He resumed his trek along the barred wall, moving rapidly enough to generate some heat, slowly enough to conserve energy. Pointless travel, except that it was better than just lying down and dying. Plenty of time for the latter later.
There was no escape. The labyrinth of the castle was interminable, and the barred wall was too. The Black Adept only had one kind of magic, but he was very thorough about that! Theoretically there should be an end to the wall somewhere—but that end was the Adept himself. What use, then, to search for it? No logic, no reasonable discussion could move a man with the power and alienation this one had shown. The Black Adept was in his fashion like a Proton Citizen.
A Citizen! Kurrelgyre had said the people of Phaze were the same as those of Proton—or had been, before the shifting of serfs had become extensive. An Adept could indeed be a Citizen, in his alternate self. In the one frame, the instrument of power was wealth; in the other, magic. In both cases, arrogance reigned supreme.
Stile kept moving. He had won marathons in the Game; he could survive for some time when he put his will to it. If he caught up to the Black Adept, he might incapacitate the man and escape. Or kill him, since the Adept seemed willing to let Stile die. No, he did not want to be a killer himself; monsters were one thing, but the Adept was a man. Stile was willing merely to circle around the Adept, to get outside the barrier and escape.
Did his mental decision not to kill a man differentiate him from the Adept-mode? Could it be taken as evidence that he would not be as thoroughly corrupted by the power of magic as other Adepts had been? He hoped so.
Strange that there was no food in this bleak castle. Didn’t the Black Adept eat? Probably his food supplies were well hidden in a convoluted storehouse, which would naturally be outside this barrier. Still, that raised more conjectures. Since this Adept did not conjure things from nothing, the way Stile’s magic had done, he must have to obtain natural food elsewhere. Did the Black Adept have to trade with peasants for supplies of grain, eggs, cabbages? He could not, then, live in absolute seclusion. His ready use of language suggested the same. He had contact with others; he just didn’t like it. Would any of those others be coming here to the castle? Would they help Stile? No, that seemed unlikely; the Adept could have supplies for a year at a time.
Stile moved slowly, conserving his strength, balancing his generated warmth against his thirst and hunger. He gave up following the interminable wall, and cut across the center of the castle as well as he could. But all the interior passages were dead ends; the configuration differed here. He wished he had some quick way to analyze the lines, but the castle was too complex; it would take him far longer than he had left to grasp its layout and locate the Adept. He also wished he had a good cutting tool to sever a line; since all of this was a single line, he could cut the Adept off from his castle anywhere. From his past. Would everything unravel, in the manner of the dragon? But there was nothing. His dagger could not damage the stonelike hardness of the material. The outer walls had had some give, but here they had none. Only a diamond drill or saw could do the job, or magic—
No!
All day Stile fought with himself, the thought of magic becoming more attractive as his physical condition deteriorated. But he refused to yield. It didn’t matter that no one would know if he conjured a cupful of water to drink; an oath was an oath. He would expire with his integrity intact; that was one thing the Black Adept could not deprive him of.
At last, night seeped into the castle again. Stile sank down to sleep but could not. He did not want to yield himself up so quietly to extinction!
He found the harmonica in his hand, unbidden. He had avoided making music, because of its magical connotation. Magic could occur in the ambience of music even when he did not voice it. His saddle had appeared obviously conjured by his unconscious wish while he made music. But wouldn’t it be all right to play, now so long as he willed no magic? Music reminded him of Tune, so long ago, and it was fitting to think of her again as he concluded his own tenure.
He played. The music wafted out, permeating the corridors and windows and convolutions of the castle, striking harmonics in the walls. He was making the sound, but he was listening too, and it was absolutely beautiful. He was mastering the harmonica, playing it with his heart, evoking a feeling of melody he had seldom before achieved. Perhaps it was his swan song, his final gesture. Nevertheless it was a satisfying way to go.
At last, tiring even of this, he put the instrument away and dropped into sleep. This time it was more peaceful, as if his fast had freed him of material concerns.
He was awakened by a low growl. Stile’s eyes cracked open, but his body did not move. He knew where his sword was; he needed to locate the animal. And to decide whether it was worth trying to fight. Why trade a quick death for a slow one?
Then, in the dark, a voice: “Stile.”
“Kurrelgyre!” he said. Stile put his face to the bars, to get closer. “This isn’t safe for thee!”
“Neysa went to the Oracle. It said ‘Curtain.’ Neysa did not understand what that meant, but I do. I sniffed around the castle. One corner of it intersects the curtain. Follow me.”
The curtain! Of course! Except—“I can’t do it; I swore no magic. It takes a spell to pass through.”
“Thou art true to thine oath. Thou couldst have escaped ere now, hadst thou been otherwise. But fear not; I will put thee through.”
Relieved, Stile followed the werewolf, pacing him on the other side of the wall. So Neysa had donated her single question the Oracle permitted to his cause! He would not have asked her to do that, yet now accepted the gesture gratefully.
It seemed only moments before Kurrelgyre brought him to the curtain. One small section of his prison intersected it. Apparently the Black Adept was not aware of it. That suggested the Adept was alive in both frames, unable to perceive or cross the curtain.
