Juxtaposition

10. Force (SF)

He fell a few feet — or rather a meter or so — knowing he was through the curtain only because he no longer had dragon support. He splashed into the water, feeling the instant shock of cold. He was, of course, an excellent swimmer; no top Gamesman neglected such a sport. But the water was polluted, stinking, and perhaps contained harmful acids; the Citizens of Proton cared nothing for the planetary environment outside the domes. He didn't want to stay here long!

The air, too, was foul. But here in the depths, it was thicker than above and seemed to contain more oxygen. He did not enjoy it, but he could survive longer on it than anticipated. Still, he had another resource.

He swam back to the curtain, which passed right down through the water. He organized himself, then willed himself through and said: "Bring nuts and dried fruit, scuba and wetsuit." And the spell, shaped by his imagination, clothed him in a warm, flexible body swimming suit complete with flippers, breathing apparatus, and a bag of mixed nuts and bits of dehydrated fruit.

Something formed in the water near him. It was huge and toothed, and it threshed its way toward him with powerful flukes. Stile hastily spelled himself back across the curtain. He had done the unexpected and escaped the enemy Adepts without using a transport-spell, but they remained alert for him.

His new equipment went with him. This was one way in which magic and science juxtaposed; he could create or fetch scientific devices by magic in Phaze and take them across for use in Proton. Now he was comfortable in the water and had concentrated food to sustain him. He could get where he was going.

Only — where was he going? He wanted to locate that computer — but where was it?

Again, no problem. He prepared himself and passed through the curtain. "Weapon and gem, doslem doslem," he sang, grabbed the two objects that formed, and dodged back to Proton before the massive crunch of a hostile spell could catch him. The enemy would never have expected him to conjure these particular items! He saw the Adept attack through the curtain — a blaze of light silhouetting massive jawless teeth, closing and disappearing as they intersected the demarcation of the curtain. A demon from the deeps, indeed! Technically an indirect attack, a sending, but surely fatal to whatever it caught. They were not playing innocent games, these enemy Adepts!

Now he had what he needed. He could stop playing peekaboo through the curtain, especially since one more trip across it would probably get him crunched. The enemy had targeted him too closely; his scant leeway had been used up. Now he could get where he was going — on the Proton side of the curtain.

He swam, holding the straps to his last two acquisitions in his teeth. The flippers enabled him to move rapidly through the water. He didn't need light; he could tell where the walls were by the lapping of the waves his swimming made.

The chasm narrowed, until he was swimming between vertical walls only a couple of meters apart. Still no way up or out. He didn't like this; his special equipment was sealed in watertight packages, but he needed to get on dry land to use it safely.

Well, he could dive. He had a hunch there was a way out of here and a way from here to the computer-Oracle, because the goblins needed access to guard it. Of course this was the other frame — but with the normal parallelism, chances were good there were Proton passages too. All he had to do was find them.

He dived. He did not fear any monsters in this murky lake; they could not survive in this pollution. But he was careful about sharp jags of rock that might tear his suit.

The cleft was wider below, giving him more room to grope along. He should have conjured a light; he hadn't thought of it. On any venture, something important was always forgotten! But one of his instalments had an operating light that he could use for general vision — once he put it into use.

The walls closed in above. Good — he did have a passage here, for there was a slight current. Soon he groped upward and discovered a new cavern — and this one had sloping sides that he could scramble up on, getting free of the water.

Perched awkwardly on the rock, for his bad knees prevented him from squatting, he opened one of his doslems.

This one was the weapon: Disrupter-Optical-Space-Light-Modulator. D О S L M. He set it on low and activated it. There was a faint, humming beam, and a section of the cave wall glowed and sagged, melting without heat. Its particles had been disrupted, losing their cohesion; solid had turned to liquid. Good enough. The doslem was governed by light-beam computer, in which beams of light functioned in lieu of solid circuitry and semiconductor diodes and information chips. It was much more compact than the solid state and could generate potent effects, as the melted patch of wall showed.

Now Stile turned to the other doslem, the gem. In this case the D stood for Detector. It was an even more marvelous instrument. A miniature panel controlled its assorted functions of timing, direction, and detection. In his hands it emitted just enough light to clarify the cave-region in which he hunched, and it gave readouts mapping the extent of air-filled and water-filled recesses. There were other caves here, and some were within the range of the disrupter; he could melt a hole through the thinnest section of wall. Some passages were squared off — obviously artificial. His hunch had proved correct!

Stile checked for refined metals, orienting on copper, aluminum, iron, and gold. Soon he located a considerable cache of these, southeast of his present location. He checked for magnetism and found it in the same region. This certainly seemed to be the computer, or whatever portion of it existed in the frame of Proton.

