Out of Phaze

by Piers Anthony

  “And thou’rt in ‘corn Demesnes!” Fleta retorted. “Didst mess with the ladder? Thou knowest that is not to be, by the pact ‘tween species!”

  “What dost the like of thee know of any pact?” the harpy demanded. “Dost think canst trot thy stud past Harpy Demesnes w’ impunity? Stay, filly, an we’ll goose thee across in our own fashion, after our sport with the other.”

  “What sport?” Mach asked, not liking the harpy’s attitude.

  “Their kind be e’er shy of males,” Fleta muttered. “I’ll say no more.”

  “Well, I’ll say more!” the harpy screeched. “First we’ll strip the leaves off thee, my fine morsel, then we’ll hold thee down while our choicest hen has at thy—”

  But Mach had grasped enough of the picture by this time. He hurled his axe at the obnoxious body. The harpy spread her wings and sailed upward with a desperate screech, barely in time; the axe knocked loose several greasy tailfeathers.

  “Wait and see, stupid man!” she screamed, gaining altitude. “Dost not know thou’rt already the plaything o’ an animal? We’ll show thee some real fury, an I bring my siblings back in a moment!”

  Furious, Mach hurled a stone at her, but the creature was already flapping her way between the trees to the west.

  He turned to speak to Fleta, and paused with dismay. She was gone.

  Astounded, he cast about. She couldn’t have returned along the path, for he had been on it and she hadn’t passed him. She couldn’t have hurdled the stream; she was too small. She must have gone into the bushes along the bank of the stream, searching for some other way across. But so quickly and silently; he had never seen her go!

  What had that harpy said about Harpy Demesnes? Mach suddenly made a connection. He had lived in Hardom, a city named, it was claimed, after the mythical harpies of Phaze. All the cities of Proton had similar designations: the first three letters of some creature, and the appendage “dom” for dome. He had taken it to be an innocent affectation. Now, abruptly, he realized that it could be more than that. There really were harpies, every bit as ugly as described in the myth, and apparently this was their region. Thus, perhaps, the geography of Proton did correspond with that of Phaze, to this extent. There could be a great number of the filthy birds in the vicinity!

  Then he heard a humming. He looked, and there was a bright little hummingbird, hovering over the path.

  Then it darted across the stream, touched the coil rope ladder, and took hold of a thread there. It carried this thread back across the stream, right to Mach himself.

  Amazed, he lifted his hand and took hold of the thread. The tiny bird let go and darted away, its errand done.

  Mach pulled on the thread, and it became a string, and then a stout cord that finally enabled him to haul the uncoiling ladder across. He tied its two loose ends to the broad branch, making sure it was firm.

  Now he needed to find Fleta, because he certainly was not going to leave her to the mercy of the harpies. Where had she gone?

  He peered into the bushes. “Fleta?”

  “Yes, Mach?” she said right behind him.

  He jumped. “Where were you? I was afraid—”

  She shrugged. “A girl needs some privacy sometimes.”

  “She does?”

  She laughed. “Wait till thou dost have to do it! I’i stand and watch.”

  “Do what?”

  “They don’t have to do it in thy frame?”

  “Don’t have to do what?”

  “Defecate.”

  “Of course they defecate! Why do you ask?”

  Her mirth became genuine curiosity. “But thou dost not?”

  “I’m a robot.”

  “Thou seemst much like a man to me. What be a rovot?”

  “Robot, not rovot. A—” He paused with belated realization. “Defecation! You mean you had to—”

  Her amusement returned. “I had not dreamed it such a well-kept secret! All those who eat must cast their leavings, e’en young females.”

  Now he found his face burning again. “I did not—”

  “Truly, thou’rt not the one I knew!” she said merrily. “He ne’er had such confusion!”

