—wouldn’t that be a person?”
“Of course it would,” she said.
Stile decided. “Have your friends look into the matter. It’s a far shot, but if there were any way to restore my other self to some semblance of life, I owe him that. If he died to save Phaze, it is right that he be restored to it.”
“If you have any female souls floating around looking for a host, send one to me.”
Stile took her hand. Her fingers were as soft and warm as those of any living person. “I regard the soul as the essence of self. If you hosted someone else’s soul, you would become that person. I prefer you as you are.”
“But you can’t love me as I am.”
“I can’t love anyone other than the Lady Blue. When this business is done, I will accord to you whatever emotion I am capable of feeling for any woman, flesh or metal. You deserve better than this, I know.”
“Half love is better than none,” she said. “And if you restore your other self in Phaze, will he love the Lady Blue?”
“He’s her husband!” Stile exclaimed. “Of course he loves her!”
“Then why did he give her up to you?”
“To save Phaze. It was an act of supreme sacrifice.”
“I am a machine. I don’t appreciate the delicate nuances of human conscience and passion as a human being can. To me it seems more likely that he found himself in an untenable situation, as do you with me, and simply opted out.”
“That’s an appalling notion.” But it also carried an insidious conviction. Suppose the Blue Adept, aware of the approaching crisis, knowing he had to make way for another, and perhaps no longer in love with his wife—
“I wish I could meet your other self,” Sheen said.
“You are a creature of science, he of magic,” Stile said. “Such meetings are difficult, even when both parties are alive. You are stuck with me.”
She smiled, letting it go. “And we do have more serious business than such idle conjecturing.” She put the holo on receive, and a call was waiting.
It was from Citizen Merle. “Ah, so you’re back, Stile! Let me show you me in serf-guise. Private line, please.”
“Merle, I’m with Sheen—”
“She knows that,” Sheen said, setting up the nonintercept coding.
Merle stripped away her clothing with elegant motions. She had an excellent body. “Stile, beware,” she murmured. “There are plots afoot to slay you.”
Stile was startled by the contrast between her actions and her words. “I thought you had seduction in mind, Merle.”
“I do, I do! I can’t seduce you if you’re dead, however.”
There was that. “Merle, I don’t want to deceive you. I’m not interested in—”
“I understand you have business with the Game Computer.”
How much did she know? “Do you intend to blackmail me?”
“By no means. You happen to be unblackmailable. But I might help you, if you caused me to be amenable.”
“If I were amenable to your design, Merle, my fiancée here might get difficult.”
“I suspect she would rather have you alive, well, and victorious. You see, some Citizens have the notion that you represent a threat to their welfare, so they have instituted a push to have your Citizenship revoked.”
“Revoked! Is that possible?” Stile felt his underpinnings loosening. He had assumed his Citizenship was irrevocable.
“Anything is possible, by a majority vote of the kilos attending the evening business meeting. You will be on tonight’s agenda. You will need whatever help you can get.”
Stile glanced at Sheen. “This is news to you?”
“I knew something was developing, sir, but not that it had progressed to this extent.”
“Citizens have avenues of communication not available to machines,” Merle said. “I assure you the threat is genuine, and the vote may well go against you. Citizens, unfortunately, have very narrow definitions of self-interest.” She smiled, turning her now-naked body suggestively. She had an excellent talent for display. “I will encourage my associates to support you, if you come to me. This could shift the balance. It is little enough I ask. Are you quite sure you can’t be tempted?”
Sheen, meanwhile, had been busy on another private line. Now she glanced up. “It is true, sir,” she
said. “My friends verify that in the past hour a general disquiet has formed into a pattern of opposition. The moment news flashed that you had reappeared in Proton, momentum gathered. The projected vote is marginally against you. Merle’s support could save you.”
“Listen to her, Stile,” Merle said. “The scales are finely balanced at the moment, but the full thrust of your opposition has not yet manifested. Sheen has more riding on this than her own possible Citizenship. If your Citizenship is revoked, your tenure will end and you will have to leave Proton. The prospect for her friends would decline drastically, perhaps fatally, incongruous as the term may be in that application.”
“How much do you know, Merle?” Stile asked tightly.
“Stile, I research what intrigues me. I have learned much about you in the past few hours. This enhances my respect for you. It is a thing of mine to take a piece of those I respect. This is a harmless foible, and I always give fair return. Come to me and I will help you.”
She had him in a difficult spot. If she knew about the self-willed machines and possibly about Stile’s mission to restore parallelism in the separating frames, she could certainly cause him much mischief.
“Sir, I think you should go to her,” Sheen said.
Stile found himself athwart a dilemma. He had told Mellon to arrange a private bet, to the limit of his available finances, that he would not be seduced by Merle. He did not care to lose that bet, for such a loss would wipe him out. But if her support was all that guaranteed his continuing Citizenship, he could lose everything despite winning the bet. He was between Scylla and Charybdis, the devil and the deep sea, the rock and the hard place.
“I am frankly surprised you do not heed your metal fiancée,” Merle said. “She does seem to know what’s best for you.”
Stile’s flash of rage was stifled by Sheen’s imploring look. He decided to meet with Merle and try to explain. Maybe he could win through. “Give me your address.”
She gave the code, and Sheen changed course. The book of magic would have to wait a little.
There was another call. This one was for Sheen, from Mellon. “We have a delivery for you,” he said. “Cosmetics for our employer.”