They played, and soon Stile’s expertise told. He took queens with kings, while yielding deuces to aces. Steadily his hands grew, providing him with more options, while those of his opponent shrank. Luck? The luck had been in the grid.
In due course Stile was able to play seven aces and kings in succession, wiping out Beef’s queen-high remaining hand of seven with no luck allowed at all. He had won, and Rung Eight was his.
Beef shook his head ruefully. “I will remember that variant,” he said. He didn’t mind losing, but he hated to be outsmarted so neatly.
They returned to the Game-annex. But Stile’s two wins had attracted notice. A knot of serfs stood before the 35M ladder. “Hey, Stile,” a woman called. “Are you making your move this year?”
He should have known privacy would be impossible. He was too well known in these circles, and what he was doing was too remarkable. “Yes,” he said shortly, and made his way to the ladder. He punched the challenge for Rung Seven.
The holder of that Rung was already present. He was Snack, an average-heighted man who specialized in board games and light physical exercises. He was more formidable than the two Stile had just taken, but still not really in Stile’s class.
“I will respond to your challenge in one day,” Snack said, and left.
This was exactly the sort of thing Stile had feared. A rung-holder had to meet a challenge from the rung below, but could delay it one day. Stile had to rise rung by rung; he could not challenge out of order. He had no choice but to wait—and that would interfere with his return to Phaze.
Sheen took his arm. “There’ll be an audience tomorrow,” she said. “When a player of your caliber makes his move for a tenure-abridging Tourney this close to the deadline, that’s news.”
“I wanted to qualify quickly, so I could return to Phaze before the Tourney,” Stile said. “Neysa is waiting and worrying.”
Even as he said it, he knew he should not have. Somehow the words got out before his mental intercept signal cut them off. “Cancel that,” he said belatedly.
She looked straight ahead. “Why? I’m only a machine.”
Here we go again. “I meant I promised to return to meet her at the palace of the Oracle. It was her question to the Oracle that freed me. The only one she can ask in her lifetime—she used it up just to help me. I must return.”
“Of course.”
“I made a commitment!” he said.
She relented. “She did send you back to me; I should return the favor. Will you promise to return, to meet me again?”
“And to qualify for the Tourney. Yes. Because you have also sacrificed yourself for me.”
“Then we shall send you on your way right now.”
“But I have to compete for Rung Seven in one day!”
“So you will have to work fast, over there.” She drew him into a privacy compartment. “I’ll send you across to her—right after I have had what I want from you.” And she kissed him most thoroughly, proceeding from there.
She was a robot, he reminded himself—but she was getting more like a living woman than any he had known since Tune. And—he was not unwilling, and she did turn him on. It would be so easy to forget her nature … but then he would be entering another kind of fantasy world, and not a healthy one.
Yet how could he continue with a robot in one frame and a unicorn in the other? Even if he entered the Tourney and won, against all the odds, and located his other self in Phaze and assumed his prerogatives there—impossible dreams, probably—how would he alleviate the developing conflict between females?
Sheen finished with him, cleaned him up, brushed his hair, and took him to the dome geographically nearest the Oracular palace in the other frame, according to his understanding of the geography. They scouted for the curtain. They were also wary of the anonymous killer, but apparently the break in Stile’s routine had lost that enemy for the nonce. It was hard to keep track of a fast-moving serf on Proton!
The curtain did not intersect this dome, but they located it nearby. They went outside, into the polluted rarefaction of the atmosphere, and Stile donned his Phaze clothing, which Sheen had brought. She never overlooked details like that, thanks to her computer mind. He would not have dared to put on any clothing at all in the sight of any Proton serfs, but outside was the most private of places on Proton.
There was a narrowing plain, the ground barren. To the northwest a wrinkle of mountains projected, as grim as the plain. Only the shining dome brightened the bleak landscape. There were not even any clouds in the sky; just ominous drifts of ill-smelling smog.
“If ever you find a way for a robot to cross …” Sheen said wistfully. “I think that land must be better than this one.”
“My clothing crosses,” Stile said. “Since you can have no living counterpart in Phaze, it should be possible—”
“No. I tried it, during your absence. I can not cross.”
She had tried it. How sad that was, for her! Yet what could he do?
“Here—within a day,” he gasped, beginning to suffer in the thin air, and Sheen nodded. The air did not bother her; she breathed only for appearances. “You understand—there is beauty in Phaze, but danger too. I may not—”
“You will make it,” she said firmly, kissing him once more. “Or else.”
“Uh, yes.” Stile made what he trusted was the proper effort of will, and stepped through the curtain.
CHAPTER 14
Yellow
It was afternoon on Phaze, and the air was wonderful. The sky was a deep and compelling blue, punctuated by several puff-ball clouds. The mountains to the northwest were lovely. Stile paused to look at the pretty little yellow flowers at his feet, and to inhale the springlike freshness of it all.
How did this frame come to have such a pleasant natural environment, while Proton was so bleak? He was no longer certain that industrial pollution and withdrawal of oxygen could account for it all. What about water vapor? Obviously there was plenty of it here, and little in the Proton atmosphere. This was a mystery he must one day fathom.
