Split Infinity

by Piers Anthony

  And Hair made a dropshot. The ball slid off his paddle, bounced over the right edge of Stile’s court, and headed for the floor. A sucker shot. Stile had fallen for it.

  Stile, nonsensically, went for it. He launched himself forward, paddle hand outstretched. His feet left the floor as he did a racing bellyflop toward that descending ball. He landed and slid, his ribs parting further—but got his paddle under the ball three centimeters above the floor and flicked it up, violently.

  From the floor Stile watched that ball sail high, spinning. Up, up, toward the ceiling, then down. Would it land on the proper side of the net? If it did, Hair would put it away, for Stile could never scramble back in time. Yet he had aimed it to—

  The ball dropped beyond his line of sight. Hair hovered near, hardly believing his shot had been returned, primed for the finishing slam when the ball rebounded high. It was clearing the net, then!

  Stile heard the strike of the ball on the table. Then hell broke loose. There was a gasp from the audience as Hair dived around the table, reaching for an impossible shot, as Stile had done. But Hair could not make it; he fell as his hand smacked into the net support. Then Hair’s shoulder took out the center leg of the table, and the table sagged.

  Underneath that impromptu tent, Hair’s gaze met Stile’s as the robot scorekeeper announced: “Point to Stile. Score 17–11.”

  “Your backspin carried the ball into the net before I could get to it,” Hair explained. “Unless I could fetch it from the side as it dribbled down—”

  “You didn’t need to try for that one,” Stile pointed out. “I made a desperation move because I’m up against my point of no return, but you still have a six-point margin.”

  “Now he tells me,” Hair muttered ruefully. “I don’t think of that sort of thing when I’m going for a point.”

  “Your hand,” Stile said. “It’s bleeding.”

  Hair hauled his paddle hand around. “Bleeding? No wonder! I just broke two fingers—going for a point I didn’t need.”

  It was no joke. A robot medic examined the hand as they climbed from the wreckage of the table, and sprayed an anesthetic on it. Shock had prevented Hair from feeling the pain initially, but it was coming now. Little scalpels flashed as the robot went to work, opening the skin, injecting bone restorative, resetting the breaks, binding the fingers in transparent splint-plastic.

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to finish the game,” Hair said. “I’m not much for left-handed play.”

  “Stile—by TKO!” someone in the audience exclaimed. Then there was foolish applause.

  Rung Five was his. Stile had qualified for the Tourney. But he did not feel elated. He had wanted to win it honestly, not by a fluke. Now no one would believe that he could have done it on his own.

  Hulk intercepted them as they left the Game premises. He looked a little wobbly, but was definitely on the mend. He had a rugged constitution. “Stile, about that offer—”

  “Still open,” Stile said with sudden gladness.

  “Your girl was persuasive.”

  “Sheen has a logical mind,” Stile agreed.

  “I have nothing to lose,” Hulk said. “I don’t believe in magic, but if there’s a primitive world there, where a man can prosper by the muscle of his arm and never have to say ‘sir’ to a Citizen—”

  “See for yourself. I’m going there now.”

  “Stile, wait,” Sheen protested. “You have injuries! You’re worn out. You need rest, attention—”

  Stile squeezed her hand. “There is none better than what you provide, Sheen. But across the curtain is a Lady and a unicorn, and I fear they may be jealous of each other. I must hurry.”

  “I know about Neysa,” she said. “She’s no more human than I am, and why she puts up with you is beyond my circuitry. But now you have a lady too? A real live girl? What about my jealousy?”

  “Maybe I broke in at the wrong time,” Hulk said.

  “Do not be concerned,” Sheen told him sweetly. “I’m only a machine.”

  Stile knew he was in trouble again.

  “You are a robot?” Hulk asked, perplexed. “You made a reference, but I thought it wasn’t serious.”

  “All metal and plastics and foam rubber,” Sheen assured him. “Therefore I have no feelings.”

  Hulk was in difficulty. His eyes flicked to the lusher portions of her anatomy that jiggled in most humanly provocative fashion as she walked, then guiltily away. “I thought—you certainly fooled me!” He bit his lip. “About the feelings, I mean, as well as—”

  “She has feelings,” Stile said. “She’s as volatile as any living creature.”

