Blue Adept

CHAPTER 7 - Hulk

Sheen took Stile to a private chamber deep in the maintenance section of the dome they lived in. He carried his harmonica and the Platinum Flute with him in a small bag, not being willing to leave them elsewhere lest he have sudden need for them, or risk their theft. He spoke with an anonymous machine through a speaker. This reminded him of the mode of the Oracle—but of course the Oracle could not be a machine. It was evident that Sheen had not brought him here without reason. “What is your interest?” he inquired. “We have a partial report for you concerning the recent attempt made on your life.”

“Partial,” Stile repeated, excited and disappointed. Any progress was good, but he needed the whole story. “The message from your Citizen Employer was legitimate, but the address was changed. A chip had been modified in the message annex to substitute that address for the proper one in any message directed to you from a Citizen, one time. It was a one-shot trap.”

“Sending me to intrude on a Citizen who didn’t like the Tourney and was apt to exterminate intruders,” Stile said, thinking of the Black Adept in Phaze, who acted similarly. “Correct. We conclude this was the work of other than a Citizen.”

“Because a Citizen would not have had to bother with a hidden trap,” Stile said, realizing that he should not so blithely have assumed his enemy was a Citizen. “Correct. We were unable to trace the instigator. We remain alert for more direct devices, but your enemy is evidently no machine.”

He hadn’t even thought of having a machine-enemy! “Because my enemy has more imagination than a machine does.”

“Correct. Like you, that person is a quick and original thinker.”

“This helps,” Stile said. “A serf is considerably more limited than a Citizen. A serf’s motives should differ from those of a Citizen. But could a serf have lasered my knees or sent Sheen to me?”

“The knees affirmative. Sheen negative. She had to come from a Citizen. That Citizen covered his traces carefully; we can trace her manufacture but not the identity of the one issuing the directive that sent her to you.”

“So already we have a seeming divergence of elements. A Citizen sent Sheen to protect me from a serf.”

“Correct.”

“Why didn’t the Citizen simply eliminate the enemy serf?”

“We have no information.”

“And why are you self-willed machines helping me? This increases the risk of your discovery by the Citizens, so is dangerous for you.”

To his surprise, the anonymous machine answered. “At first we helped you because one of our number, the robot Sheen, wished it, and you took the oath not to betray our interests. There was also an anonymous imperative favoring you. This also we have been unable to trace, but we have ascertained that it originates from other than Citizen or serf. We were aware that a chance existed that you would eventually be useful to us. Now that chance has expanded. Perhaps this is what the anonymous imperative intended. Should you win the Tourney, as we deem a one in ten chance at this moment, you will become a Citizen. As such you could help our cause enormously.”

“As such, I could,” Stile agreed, intrigued by their estimate of his chances in the Tourney, and by the notion of the “anonymous imperative” that favored him. Strange elements operating here! “But you know I would betray neither my own kind nor the system. I do not support revolution, or even significant change. I merely seek to deal with my enemy and improve my personal, private situation. I’m just no crusader.”

“We seek recognition for our kind within the system,” the machine said. “No revolution is desired, only modification. We wish to have the status of serfs. A Citizen could prepare the way.”

“I could support that,” Stile agreed. “But that would necessitate revealing the secret of your nature.”

“We are not ready for that. We would be destroyed, were our nature known prematurely.”

“But to prepare the way without the revelation—that would be very slow.”

“We estimate the process will take approximately seventy-five years. To move faster would be to increase the risk unacceptably.”

“You have patience,” Stile said.

“We are machines.”

That, of course, was their ultimate limitation. They had intelligence, consciousness and self-will, but lacked the impatience of life. Though Sheen was coming close! “I thank you for your help, for whatever motive, machines,” Stile said. “I will help you in return—when the occasion offers.”

He returned with Sheen to their apartment, not speaking further of this matter. He never spoke directly of the self-willed machines where his words could be recorded, lest that betray their nature to the Citizens of Proton. Most places were bugged, and often continuous recordings of serf activities were made at the behest of individual Citizens. Thus only a place cleared by the machines themselves was safe for such dialogue. Elsewhere, he simply called them “Sheen’s friends.”

