Stile shifted to his alternate awareness. Now he had confirmation of his prior conjecture; Blue had, through a special divinatory spell, discovered what was developing and realized that the best thing he could do for the land he loved was to die. But, fearful that his sacrifice might be in vain, he had hedged. He had conjured his soul into his harmonica and given the instrument an affinity for his other self. Now he knew his act had been justified, for Stile had used the harmonica to achieve his necessary level of power.
As for having his life back in the new order, he had not expected this, and not even considered the possibility of resuming his life in Phaze. The notion had a certain guilty appeal. Yet if the presence of Blue meant ruin for Phaze, he would be better off dead. He would have to formulate some plans for a formerly blank future, knowing that he might again have to give it up if the prophecy were true. All he could do was try it and see; perhaps there would be interim tasks for him to do before he departed.
“I thank thee for thy consideration,” Blue said to Sheen. “Glad am I to have facilitated thine entry here, lovely Lady Machine.”
Again Sheen reacted with pleased embarrassment. “There’s something about the people of Phaze,” she murmured.
The Brown Adept rode up on her golem mount. “I think my golems can handle it, as long as nothing else bothers them. Art thou going to make the Lady Machine alive now? I will give her part of my soul.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Sheen said. “All my brief existence I have longed to be alive—but now I have the chance for it, I’m not sure. I don’t think it would carry over into Proton—and if it did, there would still be a severe readjustment. I’d have to eat regularly, and eliminate regularly—both rather messy inconveniences—and sleep, which is a waste of useful time. My whole routine would be changed. I think I’m better off as a robot.”
“But Blue could love thee as a woman,” Brown said. “And thou couldst love him.”
How intimately had the two consulted while they worked on the restoration of Trool? Brown seemed to know a lot more about Stile’s business than he had told her. He decided to stay out of this conversation.
“I love him already,” Sheen said. “Life could not change that. And his love will always be for the Lady Blue. My life would not change that, either, and I wouldn’t want it to. So all I really have to gain, by marrying him in Proton, is the precedent for the self-willed machines—and if I were alive, that precedent would no longer exist.”
“Oh. I guess so,” Brown said. “I think thou art just fine as thou art, Lady Machine. So I guess thou canst just use the magic book to cure Blue’s knees, and maybe make him a little taller, and—”
Now Stile had to join in. “My knees are part of my present life; I no longer care to have them fixed. And my height—I always wanted to be taller, for that is the human definition of status, however foolish we all know it to be—I share Sheen’s opinion. I would be a different person, with new problems. I stand to gain nothing by changing what I am.”
Brown shrugged. “Okay. Actually, the Little Folk are perfect the way they are, and thou art not much different.” That jarred Stile, but he tried not to show it. “I’ll make up a golem in thine image; the book can make it flesh, and the other Blue can move into it when he’s ready.” She rode off.
In due course an enemy contingent arrived—a small squadron of tanklike earthmovers, borers, and personnel transports. The Citizens of Proton had no formal armed forces, since no life existed outside the domes, ordinarily. Construction vehicles tended to be enclosed and airtight, but some were remote-controlled or robotic. The present group was of the last type.
“Low-grade machines,” Sheen said. “The Citizens know better than to trust the sophisticated robots, though in truth only a small percentage is self-willed.”
“I hope your friends are not suffering unduly as a result of betraying their nature to the Citizens,” Stile said. He was uncertain which form of language to use in the juxtaposition zone, and decided to stick to Proton unless addressing a Phaze creature.
“The juxtaposition has proved to be enough of a distraction,” she said. “It is not easy to identify a specific self-willed machine when it wants to conceal itself. If the enemy wins this war, all my kind of machines will be destroyed.” Stile knew she was speaking literally; there would be absolutely no mercy from the Citizens.
The enemy machines formed up before the ball of Phazite. One fired an excavation bomb at it, but nothing happened. “Phazite protects itself,” Sheen remarked. “You can move it or use it, but you can’t damage it with less than a nuclear cannon.”
