Stile smiled and shrugged. “Give me the book of magic,” she said to the Game-access terminal, adding the code.
“Why?” the Computer asked.
“The Blue Adept means to return it to Phaze and there use it to abate the crisis.”
“One moment,” the machine said. “While it is on the way, will you accept a message for the Blue Adept?”
“Yes.”
“A consortium of opposition Citizens, interested in profiting from a necessary action, proffers this wager: the entire amount of Citizen Stile’s fortune at the time, that he will not survive until the start of tonight’s business meeting of Citizens.”
“I’ll take that bet!” Stile called, realizing that he could not lose it. If he died prematurely, all was lost anyway; if he lived, his fortune and power would be doubled again. Double or nothing, right when he wanted it.
“Citizen Stile accepts the wager,” Sheen said. “If he dies, his estate will be liquidated and assigned to the consortium. If he appears at that meeting alive, his fortune will in that instant be doubled, and he will immediately be able to wield the full leverage of it.”
“The wager is so entered. The doubling cube has been turned.” The Game Computer made a bleep that was its way of coughing apologetically. “I have no part of this threat other than serving as a conduit for the wager. It was not necessary for the Citizen to be concerned about an ambush on my premises. Neither am I permitted to warn him of any potential threat immediately beyond my premises.”
“That’s warning enough,” Stile muttered. “Move out, Sheen!”
Sheen paused only long enough to pick up the package the delivery slot delivered: the book of magic.
They fled down a hall. “Weapons are not permitted on Game premises unless part of a designated Game,” the Game Computer announced.
“It is not warning us, just making a public announcement—officially,” Stile said with a grim smile. “Is the Game Computer really one of your friends?”
“Yes,” she said.
A man appeared in the hall ahead. He looked like an ordinary serf, but he stood before them with a suggestive posture of readiness.
“That’s a robot,” Stile said.
“That’s a killer machine,” Sheen agreed. “Stile, I am a dual-purpose robot, designed for defense and personality. That is a specialized attack vehicle. I am not equipped to handle it. You must flee it immediately; I can delay it only a moment.”
Stile dived for a panel. He tore open a section of the wall where he knew power lines ran. There they were, brightly colored cables, intended to be quite clearly coded for stupid maintenance personnel. He took a red one in both hands and yanked. It ripped free as the enemy robot came near. “Get well away, Sheen!” he cried.
“Stile, you’ll electrocute yourself!” she cried in honor.
Now he took hold of a white cable. This, too, tore from its mooring, which was a magnetic clamp.
As the killer robot reached for him, Stile jammed both raw cable ends at its body. Power arced and crackled, electrifying the machine. The robot collapsed.
“You took a terrible chance!” Sheen admonished him as they hurried on. “You could have been electrocuted just pulling those cables out.”
“The power was cut off, to free the magnetic clamps,” Stile said. “The danger was apparent, not real.”
“How could you know that?” She sounded flustered.
“The Game Computer is one of your friends,” he reminded her.
“Oh.” For her friends stood ready to help him, covertly. The Computer had cut off power, then restored it. How could such a brief collusion ever be spotted? Stile knew exactly how to use the assistance of the self-willed machines when he needed to. Fortunately the specialized killer machine had been stupid.
The passage led to the minicar racing track, a favorite Game of the younger set. Stile had won many such races. His small size gave him an advantage in these little vehicles. However, this time he only wanted to bypass the cars and reach the exit passage.
A man burst into the premises. This one was a genuine human serf—but he had a laser pistol. This was evidently the one the Game Computer had warned away. Unfortunately, outside the actual Games, the Computer had little power. It could protest and warn, not usually enforce. It could summon guards—but if it did so in this case, the other Citizens would be alerted, and that was not to Stile’s interest. Stile would have to fight this one out alone; the Computer had helped all it could.
“Sheen, get out of here,” he whispered urgently. “Use the service passages and airless sections to confound human pursuit. Get the book of magic across the curtain.”