Stile scouted about, then selected the thinnest wall to disrupt. He gave the melt time to settle, then stepped through to the adjacent cave. He was on his way.

It took time, and on occasion he rested and ate from his supply of nuts and fruit. He located reasonably fresh water by tuning in on it with the detector. He had a sense of location; he was in the cave network whose upper exits he and the Lady Blue had noticed on their honeymoon, after departing the snow-demon demesnes. He marched, cut through to a new passage, and marched again, slept, and marched again. He hoped the two unicorns had flown up and out of the cavern system, knowing that he, Stile, could take care of himself on the other side of the curtain. There was no way to communicate with them now, since he was no longer near the curtain. They simply had to have faith.

At times, as he tramped onward, he thought about the nature of the curtain and the parallel frames. How was it that he could so readily conjure scientific equipment that was inoperative in Phaze, yet was operative when taken back across the curtain? If it was that solid and real, why couldn't it function in Phaze? If it was not, why did it work here? The curtain could be a very thin line indeed, when magic so readily facilitated science. Was there no conservation of energy with regard to each frame? Anything taken across the curtain was lost to its frame of origination, wasn't it? Also, how could objects of Proton-frame design be brought to Phaze? Did his magic generate them from nothing, or were they actually stolen from warehouses and factories and hauled through the curtain? He doubted he could visualize the inner workings of a doslem well enough to build one directly, so doubted he could do it by magic, either — but the alternative implied a closer connection between frames and greater permeability of the curtain than conventional wisdom supposed. Magic would have to reach beyond the curtain, right into the domain of science. There was so much yet to learn about the relationship of frames!

And this computer he was searching out — had it really murdered Stile's alternate self, the original Blue Adept, by means of a self-fulfilling prophecy? Why? How did all this tie in with the approach of the end of Phaze and Stile's own involvement in that? Was the computer-Oracle due to perish in that termination of the frame, and Stile himself-

He paused to review what had been more or less idle speculation. If Stile was going to help destroy Phaze, and the computer was in Phaze, it might indeed be destroyed too. So maybe it sought to prevent him from participating in this business. Maybe it was really on the same side as the other Adepts. So it had generated mischief to eliminate him in both frames, being foiled only by that other message, the one that had brought Sheen to protect him. Yet it had been prophesied that he would help the computer return to Proton, where it would act to destroy Phaze; that

put him on its side and set it against the Adepts. Maybe the destruction of Phaze was inevitable, and the computer needed to cross to Proton in order to escape the holocaust. But then why should it have tried to kill him twice? That made no sense at all.

Maybe he should have taken the time to trace down the source of that mysterious, other message, the one that had saved him, before he rescued Clip-

No. Clip came first. The Adepts had hurt the unicorn to gain leverage against Stile, and Stile had had to act.

Should he resume tracing that message now, instead of going to confront the Oracle? He might have a powerful ally — and with most of the other Adepts against him, he needed one.

But that would mean backtracking to the curtain and fighting his way through the barrage of hostile magic directed against him. He could not be sure he would survive that, and certainly he could not thereafter approach the Oracle with any element of surprise. Only by staying with the Proton-frame route, where magic and prophecy did not exist, could he hope to sneak up on it. He was set on his present course; he would have to continue.

He plodded on, and the hours passed. Was it day or night above, now? Normally he had a good time sense, but he did need some minimal feedback to keep it aligned. Stile also had good endurance, having run marathons in his day, but now he was traveling mainly in the dark, with occasional sips of oxygen from his scuba gear, conserving that life-sustaining gas as much as possible. He was out of food and tired. Only the constant approach to the site indicated by his equipment gave him confidence to keep on. Maybe he should have gotten himself a device to signal Sheen, who could have come to pick him up, making things so much easier. How obvious this was, now that he had ample time to think of it!

Yet that would have alerted others to his activity. Since other Adepts had connections in Proton — indeed, some were Citizens — that could be just as dangerous for him as activity in Phaze. So maybe this way was best; they might think him dead or impotent, since he did not reappear.

Sometimes accidents and mistakes were the best course; they were at least random.

The detector signaled him; he was at last drawing close to the metal and magnetism. He hoped this was what he believed it was; and if it weren't, he would have to struggle to the surface and hope he could make it to a dome. His oxygen was very low; he knew he was nowhere near the curtain; he was also deadly tired. The shortage of oxygen had sapped his strength. He doubted he could survive if this site were not what he sought. He had in fact gambled his life on it.

The passage did not go to the site. Stile had to use the disrupter again. The wall melted and he stepped through.

