Juxtaposition aa-3

by Piers Anthony

  "Now what is the story?" Cirtess inquired. "I think you owe me the truth."

  "I'm tracing a two-month-old message," Stile said. "Your personnel would not permit entry to a necessary site."

  "Of course not! I'd fire any serf who let unauthorized persons intrude."

  "So I had to find a way through. It has nothing to do with you personally; I simply have to trace that message to wherever it originated."

  "Why didn't you tell me this by phone? I am not unreasonable when the issue is clear; I might have permitted your mission, for a reasonable fee."

  "I happen also to need to increase my fortune."

  Cirtess nodded. "Could this relate to the several Citizens who huddle in the serf lavatory, spying on your progress?"

  "They gave me fifteen-to-one odds on a kilo of Protonite that I couldn't make it. I need that sort of advantage."

  "So you called me to rouse my curiosity, so my serfs wouldn't laser you out of hand?"

  "Also so as not to deceive you," Stile agreed. "I do not like deception, outside the framework of an established game. You were not properly part of our game."

  "So you inducted me into it. A miscalculation could have resulted in your early demise."

  "My life has been threatened before. That's one reason I'm tracing this message; I believe its source will offer some hint of the nature of my nemesis."

  Cirtess nodded again. "And the Citizens were willing to give better odds because of the factor of danger. Very well. I appreciate cleverness, and I'm as game for a wager as anyone. I will let you go without objection if you will wager your winnings with me."

  "But my winnings will be fifteen kilos of Protonite!"

  "Yes, a substantial sum. I can cover it, and you must risk it. Choose your bet now — or I shall see that you lose your prior bet by not completing your survey. I can legitimately destroy your tracer machine."

  "You play a formidable game!" Stile exclaimed. "You're forcing me to double or nothing."

  "Indeed," Cirtess agreed, smiling. "One does not brave the lion's den without encountering challenge."

  Stile emerged from the dome with his crew and machine, his knees feeling somewhat weak. "I have the data," he announced.

  Waldens glanced at the indicator on the machine. "So you do, and within the time limit. You've won fifteen. But why are you so shaky?"

  "Cirtess caught me. He pressured me."

  The other Citizens laughed. "Why do you think we bet against you?" one said. "Cirtess can buy and sell most of us. We knew you were walking into the lion's den."

  "How did you wiggle out?" Waldens asked.

  "He required me to bet my winnings with him," Stile said, grimacing. "That leaves me only one kilo uncommitted, until that bet is settled."

  "What is the bet?"

  "That is private. It is a condition of the wager that I tell no one its nature until it is settled, which should be shortly."

  "Ah, I like that sort of mystery. Cirtess must be playing a game with us, to make up for our intrusion into his privacy. Very well — I'll go for your single kilo. Do you have any suitable notions?"

  Stile considered. "I don't care to bet on this message-tracing any more. Maybe we can find something disconnected." They were walking toward the next cable juno-tion, guided by the machine coding. It was pointless to trace every meander of the cable itself when this shortcut was available. Stile turned a comer and entered a short concourse between major domes. At this moment there were no other people in it. "I know! Let's bet on the sex of the serfs to traverse this passage in the next ten minutes. That should be a fairly random sampling."

  "Good enough," Waldens agreed. "I'll match your kilo, betting on female."

  "Now wait," the Citizen with the feather hat protested. He had recovered it after Stile's use. "The rest of us are being cut out."

  "Bet with each other," Stile said. "I am at my present limit." And Mellon nodded emphatically.

  "There's little verve in wagers with other Citizens. You are the intriguing factor here."

  "Well, I'll be happy to hedge my bet," Stile said. “I bet Waldens that more males will pass, and you that more females will pass."

  "No good. That puts Waldens and me against each other, in effect. I want you. I want your last kilo."

  "All right," Waldens said. "I relinquish my bet with Stile. You can have this one."

  "Hey, I want to bet too!" the iridium coin Citizen protested, and the others joined in.

  "All right! I'll cover you all," Feather Hat said. "One kilo each. I say more females in ten minutes from — mark."

