“Ah. The dam bursting again.”
“Precisely. But you could roll it into the region of juxtaposition, and then on into the other frame. Two steps, letting one aspect of the curtain recover before straining the other. Like an air lock, perhaps.” He smiled. “What a fortune a multiton ball of Protonite would be worth!”
“So you juxtapose the frames. You are foreordained to perform this task so that I can perform mine. How do you do this?”
“I play the Flute.”
“Music does it?” Stile asked skeptically.
“The Platinum Flute is more than a musical instrument, as you know. It produces fundamental harmonics that affect the impingement of the frames. Properly played, it causes the frames to overlap. The Little Folk have been teaching me to play the ultimate music, which ranges within a single note on the audible level, and across the universe on a level we can not perceive. I have had to learn more about music than I learned in all my prior life, for this single performance. Now I have mastered the note. The effect will be small at first. Toward the culmination it will become dramatic. There will be perhaps two hours of full juxtaposition in the central zone, during which period the exchange of power-earth must be effected. If it is not—”
“Probably disaster,” Stile finished. “Yet if that is the case, why should the Citizens and Adepts oppose it? Of course they will lose power, but when the alternative is to lose the entire planet—”
“They choose to believe that the threat is exaggerated. To return to the dam analogy: some, when the dam is about to burst, will dislike the inconvenience of lowering the water level, so will claim there is no danger; perhaps the sluices will pass water across their properties, damaging them only slightly as the level is lowered. So they indulge in denial, refusing to perceive the larger threat, and oppose corrective action with all their power. To us this may seem short-sighted, but few people view with equanimity the prospect of imposed sacrifice.”
“And there is the chance the Oracle is wrong,” Stile said. “Or am I also indulging in foolish denial?”
“Wrong perhaps in timing; not in essence. No one can predict the moment the dam will burst, but the end is inevitable.”
“You do make a convincing case,” Stile said ruefully. “When will you begin playing to juxtapose the frames?”
“As soon as I return to Phaze, after garnering your agreement to manage the transfer of computer, book of magic, and Phazite.”
“Damn it, this computer murdered my other self and caused untold mischief in the personal lives of people involved with me. Why should I cooperate with it now, or believe anything it says?”
Clef shrugged. “You are a realist. You are ready to undertake personal sacrifice for the greater good, as was your alternate self, the Blue Adept.”
“He knew this?” Stile demanded, remembering how the man had apparently acquiesced to his own murder.
“Yes. He was too powerful and clever to be killed without his consent. He gave up everything to make it possible for you to save the frames.”
Stile hated the notion, yet he had to believe. And if the Blue Adept, with everything to live for, had made his sacrifice—how could Stile, who was the same person, do less? He would only be destroying what his other self had died to save.
“It seems I must do it,” Stile said, dismayed. “I do not feel like any hero, though. How long before juxtaposition is actually achieved?”
“Allowing time for me to return to Phaze—perhaps twenty-four hours.”
Time was getting short! “How much Phazite, precisely?”
“The Little Folk will have that information. In fact, they will have the Phazite ready for you. But the enemy forces will do all in their power to prevent you from moving it.”
“So I’ll need to transfer the book of magic and the computer first,” Stile decided. “Then I can use them to facilitate the mineral transfer. Since the computer will cross when the curtain passes its location, I need only to guard it and establish a line to it. Which leaves the book—which I’d better pick up before juxtaposition so I have time to assimilate it. Maybe I can arrange to have someone else pick it up for me, since I will no doubt be watched.”
“I believe so.”
“Is there convenient and private transport from here to a dome?”
“Share mine. I am going to the curtain. From Phaze, you may travel freely.”
“If the Adepts don’t catch me.”
“It will help, I must admit, if you can distract their attention from me again. With the Flute I can protect myself, but I would prefer to be unobserved.”
“I suppose so. Somehow I had pictured you as a new super-Adept, able to crumble mountains and guide the dead to Heaven.”
“I have only the powers of the Platinum Flute you brought me. I am myself no more than a fine musician. I suspect that any other musician of my caliber could have served this office of the Foreordained. I just happened to be the nearest available. After this is over, I hope to return to my profession in my home frame, profiting from the experience garnered here. The Mound Folk of the Platinum Demesnes are generously allowing me to keep the Flute. I was, like you, drafted for this duty; I am not temperamentally suited to the exercise of such power. I am not an Adept.”
Stile found that obscurely reassuring. Clef believed that this would come out all right. “Very well. We’ll step across the curtain, and I’ll spell you directly to the Oracle, where they can’t get at you, then spell myself elsewhere in a hurry.” Stile paused, thinking of a minor aspect. “How did you get by the goblins who guard the computer?”
“One note of the Flute paralyzes them,” Clef said, relaxing. “You summon your power through music; you should understand.”
“I do.” Stile hated to leave this comfortable chair, but felt he should get moving. “I suppose we’ve dawdled enough. Great events await us with gaping jaws.”
“I believe we can afford to wait the night,” Clef said. “There is a tube shuttle, renovated for transport to the curtain; it will whisk us there in the morning. Since no one knows you’re here, you can relax. That will give the Adepts time to gather confidence that you are dead, putting them off guard.”