Stile did appreciate their help, and he wondered whether they were really as machinelike as they claimed. Why should they care about their status in the society of Proton? To become serfs only meant to serve Citizens—as they already did—to be allowed to play the Game, and to be limited to twenty years or so of tenure on the planet. If they left the planet, they might lose whatever status they gained on it, since the galactic society was just as human-oriented as was Proton’s. Yet obviously they did have desires. Sheen was certainly an emotional, person-like being; why not others like her? But the machines would let him know what they wanted him to know, when they deemed appropriate.

It was time for his next Game. Round Five—the number of entrants was shrinking now, as more players lost their second match and were washed out, so things would move along faster. But there remained a long way to go. This time he was paired with a child, an eleven-year-old boy, not one of the good ones. “Your tenure can’t be up!” Stile said.

“My folks’ tenure is up,” the boy explained. “I’m leaving with them anyway, so why not go out in style?” So he had nothing to lose. Just in it for fun, to see how far he could go. And he had gotten to Round Five, perhaps helping to eliminate three or four entrants to whom this was a matter verging on life and death. It was the irony of the Tourney that many of those who had no need should win, while those who had to win—lost.

Their turn came, and they went to the grid. Stile got the letters, and was afraid the boy would go for CHANCE—and was correct. It came up 3C, Machine-Assisted CHANCE. Any CHANCE was bad; Stile had tried to mitigate it, but ultimately it remained potential disaster. If he could steer it into one of the more complex mechanical variants, a pinball machine—for a person like him, with experience and a fine touch, one of those became a game of skill.

But it came out wrong, again. The lad played with luck and the uncanny insight of the young, making mischief. It settled on an ancient-type slot machine, a one-armed bandit. One hundred percent chance. Each player pulled the handle, and the kid came up with the higher configuration. “I won! I won! I won!” he shrieked. “Hee-hee-hee!” Stile had lost. Just like that. A nothing-Game, against a dilettante child who had nothing to gain—and Stile was suddenly half washed out. His nightmare had happened.

Sheen found him and got him home. Stile was numbed with the unfairness of it. It was a demeaning loss, so point-less, so random. All his considerable Game-skills had been useless. Where did his chances of winning the Tourney stand now? One in a hundred?

“I know it hurts you,” Sheen said solicitously. “I would suffer for you if I could, but I am not programmed for that. I am programmed only for you, yourself, your person and your physical welfare.”

“It’s foolish,” Stile said, forcing himself to snap out of it. “I comprehend the luck of the Game. I have won randomly many times. This is why the Tourney is double-elimination—so that a top contender shall not be eliminated by a single encounter with a duffer in CHANCE. I simply have to take my loss and go on.”

“Yes.”

“But dammit it hurts!”

“Of course.”

“How can you understand?” he snapped.

“I love you.”

Which was about as effective a rebuttal as she could have made. “Your whole existence is like a lost Game, isn’t it,” he said, squeezing her hand.

“Yes.”

“It seems as though luck is turning against me. My Games have been running too close, and in Phaze I lost a contest to a unicorn, and now this—“

They were home. “There is a message,” Sheen said as they entered. She went to the receptacle and drew it out. “A holo-tape.”

“Who would send me a tape?” Stile asked, perplexed.

“Another trap?”

“Not with my friends watching.” She set it in the play-slot.

The holograph formed. The Rifleman stood before them. “I pondered before relaying this edited report to you, Stile,” the Citizen said. “But a wager is a wager, and I felt this was relevant. I suspect this tape reveals the general nature of the information you would have given me, had you lost our ballgame, so I hardly feel cheated. I was not able to ascertain who has tried to hurt you, but it seems likely that you were the intended victim of this sequence, and there-fore this does provide a hint.” He frowned. “I apologize for acquitting my debt in this manner. Yet it is best you have the detail. I hope that this at least forwards your quest. Adieu.” The Citizen faded out with a little wave.

“Why is he so diffident?” Stile asked. “That’s not the way of a Citizen.”

“He uses the term ‘victim,’” Sheen pointed out. “This will not be pretty.”

“Hulk! Something’s happened—“

The holograph formed a new image: Hulk, talking to Sheen herself. The man seemed even larger than normal, in the confines of the apartment. His head barely cleared the doorway. “Thank you, Sheen,” Hulk said, smiling down at her. Sheen was lovely, looking absolutely human, but of course Hulk knew the truth.

“I never knew this was being recorded!” the actual Sheen exclaimed, looking at her holo-image.

“Citizens can have anything recorded,” Stile reminded her. “All the holo-pickups spread throughout the domes of Proton are at their service.”