“But I must protect you!” she protested.
“You can protect me best by getting away from me right now. I can do tricks alone that I can’t with company. Meet me later—” He paused to decide on a suitably unlikely place. “Meet me at Merle’s dome. They’ve booby-trapped that once; they won’t expect me to go near it again. If you prefer, wait for me just beyond the curtain, in Phaze—oh, I forget, you can’t cross by yourself! Maybe Merle will help you cross.”
She did not argue further. “I love you.” She faded away.
Stile jumped into the nearest car and accelerated it into the main playing grid. Ordinarily he would have had to obtain license from the Game Computer to play, but Citizens were exempt from such rules. The pursuing man, however, was a serf; he had to honor this rule, or the Computer would close down the Game, apply a stasis field, and arrest him. Here the Computer had power, when there was a valid pretext to exert it. As it was, the Computer knew the man was up to mischief, and had already warned him about carrying the pistol.
The various ramps, intersections, and passing zones were arrayed in three-dimensional intricacy, so that the total driving area was many kilometers long despite the confinement of the dome. Stile was well familiar with this layout.
The armed man had been stalking him cautiously. Now the man had to get into another car to keep up. To do this, he had to get a partner and enlist in the Game. But he was prepared for this; a henchman got into another car and started the pursuit. Theoretically, they were chasing each other; actually, they were both after Stile.
Stile smiled grimly. These would-be killers would have more of a chase than they liked. They were up against an expert Gamesman: a Tourney winner, in fact.
Stile could shoot his car through the maze of paths. He could exit quickly. But that would only mean the armed man would follow him. It was better to handle this situation here, where the terrain favored Stile, and then escape cleanly.
A beam of light passed to Stile’s right. The armed man had fired his laser, missing because of the difficulty of aiming when the cars were going in different directions at different speeds. But the shot was close enough so that Stile knew the man had some skill; he would score if given a better opportunity. Now the Computer could not shut down the Game, though the laser shot had provided sufficient pretext, because when the cars stopped, the assassin would score on Stile.
Stile swung around a turn, putting a ramp between himself and the pursuer. He checked the minicar, but there was nothing in it he could throw. He would have to maneuver until he could find a way to put the man out of commission.
The problem was, these vehicles were small but safe. They would not travel fast enough to leave the track, and the set was designed to prevent collisions. Such Games were supposed to seem far more dangerous than they were in fact. Stile might scare his opponent, but could not actually hurt him with the car. Still, there were ways.
Stile slowed his car, allowing the man to catch up somewhat. Then, just as the man was leveling his laser, Stile accelerated into a loop, going up and over and through. The man, caught by surprise, had to accelerate his own car and hang on. The cars could not fall, even if they stalled upside down at the top of a loop, and the automatic seat belts would hold the occupants fast. The man evidently did not know that.
Stile moved on into a r
oller-coaster series, going up and down at increasing velocity. The man followed, looking uncomfortable. He was fairly solid, and his belly lightened and settled with each change of elevation. That could start the queasies. Then Stile looped into a tunnel with a good lead, emerged to spin into a tight turn, and crossed over the other track just as the pursuer shot out of the tunnel.
Stile had removed his robe. He dropped it neatly over the man’s head.
The man reacted violently, clawing at the voluminous material that the wind plastered to his face, while the car continued along the track. Stile slowed his own car, letting the other catch up. Just as the man managed to get free of the robe, Stile jumped from one car to the other, having also circumvented the seat restraint. He caught the man’s neck in a nerve-strangle, rendering him instantly unconscious, and took the laser pistol from his hand. Then he jumped back to his own car and accelerated away. Such jumps from car to car were supposed to be impossible, but Stile was a skilled gymnast, able to do what few others could contemplate.
Now he zoomed for the exit. He had left his robe behind; it made identification too easy for his assassination-minded pursuers. Still, being a serf was not enough camouflage. There would be other assassins on the prowl for him, closing on this region. The majority of Citizens, like the Adepts, seemed to be against him; they had tremendous resources that would be overpowering once they got the focus. He needed to get far away from here in a hurry.