The notion appealed tremendously. Stile had worn himself out by his trek through the caves and tunnels; he desperately needed time to recuperate. He trusted Clef. “Then give me a piece of floor to lie on, and I’ll pass out.”
“Allow me to delay you slightly longer, since we may not meet again,” Clef said. “We played a duet together, once. It was one of the high points of my life. Here there is no magic, so the instruments can safely be used.”
Stile liked this notion even better than sleep. It seemed to him that music was more restorative than rest. He brought out his treasured harmonica. Clef produced the Platinum Flute. He looked at it a moment, almost sadly. “Serrilryan,” he murmured. “The werebitch. With this I piped her soul to Heaven, and for that I am grateful. I knew her only briefly, but in that time I had no better friend in Phaze.”
“This is the way it is with me and Neysa the unicorn,” Stile agreed. “Animals are special in Phaze.”
“Extremely special.” Clef put the instrument to his mouth, and from it came the loveliest note Stile could imagine.
Stile played the harmonica, making an impromptu harmony. He knew himself to be a fine player, especially with this instrument inherited from his other self—but Clef was the finest player, with the finest instrument ever made. The extemporaneous melody they formed was absolutely beautiful. Stile felt his fatigue ameliorating and his spirit strengthening. He knew of many types of gratification, such as of hunger, sex, and acclaim, but this was surely the finest of them all—the sheer joy of music.
They played for some time, both men transported by the rapture of the form. Stile doubted he would ever experience a higher pleasure than this and he knew Clef felt the same. Flute and harmonica might seem like an odd combination, but here it was perfection.
Then something strang
e occurred. Stile began to see the music. Not in the form of written notes, but as a force, a wash of awareness encompassing their immediate environment. It was the shape or essence of a spirit, a soul. Somehow this vibrant, joyous thing was familiar.
Stile glanced at Clef without interrupting his playing. The flutist had seen it too; he nodded marginally. Then Clef’s playing changed in nature, and Stile realized that this was the music that moved souls to their resting places. Somehow the magic of the Flute was acting in this frame, moving the spirit in the room.
Whose was it? Not the werebitch’s. It hovered in place, becoming more perceptible. Then the music changed again, and the spirit disappeared.
Clef abruptly stopped playing, so Stile had to stop too. “Did you recognize it?” the man asked, awed.
“No,” Stile said. “It seemed familiar, but I never saw such a phenomenon in Proton.”
“It was you, Stile. Your soul came out. When I realized that, I stopped. I don’t want to pipe you to Heaven yet.”
“Not mine.” Stile protested. “My soul was never more with me.”
Clef frowned. “I beg to differ. The Little Folk have instructed me somewhat in this, as it is an important property of the Flute. There are certain keys to the recognition of souls that the music relates to. The more I attuned to you, the clearer that ghost became. It was you.”
Stile shook his head. “It had to have been my double, not me.”
There was a brief silence.
“You had a double,” Clef said. “Your alternate self, who died to free you.”
“The Blue Adept,” Stile agreed, awed at the dawning notion.
“Who piped him to Heaven?”
“No one. He was murdered alone. All that remains of him is—this harmonica.”
“The Flute evokes souls. But only free souls, which have not yet found their way to their destinations. Could your alternate’s soul—?”
“Be in this instrument?” Stile finished. “You know, he may have found a way to stay around, not dying completely. This harmonica came to me fortuitously. Is it possible—?”
“That he chose to occupy the instrument when he made room for you in Phaze?” Clef continued.
Stile contemplated the harmonica. “Why? Why avoid Heaven and be trapped in a harmonica?”
Clef shrugged. “The music that issues from it is lovely. Is it better than your norm?”
“Yes. I play this better than other instruments, though I did not play this type until I got this one.”
“Perhaps, then, your other self is helping you.”
Again Stile considered. “To make sure his sacrifice is not wasted. Subtly guiding me. He conjured his own soul into his harmonica. Surely a feat of magic no lesser person could achieve. He has been with me all along.” Stile sighed, half in amazement. “Now I must fulfill the destiny he could not. He is watching me.”
“He must have been a worthy man.”
“He must have been,” Stile agreed. “The Lady Blue said he had not lived up to his potential. Now it seems there was more to him than she knew.”
They let the matter drop. There was really not much else to say about it. Clef showed Stile to a cot, and he lay down and slept, reassured, literally, in spirit.
In the morning, refreshed, they took the private shuttle east to the curtain. This was not in the region Stile had crossed it before, in the chasm. The curtain meandered all over the planet, as he and the Lady Blue had verified on their horrendous honeymoon. This was where it traveled almost due north-south, passing a few miles east of the palace of the Oracle; Stile and the Lady had ridden rapidly north along this stretch on their way to their rendezvous with the snow-demons. That had been the key word “flame” in his poem. Now the key word was “civil”—for he was about to launch a civil war, as Adept fought unicorn and Citizen fought serf. Still to come were the key words “flute” and “earth.” He could readily see how the first related, but the last remained obscure.