  “You don’t have to lie for me, Stile,” Sheen said, with just that stiffness of body and voice that put him in his place. She had become expert at the human manner!

  “Lie?” Hulk shook his head. “There’s one thing you should know about Stile. He never—”

  “She knows it,” Stile said tiredly. “She’s punishing me for my indiscretion in finding a living woman.”

  “Sorry I mixed in,” Hulk muttered.

  Stile turned to Sheen. “I did not know I would encounter the Lady in the Blue Demesnes. I did not realize at first what she was. I destroyed the golem that had impersonated me, but did not realize the complications until later.”

  “And now that you do realize, you are eager to return to those complications,” Sheen said coldly. “I understand that is man’s nature. She must be very pretty.”

  “You want me to look out for Neysa’s interest, don’t you?” Stile said desperately, though he had the sensation of quicksand about his feet. “She’s there in the Blue Castle, alone—”

  “The Lady,” Sheen interrupted with new insight. “The Lady Blue? The one your alternate self married?”

  “Oh-oh,” Hulk murmured.

  Stile spread his hands. “What can I do?”

  “Why couldn’t I have been programmed to love a male robot!” Sheen exclaimed rhetorically. “You flesh-men are all alike! The moment you find a flesh-woman—”

  “It’s not like that,” Stile protested. “She is devoted to the memory of her husband—”

  “Who resembled you exactly—”

  “She told me off when—”

  “When you tried what?” she demanded.

  Now Stile raised his hands in surrender. “If I stay here four hours longer—?”

  “Eight hours,” she said firmly.

  “Six.”

  “Six. And you promise to return for the Tourney, after—”

  “Yes.”

  “That will give me time to put my own affairs in order,” Hulk said.

  Sheen laughed. Oh, yes, she had her reactions down almost perfect now.

  CHAPTER 18

  Oath

  They tried it and it worked: Hulk passed through the curtain. He stood amazed and gratified, looking around at the forest. It was dawn; Sheen had managed to hold Stile for more like eighteen hours, the last half of which was sleeping. Well, he had been in dire need of the rest, and she had treated him with assorted minor medical aids including a restorative heat lamp, so that he really felt much better now.

  “I never saw anything so beautiful,” Hulk said, gazing at the brightening world.

  “Yes, it is that,” Stile agreed. He had tended to forget the sheer loveliness of this land, when involved in other things. If all else were equal, he would prefer Phaze to Proton, for its natural beauty.

  Hulk had brought along a costume, per Stile’s advice. Now he watched Stile getting into his own. “Are you sure—?”

  “That ordinary people wear clothes here? I’m sure. Another thing: the language differs slightly. You have to—”

  He was interrupted by a sudden loud hissing. A smoke-exhaling serpent rose up, flapping its wings menacingly. It was a small dragon.

  Stile backed off warily, but the dragon followed, sensing compatible prey. One spell could have banished it, but its fiery breath made a sword uncertain. In any event
, Stile no longer had his sword. He retreated farther.

  “Let me try my beast-man ploy,” Hulk said. He jumped forward, bellowed incoherently to get the dragon’s attention, then raised both arms in a dramatic muscleman pose. It was extraordinarily impressive. He had spent years perfecting a body that was a natural marvel. He danced about, beating his chest and growling. He looked altogether foolishly menacing.

  The dragon turned tail and flapped off, whimpering. Stile dissolved in laughter.

  Hulk abated his antics, smiling. “That was fun. You often don’t need to fight, if you just look as if you’d like to. Was that thing really what it looked like?”

  “Yes. This really is a land of fantasy. When you struck that pose, you looked like an ogre.”

  “Literal ogres exist here?”

  “I believe they do. I’ve never actually seen one, but I’m sure that’s the correct analogy.”

  Hulk looked dubiously at his costume, then started putting it on. “I didn’t really believe in the magic aspect. I thought it might be matter transmission and odd effects.”

  “I had the same problem, at first. But it is better to believe; magic can kill you, here.”