  "Good enough," Waldens agreed. "Five of us, including Stile, are betting you that more males will pass. We all win or lose with Stile."

  Now they waited. For two minutes no one came from either direction. "Suppose none comes — or it's even?" Stile asked. He was laboring under continuing tension.

  "Then we extend the time," Waldens said. "Sudden death. Agreed?"

  The others agreed. They all wanted a settlement. The particular bets didn't matter, and the details of the bets didn't matter; just as long as they could share the excitement of honest gambling.

  Then two male serfs came, chatting together. Both went silent as they spied the group of Citizens in the center of the concourse. "Proceed apace," Waldens said, and the two hastily passed by.

  A minute later a third serf came, from the opposite direction. Another male. The feather-hatted Citizen frowned.

  Then the pace picked up. Three females passed, two more males, a female, three more males, and another female. At eight minutes the score was eight males, five females. "Must be a male work shift getting out," Waldens said, satisfied. 'To think I almost bet on the girls!"

  But in the final minute there were two more males and six more females. As the time expired, the score was ten males, eleven females.

  The feather-hatted Citizen smiled broadly. "I skunked you all! Five kilos!" He nodded toward Stile. "And I beat him. Nobody's done that before."

  "I lost my kilo," Stile agreed, wondering if he looked as nervous as he felt. "But there's a question I'd like to explore."

  "Explore it, Waldens said. "We're having fun."

  "I notice that the males were ahead, until a sudden rush of females at the end. Is the estate of any of our number near to this concourse?"

  "Not mine," Waldens said. "But you, Bonnet — yours is close, isn't it?"

  "It is," the feather-hatted Bonnet replied guardedly.

  "And those late female serfs — would they by any chance be employees of yours?" Stile asked.

  "That doesn't matter," Bonnet said. "The wager did not exclude our employees. All serfs are Citizen employees."

  "Oho!" Waldens said. "You signaled your dome and loaded the dice!"

  "Only smart participation," Bonnet insisted. "There was no bar against it."

  Waldens sighed. "No, I suppose not. One must never accept something on faith, particularly the constancy of other Citizens. I fell for it; I'll take my loss." The others agreed, though not pleased; they all should have been more careful.

  Now Stile felt the exhilaration of victory. "As it happens, I bet Cirtess fifteen kilos that someone would cheat on this wager. I lost my kilo, but won my fifteen. Right, Cirtess?"

  "Right," Cirtess's voice agreed on a hidden speaker. "Well and fairly played, Stile. Let it be recorded: fifteen for you."

  Waldens slapped his knee. "Beautiful! Bonnet won five, you won fifteen. Even in losing, you won! Your fortune is now just over thirty kilograms, Stile. You are now a moderately wealthy Citizen."

  "Congratulations," Bonnet said sourly. "I believe I have had enough for the day." Somewhat stiffly, he departed.

  "And that was worth my own paltry losses," Waldens said. "I never liked him much. Stile, I suspect he's right. You have been outmaneuvering us nicely, Stile. I think I must desist wagering with you, lest I lose my shirt — or all of my clothing." And the others laughed, remembering the episode of nakedness. By common consent they
dispersed, leaving Stile alone with his party of serfs.

  "Sir, you have taken extraordinary chances," Mellon said reprovingly. "My expertise has been useless."

  "I agree I have pushed my luck," Stile said. "I think it prudent to turn my winnings over to you for management now. Do you feel you can parlay them into an even larger fortune?"

  "A thirty-kilogram stake? Sir, with that leverage and your authority to make selective wagers, I believe I can do well enough."

  "Go to it. I'll refrain from further betting until I consult with you. Take it away."

  "Thank you, sir. Your method is unorthodox, but I must confess it has proved effective." Mellon turned and walked away.

  "He will work wonders, sir," Sheen murmured.

  Unencumbered by the betting Citizens, they proceeded rapidly to the next nexus, which was in a public workshop area, and thence to another in a serf park that spread across the curtain. "Coincidence?" Stile inquired skeptically, and Sheen agreed it was probably not.