But at the moment he had more urgent business. Stile made a mental note of the location of the curtain; sometime he would have to trace its length, finding better places to cross. But this was also a matter for later attention.
The landscape was indeed the same. A narrowing plain, a nearby mountain range, a bright sun. Remove the cute clouds, and the verdant vegetation carpeting the ground, and the copses of trees, and this was identical to Proton. It was as if these were twin paintings, BEFORE and AFTER the artist had applied the color. Phaze was the world as it should be after God had made the final touches: primitive, natural, delightful, unspoiled. Garden of Eden.
True to his memory, the Oracle’s palace was in sight. Stile set out for it at a run. But before he had covered half the distance, Neysa came trotting out to meet him. She held her head high, as they came together, so there was no possibility of striking him with her bright horn. Stile flung his arms around her neck and hugged her, burying his face in her glossy mane, feeling her equine warmth and firmness and strength. He did not need to thank her verbally for her sacrifice on his behalf; he knew she understood. He discovered her hair was wet, and realized that his own tears of reunion were the culprit.
Then he leaped to her back, still needing no words, and they galloped bareback in five-beat to the palace where Kurrelgyre waited in man-form.
Stile had spent his life on Proton, and only a week here in Phaze, but already Phaze seemed more like home. He had been gone only a night and day, but it seemed longer. Perhaps it was because he felt more like a person, here. Actually, the only other true human beings he had encountered in Phaze were the man at the curtain who had given him the demon-amulet, and the Black Adept; still—
Kurrelgyre shook hands gravely. “I am relieved to know thy escape was successful,” the werewolf said. “I reassured the mare, but feared privately thou mightst land between domes.”
“I did. But close enough
to reach the nearest dome before I suffocated.” Stile took a deep breath, still reveling in it.
“I should have crossed with thee, to make sure; but Neysa was waiting outside, and I never thought of—”
“I understand exactly how it is. I never thought of it either. I could have walked a quarter-mile along the curtain and willed myself back through to you, outside the Black Castle. That never occurred to me until this moment.”
Kurrelgyre smiled. “We live; we learn. No confinement near the curtain shall again restrain us.” He squinted at Stile. “Thou lookest peaked; have a sniff of this.” He brought out a sprig with a few leaves and a dull yellow flower, dried.
Stile sniffed. Immediately he felt invigorated. Strength coursed through his body. “What is that stuff?”
“Wolfsbane.”
“Wolfsbane? Something that curses wolves? How canst thou carry—”
“I am not in my lupine form. I would not sniff it then.”
“Oh.” Stile couldn’t really make much sense of this, but could not argue with his sudden sense of well-being. “Something else,” he said. “Didst thou not tell me that most of the people were parallel, existing in both frames? There are about five thousand Proton Citizens, and ten times as many serfs, and countless robots, androids, cyborgs, and animals—but I have not seen many people here on Phaze, and not many animals.”
“There are at least as many people here as on Proton, plus the societies of werewolves, unicorns, vampires, demons, and assorted monsters. But two things to note: first, we are not confined to domes. We have the entire planet to roam—many millions of square miles. So—”
“Miles?” Stile asked, trying to make a fast conversion in his head and failing.
“We use what thou wouldst call the archaic measurements. One square mile would be about two and a half square kilometers, so—”
“Oh, yes, I know. I just realized—archaic measurements—would that by any chance affect magic? I tried to do a spell using the metric scale, and it flubbed. Before I swore off magic.”
“That might be. Each spell must be correctly couched, and can only be employed once. That is why even Adepts perform sparingly. They hoard their spells for future need, as Citizens hoard wealth in Proton. May I now continue my original discourse?”
“Oh, of course,” Stile said, embarrassed, and Neysa made a musical snort of mirth. Stile squeezed her sides with his legs, a concealed hug. He tended to forget that she understood every word he spoke.
“So there are very few people for the habitable area, and many large regions are as yet uninhabited by men. Thou needst not be surprised at seeing none. The second reason is that many of the people here are not precisely the form of their Proton selves. They are vampires, elves, dwarves—” He broke off.
Stile wished he hadn’t. It had almost seemed his size was irrelevant in this frame. Foolish wish! “I never judged values in terms of size,” Stile said. “A dwarf is still a discrete individual, surely.”
“Of course,” Kurrelgyre agreed. It was his turn to be embarrassed.
They were now in the Oracle’s palace. “I have less than a day before I have to go back to Proton,” Stile said.
Neysa stiffened. “Go back?” Kurrelgyre demanded. “I understood thou hadst no commitment there. It was only to escape the prison of the Black Demesnes that thou—”
“I have a woman there,” Stile said. “She covered for me during mine absence. I have agreed to enter this year’s Tourney, that she be not shamed. Thus it is likely that my tenure on Proton will be brief.”
“The Tourney! Thou presumest thou canst win?”
“Doubtful,” Stile said seriously. “I had planned to enter in two years, when some top players would be gone and my strength would be at its peak—and even then the odds would have been against me. It is hard to win ten or twelve consecutive Games against top competition, and luck can turn either way. I would rate my chances at perhaps one in ten, for I could lose to a poorer player with one bad break.”