  “Well, he had functions I don’t.” But as he spoke, Mach realized it wasn’t true. He was in the living body now. In the night he had had to urinate, and now he felt an increasing abdominal discomfort. He realized that it had been building up for some time, but because he had no prior experience with digestion, he had dismissed it. He had been lucky that he had understood the process of urination; he could have become quite uncomfortable otherwise.

  Fleta shook her head with a certain understandable perplexity, then brushed it aside. “Come, we must cross before the dirty birds return.”

  “Yes, indeed!” he agreed.

  She showed him how to navigate the ladder. She climbed nimbly on it, then crossed over the river by using her hands and feet in the rope rungs. He followed, quickly adjusting to its give and sway, and scampered to the other end. He found his fallen axe and picked it up.

  “Now must roll it again,” she said.

  “But I tied it on the other side!” he said.

  She smiled, and untied it on the near side. As the second rope was freed, the ladder rolled itself up, as though guided by invisible hands along an invisible floor, and finished in one tight coil against the far tree. Only a thin thread remained behind, anchored to the rear tree. It was ready for the next user.

  “Close thy mouth, Mach,” Fleta said. “Else folk might think thou hast ne’er seen magic before.”

  Mach closed his mouth. They faced down the path. “Uh, if we can wait a moment,” he said.

  “Wait? Whatever for?” she asked brightly.

  His intestine was becoming quite urgent now. “The—privacy—”

  “Rovots need no privacy,” she reminded him.

  “That’s changed. Why don’t you go on ahead, and I will rejoin you in a moment.”

  “Oh, no, I must keep thee company, else thou dost get edgy.”

  He thought he was about to burst, and not from emotion. “I can spare your company for this moment.”

  “Well…” She took a step down the path, and he started to take one toward the bushes.

  Then she turned back. “No, I really must not leave thee unattended, Mach. This wood be not familiar to thee. Who knows what mess thou mightst get into, if—

  “Go!” he cried.

  Suppressing a smirk, she resumed her progress down the path. The minx had known all along!

  He plunged into the bushes, heedless of scratches. He found a halfway suitable place and set about n moving the necessary portion of his clothing. But he had harnessed it about him so effectively that this is difficult; it didn’t want to come off. He had to wrench out his waist-vine, and then the leaves of his costume fluttered down, loose.

  He squatted and let living nature take its course. Then he remembered that the living people of Proton cleaned themselves after this act, so that no soiling or odor would occur. They used special paper for this purpose, or sonic mechanism. He had neither here.

  He cast about, seeking some substitute. Nothing seemed to offer. He didn’t want to use any of the cloth of his costume.

  He heard a heavy flapping. The harpy loomed. He tried to duck down out of sight, but she spied him. “Ho what have we here? The bare essence!” she screeched.

  “Get out!” he exclaimed, embarrassed.

  “Hey, girls, we’ve found him!” she screamed. “I spotted him by the stench!” She laughed with a cackling sound.

  Now there was a whole flock of them, flapping in to see. Mach realized that he had indeed gotten into a mess. Those dirty birds were after more than laughter; their narrow eyes gleamed and their talons convulsed and drool dripped from their open mouths.

  He realized that he couldn’t escape them by running.

  His clothing was falling apart, and the bushes hampered him, and they were airborne and numerous. They would have him in a mome
nt.

  He lifted his axe, but they hovered just beyond its range, screaming imprecations. He could throw it, but then he would be without a weapon.

  “Fresh meat!” a harpy screeched, diving down from behind. He whirled and swung the axe, but she sheered off.

  Another dived from behind, and a third. Whichever way he faced, there were several behind him, ready to attack.

  Mach lunged to a tree, setting his back against it. Now he could defend himself better. But he couldn’t get away, and when his arm tired—

  In the distance was the sound of hoofbeats. There was music, too: the melody of panpipes.

  “Oh, damn!” a harpy cried.

  The beat and music got louder as the source approached rapidly. The ground shook with the hoof-strikes. The pipes played a militaristic air. The harpies scrambled up through the air, shedding feathers in their rush.