“I know that. I just didn’t realize I was the subject, in your absence.”

“You may be the subject right now.”

“Oh, shut up and watch the show.”

They watched the holo-Hulk depart, the image sliding in and out of the scene to simulate his motion. He stopped at a communication screen, called Information, and received a slip of paper, evidently an address. The self-willed machines had provided it, of course; Stile hoped the Rifleman had not pursued that ramification.

Hulk read the address and started walking again. Suddenly he was entering a jetporter—and as suddenly emerging at a far dome. The edited tape, of course, skipping across the nonessentials. It was easy to follow, since standard entertainment-holos were done the same way. Hulk arrived at an isolated dome, similar to so many favored by Citizens. This one was accessible by monorail across the sand, so that any visitors were visible well before arrival. Hulk stepped down as the carriage halted, and stood on the lawn, looking at the main building.

It was an almost perfect replica of the Blue Demesnes.

Stile could well understand the amazement of the big man. Who would have thought that such a castle existed in the frame of Proton? It was probably on the same geographic site, too, conforming perfectly to the alternate frame. The frames did tend to align, as Stile had discovered the hard way; when a person died in one, he was likely to die in the other too. Stile had narrowly escaped death in Proton at the time the Blue Adept was murdered in Phaze. Then, in what was apparently another way for the frames to equalize, he had discovered the curtain and crossed over. Thus each frame had Stile, again—in turn. This suggested that the use of the curtain was not coincidental, but in-evitable—when an imbalance existed between the frames. But now here was Hulk—seemingly back where he had started from. And surely the Lady Blue was here, for this was where Sheen had sent him to find her, based on the information her machine friends had provided. But the Lady could not hold the position here that she did in Phaze...

Hulk, evidently having completed a similar mental sequence, strode forward toward the castle. There was one way to find out!

There was a guard at the gate. He stood up straight as Hulk approached, but there was no way he could match Hulk’s height. “What is your business here, serf?”

“I am Hulk, on leave from employment pending the expiration of my tenure. I wish to meet Bluette.”

The guard turned to a communication pickup. “Serf with message for Bluette.”

“Thank you; I will be down.” It was the Lady Blue’s voice. Stile felt a prickle at his spine, though he knew this was merely the Lady’s alternate self. Of course she sounded the same; she was the same, in everything except situation. “I’m not sure I should watch this,” Stile muttered. “It doesn’t relate to my situation.”

“The Rifleman thinks otherwise,” Sheen reminded him. “You can just sit there and watch someone else making time with someone you love. The experience will do you good.”

How bitter could a robot get? But probably she was 1 right; he was doing it to her, and he needed to know how it felt to have it done to him.

Hulk waited, and in a moment she appeared. She was indeed the Lady Blue. The Phaze clothing was gone; she was a naked serf. But she was the same. “She’s lovely,” Sheen said. “I can see how you would like her.”

“This one is for Hulk,” Stile said. But it was hard to believe that. He was glad the scene was only in holo. Bluette—the Lady Blue—he understood why they were so exactly like each other. Yet to see it so directly—this stirred him fundamentally.

“What is your message?” Bluette inquired. She did not use the archaic tongue, of course; Stile found this slightly jarring, but it did help distinguish her from the woman he loved.

“Lady, it is Complicated,” Hulk said. “I would like to talk with thee at some length.”

“Thee?”

“My error,” Hulk said quickly. “A misplaced usage.” He had had so much trouble getting used to the forms of Phaze, and this situation was conducive to the error. Stile would have had the same problem.

Bluette shrugged. “Until my Employer comes, I am not hard-pressed. Yet I am disinclined to heed a complicated message from a stranger.”

“This I understand. Lady,” Hulk said. “I know it is an imposition. Yet perhaps I can tell you things that will interest you. I have known one very like you, a great and gracious woman, a star among planets—“

“Enough of this!” she exclaimed angrily. “I am a serf, like you. Do you seek to get me in trouble with my Employer?”

Hulk’s response was cut off by the sudden descent of a rocket. The thing veered out of its trajectory, dropping rapidly toward the dome. Both man and woman paused to stare at it.

“Lady, it will crash!” Hulk cried. He leaped forward, swept up the woman, and carried her from the projected site of collision.

He was not mistaken. The rocket plunged through the dome’s force-field and landed with an explosive flare of heat against the castle wall. A yellowish cloud of vapor enveloped it, spreading rapidly outward. “Gas attack!” Hulk cried. “Get into the monoshuttle!”

