Stile drew up in a deep forest. The smell of turf and fungus was strong, and old leaves crackled underfoot. The light from four moons beamed down between the branches to illuminate the ground. It would have been near dawn, on Proton; it seemed to be the same time of day here. The same number of moons as Proton, too; there were seven, with three or four usually in sight. Gravity, however, seemed close to Earth-normal, so if this was really outside a dome, it was a spot on a larger or denser planet than Proton.
He turned to face his pursuers—but there were none. They had not passed through the shimmering curtain. He looked carefully, locating it—and saw, dimly, the light at the hall he had left, with the scattered crates. Sheen was there—one of them—and several androids. One android came right at him—and disappeared.
Stile watched, determined to understand this phenomenon, because it reflected most directly on his immediate welfare. He had passed through—but the robots and androids had not. This thing transmitted only human beings? Not artificial ones? That might be reasonable. But he hesitated to accept that until there was more data.
In his absence the fight on the other side of the curtain soon abated. The androids and fake-Sheen departed, apparently on his trail again—a false one. Only the real Sheen remained, as the squad evidently considered her irrelevant—and it seemed she could not perceive either him or the curtain.
Stile decided to risk crossing back, if only to tell her he was safe. There was risk, as the squad could be lurking nearby, hoping Sheen would lead them to him again—but he could not leave her tormented by doubt. This could be a much better hideout than the crate! He stepped through the curtain—and found himself still in the dark forest. He had crossed without being matter-transmitted back.
He looked back—and there it was, behind him. Through it he saw the imprint of his feet in the soft forest loam, the leaves and tufts of grass and moss all pressed flat for the moment. And, like a half-reflection, the square of light of the service hall, now empty.
He passed through the curtain a third time. There was no tingle, no sensation. He turned about and looked through—and saw Sheen searching for him, unrobotic alarm on her cute face. Oh, yes, she cared!
“I’m here, Sheen!” he called, passing his hand through. But his hand did not reach her; it remained in the forest. She gave no evidence of seeing or hearing him.
She would think him dead—and that bothered him more than the notion of being trapped this side of the matter-transmission screen. If she thought him dead, she would consider her mission a failure, and then turn herself off, in effect committing suicide. He did not want her to do that—no, not at all!
“Sheen!” he cried, experiencing a surge of emotion. “Sheen—look at me! I’m caught here beyond a one-way transmit—” But if it really were one-way, of course she would not be able to see him! However, it had to be two-way, because he had seen people traveling both ways through the curtain, and he had seen the forest from Proton, and could now see Proton from the forest. “Sheen!” he cried again, his urgency almost choking him.
Her head snapped around. She had heard him!
Stile waved violently. “Here! Here, Sheen! Through the curtain!”
Her gaze finally fixed on him. She reached through the curtain—and did not touch him. “Stile—” Her voice was faint.
He grabbed her hands in his, with no physical contact; their fingers phased through each other like images, like superimposing holographs. “Sheen, we are in two different worlds! We can not touch. But I’m safe here.” He hoped.
“Safe?” she asked, trying to approach him. But as she passed through the curtain, she disappeared. Stile quickly stepped across himself, turning—and there she was on the other side, facing away from him, looking down the hall.
She turned and saw him again, with an effort. “Stile—I can’t reach you! How can I protect you? Are you a ghost?”
“I’m alive! I crossed once—and can’t cross back. It’s a whole new world here, a nice one. Trees and grass and moss and earth and fresh air—”
They held hands again, each grasping air. “How—?”
“I don’t know how to cross! There must be a way to return, because I’ve seen a woman do it, but until I find out how—”
“I must join you!” She tried again to cross, and failed again. “Oh, Stile—”
“I don’t think it works for nonhumans,” he said. “But if I can remain here for a week, and find out how to return—”
“I will wait for you,” she said, and there was something plaintive in her stance. She wanted so much to protect him from harm, and could not. “Go into that world—maybe it is better for you.”
“I will come back—when I can,” Stile promised.
He saw the tears in her eyes. To hell with the assorted humanoid artifices such robots were programmed with; she meant it! Stile spread his arms, at the verge of the curtain. She opened hers, and they embraced intangibly, and kissed air, and vanished from each other’s perception.
He had promised—but would he be able to keep that pledge? He didn’t know, and he worried that Sheen would maintain her vigil long after hope was gone, suffering as only a virtually immortal robot could suffer. That hurt him, even in anticipation. Sheen did not deserve to be a machine.
Stile did not tease himself or Sheen further. He strode on through the curtain and into the forest. He had a fair knowledge of earthy vegetation, because aspects of the Game required identification of it, and a number of Citizens imported exotic plants. The light was poor, but with concentration, he could manage.
The nearest tree was a huge oak, or a very similar species, with the air-plants called Spanish moss dangling from its branches. Beyond it was a similarly large spruce, or at any rate a conifer; this was the source of that pine-perfume smell. There were large leaves looking like separated hands in the shadow, and pine needles—so there must be a pine tree here somewhere—but mostly this was a glade with fairly well-established grass in the center. Stile liked it very well; it reminded him of an especially exotic Citizen’s retreat.