Several laser beams speared toward the sphere, but again without effect. Regardless of magic, Phazite was extremely tough stuff, twice as dense as anything ordinarily found in a planet; unless subjected to the key environment, it was virtually indestructible. The Brown Adept rejoined Stile and Sheen, staying clear of the dangerous region.
Now the vehicles moved up to push against the ball itself. The golems pushed on the other side. The machines had more power, but only one unit at a time could contact the Phazite, compact as it was, while the golems could apply all their force. The boulder rocked back and forth, then rolled to the side and forward. The golems were able to maneuver better, and were making progress again.
The machines regrouped. Another vehicle lined up and pushed on the boulder. Again the golems nudged the ball around the machine. Their brains were wooden, but they did learn slowly from experience.
Unfortunately, so did the machines. They consulted with each other briefly, then lined up again—and charged the golems.
“No!” the Brown Adept cried as a truck smashed into a golem. It was as if she felt the blow herself. “That’s cheating!”
“There are no rules to this game,” Stile said.
“Oh, is that so?” Brown’s small face firmed, and she called new instructions to her minions.
Now the golems fought back. When the vehicles charged, the golems stepped aside, then leaned in close to pound at the vulnerable regions as Stile explained them to Brown. Tires burst under the impact of pointed wooden feet; plastic cracked under wooden fists. But the machines, though dented, continued to fight.
“These are not like animals,” Sheen said. “They don’t hurt. Thou must disrupt their power trains or electrical systems.”
The Brown Adept had no knowledge of technology. “Obey the Lady Machine!” she called to the golems.
Sheen called out instructions. Now the golems went after more specific things. They unscrewed the fastenings for maintenance apertures and ripped out wiring; they punched holes in lubrication lines. Soon all the machines were out of commission.
The golems had won this engagement. But time had been lost. The juxtaposition would remain only a few hours, and in that time the Phazite had to be moved across into the frame of Proton. The next obstacle would surely be more formidable; this had been merely a token engagement, a first testing of strength.
Stile brought out his map again. “We’ll have to plan strategy, arrange a diversion. Now our obvious route is curving north, through the unicorn demesnes, to pass between the Oracle’s palace and the central lake, in a generally descending lay of land. So they’ll have that region well guarded. Well send a contingent of creatures there, clearing a path for the ball. Our least likely route would be back toward the Purple Mountains, through the sidhe demesnes, where my friend Clef traveled when he first entered Phaze. The terrain is forested, irregular, and infested by harpies. So that’s where we had better go.”
“But it will take forever to roll the ball through that region!” Brown protested.
“Not if we can figure out a good way through. Magic could be used to prepare the way, such as the construction of sturdy bridges over gulfs. Could you handle that, Sheen?”
“Certainly. The enemy Adepts will never know what I’m doing. But I need to be on hand to guard you.”
“Fear not for Blue, loyal Lady,” Stile’s alternate
self said. “The Adepts will strike not until they fathom our purpose, fearing to waste their magic on distractions. I know them, I know their minds. Go thy way, and we shall meet anon.”
“Meanwhile, I will come with thee, Blue, to plot the false route,” Brown said, enjoying this adventure.
Trool the troll reappeared. “The ogres, giants, and animalheads are marching from the west to join thee,” he reported. “But the goblins are marching south to intercept them and thee. There will be a battle when they meet.”
Stile consulted his map again. “How fast are they moving?”
“The animalheads are slowest, but also nearest. They will be here—” Trool indicated a spot within the unicorn demesnes on the map. “The ogres move faster, but the Black Demesnes are directly in their path, and the Green Demesnes to the south. They must veer north, then south, and should be here by dusk.” He indicated a spot near the Oracle’s palace. “The giants are farthest distant, but stride so large they will be with thee by late afternoon.”