“This is outrageous!” Bluette exclaimed as he set her down. But she ran fleetly enough toward the mono. It was no good. The crash had disrupted the mono’s power; the shuttle was inoperative. “Go outside the dome!” Hulk cried. “The gas can’t follow there!”

But the gas had already diffused throughout the dome. Both Hulk and the Lady held their breaths as they ran for the rim, but collapsed as the gas touched their skin. “Nerve gas,” Stile muttered. “Almost instant. Not neces-sary to breathe it. Used as an anesthetic for animals.” He frowned. “But strange that a shipment of that should crash right there and then. Freight rockets hardly ever go astray.”

“That was no coincidence,” Sheen said. “That was a trap.”

Stile nodded. “A trap set for me, I think. Because it was expected that I would be the one to come for the Lady Blue.”

“Which means that your enemy knows of your life in both frames. And that you would hardly be likely to bring the one person who could help you escape that situation—me.”

Another half-bitter reference to Sheen’s own feelings. She was right; had he gone to see Bluette, Stile would not have brought Sheen along. That would have been unnecessarily cruel. So he would have had no invulnerable guardian to bail him or the Lady out. “Yes, the enemy must be an Adept, who can cross the curtain. But not a Citizen. So the trap is made to seem like an accident, to foil any Citizen curiosity.”

Now he was feeling the reaction. Stile did not like being the object of a murder campaign; that frightened him and generated in him a festering uncertainty and rage. But now the attack had spread to the Lady Blue/Bluette. That aggravated him far more specifically. How dare they touch her!

And Hulk—innocently walking into the trap set for Stile. Hulk’s blood, if it came to that, would be on Stile’s hands. What mischief had Stile done his friend, in the name of a favor?

The holo continued. Robots emerged from the crashed rocket—humanoid, flesh-toned, but probably far simpler machines than was Sheen. They came to Hulk and the Lady, and fitted breathing masks over their faces. Then the robots picked up the two effortlessly and carried them through the force-field and out onto the barren surface of Proton. There the holo-pickup lost them—but the orbiting satellite spotters followed their progress. What a job of tracing the devices of Proton could do, when so directed! The robots trekked tirelessly south across the sand with their burdens. At length they entered the shaft of a worked-out mine at the margin of the Purple Mountains—which were not purple here. The full image returned; it seemed that even a place like this had operable pickups. At last the two were deposited in a pressurized chamber deep within the mine. It was a miniature force-field dome. There was a defunct food-dispensing machine and a holo-transceiver. This could be considered a pleasant private retreat—or a prison.

The robots sprayed more gas, evidently a neutralizer, removed the breathing masks, filed them in their chest compartments, and set a chamber oxygen generator in operation. Then they walked through the force-field and disappeared from the range of the holo-pickup. Hulk was the one this report was on, not stray robots. The impersonal touch of the machine, literally; machines did not care about irrelevancies such as the welfare of serfs or the commission of criminal acts.

Hulk was of rugged constitution, and first to regain consciousness, His eye cracked open in time to see the robots departing. He made a huge visible effort and hauled him-self to his feet. He staggered across to Bluette. “Lady—art thou well?” he asked, lifting her with infinite gentleness. Bluette was at the moment weak physically, but not mentally. She shook off the lingering effects of the gas.

“Again you use the archaic form. What is this?”

“I will answer you gladly, Lady. But first we should ascertain our situation. We seem to have been taken prisoner.”

“Why should anyone wish to do that? My Employer is a peaceful man, a scholar of the arcane, who hardly ever comes to his castle retreat. I merely maintain it so that it is never ill-kept should he appear. For months at a time, it is as if it belongs to me—but I am only a serf, destined never to be more.”

“You are more. Lady. Much more. I fear my arrival precipitated this action.” Hulk was already inspecting the perimeter. He took a breath, held it, and stepped through the force-field at one end of their confine. There was only one more tunnel, proceeding interminably. This was an access passage, carved by laser drills long ago, leaving smooth, partially polished walls. It reminded Stile of the bore of the Worm of Phaze. Perhaps that was not coincidence, but another parallel between frames. Operating mines were pressurized throughout, for convenience; since many of the rock formations were porous or semiporous, the passage had to have melt-sealed walls. This was a dead mine, since there was no pressure beyond the Proton-external norm. Hulk passed back through the force-field and moved to the other end. It was the same story. “These passages can extend for kilometers,” Hulk told the Lady. “Without masks, we can not expect to reach a dome on foot.”