  They set the machine, and the readout suggested that the message impulse had been introduced at this nexus. But this was a closed connection; there was no way to insert a message here. "It had to have come from the other side of the curtain," Stile said. Somehow he was not surprised. Much of the other mischief he had experienced had originated in Phaze.

  "You have a friend there," Sheen said. "You will have to cross and use your magic to trace him down."

  "Yes. Only an Adept could have managed this. I can't think which one would have done it." Stile sighed. "Sheen, I still have a night free, and I shall need my rest. Take me home."

  She took him to the Proton Blue Demesnes, and fed him and washed him in the manner of serf for Citizen, not deigning to give the job to the hired staff. She put him in a comfortable bed over a gravity diffusion screen, so that his weight diminished. Weariness closed in on him, now that he had respite from the tensions of the moment. But before he allowed himself to sleep, he caught her hand and drew her to him. "You cried for me again today," he said.

  "And you cried again for me."

  "Some day, somehow-"

  She leaned over and kissed him, and it was as sweet as any kiss could be. In that pleasure he fell asleep. He dreamed that he loved her in the off moments as well as at the stress points — but woke to know that was only a wish, not truth. He could not do more than marry her.

  9. Source (F)

  Stile crossed the curtain in the morning at the site of the last junction. There was nothing special in Phaze at this place; it was only the slope of a lightly forested hill. Whatever had fed the message in was gone. There were not even any footprints, after two months.

  He was the Blue Adept, with potent magic. How could he apply it to follow this long-cold trail? Wouldn't an Adept have counterspelled the trail to prevent such tracing?

  One way to find out. Stile played his harmonica, summoning his power, while he worked out a spell. Then he sang: "Make an arrow, point the way, that the message came that day."

  The arrow formed, an illuminated spot like that made by a light projection. But it rotated uncertainly, like a compass without its magnetism. Sure enough, a counter-spell was interfering. There would be no simple, one-step answer.

  However, his power at this spot, now, would be greater than that of a months-gone Adept. He should be able to trace the source — if he followed the trail in person, as he had in Proton. "Give a signal, hot or cold, to make current what is old," he sang, shaping the detail in his mind.

  Now Stile's left side felt warmer than his right. He turned, and the warmth was on his face. He strode forward — and the effect faded.

  He backed up until he felt the heat again. It had fallen away to his right. He got back on the trail, pursuing it more carefully — and it led him in a spaghettilike wriggle that coiled about and recrossed itself frequently. Obviously the other party had anticipated this approach also, and had left a tortuous path. It might take Stile a long time to unravel every wriggle, and the trail could lead into traps.

  He decided to let it go for now. He wanted to rejoin the unicorns and the Lady Blue in plenty of time for the quest for Clip and vengeance. This message had waited two months; it would wait another day.

  He used a prepared spell to transport himself to the herd, and stood for a moment in discomfort as he arrived. He certainly did not enjoy performing this kind of magic on himself, but he really had no alternative at the moment.

  Neysa spied him first and trotted over. She would always be his steed and his friend in spirit. Yet now she did not prance, for the pall of her brother's fate hung over her.

  She changed to girl-form and made one of her rare speeches: "The Stallion has news of Clip."

  "What kind?" Stile asked tightly.

  "He is alive." She shifted back to mare-form.

  Stile vaulted to her back, and she trotted him over to the herd. He embraced the Lady Blue briefly.

  The Herd Stallion awaited him in man-form. "Under the White Mountains, prisoner of the goblins. We must strike by night — tonight, ere they suspect."

  "Yes," Stile agreed. "Thou and I alone, surgically."

  "They will be alert for Adept magic, and will kill Clip the moment they detect it. Thou canst not employ thy power until he is safe."

  "How am I to save him, then?" Stile asked, frustrated.

  "I will save him. Then thou canst get us all out of danger."

  Stile was uncertain about this procedure, but had to agree. There was no use going on a rescue mission if his mere presence precipitated Clip's murder.

  "We start now," the Stallion said. "It will be night ere we reach the mountains. I know an entrance to the goblin demesnes — but once underground, I will know the way no better than thou."