“Those key terms!” Stile exclaimed. “I was given a dozen words to fashion into a poem in the finals of the Tourney. Where did those words originate?”
“With the Oracle, of course. You had to be provided some hint of your destiny.”
“That’s what I suspected.” The Oracle had been meddling in his life throughout, guiding or herding him in the prescribed direction.
Yet could he condemn it? The future of the two frames was certainly an overwhelming consideration, and the Oracle’s present avenues of expression were extremely limited. There had been rewards along the way. Stile had been given Citizenship in Proton and a worthy ally in the lady robot Sheen. He had been given the Lady Blue in Phaze and such close friends as Neysa the unicorn and Kurrelgyre the werewolf. He had seen his life transformed from the routine of serfdom to the wildest adventure—and despite its hazards, he found he liked adventure. He also liked magic. When this was all over, and he had helped save or destroy Phaze—depending on viewpoint—he wanted to retire in Phaze.
But there was one other prophecy. “Is it true that Phaze will not be secure until the Blue Adept departs the frame forever?”
Clef was sober. “I fear it is true, Stile. Possession of the book of magic alone will make you dangerous. You will have great power in the new order anyway, and the book will make it so much greater that corruption is a distinct possibility. That book in any hands in Phaze is a long-term liability, after the crisis has been navigated. The Oracle takes no pleasure in such news—of course it is a machine without feelings anyway—but must report what it sees.”
Stile loved the Lady Blue—but he also loved Phaze. She loved Phaze too; he did not want to take her from it. In the other frame there was Sheen, who loved him and whom he was slated to marry there. He did not quite love her, yet it seemed his course had been charted.
He closed his eyes, suffering in anticipation of his enormous loss. His alternate self had yielded his life for the good of Phaze; now it seemed Stile would have to yield his happiness for the same objective. He would have to leave Phaze, once the crisis had passed, and take the book with him back to Proton.
Clef looked at him, understanding his agony. “Scant comfort, I know—but I believe the Oracle selected you for this mission because you alone possessed the position, skills, and integrity to accomplish it. No other person would make the sacrifice you will—that your alternate already has made—guided solely by honor. Your fitness for the office has been proved.”
“Scant comfort,” Stile agreed bitterly.
“There is one additional prophecy I must relay to you immediately, before we part,” Clef said. “You must marshal your troops.”
“Troops? How can they juxtapose the frames?”
Clef smiled. “The Oracle prophesies the need for organized force, if Phaze is to be saved.”
“And I am to organize this force? For what specific purpose?”
“That has not yet been announced.”
“Well, who exactly is the enemy?”
“The Adepts and Citizens and their cohorts.”
“Common folk can’t fight Adepts and Citizens.”
“Not folk. Creatures.”
“Ah. The unicorns, werewolves, vampires—”
“Animalheads, elves, giants—”
“Dragons?”
“They are destined to join the enemy, along with the goblins.”
“I begin to fathom the nature of the battle. Half the animalheads will die.”
“And many others. But the alternative—”
“Is total destruction.” Stile sighed. “I do not see myself as a captain of battle.”
“That is nevertheless your destiny. I am foreordained to juxtapose the frames, you to equalize them. Without you, my task is useless.”
“These canny riddles by the Oracle are losing their appeal. If this is not simply a matter of picking up a book of magic and moving some Phazite the Little Folk will give me, I would appreciate some rather more detailed information on how I am to use these troops t
o accomplish my assignment. I don’t believe in violence for the sake of violence.”
Clef spread his hands. “Nor do I. But the prophecy tells only what, not how. Perhaps the Elven Folk will have more useful news for you.”
“Perhaps. But won’t the enemy Adepts be watching for me to go to the Elven Demesnes?”
“Surely so.”
“So I should avoid whatever traps they have laid for me there, for my sake and the elves’ sake. I can’t visit the Little Folk at this time, and I suspect I should also stay clear of the unicorns and werewolves. So it will be very difficult for me to organize an army among creatures who know me only slightly. Especially when I can’t give them any concrete instructions.”
“I do not envy you your position. I am secure; the Oracle is virtually immune from direct molestation. But you must perform under fire, with inadequate resources. Presumably your Game expertise qualifies you. As I said, the Oracle went to some trouble to secure the right man for this exceedingly awkward position.”
“Indeed,” Stile agreed, unpleased.
Now they reached the curtain. Stile doubted the Adepts would be lurking for him here; how could they know his devious route? But they would soon spot it when he started magic. He would have to move fast, before they oriented and countered.
Stile plotted his course and spells as they got out of the capsule and walked up a ramp to the surface. There was an air lock there. “The curtain is a few meters distant; best to hold our breath a few seconds,” Clef said.
“You have certainly mastered the intricacies in a short time.”
“The Little Folk are excellent instructors. They don’t like folk my size, but they do their job well. I will be sorry to depart Phaze.”
Not nearly as sorry as Stile would be! “I will make my spells rapidly, the moment we cross,” Stile said. “The Flute prevents magic from being blocked, so the enemy can not interfere, but it may resist a spell by a person not holding it.”
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