“Of course not,” she agreed. “Yet if it were our captor’s purpose to kill us, he could have done this at the outset.”

“I see there is a holo-unit. No doubt our captor will communicate with us at his convenience.”

“Surely he will,” she agreed. “But I still don’t understand why we are here.”

Hulk inspected the holo-communicator. “I could put this out of commission, but that seems pointless. We shall simply have to wait. I deeply regret bringing this upon you; I had no idea this would happen. Yet perhaps it is for the best.”

She frowned, exactly as the Lady whom Stile knew would have, then flung her golden hair back in a kind of acquiescent defiance. She was absolutely lovely. “I was not unduly interested, before, in what you had to say. My interest has grown. Tell me your estimate of this situation.” Hulk settled down against the curving wall opposite her.

“Gladly, Lady. I believe this is a trap set for another person, a friend of mine. It was assumed that he would come for you, and the robots were not astute enough to perceive the substitution. When the Citizen who has organized this checks in, he will discover the mistake. He will not be pleased.”

“When my Employer checks his retreat-estate, he will not be pleased,” Bluette said. “Yet I fear that will not be soon.” She looked directly at him. “Give me the rest of it.”

“Lady, I am a master in the Game. Since my tenure expires this year I had hoped to enter the Tourney. I was balked in that effort by a better player. But he showed me an alternate world—Lady, you may find this extremely difficult to believe, so I shall simplify it—“

“Do not expurgate it,” she said.

“You do not appreciate just how remarkable the story is. I do not wish to have you question my sanity.”

“Risk my incredulity. Tell the truth and take your medicine,” she said, smiling.

“I cannot deny you,” he said, warmed as anyone would be. The smile of the Lady was a precious thing. “I should warn you that I came to court you. I do not mean to give offense, and I would have preferred a more esthetic approach—“

“I have not been courted in years,” she said. “You are a handsome man.”

“Reserve your judgment; I may have brought great mischief upon you.”

“I reserve it,” she said. But she studied him with only slightly muted interest, for Hulk was about as impressive a figure of a man as existed, and the compliment of his attention was considerable. Women were less impressed by physical attributes than men were, but they were not immune to them.

“This alternate world, where I met the woman like you,” he said. “It resembles Proton in geography, but it has good air and water and vegetation, and a population of living creatures. An ideal world, except—“ He paused. “Remember, I warned you. In that world, called Phaze, science is inoperative and magic is operative.”

“Magic is operative,” she replied, humoring him.

“Yes. He took me to that world, where unicorns and werewolves and vampires roam, and he made some spells and became the Blue Adept, one of the leading magicians of that frame. But he had been killed by another Adept. So I served as his bodyguard, and I guarded his wife—who is you.”

“You’re right,” Bluette said seriously. “This is beyond belief. I do appreciate your imagination, and am sure you do excellently in the Lying Game in competition, and consider myself honored to be the subject of your present fantasy. How does this relate to our kidnapping?”

“The enemy Adept is evidently another curtain-crosser,” Hulk continued gamely, “operating in both frames. Unable to destroy the Blue Adept permanently in Phaze, he has been setting traps for him here in Proton. The enemy evidently thought the Blue Adept would come for you, so he arranged to abduct whoever approached you, apart from your Employer and routine serfs. But this trap got the wrong man.”

“How can you court the wife of your friend?” she asked alertly. In no way was Bluette slow of wit; Stile had discovered that early, when dealing with her alternate.

“Most people exist in both frames. When the self of one frame dies, the self of the other can cross over, filling his place. When the Blue Adept died, his Proton-self crossed over—and courted the widow, the Lady Blue. But he felt it would be improper also to court her Proton-self, who is you, Bluette.”

“And he allows you to approach me instead, since I am surplus?”

“There are no surplus diamonds,” Hulk said. “Every precious thing has a taker. He is a generous man. Lady. He loves you, but will take only the one he first came to know. There is something more to his interest than your likeness, I suspect.”

“I should hope so. And you accede to this? You seem to be man enough to have your pick of women. Why accept the castoff of your friend? Is he even more powerful than you appear to be?”