  The unicorn appeared, charging through the brush. Her horn speared at the last harpy, but the bird was already out of reach. “There’ll be another time, ‘corn!” she screeched.

  The unicorn stomped about, making sure that all the birds were gone. Then she leaped back toward the path, and the sound of her retreating hoofbeats faded.

  Mach relaxed. That creature had rescued him before, then disappeared; she had just done it again, and left again. Evidently she had no ulterior motive. Maybe she was just a guardian of the path, routing whatever monsters intruded on it. That was fortunate for him!

  He took a large leaf with which to clean himself off, then pulled his remaining clothing together as well as he could. He was even more ragged than before, but after the scrape with the harpies, he knew when he was well off. He made his way to the path.

  Fleta was coming back along it. “Oh, Mach!” she claimed, spying him. “I feared for thy safety!”

  “So did I,” he admitted. “But the unicorn saved me.”

  “Aye; I summoned her. These be the Herd Demesnes.”

  “You summoned the unicorn? How could you do that?

  She shrugged. “There be more to magic than conjuration. That creature is no enemy of thine, Mach.”

  “Apparently not. But I wish I understood her in live.”

  “Who can e’er know the true heart o’ another?”

  “Who, indeed!”

  She peered at his outfit. “I see—”

  “Never mind what you see!” he snapped, trying to adjust a swatch of cloth.

  “…that thou hast lost thy leaves,” she finished, returning to her normal impishness.

  They walked on along the path. It took them east for perhaps two kilometers, then debouched onto a broad grassy plain. Mach stood and stared.

  “Hast ne’er seen grazing land before?” Fleta inquired.

  “Never before,” he agreed. “This is marvelous! This whole world is green and growing!”

  “And thine is not?”

  “Mine is not,” he agreed. “Outside the domes there is only barren sand and air that living people can’t breathe.”

  “Air not to be breathed? How can that be?”

  “Pollution. The mines and factories pumped their wastes into the ground and water and air, until virtually all natural life was extinguished. The only suitable environment for life is maintained within the domes.”

  She shook her head. “Methinks I would not like thy world!”

  “I never thought about it. But now that I’ve seen this—I think I do like it better than Proton.” Actually, it was life he was coming to like, despite its inconveniences. He had never before experienced the sheer feeling of it. Even the discomfort was a pleasure of a sort, because it was an aspect of the new responsiveness of his body. When he made an error and suffered pain, that represented a far more effective feedback than the cautionary circuits he had known. A robot, for example, could chew a hole in his own finger, and some did, because there was no pain. That was unlikely to happen with a living person.

  “Dost like the taste of thy finger?” Fleta inquired teasingly.

  Mach jerked it away from his mouth. Had he been about to test that pain reflex?

  “Thou’rt funny,” she said.

  “And you are lovely,” he said. He reached for her, and she did not avoid him, and he brought her in to him, and she did not hold back. He kissed her, and she kissed back.

  “Ah, Mach, this be foolishness,” she said. “But I do like thee. I shall miss thee sorely when thou returnest to thy world.”

  Mach thought again of Doris, the cyborg girl with whom he had kept company. He had evidently liked her better than she liked him. He had known Fleta less than a day, yet already he felt a greater emotion for her than he had for Doris. That could be accounted for by his living system, whose functions and emotions could be stirred on an involuntary basis. But it seemed to him, objectively, that Fleta was a nicer girl than Doris, even after all reasonable allowances were made for the differences between their frames and their states.

  “Fleta, is it really forbidden for us—for you and me—to like each other?”

  “Mach, I think it is. I—there are things about me that—an ye knew of them, I think thou wouldst not hold me this close.”

  “Yet you know of them—and you do not object?”

  “Mayhap I be more foolish than thee.” And she kissed him again. The kiss became intense, and he knew that whatever else might be the case, her feeling for him was genuine. She believed that he would not like her, once he knew her secret; he doubted that this would be the case, but the knowledge that he could not remain with her after he learned how to return to his own frame restrained him. She was forbidden, not because there was anything wrong about her, but because he was not of her world. He found that deeply disturbing.