“We shall wait for thee at the Oracle’s palace,” Kurrelgyre said as Stile approached the glimmer. “Be mindful of the trust the mare places in thee, setting thee free of this frame.”
“I don’t know how long it will take me to—”
But the werewolf was already casting the spell. Stile passed through.
CHAPTER 13
Rungs
Stile landed outside a dome. He gasped—for the air was barely breathable. He might survive thirty minutes without a mask, but would not enjoy it. The limited oxygen of Proton’s atmosphere was further reduced to favor the needs of the dome, and the pollution of sun-dry industrial processes was dumped out here. He realized—was it for the first time?—that the barren surface of Proton was the result of man’s activities. Had the machine age not come here, the atmosphere would have remained like that of Phaze. Man’s civilization had made a heaven-planet into hell.
Fortunately the dome was within five minutes foot travel. He could see it clearly, for its illumination flowed through the force field, lighting the barren plain.
Stile, his fatigue somewhat abated by his rest and the shock of the cold night, walked briskly toward the dome, drawing his clothing tightly about him. So long as he kept his respiration down, the air was not too hard on his lungs. Running would be a disaster, though. His clothing helped shield him from—
Clothing! He could not wear that here! He was a serf.
Yet without it he would soon be in trouble from the cold. He would have to wear it as long as possible, then dispose of it just before entering the dome. Maybe he could recover it when he returned to Phaze.
But he could not return where he had left, for that would put him right back in the prison of the Black Adept. He needed his clothing for the other frame, but not in this locale. He would have to risk carrying it with him.
Stile reached the dome. It was a small one, evidently the private estate of a Citizen. It was hardly safe for a serf to intrude uninvited on such a place, but he really had no choice. These few minutes had made him uncomfortable; the less exposure to outside conditions, the better. He r
emoved his clothing, bundled it up with the shoes inside, and stepped through the dome wall.
Instantly he was in light and warmth. This was a tropical garden of the kind popular with Citizens, whose tastes seemed to run opposite to the external wasteland their policies were making on the planet. Exotic palms were at every available spot, with a cocoa-chip mulch beneath. No one was present—which was why Stile had entered here. If he were lucky, he might get through undiscovered.
He was not. An alert gardener challenged him before he had taken twenty steps. “Halt, intruder! You’re not of this estate.”
“I—came from outside. I—got lost.” Stile doubted he could afford to tell the truth, and he would not lie. “I had to come in; I would have died.”
“You look half dead,” the serf agreed.
Another serf hurried up. “I’m the garden foreman. Who are you? What are you doing outside without equipment? What are you carrying?”
That was a foreman, all right! “I am Stile, unemployed, formerly a jockey. I thought my life was threatened, so I tried to hide. But—” He shrugged. “It’s a different world out there.”
“It sure as hell is. Were you trying to suicide?”
“No. But I nearly died anyway. I have had no food or water for two days.”
The foreman ignored the hint. “I asked you what you are carrying.”
“This bundle—it is medieval Earth costume. I thought it would help me, in the other world.” He was skirting a fuzzy line, ethically, and didn’t like it. But again: wouldn’t the truth convey less of the situation to this man than this half-truth did? What serf would believe a story about a magic world?
The foreman took the bundle and spread it out on the ground. “A harmonica?”
Stile spread his hands silently. He was now in a position where anything he said would seem a lie, including the truth. Suddenly Phaze seemed like a figment of his imagination, the kind of hallucination a man exposed to oxygen deprivation and gaseous pollutants might have. Especially if he had also suffered from hunger, thirst, and cold. In the past, men had undertaken similar deprivations as rites of passage, provoking similar visions. What had happened to him, really?
“I’ll have to notify the Citizen,” the foreman said.
Stile’s hopes sank; this surely meant trouble. Had the man simply told him to clear out to serf quarters—
“Sir,” the foreman said.
“What is it, gardener?” the Citizen’s voice responded. It sounded familiar.
“Sir, a stranger has intruded from outside, carrying medieval Earth costume, including sword, knife, and a musical instrument.”
“Bring him to the viewer.” The voice gave Stile a chill. Where had he heard it before?
The foreman conducted Stile to a booth with a holo pickup. Stile stepped inside, knowing his whole body was being reproduced in image in the Citizen’s quarters. He was dirty and abraded as well as suffering from hunger and thirst; he must look awful.
“Name?” the Citizen snapped.
“Stile, sir.”
There was a pause. The Citizen would be checking the name in the computerized serf-listing. “The jockey and Gamesman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Play that instrument.”
The gardening foreman quickly located the harmonica and jabbed it at Stile. Stile took it and put it to his mouth. This was his proof of identity; an impostor could probably not match his skill. He played a few bars, and as it had a few hours before, the emerging beauty of the music transformed his outlook. He began to get into the feel of it—
“Very well, Stile,” the Citizen said, having no interest in the art of it. “Your present employer vouches for you. Wait here until his representative picks you up.”
His present employer? What could this mean? Stile did not respond, since no query had been addressed to him. He rejoined the foreman, who solemnly handed back the rest of his bundle.