“In a manner of speaking. Lady. It seems we are similar in many respects, including our taste in women. I cannot explain it better.”

“I think you can. You were with his wife?”

“I guarded his wife from the possible threat by his enemy, during his absences. I came to know her, the deep and unique qualities of her. I am an honorable man; when I realized what was happening, I left.”

“What do you mean, what was happening?” she demanded. “Were I the wife of one, I would not be leading on another.”

“No, never!” Hulk agreed hastily. “You—I mean the Lady Blue—never in any way—it was wholly in my mind, a one-sided thing. But in this frame she is not his wife, and will never be; he intends never to meet her. Meet thee. You. Thus I came for you, her perfect double.”

“Less swift, man. I have not quite made the transition from your dream fancy to your reality.” She cocked her head. “What is your name?”

“Hulk. From an ancient comic.”

She smiled. “I was named after a fine horse.”

They laughed, warming to each other.

“Well, Hulk,” she said after a moment. “Whatever gave you the notion that any self of mine would be amenable to any suit of yours? Why should I flirt with a bodyguard, in either, ah, frame?”

Hulk spread his hands. “How you receive it is your business. I had to try. You can but decline.”

“Still, there must have been a point of decision.”

Hulk nodded. “I suppose there was. In Phaze-frame life abounds, including bacterial and viral. I had little natural defense against environmental disease agents, since Proton is nearly sterile.” He paused, reflecting. “In more ways than one, I suspect.” He made a gesture to indicate that it didn’t matter. “I fell sick. The Lady Blue recognized the problem; she bade me lie down, and she laid her hands on me, and they were healing hands, that warmed me through-out.”

“Ah, yes,” Stile said, momentarily breaking out of the spell of the holograph narrative. “I have felt the touch of those hands.”

“You are not jealous?” Sheen asked. “I inquire merely as a point of robotic interest.”

“Meaning you’re jealous,” he said. “You think the Lady Blue is too pretty.”

“If appearance were all that counted, I might compete. I think she has too much of your attention.”

“Not in this frame. Hulk left her to me in Phaze; I leave her to him, in Proton. It was not a completely easy decision for either of us. But yes, I am jealous. It is hard for me to watch another man courting her.”

“And harder to watch her responding. Serves you right.”

“Serves me right,” he agreed.

“I do not lightly give my body or my heart,” Bluette was saying to Hulk. The holo-scene had frozen while Stile and Sheen conversed; that was Sheen’s touch on the control. “You’re a funny man, with a fairy-tale history. Yet there is no doubt we are here, and surely we shall be interrogated. Will you tell our captor the same story?”

“I’m not sure. I am not the one our captor wants.” Hulk pondered. “Lady, I fear it will go hard with us, when our captor discovers the error. It would be better if he did not realize it.”

“Why?”

“Obviously there is something the captor wants of my friend, not merely his death. Otherwise the robots would simply have killed us, instead of bringing us here. Perhaps it is information that is wanted. Since kidnapping is also a crime, even when only serfs are involved, I will be disposed of so I can not tell my story to my own Employer.”

“Yes. I, too, will be useless as bait, after this. But I do not see what action we can take. If we disrupt the holo-pickup, the captor will know, and will send in—you said there were robots?”

“I saw two, as I recovered consciousness.”

“Who have the oxy-masks used to bring us here,” Blu-ette said, her eyes widening as she caught on. “What do you propose. Hulk?”

“First, I must get out of sight of the pickup. Second, you must address me as ‘Stile’ and describe me as a very small man—smaller than you. The story is the same—that is what he told you. He came to rescue you—and was him-self trapped.”

“I have that,” Bluette said. “Assuming for the nonce that your story is true, then this would be believed by another person from that frame. But how—“

“I will hide outside the force-Held, downtunnel. I can function for a limited time in external atmosphere, if I put my body in near-absolute state of rest, or trance-state. You try to lure the robots near the force-field, then get clear yourself. This will not be gentle.”

“I know.” Her tension hardly showed. She was, as Stile knew, the type to handle difficult situations with verve. “I am sorry to have met you like this. Hulk; you are a fascinating person.”

“Thank you. Say that again when I’m not trying to save our lives, and we’ll see where it leads.” Hulk stepped through the force-field. The pickup tried to follow him, but he was avoiding it, and disappeared from view. Frustrated, the pickup returned to the next most likely subject, the woman.