  “Be these tears thine or mine?” she inquired.

  “Mine,” he said. “My first.”

  “Nay, mine too, and I think not my last.”

  “Fleta, I like you because you are a lovely girl who has helped me face this strange world. I lost my girl-friend in the other frame. Therefore my foolishness is understandable. But if you know we are not for each other, why do you waste your time with me?”

  “I should not answer,” she said.

  He smiled sadly. “But I think you will.”

  “I will. My—my mother loved thy father—me; Bane’s father, but always knew he must wed Bane’s mother, the Lady Blue. And so it was, and rightly so.”

  “The Lady Blue?” he asked. “Citizen Blue is my father.”

  “Aye. He married first the Lady Blue, and then he died, and then he went to thy frame and begot thee. Adept Stile stayed here and begot Bane. And I, even as my dam, seem partial to thy line. Bane knew better; ‘twas e’er a game with him. But thou dost not know, and—and O, I do thee such wrong!”

  “Then tell me the wrong you are doing, so I can judge for myself!”

  She shook her head. “Too soon thou willst know, and then it will end. I lack the courage of my mother; cannot tell thee yet.”

  “You are married to another!” he exclaimed.

  “Nay, Mach!”

  “Then I am! Or about to be. Something like that.”

  “Nay, we both be free, that way.”

  “Then I just don’t understand!”

  “For that give I thanks.” She kissed him again, then separated. “We must on to the Blue Demesnes. But it be noon; we must eat, ere we grow weak from hunger.”

  “You’re changing the subject!” he said.

  “Aye.”

  “I wish you would just tell me, and let me judge.”

  “What dost thou think of animals?” she inquired.

  “Animals? You mean like—like dragons?”

  “Aye. And pigheads and such.”

  “I don’t see the relevance, but very well, I’ll answer. I’m a robot, so I haven’t had much experience with animals of any type. But I know they are living creatures, and so they have needs and feelings, and that is to be respected. That unicorn, for example; twice she has saved my life, but I d
on’t know her motive. But regardless, she’s a beautiful creature, and I respect her view of her life. As long as an animal doesn’t attack me, I—well, what are animals except other kinds of living creatures? The least of them has a greater personal reality than I do.”

  She embraced him again. “Thou’rt lovely, Mach.”

  “Now will you answer my question?”

  She smiled. “Nay.”

  “But I answered yours!”

  “Aye.” She disengaged, giving him no further answer. He sighed with frustration. There was so much he had yet to learn about the ways and motives of living creatures, Fleta especially.

  She found them more fruit, and they ate. Then they trekked north across the plain. Mach’s living legs were tiring, but he did not complain; after all, if delicate Fleta could keep the pace, so could he.

  Progress was good, because of the open and level ground. But in midafternoon Fleta paused. “Mach, we have a choice,” she said. “The most direct path to the Blue Demesnes be straight north from here, but the most secure path be toward the east.”

  “What is the difference in time?”

  “We might be there by nightfall, an we take the left through the Lattice. An we take the other, we must night on the trail, and arrive tomorrow noon.”

  Mach was tempted to specify the right path, so as to be the night with her, but discipline prevailed. “The left, then.”

  She nodded, and he realized that she had hoped he would choose the other path. He was coming to understand her quite well by the nuances of her gestures. But his machine heritage provided him a type of discipline that many living folk lacked.

  They went left, and within the hour reached the Lattice. This turned out to be a huge network of cracks in the earth. At the fringe the cracks were shallow, but soon they became formidable, several centimeters across and quite deep, extending in endless zigzags. They had to step carefully to avoid wedging their feet in them.

  The cracks became larger yet, until they were chasms in themselves. “Now must we be silent,” Fleta said.

  “Silent? Why?”