  Stile had an idea. "Suppose I make a spell to show the way? Will that continuing magic alert the goblins?"

  The Stallion considered. "I know not, but think not. It is new magic that makes alarm; there are many ancient spells in the background, ignored."

  "I'd better risk it," Stile said. He considered a moment, then played his harmonica and sang: "A star institute, to illumine our route."

  A pinpoint glow appeared to their north, shedding faint light on the ground.

  "But the goblins will see it too!" the Stallion protested.

  "See what?" the Lady Blue asked.

  The Stallion smiled. "Ah — others see it not!"

  "Others see it not," Stile agreed. "I am not quite as foolish as I look."

  "Not quite," the Stallion agreed, and shifted back to his natural form, pawing the ground. Stile took the hint and leaped to his back. This was much more of a challenge than it had been with Neysa, for the Herd Stallion stood four hands higher than she and massed twice as much. He was a lot of animal. Had they not had a clear understanding, Stile's touch on his back would have precipitated an instant death struggle. It was a sign of the passions involved and the seriousness of the situation that the untamable Stallion submitted to this indignity.

  Immediately they were off. Stile, the most skilled rider in this frame, suddenly had to hang on, lest he be dumped like a novice. Evidently some spirit of rivalry remained; the Stallion wanted him to know that he kept his perch only by sufferance. Stile had never been on a steed like this before; the Stallion was the mass of a huge work horse, but had the velocity of a racer. Stile had originally tamed Neysa by riding her against her will; he knew he could never have done it with this steed.

  The scenery raced by. Wind tore at Stile's clothing. The Stallion's hooves pounded on the doubled drumbeat of a full gallop, and sparks flew up where the hard hooves struck, but the ride was smooth. The Stallion was not wasting energy in extra up-and-down motion; he was sailing straight ahead.

  The pinpoint star remained fixed at about head-height, its spot of light brightening to a patch of ground. It slid to one side sometimes, guiding them around obstructions and bad footing, so that the Stallion never had to slow to scout the way. He was able to maintain cruising
speed, faster than that of any horse, and he seemed tireless. As he warmed up, jets of flame blasted from his nostrils. This was the way that unicorns cooled themselves, since they did not sweat; the heat was dissipated from their breath and hooves.

  After a time the ride became routine, then dull. Stile had nothing to do, since the Stallion knew the way even without the help of the little star. Stile could have slept, but was too keyed up; he wanted to rescue and restore Clip. He could do it, he was sure; his magic could cement the severed horn and heal the scars of its cutting. The only problem was getting to the unicorn without triggering the murder. And getting them all out, thereafter. Meanwhile, he just had to wait.

  "I've been thinking," he remarked. "Art thou amenable to conversation?"

  The Stallion blew an affirmative accordion note. He, too, was bored by this stretch.

  "Thou art a powerful creature," Stile said. "Surely the goblins will recognize thee as readily as me. I can be taken for an elf, but thou canst only be a unicorn, even in man-form. The snub-horn gives thee away."

  The Stallion blew another note of agreement. Unicorns could change form but retained vestigial horns in all forms. This was because the horn was the seat of the unicorn's magic; without it the creature was no more than a horse, unable to play music or change form. If an alternate form lacked the horn, the unicorn would not be able to change back to equine form. This was plainly unacceptable; the human form was not one any self-respecting unicorn would care to be stuck in for long.

  "Thy dragon-form is no better than thy man-form for concealment," Stile continued. "True, it could penetrate the goblin demesnes — but would create great alarm, for no one ignores a dragon! When thou didst approach Clip, the little monsters would surely realize thy nature and intent."

  "Um," the unicorn noted with a thoughtful chord.

  "The thing is, thou art in all thy forms a mighty creature. Now this is no bad thing and ordinarily is altogether proper." The phrasing of a suggestion was sometimes more important than the suggestion itself, particularly when addressed to a creature of pride. "But this time I wish thou didst possess an insignificant form, like Neysa's firefly, that I could carry in unobserved."