Neysa tooted questioningly. “Well, one chance in twelve, perhaps,” Stile amended. “I did not mean to brag.”
“The mare means to inquire what thou meanest to do if thou shouldst win the Tourney,” the werewolf said. “Since thou wouldst then be a Citizen, with permanent tenure—no need ever to depart Proton.”
Stile wondered in passing how the werewolf had come to know the unicorn well enough to translate her notes, in only one day. Maybe shape-changing creatures had natural avenues of comprehension. “A Citizen has virtually complete freedom and power. I would be under no onus to choose between frames. But I like Phaze; I think I would spend much of my time here anyway. Much depends on my situation here; if I should turn out to be a vicious person like the Black Adept, I think I’d prefer to vacate.” Yet the Citizen who was the Black Adept’s other self had not seemed to be a bad man; perhaps it was solely the absolute power that corrupted—power beyond that of any Citizen. What would an Adept be like, if he had residence in both frames and free access between them?
“It is a fair response,” Kurrelgyre said. “If thou must return for a Game within a day, only the Yellow Adept is within range to check, without the employ of magic. Would it not be better to yield this quest, being satisfied as thou art now?”
“Not while someone is trying to kill me here. That person must know who I am. If I can discover who I am in Phaze, I may know more about the nature of mine enemy. Then I can see about making this world safe for mine own existence. I gather mine other self failed to take such precaution.”
“Spoken like a werewolf,” Kurrelgyre said approvingly. Neysa sighed; she did not seem to agree completely, but neither did she disagree. Men will be men, her attitude said.
“Neysa, I want to be honest with thee,” Stile said, feeling the need to provide a better justification. “I like Phaze, I like thee—but this is not truly my world. Even if there were no threat to my welfare, I could not commit myself absolutely to stay here. I would need to know that my presence served in some way to benefit this world; that there was some suitable challenge to rise to. Something that needed doing, that perhaps only I could do. If there seems to be more of a need and challenge in the other frame—”
Neysa made another musical snort. “She inquires whether thou wouldst feel more positive if she released thee from thy vow of no magic,” the werewolf translated.
Stile considered. He understood that the acceptance of such a release would subtly or overtly alienate him from the unicorn. It was only his vow that made it possible for her to associate with him on their original basis. “No. I only want to know who I am. If I can’t survive without magic, maybe it’s best that I not remain here. I never want to be like the Black Adept. All I need is someone to spell me into the other frame in time for mine appointment there. Then I’ll return here for another look at another Adept. One way or another, I will settle my accounts in both frames. Only then will I be in a position to make a proper decision about residence.”
“I will spell thee through,” Kurrelgyre said. “In fact, rather than send thee pointlessly into new danger, I will investigate the Yellow Adept myself, and return with news. I think I can now recognize thy likeness, if I encounter it.”
“There is no call for thee to risk thyself on my account!” Stile protested.
“There is no call for me to impose my presence when the mare wishes to converse with thee alone.” And the man merged into the wolf, who bounded away to the north.
“Damn it, if I start sending others on my foolish quests, where will it end?” Stile demanded. “I’ve got to follow him, stop him—”
But the wolf was already beyond reach, traveling with the easy velocity of his kind. Probably Neysa could catch him, but only with difficulty. Stile knew Kurrelgyre thought he was doing Stile a favor, preserving him from risk, giving him time alone with Neysa—but this was not the sort of favor Stile cared to accept. It was not, he told himself, that Sheen had artfully depleted his sexual initiative imme
diately before sending him across the curtain. There was the principle of responsibility for one’s own actions.
The unicorn caught his mood. She started moving north. “Thanks, Neysa,” he said. “I knew thou wouldst understand.” Then, as an afterthought: “How art thou getting along with the wolf?”
She blew a noncommittal note. “Glad to hear it,” Stile said. He reached down around her neck and hugged her again.
Neysa quickened her gait into a gallop. “I don’t know what finer life I could have than galloping across the wilderness with you,” Stile said. “The only thing I miss—”
She made a musical inquiry. “Well, that’s it,” he said. “I like music. But since we found that music connects with my magic, I don’t dare play.”
This time her note was comprehensible. “Play!”
“But then the magic gathers,” he protested. “I have no wish to abbreviate mine oath. I played a little when I was alone in the Black Castle, but I am not alone now, and I do not want thee angry with me.”
“Play,” she repeated emphatically.
“Very well. No spells, just music.” He brought out his harmonica and improvised a melody to the beat of her hooves. She played a harmony on her horn. The duet was lovely. The magic gathered, pacing them, but now that he understood it he was not alarmed. It was merely a potential, until he implemented it—which he would not do.
He played for an hour, developing his proficiency with the instrument. He was getting into the feel of the harmonica, and playing about as well as ever in his life. This was a unique joy!
Neysa lifted her head, sniffing the wind. She seemed disturbed.
“What is it?” Stile inquired, putting away his harmonica.
The unicorn shook her head, unsure. She slowed to a walk, turning this way and that as if casting for something. Then she oriented on whatever it was, and resumed her northward trek. But there was something disquieting about her motion; her gait seemed unnatural.