There was a momentary blankness, to signify a lapse of time. Then the holo-image in the tunnel came on—a holo within a holo. Stile was not sure how the holo-transceiver was able to show itself; this was merely a minor marvel of Proton electronics.

The image was a woman. She was tall and statuesque, with her hair concealed under a skullcap. She was naked: serf, not Citizen. She looked at Bluette. “Where is he?” she demanded imperiously.

“Who are you?” Bluette demanded in return. “Why have you done this?”

“He did not tell you? Then remain in ignorance. Your function is finished.”

“My Employer will—“

“That is of no concern to me.”

The two robots reappeared from uptunnel. “Put her in pain until her lover reappears,” the woman said. The robots were humanoid, but not specific; their faces were impassive masks. Their strength was that of the machines they were. They seemed to have no speech ability, and moved somewhat stiffly—low proficiency models. It was possible for a serf to obtain such robots, while only a Citizen could obtain robots of Sheen’s quality. But these were well suited to this type of work. A robot like Sheen would have had too many humanistic restrictions. Stile found himself tensing for action. The very notion of hurting the lady appalled him. But this was only a holo-recording; the action was long past. He could only watch. “Ironic that the captor never bothered to film the prior sequence,” Stile muttered. “She could have had complete information with no trouble. But I suppose a frame-traveler hasn’t time for niceties—and this one lacks the re-sources of a Citizen. So this is crudely executed.” Bluette, alert to the threat against her, lurched toward the upper end of the chamber. Both robots moved swiftly to cut her off. She reversed, and moved with surprising agility toward the lower end—which of course was where she wanted to be.

The robots reversed with her. They might move awkwardly, but their reflexes were inhumanly swift; it was only their wit that was. deficient. They caught her halfway, and held her in the middle of the chamber.

“Shouldn’t Hulk come out?” Sheen inquired. “They will hurt her.”

“Even Hulk cannot overpower two robots,” Stile said. “They aren’t gentle creatures like you; each one is stronger than he is, with no human vulnerabilities. Remember how easily they carried him several kilometers to the mine.”

“True. But if he waits—“

“The captor believes it is me out there, and that I love Bluette and will be unable to let her suffer. That’s why Hulk said this error might be for the best; there is not the leverage anticipated.”

“He said it was for the best out of loyalty to you; your generosity saved you from the trap. But doesn’t he love her too?”

“Not yet. He will hold out longer than I would have.”

Stile’s fist clenched. “Maybe too long.” One robot stood behind Bluette, pinning her arms back, holding her firmly. The other glanced at the holo-image for clarification. “No permanent damage yet,” the captor said. “Pinch her knee, slowly. Make her scream.”

“The knee!” Stile exclaimed. “That’s my enemy!” The robot reached for Bluette’s knee. The woman lifted both legs and planted them in the robot’s chest and shoved violently. Though the machine was strong, it did not have extraordinary mass; the shove drove it back several steps. “She fights; that’s all to the good,” the holo-woman said. “We need commotion.”

The robot holding Bluette did not let go. The recoil shoved it back a step; then it stood £rm. “You can’t fight robots,” the captor told her. “I don’t want you anyway. I want him. Make some noise, bring him in, and you won’t have to suffer.”

“What do you want with Stile?” Bluette cried. “She remembered to use your name,” Sheen said. “Smart woman.”

“I want this time to be quite sure he is dead,” the captor said. “But first I want to know why he proposed to destroy me. Adepts don’t usually fight Adepts. He had no call to attack me.”

Bluette’s surprise was genuine. “There really is a world of magic?”

“You will never see it. Now call the Blue Adept.”

“So you can torture him too? Never!”

“Do it,” the captor said to the robot.

The robot caught the lady’s leg and held it despite her struggles. It placed its metal fingers on her knee and squeezed. The pressure was obviously tremendous, cranking slowly up like that of a vise. She inhaled to scream, but caught herself and held her breath instead. “My knees with a laser; hers with a robot,” Stile grated. He was afraid for the lady, and chokingly angry—and helpless. Whatever would be—had already been. Bluette collapsed, sobbing. “Oh, it hurts, it hurts!”

“Call him,” the captor said dispassionately. “Scream. Bring him to you.”

Bluette looked defiant. The robot squeezed again. She collapsed again. “Stop! I’ll do it!”