Could he retreat to the curtain, as he had done when the Adepts had had him pinned in the cavern? No, they would be watching the segments of it through which he had entered Proton this time. He had to surprise them.
Camouflage seemed to be the answer—but what kind?
Already Stile was making his decision. The most common and least noticed entities in Proton were machines, ranging from self-propelled hall-brushers to humanoid robots. Some were sophisticated emulations of individuality like Sheen, but most were cruder. Stile paused at a food machine and got some nutri-taffy; this he used to shape bulges at his knees and elbows, and to change the configuration of his neck and crotch. He now resembled a small, sexless menial humanoid robot that had been used in a candy kitchen. He walked somewhat stiffly and set a fixed smile on his face, since this grade of machine lacked facial mobility. Stile was, of course, a practiced mimic. He was unable to eliminate his natural body heat, but hoped no one would check him that closely.
It worked. Serfs passed him without paying any attention. There was a checkpoint guarded by two brute androids, but they were looking for a man, not a taffy-odored machine. Stile walked stiffly by, unchallenged.
He was probably safe now, but he did not gamble. He continued his robot walk to a transport capsule and rode to the vicinity of Merle’s dome, then took the service entrance. Even here there was no challenge. Functionaries were constantly in and out of Citizens’ estates on myriad errands.
But Merle was expecting him. “Stile, I want you to know I sincerely regret this,” she said. “Extreme pressure has been put on me. Believe me, I’m helping you in my fashion.” She touched a button.
Stile leaped to intercept her motion, but was too late. Stasis caught him.
Merle had betrayed him. Why hadn’t he anticipated that? He could so readily have gotten around her, had he only been alert. He had allowed a woman to make a fool of him.
He was cleaned and packaged and loaded into a transport capsule. He could feel the motion without seeing anything. The capsule moved swiftly south, by the feel of it. At length it slowed, and he was unloaded.
The stasis released. Stile found himself in a barred chamber—and with him was Sheen. She was inert; her power cell had been removed. The disaster was complete. There was no sign of the book of magic.
A speaker addressed him. “Serf, you have been assigned to this mine because you have excellent manual dexterity. You will be granted one hour to familiarize yourself with the controls. Then you will be expected to commence processing the ore in your bailiwick. You will have a rest break in your cell of fifteen minutes after each hour, provided your production is satisfactory. Superior performance will result in promotion. Press the ADVISE button if there is any problem. Malingering will not be tolerated.”
Stile knew better than to protest. He had been shanghaied here to get him out of the way. Once he failed to appear at the business meeting, he would lose his fortune, be voted out of Citizenship, become a serf in fact, and probably be deported. He didn’t even blame Merle; she had done this instead of killing him. Perhaps she had reported him dead. No doubt her own Citizenship had been placed in the balance. The opposition, in Proton as in Phaze, played hard ball.
What could he do? A quick inspection of the chamber satisfied him that he could not escape. The Protonite miners were not trusted; each was locked in his cell during working hours, even though he never directly handled the valuable mineral. Security was extremely tight in the mines. If Stile tried to interfere with any of the equipment or wiring, there would be an alarm and immediate punishment; if he tried to sabotage the mining operation, he would be executed. All he could do was cooperate.
Stile got to work on the mining. He familiarized himself with the controls in moments, and soon had his survey-screen on. Could he use this to get in touch with the Brown Adept? No—this was a different circuit—and even if he could call outside, the monitor would intercept, and he would be in instant trouble, possibly of a mortal nature. Best to sit tight. Probably the game was lost. He had mainly himself to blame; the exigencies of the moment had forced an oversight.
Of course he was not entirely alone. The Lady Blue knew he was in Proton, and she would be concerned about his failure to reappear. But she had not been keeping close track of him; she would not be really alarmed until some hours or days had passed without news—and that would be too late. He would have missed the business meeting and the juxtaposition of frames. In any event, the enemy Citizens would now be alert for her; Stile did not want the Lady Blue exposing herself to possible assassination.