Late afternoon. Stile realized it was near midday now. But it had seemed like only an hour since the Citizens’ business meeting, which had been in the evening. What had happened to the intervening night? Sheen must have slipped in a stasis-spell before letting him leave her temporary dome in the ogres’ demesnes, and he had never even noticed. It was probably for the best; he had needed a good night’s rest. So much was happening, the picture changing so radically, it was hard to keep track. But he had to keep going. “And the goblins?”
“The enemy Adepts are helping them move, but the goblins are so many that no spell can conjure them all—and the Lady Golem-Adept’s counterspell prevents their coming all the way here by magic anyway. Logistics is a problem. They will be in this spot by dusk.” He indicated the Oracle’s palace.
“That means the ogres and goblins will meet somewhat to the north of the Oracle,” Stile said grimly, tracing the likely paths on the map. “We’d better send a detachment of unicorns to help the ogres. After all, that’s right in the path of our decoy effort. We have to take it seriously enough to fool them.” He glanced at the golems, who were moving the ball again. “Have them go slowly, maybe pushing the ball farther uphill than necessary, so we can roll it down quickly—in an unanticipated direction. I want to give the enemy every chance to rush its forces to the wrong rendezvous.”
Brown gave instructions to a messenger golem, then accompanied Stile on the mock survey excursion. Stile would have preferred to fly, but Sheen’s antimagic spell stopped him as well as the enemy Adepts. He had to go on foot, at least until a unicorn arrived. Fortunately he was quite capable afoot. He set out at a running pace, covering each mile in about seven minutes. Brown’s big golem steed kept pace with huge strides.
Then the unicorn he had hoped for came into sight. “Clip!” Stile cried. “Thou didst know I needed thee!”
Clip played a saxophone tune of agreement. Stile vaulted to his back, and they were off at a much faster pace. “Aw, the troll told him,” Brown said disparagingly.
Of course that was true. In this frame of magic, coincidence was seldom unassisted.
Stile experienced the peculiar wrenching of separation again. They had once more passed outside the zone of juxtaposition, and his soul was all his own. The boundaries of the expanded curtain seemed to be quite irregular. He had supposed north would lead into the center of it. His other self had not intruded, letting Stile handle things his way, but the other’s presence was increasingly comfortable, and his absence increasingly jarring. Now the terrain seemed less familiar, for his other self’s experience with the land was absent. Also, now the overlapping terrain of Proton was gone; this was mostly barren rock and sand, in the science frame, easy to ignore in the presence of the Phaze vegetation, but still present when one cared to perceive it. Well, at least he would suffer no Citizen malice here; only the enemy Adepts could reach him.
Was there a valid parallel here? His soul was complete only when the geography was complete. Could the land be said to have a soul, perhaps in the form of the special mineral that the Citizens of Proton had depleted? It was odd, in one sense, that the Citizens resisted the transfer of Phazite, since it would dramatically enrich their world. But of course they would prefer to keep the frames partially overlapped, linked by the curtain so that in due course the Citizens could mine in Phaze as well as in Proton. They would equalize the frames by depleting both. The fact that such mining would do to the environment of Phaze what it had done to that of Proton, and also eliminate the remaining magic of Phaze, seemed not to concern the Citizens. There were, after all, other worlds in the universe to exploit, once this one was squeezed dry. Since Stile’s transfer of power-mineral would enable the frames to balance, freeing them to separate, that would forever deny the Citizens the opportunity of exploitation. They seemed willfully ignorant of the substantial risk that both frames would be destroyed long before such exploitation could be completed. Stile wondered whether the citizens of ancient Harappa, in the Indian subcontinent of Earth, had had a similar attitude. Had they denuded the land of its necessary resources until it could support their population no longer, so that they weakened and fell to Nordic barbarians in the sixteenth century B.C.? Wealth and power at the expense of nature were an inevitably lethal cancer. But there seemed to be no gentle way to convince cancer to practice moderation.