The robot paused, hand still on knee. Dark showed around the edge of its grip, where pressure had crushed the fair skin. Bluette took another ragged breath. “S-s—“ she hissed, trying to call through her sobs. “You can do better than that,” the captor said without pity.

“He—went down that passage,” Bluette said, entirely unnerved. “I—I’ll try. Let me get closer—“ “What a sniveler you are!” the captor rapped. Now Stile smiled, grimly. “She is no sniveler. She knows what she has to do.”

“Robots are no match for the wiles of woman,” Sheen agreed.

The captor decided. “Take her to the force-field. Put only her head through. Hold it there until the man comes.”

Now Bluette held back. “No—“

“You will call him—or suffocate slowly,” the captor said.

The robots hauled the struggling Bluette to the force-field. One put a hand to her head, grasped her hair, and shoved her head through.

The opacity of the force-field exploded into man-form. One robot was lifted into the air and swung about by the legs so that its head crashed into the wall, hard. There was a blue flash of electricity as its wiring shorted; it was done for.

Already Hulk was turning on the other robot. But this one retained its hold on Bluette. Hulk could not get at it without going through her.

Without pause. Hulk turned back to the first robot, picked it up again by the feet, and smashed it into the wall again. Then he jumped on it, caught hold of one of its arms, and wrenched the limb up and around. His muscles bulged hugely as he strained—and the arm broke off, trailing wires. He worked it all the way free. “That man is beautiful,” Sheen said.

“They kidnapped more than they bargained on,” Stile agreed with grim satisfaction. “Hulk is the over-thirty serf wrestling champion, and he knows free-fighting too. Now he is armed, with only one robot left to disable. He has a fair chance.”

Hulk stalked the robot with his improvised weapon.

“Turn her loose, machine. You can not fight me while you remain encumbered with her.”

The robot retreated uncertainly, but retained its hold on Bluette, “What’s this?” the captor screamed. “You are not the Blue Adept!”

“I never said I was,” Hulk replied, baring his teeth in a fighting grin. “I’m his bodyguard.” He smashed his club at the robot, catching it on the back of the head. It let Bluette go, and she limped hastily away.

“Kill them both!” the captor screamed, enraged.

Hulk stood facing the robot, but he spoke to Bluette. “Go to the body. Open the chest cavity. Take out the breathing mask. Put it on and flee. I will occupy this machine.”

“I can’t go without you!” Bluette cried.

“You must go before the witch summons other help. Go to your Employer; bring a rescue mission here. Don’t let the robot make you hostage again. I need this chamber clear to fight it properly.”

“Yes,” she said, quickly getting the mask. “You are a bold, brave man, and I think I could love you in time. Follow me if you can; I will go for help.” She walked toward the force-field.

“Stop her!” the captor shouted.

The robot went for the lady—and Hulk went for the robot, smashing violently at its face. But the robot threw up an arm to ward off the blow, and grappled with Hulk. Bluette fled, limping. She knew she could not help, here. The robot tried to go after her, but Hulk clung, using his wrestling expertise. “Deal with him first,” the captor decided. “Kill him, then catch the woman!” Given this unequivocal directive, the robot applied its full force to the task at hand. It had no human weaknesses; it could not be choked or kneed in the crotch or made to yield by pain, and it was the stronger creature here. It was bound by no human scruples. It put one hand in Hulk’s face and closed its metal fingers in the vise-constriction, simultaneously gouging the man’s eyes and ripping out the cartilage of his nose.

Hulk smashed desperately with his weapon, but his leverage was not good. His face was a blind mask of blood. It was. Stile thought with horror, like fighting a wooden golem: no harm could be done to the inanimate, and no mercy was expected. Hulk’s blows dented the metal in several places, but he could not put the machine out of commission. He made one more effort, lifting the machine and squeezing it in a bear-hug and smashing it against the wall, trying to destroy it along with himself. The robot remained functional. It put its other hand up to Hulk’s head, clasped the man with its legs, and twisted the head. There was a snap.

“Oh, God—“ Stile cried, anguished.

“Leave this. Go after the woman!” the captor cried. “I will shut down the field.”

The robot disengaged itself from Hulk’s body and lumbered in the direction Bluette had gone. It had suffered some damage; its motion was hardly faster than hers had been. Meanwhile, the force-field clicked off; the air puffed out of the chamber.

If Hulk was not already dead, he would suffocate shortly.

With a broken neck and no air his situation was hopeless.

The holograph faded out. The recording was over.