Dawn was coming. There was no dome above, no shimmer of the force field holding in the air. Through the trees he saw the dark clouds of the horizon looming, trying like goblins to hold back the burgeoning light of the sun, and slowly failing. Planet Proton had no such atmospheric effects! Red tinted the edges of the clouds, and white; it was as if a burning fluid were accumulating behind, brimming over, until finally it spilled out and a shaft of scintillating sunlight lanced at lightspeed through the air and struck the ground beside Stile. The whole thing was so pretty that he stood entranced until the sun was fairly up, too bright to look at anymore.
The forest changed, by developing daylight. The somberness was gone—and so was the curtain. That barrier had been tenuous by night; it could still be present, but drowned by the present effulgence. He could not locate it at all. That bothered him, though it probably made no difference. He walked about, examining the trees; some had flowers opening, and stray rustlings denoted hidden life. Birds, squirrels—he would find out what they were in due course.
He liked this place. It could have been a private garden, but this was natural, and awesomely extensive.
Caution prevented him from shouting to check for echoes, but he was sure this was the open surface of a planet. Not at all what he would have expected from a matter-transmission outlet.
He found a large bull-spruce—damn it, it was a spruce!—its small dry branches radiating out in all directions. This was the most climbable of trees, and Stile of course was an excellent climber. He did not resist the temptation. He mounted that big old tree with a primitive joy.
Soon he was in the upper reaches, and gusts of wind he had not felt below were swaying the dwindling column of the trunk back and forth. Stile loved it. His only concern was the occasional pain in his knees when he tried to bend them too far; he did not want to aggravate the injury carelessly.
At last he approached the reasonable limit of safet
y. The tops of surrounding trees were dropping below him, their foliage like low ledges from this vantage. He anchored himself by hooking legs and elbows conveniently, and looked about.
The view was a splendor. The forest abutted the clifflike face of a nearby mountain to one side—south, according to the sun—and thinned to the north into islands of trees surrounded by sealike fields of bright grain. In the distance the trees disappeared entirely, leaving a gently rolling plain on which animals seemed to be grazing. Farther to the north there seemed to be a large river, terminating abruptly in some kind of crevice, and a whitish range of mountains beyond that. To either side all he could see was more forest, a number of the individual trees taller than this one. The mountain to the south faded upward into a purple horizon.
There seemed to be no sign of civilized habitation. This was less and less like a matter-transmission station! Yet if not that, what was it? He had seen other people pass through the curtain, and had done so himself; there had to be something more than a mere wilderness.
He looked again, fixing the geography in his mind for future reference. Then he spied a structure of some sort to the northeast. It looked like a small medieval castle, with high stone walls and turrets, and perhaps a blue pennant.
Very well: human habitation did exist. Yet this remained a far cry from modern technology. He liked this world very well, but he simply didn’t trust it. Matter transmission could not exist without an extremely solid industrial base, and if that base were not here, where was it? Was this a sweetly baited trap for people like him, who were in trouble on Proton? In what manner would that trap be sprung?
Stile climbed down. His best course, as he saw it, would be to go to that castle and inquire. But first he wanted to check the region of the curtain again, fixing it absolutely in his mind so he could find it any time he wanted to—because this was his only contact with his own world, and with Sheen. This wilderness-world might be an excellent place to stay for a while, but then he would need to go home, lest he suffer exile by default.
He was approaching the invisible curtain—when a man popped out of it. Friend or foe? Stile decided not to risk contact, but the man spied him before he could retreat to cover. “Hey—get lost?” the stranger called. “It’s over here.”
“Uh, yes,” Stile said, approaching. This did not seem to be an android or robot. Abruptly deciding not to compromise on integrity even by implication, he added: “I came through by accident. I don’t know where I am.”
“Oh, a new one! I first crossed last year. Took me six months to learn the spells to cross back. Now I go over for free meals, but I live over here in Phaze.”
“Spells—to cross back?” Stile asked blankly.
“How else? From the other side you just have to will-to-cross hard enough, but from this side only a spell will do it—a new one every time. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“I—thought this was a matter-transmission unit.”
The man laughed as he walked to a tree and reached into the foliage of a low branch. A package came down into his hands. “There’s no such thing as matter transmission! No, it’s the magic curtain. It’s all over—but it’s not safe to use it just anywhere. You have to make sure no one on the other side sees you go through. You know how those Citizens are. If they ever caught on there was something they didn’t control—”
“Yes. I am unemployed because of Citizen manipulation.”
“Which explains why you had the will-to-cross, first time. The curtain’s been getting clearer, but still you can’t even see it if you don’t have good reason, let alone use it. Then you have to will yourself through, strongly, right as you touch it. Most people never make it, ever.” The man opened his package and brought out a crude tunic, which he donned.
Stile stared. “You wear clothes here?” He remembered the clothing-marks on the woman.
“Sure do. You’d stick out like a sore toe if you went naked here in Phaze!” The man paused, appraising Stile. “Look, you’re new here, and sort of small—I’d better give you an amulet.” He rummaged in his bag, while Stile suppressed his unreasoning resentment of the remark about his size. The man had not intended any disparagement.