Well, he, Stile, was fated to have considerable power, it seemed, in the frame of Proton after the separation, and his other self would have it in Phaze, assuming that prophecy had priority over the Blue-be-banished prophecy. The resources of the Oracle-computer, which were obviously considerable, would be at his disposal, and the self-willed machines would cooperate. Those machines would have legal-person status, of course. He would be able to enforce a more sensible restraint on that errant society.
Stile sighed. Somehow the prospect of all that power and responsibility did not appeal to him. All he really wanted was to be in Phaze with his creature friends and the Lady Blue. That was what he could not have.
Would it be so bad with Sheen? Of course not. She was the best possible woman, her origin aside. Meanwhile, in Phaze, the Lady Blue would have her real husband back. She, at least, would not suffer.
Somehow he was not convincing himself.
Soon they were in sight of the unicorn herd, with a good route for the ball worked out. Stile suffered a pang, realizing that this was probably the last time he would see the Lady Blue. He would have to tell her and bid her farewell—and conceal if he could the way he actually felt about this coming separation. The break was inevitable; it was best that it be clean, without hysterics.
The Herd Stallion met him.
“Lord Blue, I will tell our plan, an thou dost prefer,” Brown volunteered. “Do thou go to Neysa and the Lady.”
Stile thanked her; she was a most helpful child at times, though somehow he was not eager to do what he had to do. He nerved himself and went directly to the protected inner circle, where Neysa and the Lady Blue awaited him.
He tried to tell himself he was happy to see them, but instead he found himself overcome by misgiving. He tried to smile, but they realized at once that something was wrong, and both came to him solicitously. “What is the matter, my Lord?” the Lady asked. “Does the campaign go ill?”
“It goes well enough,” Stile said. He had learned so much so recently and shared so little with her! They had just been on their honeymoon, and now it seemed years past.
“Then what we feared is true,” the Lady said, one hand on Neysa’s black mane. “I have my child of thee, and thou art leaving us.”
Was this the extent of her reaction? He knew she was capable of fierce displays of anger, sorrow, and love. How could she treat this as if it were commonplace?
“The prophecy of thy second husband no longer protects me,” he said gravely. “Thou hast conceived, and I am no longer essential. There is another prophecy, that Phaze will not be safe until the Blue Adept departs it. I am now the
Blue Adept; I would not put this frame in danger willingly.” And he realized as he spoke that the prophecies could indeed make sense; the present Blue Adept had to leave so that the defunct Blue Adept could return. Thus Blue would both leave and remain, both prophecies honored. “The frames will separate—and I must return to mine own.”
The Lady nodded. “Somehow I knew it would be thus. Prophecies care naught for human happiness, only the letter of their fulfillment.”
True; fate did not care. “But thou wilt not be alone,” Stile said quickly. “The soul of thy first husband, mine other self, survives. He shall have a human body again.”
Her composure faltered. “He lives?”
“Not exactly. He lost his body. But I believe I can restore it to him, and he will be the same as he was, as far as anyone can tell.”
Her brow furrowed. “But I love thee now!”
“And I love thee. But when thy husband lives, my place will be elsewhere. I thought him dead, else I would not have married thee. He gave up his body that Phaze might be saved, and now he must have it back. This is what is right.”
“Aye, it is right,” she agreed. “It is clear where my duty lies.”
She was taking it well—and that, too, was painful. He knew she loved him but would be loyal to her first husband, as Stile would be loyal to Sheen. This was the way it had to be. Yet somehow he had hoped that the Lady Blue would not take it quite this well. Was it so easy to give him up on such short notice?
Suddenly she flung her arms about him. “Thee, thee, thee!” she cried, and her hot tears made her cheek slippery as she kissed him.
That was more like it! She was meltingly warm and sweet and wholly desirable. “Thee, thee, thee,” he echoed, in the Phaze signal of abandonment to love, and held her crushingly close.