Suddenly Stile recognized the voice he had heard. The Black Adept! This was the Proton-self of that evil magician, having no knowledge of the other frame, but very much like his other self. It made sense—this dome was very near the site of the Black Castle. Stile’s conjecture about Adepts and Citizens had been confirmed. Had this Citizen any reason to suspect him—
Stile breathed a silent sigh of relief. There was no reason for such suspicion, and Citizens hardly cared about stray serfs. Since another Citizen was taking Stile off his hands, that ended the matter. Stile would have to make his explanations to his own employer, instead of wasting the time of this one. And if one of the Black Adept Citizen’s serfs ever got lost, other Citizens would return the favor similarly. Serfs were hardly worth quarreling over.
A woman arrived, very well formed. As her face turned to him—“Sheen! How glad I am to see thee!” Oops—wrong language.
She frowned. “Come on, Stile. You had no business wandering outside. Suppose you had damaged the costume? It will go hard with you if you stray again.” She turned to the foreman. “Thank you. He was supposed to bring the costume to our employer’s isolation dome, and must have lost the way. He’s a klutz at times.”
“He tried to tell me he was unemployed,” the foreman said.
She smiled. “He used to be a jockey. He must have taken one fall too many.” She made a little circle about one ear with one finger. “These things happen. We apologize for the inconvenience to you.”
“It brightens the night shift,” the foreman said, admiring her body. Inconvenience became more tolerable when it brought a figure like this to the scene.
She took Stile firmly by the elbow and guided him along. “This time we’ll get you where you belong,” she said with an oblique smile.
He squeezed her hand. She had taken his prior advice to heart, and become so human it was almost annoying. But she had certainly bailed him out.
When they were safely in the capsule, flying through the tube toward a larger dome, Sheen explained: “I knew you’d return, Stile, somehow. I really am programmed for intuition. So I had my friends make up a robot in your likeness, and we got you a new employer. The moment the query on you came through the computer—”
“I see.” Her friends were the self-willed machines, who could tap into the communication network. In fact, some of them probably were the communication network. What an asset they were at times!
From the general dome they took a transport rocket to Stile’s original home dome. In a matter of minutes, the travel of several days by unicorn was reversed. That reminded him of another aspect. What should he say to Sheen about Neysa?
They returned to Stile’s old apartment. Sheen had kept it in good order—or the robot who bore his name had done so. It seemed Sheen had put the robot away as soon as news of Stile’s appearance reached her. Sheen had been most industrious and efficient on his behalf.
What had it been like, here, with two robots? Had they eaten, slept, made love? Stile found himself feeling jealous and had to laugh at himself. Obviously the robot-Stile was not self-willed. It would be a true machine, programmed by Sheen.
“We must talk,” Sheen said. “But I think first we must feed you and rest you. That curtain-frame has not treated you kindly. You are bronzed and scratched and gaunt around the edges.”
Stile’s thirst abruptly returned. He almost snatched at the cup of nutro-beverage she brought, and gulped it down. “Yes. Drink and food and rest, in that order,” he said. “And talk, of course.”
She glanced obliquely at him. “Nothing else?”
Ah, sex appeal! But he was restrained. “I think we should talk, then consider the else. You may not be pleased.”
“You may not be entirely pleased with what I have done, either,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “With my double?”
She laughed. “Stile, it’s impossible! He’s a robot!”
“Good thing there are none of that ilk here,” he agreed.
“You know what I mean. It’s just not the same.”
; “You speak from experience?”
“No. He’s not programmed for love.”
“I had come to that conclusion. Otherwise you would not have been so glad to have me back.”
After he had eaten and emerged from the dry-cleaning unit, they lay down together. In what way, he asked himself, was this creature inferior to Tune? Sheen looked and felt as nice, and she had displayed astonishing initiative. It seemed no one knew he had been absent a week. Any attempt to kill his robot double had of course been futile.
“Your friends have rendered this apartment private?” he inquired, remembering how it had almost become his prison. But for the device of the self-willed machines, who had made it seem he was here when he wasn’t—
“Completely.” She put her arms about him, hugging him briefly, but went no further. “Shall I tell you?”
What would give a logical robot or an illogical woman pause? “You had better.”
“Your new employer doesn’t care at all about horse racing. He cares about the Game. Each year he has sponsored a leading contender in the Tourney, but has never had a win. This year—”
“Oh, no! I’m expected to compete—”
“This year,” she agreed. “And it has to be you. The robot can not do it in your stead. Even were it legal, he can not match your ability. I have bought you security, Stile—but at the expense of your tenure.”
“You realize that’s likely to finish your mission too? One way or the other, I won’t need protection after I enter the Tourney.”
“Had there been any other way—” She sighed. “Stile, you were fired for cause. No blacklist was entered against you, because your reluctance to race again was understandable, but even so, very few Citizens were interested in you. My friends had to do a research-sifting to locate—”
“The one Citizen who would hire me,” Stile finished. “I don’t fault you for that; you did the only thing you could do, and did it excellently.”
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