“An amulet?” Stile asked after a moment. He considered himself to be swift to adjust to new realities, but he found it hard to credit this man’s evident superstition. Spell—magic—amulet—how could a Proton serf revert to medieval Earth lore so abruptly?
“Right. We’re supposed to give them to newcomers. To help them get started, keep things smooth, so there’s no ruckus about the curtain and all. We’ve got a good thing going here; could sour if too many people got in on it. So don’t go blabbing about the curtain carelessly; it’s better to let people discover it by accident.”
“I will speak of it only cautiously,” Stile agreed. That did make sense, whatever the curtain was, matter transmission or magic.
The man finally found what he was looking for: a statuette hanging on a chain. “Wear this around your neck. It will make you seem clothed properly, until you can work up a real outfit. Won’t keep you warm or dry; it’s just illusion. But it helps. Then you can pass it on to some other serf when he comes across. Help him keep the secret. Stay anonymous; that’s the rule.”
“Yes.” Stile accepted the amulet. The figure was of a small demon, with horns, tail, and hooves, scowling horrendously. “How does this thing work?”
“You just put it on and invoke it. Will it to perform. That’s all; it’s preset magic that anybody can use. You’ll see. You probably don’t really believe in magic yet, but this will show you.”
“Thank you,” Stile said, humoring him.
The man waved negligently as he departed in his tunic and sandals, bearing south. Now Stile made out a faint forest path there, obvious only when one knew where to look. In a moment he was gone.
Stile stared down at the amulet. Belief in magic! The man had spoken truly when he said Stile was a skeptic! Yet the fellow had seemed perfectly sensible in other respects. Maybe it was a figure of speech. Or a practical joke, like an initiation rite. See what foolishness newcomers could be talked into. Emperor’s new clothes.
He shook his head. “All right, I won’t knock what I haven’t tried. I’ll play the game—once. Amulet, I invoke you. Do your thing.” And he put the chain on over his head.
Suddenly he was strangling. The chain was constricting, cutting off his wind and blood. The amulet seemed to be expanding, its demon-figure holding the ends of the chain in its miniature hands, grinning evilly as it pulled.
Stile did not know how this worked, but he knew how to fight for his life. He ducked his chin down against his neck and tightened his muscles, resisting the constriction of the chain. He hooked a finger into the crease between chin and neck on the side, catching the chain, and yanked. He was trying to break a link, but the delicate-seeming metal was too strong; he was only cutting his finger.
More than one way to fight a garrote! Stile grabbed the grinning demon by its two little arms and hauled them apart. The little monster grimaced, trying to resist, but the chain slackened. Stile took a breath, and felt the trapped blood in his head flow out. Pressure on the jugular vein did not stop the flow of blood to the brain, as many thought; it stopped the return of the blood from the head back to the heart. That was uncomfortable enough, but not instantly conclusive.
But still the demon grew, and as it did its strength increased in proportion. It drew its arms together again, once more constricting the loop about Stile’s neck.
Even through his discomfort, Stile managed a double take. The demon was growing? Yes it was; he had observed it without noting it. From an amulet a few centimeters long it had become a living creature, swelling horrendously as it fought. Now it was half the size of Stile himself, and fiendishly strong.
Stile held his breath, put both hands on the hands of the demon, and swung it off its feet. He whirled it around in a circle. It was strong—but as with robot strength, this was not suf
ficient without anchorage or leverage. This was another misconception many people had, assuming that a superman really could leap a mile or pick up a building by one corner or fight invincibly. That belief had cost many Gamesmen their games with Stile—and might cost this demon its own success. As long as the creature clung to the chain, it was in fact captive—and when it let go, even with one hand, it would free Stile from the constant threat of strangulation. That would be a different contest entirely.
The demon clung tenaciously to its misconception. It did not let go. It grinned again, showing more teeth than could fit even in a mouth that size, and clamped its arms yet closer, tightening the noose. Stile felt his consciousness going; he could hold his breath for minutes, but the constriction was slowing his circulation of blood, now squeezing his neck so tightly that the deeply buried carotid artery was feeling it. That could put him out in seconds.
He staggered toward a towering tulip tree, still whirling his burden. He heaved mightily—and smashed the creature’s feet into the trunk.
It was quite a blow. The thing’s yellow eyes widened, showing jags of flame-red, and the first sound escaped from it. “Ungh!” Some chain slipped, giving Stile respite, but still the demon did not let go.
Stile hauled it up and whirled it again, with difficulty. He had more strength now, but the demon had continued to grow (How the hell could it do that? This was absolutely crazy!), and was at this point only slightly smaller than Stile himself. It required special power and balance to swing it—but this time its midsection smashed into the tree. Now its burgeoning mass worked against it, making the impact stronger. The demon’s legs bent around the trunk with the force of momentum; then they sprang back straight.
Stile reversed his swing, taking advantage of the bounce, bringing the demon around in the opposite arc and smashing it a third time into the tree. This time it was a bone-jarring blow, and a substantial amount of slack developed in the chain.
Stile, alert for this instant, slipped his head free in one convulsive contortion. The chain burned his ears and tore out tufts of his hair—but he had won the first stage of this battle.