What about the self-willed machines? They might be able to help—if Merle had not acted to conceal his abduction from their view. Since she knew a good deal about him and had referred to Sheen’s friends, she had probably done just that. And if the sapient machines did locate him, they would still hesitate to reveal their nature by acting overtly on his behalf. He could not count on their rescuing him.
That left it up to the Brown Adept, who would be unable to reach him—and what could she do if she did? She was a child who would have no magic in this frame, assuming she could cross the curtain. Best to establish no false hopes. If help was on the way, it would succeed or fail regardless of his concern.
He was good at mining. Under his direction, the remote-controlled machinery operated efficiently. In two hours he had extracted half a gram of Protonite from the ore, a full day’s quota. Whether Citizen or serf, Adept or slave, he intended to do his best—though this sort of mining would soon have to stop, if the frames were to be saved. Ironic, his effort here!
Then the gate opened. An apparition stood there—the tallest, thinnest, ugliest android he had ever seen. Except that it wasn’t an android, but a man. No, not exactly a man—
Stile’s spinning mental gears finally made an improbable connection. “The troll!” he exclaimed. “Trool the troll—in Proton-frame!”
“I must rescue thee from confinement three times,” Trool said.
Stile nodded. “This is the third, for me and mine. More than amply hast thou fulfilled the prophecy. Sincerely do I thank thee, Trool.” There was no point in adhering to Proton language; the troll would only be confused.
“It is not done yet,” the troll said.
“Thou hast done enough,” Stile said. “Thou hast freed me.”
Trool shrugged and stooped to pick Sheen up. He shambled through the door, carrying her, and Stile followed.
Trolls had a way with subterranean regions. Trool took them down into the depths of the mines, passing lo
cks and checkpoints without challenge, until they were in the lowest crude tunnels. Here there were only machines, the forward end of the remote-control chain. Here, too, was the Protonite ore, the stuff of Proton’s fortune and misfortune.
“How are things doing in Phaze at the moment?” Stile inquired.
“The hosts are massing as for war,” Trool replied. “All are with thee except the Adepts, the goblins, and scattered monsters.”
“All?” Stile asked, amazed. “Even the tribes of the demons?”
“Thou hast made many friends, Adept, especially among the snow-monsters and fire-spirits.”
Ah—his favor for Freezetooth was paying a dividend! “All I have done is the appropriate thing at the appropriate time.” Basically, Stile liked the various creatures of Phaze and liked making friends. “Yet I doubt that the harpies, or dragons, or thine own kind—”
“The trolls are with thee.” Trool made a grimacing smile. “I did see to that, lest they call me traitor for helping thee. The harpies and dragons know no loyalty save to their own kind, unless compelled by geis. They take no sides.”
Trool was surprisingly well informed. He seemed, under that ugliness, to be a fairly smart and caring person. Stile had assumed all trolls to be ignorant predators; he had been too narrow.
Suddenly they were at the curtain; Stile saw the scintillation across the tunnel. They stepped through.
Sheen woke. “Who are you?” she demanded, finding herself in the troll’s arms.
“Thou hast no power pack,” Stile protested. “How canst thou animate?”
She checked herself. “It’s true. I must be in Phaze. In golem-state.”
Stile nodded, his surprise shifting to comprehension. Of course she needed no scientific mechanism here! Nonetheless, he conjured her a replacement power cell so that she would not be confined to Phaze. “Thou art a creature of both frames now.”
The troll led the way on up through the tunnel toward the surface. They followed. Stile could have taken them out by a spell, but preferred to acquaint himself with the locale of the tunnel in case he should need it again. Also, he did not want to attract the baleful attention of the enemy Adepts by using magic unnecessarily. Probably he should not have risked conjuring Sheen’s power cell at this time; he kept forgetting.
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