  “I’ll take my chances. It’s like another aspect of the Game, with its special subset of rules. But it puts me in doubt what to do here. I don’t know the first thing about magic.”

  “Most people don’t practice it,” Stile said. “But you do have to be aware of it, and there are certain conventions. Maybe you’d better come with me, until you catch on. I’m going to the Blue Demesnes.”

  “What would I do in colorful demesnes? I know even less about courtly manners than I do about magic, and if Sheen’s suspicions about your Lady are correct, I should not be a witness.”

  “You might serve as my bodyguard.”

  Hulk laughed. “Since when do you need a bodyguard? You can beat anyone in your weight class in general combat, regardless of age.”

  “Here opposition doesn’t necessarily come in my weight class. It comes in yours. Someone is trying to kill me, sending things like demon monsters after me. I would feel easier if a good big man were keeping an eye out. You are conversant with hand weapons—”

  “All part of the Game,” Hulk agreed.

  “You could play dumb, like a monster, until you picked up the ways of this world, then go out on your own. You can cross back to Proton any time, too, by making a spell to pass you through the curtain.”

  “You have some status in this world? So it wouldn’t look strange to have a brute bodyguard?”

  “It seems I do. Or will achieve it shortly. If I survive the efforts of my anonymous enemy. So I’d really appreciate it if you—”

  “You are a generous man, Stile. You do me a favor in the guise of asking for one.”

  Stile shrugged. Hulk was no fool. “I’ll tell people I removed a thorn from your paw. But don’t consider it too much a favor. There is danger. You could get killed, associating with me.”

  “I could get killed just running the marathon! Let’s go.”

  They went. Stile led the way north as the sun cleared the forest and angled its fresh bright shafts between the branches, seeking the ground. They trotted across the opening fields toward the Blue Demesnes. As the castle came into view, a sun ray reflected from its highest turret in brilliant blue. This too, Stile thought, had to be added to the class of most beautiful things.

  Then he paused. “Do you hear it, Hulk?”

  Hulk listened. “Ground shaking. Getting louder.”

  “I don’t know whether dragons stampede or whether they have earthquakes here. We’d better hurry.”

  They hurried. As they crossed the plain around the castle they saw it: a herd of animals charging toward the same object.

  “Look like wild horses,” Hulk said.

  “Unicorns. What are they doing here?”

  “A whole herd? Could be coming to the aid of one of their number. Wild animals can be like that.”

  “Neysa!” Stile cried. “If something happened to her—”

  “We had better get over there and see,” Hulk said.

  “I should never have let Sheen delay me!”

  “I doubt you had much choice in the matter, and we both did need the rest. Is Sheen really a robot?”

  “She really is. Not that it makes much difference.”

  “And Neysa really is a horse—a unicorn who turns into a woman?”

  “That too. And a firefly. You will see it soon enough—if all is well.” Stile was increasingly nervous about that.

  They ran, moving into the marathon pace. Neither man was in condition for it, because this was too soon after the real one they had run. But this was not to be the full course. They approached the Blue Demesnes.

  But the unicorns were moving faster. Now their music sounded across the field, like a percussion-and-wind orchestra. In the lead was a great stallion whose tone was that of a fine accordion; on the flanks were lesser males whose horns were muted or silent. Evidently unicorns were not gelded, they were muted in public. In the center ran the mass of mature mares, carrying the burden of the melody. The stallion would play the theme, and the mares would reiterate it in complex harmonies. It was an impressive charge, visually and sonically.

  Now, from the west appeared another group, dark and low to the ground, moving faster than the unicorns. Stile struggled to make it out. Then he heard the baying of a canine-type, and understood. “Wolves! Probably werewolves!” he cried.

  “I am ignorant of conventions here, apart from what Sheen told me of what you had told her,” Hulk puffed. “But is such convergence of herd and pack usual?”

  “Not that I know of,” Stile admitted. “It could be Kurrelgyre, returning with friends—but I don’t see why. Or it could be the pack leader Kurrelgyre went to kill; if he were victorious, and sought revenge on the person who helped Kurrelgyre—I don’t know. They certainly look grim.”

  “Werewolves and unicorns are natural enemies?”

  “Yes. And both are normally unfriendly to man. Kurrelgyre and Neysa learned to get along, but—”

  “Now I’m no genius and this is not my business, but it strikes me that the arrival of these two forces at this time strains coincidence. Could this relate to you? If there were some alert, some way they would be aware of the moment you re-entered this frame—”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Stile said. “You see, I’m a natural magician in this frame—a focus of much power. But I have sworn off magic.”

  “And your frame-wife would like you to break that oath,” Hulk said. “So you can preserve the Blue Demesnes from further harm. And the animals would want you to keep your oath, so you will not become anathema to them. These two types of animals may just be united—against you. You were not joking about needing a bodyguard!”

  “You catch on rapidly,” Stile agreed.

  The two of them picked up speed though both were tiring, in an effort to reach the castle before either herd or pack. But it soon became evident that they would not succeed. The unicorn herd would arrive first, then the wolves.

  Now the wolf pack veered, orienting on Stile instead of the castle. There seemed to be ninety or a hundred of them, large dark animals with heavy fur and gleaming eyes and teeth that showed whitely with their panting. “I hope, despite my reasoning, that they’re on our side,” Hulk said, slowing to a walk.

  The wolves ringed them. One came forward, and shifted into man-form. A fresh scar ran across one cheek, and his left ear was missing. But it was Stile’s friend.

  “Kurrelgyre!” Stile exclaimed. “Thou wast victorious!”

  “That was not in question, once thou hadst shown me the way,” the werewolf replied. He peered at Hulk. “This monster-man—friend or foe?”

  “Friend,” Stile said quickly.

  “Then I sniff tails with thee, ogre,” Kurrelgyre said, extending his hand to Hulk.

  “Sure,” Hulk agreed awkwardly, taking the hand. He seemed to be havi
ng some trouble believing the transformation he had just seen.

  “Hulk is from the other frame,” Stile said quickly. “My bodyguard. He doesn’t talk much.” And he flashed Hulk a warning glance. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “I fear I wronged thee inadvertently,” the werewolf said. “I returned to my pack, but could not kill my sire without first explaining why—”

  “You killed your—” Hulk began, startled.

  Kurrelgyre turned, half-shifting into wolf-form. “Thou addressest me in that derogatory mode and tone?” he growled.

  “He knows not our ways!” Stile cried. “Even as I did not, at first, and thou didst have to set me straight. He meant thee no offense.”

  The werewolf returned all the way to man-form. “Of course. I apologize for mistaking thy intent,” he said to Hulk. “It remains a sensitive matter, and in a certain respect thou resemblest the type of monster that—”

  “He understands,” Stile said. “We all make errors of assumption, at first. Why shouldst thou not explain to thy sire? It was the kindest thing thou couldst do for one already ill to death.”

  Hulk nodded, beginning to understand. A mercy killing. Close enough.

  “I came to my sire’s den,” Kurrelgyre said grimly. “He met me in man-form, and said, ‘Why comest thou here? This place is not safe for thee, my pup.’ I replied, ‘I come to slay thee, as befits the love I have for thee, my sire, and the honor of our line. Then will I avenge mine oath-friend Drowltoth, and restore my bitch to prominence in the pack.’ Hardly did he betray his dignity, or yield to the ravage of distemper I perceived in him; in that moment he stood as proud as I remembered him of old. ‘I knew thou wouldst thus return in honor,’ he said. ‘How didst thou come to accept what must be done?’ I told him, ‘A man persuaded me, even as the Oracle foretold.’ And he asked, ‘Who was this good man?’ and I replied, ‘The Blue Adept,’ and he asked, ‘How is it that an Adept did this thing for thee?’ I said, ‘He was dead, and his double comes from the other frame to restore his demesnes.’ Then my sire looked beyond me in alarm, and I turned and discovered that others of the pack had come up silently during my distraction, and overheard. Thus the pack knew that the Blue Demesnes were in flux, and the word spread quickly. And my bitch spoke, and said, ‘Of all the Adepts, Blue alone has been known to do good works among animals, and if that should change—’ ”