He had entered a dusty chamber. Machinery was in it. The detector indicated that electric current flowed here. He turned up his light and examined the machinery. Immediately he suffered the pangs of disappointment. This was no computer; this was an old construction robot, equipped to bore and polish a tunnel through rock. The magnetic field was from a preservation current, to warm key lines and maintain the valuable robot brain in operative condition despite long disuse. There were other construction machines here, similarly parked and preserved. It was cheaper to mothball equipment for centuries than to rebuild it at need. Obviously the computer had been brought here, then passed through the curtain to Phaze long ago.

Something nagged at Stile's mind. There was a discontinuity. What was it? He felt worn in brain as well as in body, but as he concentrated he was able to force it to the surface of consciousness. His ability to do this was one of the things that had brought him to his present position as Citizen and Adept. When he needed to be aware of something, he could grasp it in time for it to be of use. Usually.

It was this: the curtain was not here. It was at least a full weary day and night's march northwest of here. There was no way the computer could have been set across here. The curtain was fairly stable; if it moved, it did so very slowly. Centimeters per century, perhaps, like the drifting of continents.

Still, that offered a possible explanation. Maybe the curtain had moved, perhaps in random jumps that were now forgotten, and several centuries ago it had been here. So the computer had been put across, and stranded by the retreat of the curtain.

How, then, could he be fated to put the computer back across the curtain? The computer was surely far too massive for him to move, even if the other Adepts permitted it — which they would not. Stile was not at all sure he cared to make the effort. If the computer-Oracle was his enemy, why should he help it move to Proton to wreak its vengeance on Phaze? So much remained to be clarified before Stile could decide what side of what situation he was on.

First, however, he had to figure out how to survive. There should be some small emergency supplies of food and oxygen here, for maintenance workers who might get stranded. There might be a storeroom. Maybe even a communication line to civilization, since there was a live power line.

He checked around, his mind growing dull as his scant remaining oxygen thinned. He had rationed it to reach here; now it was gone. He stumbled from machine to machine. No oxygen, no supplies.

The cave narrowed. There was a door at the end. It was an air-lock type of portal — a likely storeroom or pressurized office complex. He needed to get in, but it was sealed. Should he use the disrupter? Two problems there: first, the chamber might be lined with disrupt-resistant material, making it impervious to the attack of this small weapon; second, if he did break in, and there was air pressure, that pressure would decompress explosively. Not only could this be dangerous to him physically, the process would eliminate the very thing he had to preserve — normal, oxygenated air pressure.

He tried to open the lock, but could not; the controls were keyed to particular identities or particular code sequences, and he was not the right person and didn't know the code. No help for it; he would have to try the disrupter, hoping to find canned air to use with his suit

Then a voice came: "Identify yourself."

There was someone in there! Or at least a sapient robot. "I am-" He paused. Should he give his true identity? Caution prevailed. "A person in need of air. I beg assistance."

"You shall have it. Be advised that a robot weapon is trained on you."

"So advised." Stile leaned against the wall, growing dizzy as the last of his scuba oxygen faded. He could not blame a solitary maintenance guard for being careful.

The portal hummed, then opened. Air puffed out. A figure emerged, clothed in the protective gear of a maintenance worker, using a nostril mask and protective goggles.

"Stile! It's you!" the figure cried. "God, what a relief!" The man put his arm around Stile's shoulders to help him into the chamber.

It was Clef, the musician Stile had encountered in the Tourney, and to whom he had given the Platinum Flute. The Foreordained. "I thought you were in Phaze," Stile gasped as the air lock sealed and pressure came up.

"I was, Stile. Or should I say sir? I understand you obtained your Citizenship."

"I got it. Don't bother with the 'sir.' Just give me air and food and a place to rest. What are you doing here?"

The inner aperture opened, and Clef guided him into a comfortable chamber. "I'm here to meet you, Stile, on behalf of the Oracle. You and I must work together to fulfill the prophecy and save the frames from destruction." He pressed a cup of nutri-soup into Stile's unsteady hands and set him in an easy chair. "I was so afraid you would not make it. The Oracle said there was danger, that no one could help you, and that it could not foresee your arrival. Its prophecies are unreliable when they relate to its own destiny. I had no notion when and if you would arrive, except that it had to be within a three-day time span. I fear I was asleep when the moment came. Then I could not be certain it was you, for there are enemies-"

Stile ceased his gulping of the soup to interrupt Clef. "Enemies? To save the frames? I understood I was to destroy Phaze, and I don't know whether that makes me friend or enemy to whom."

Clef smiled. "That depends on how you see it, Stile. The present order will be overturned or greatly weakened in both Proton and Phaze. That's why Citizens and Adepts oppose the move. Most of the rest-the serfs and creatures — will benefit by the new order. You are no enemy to them!"

"Viewpoint," Stile said, catching on. "To an Adept, the loss of power of Adepts would be disaster, the end of Phaze as he knows it. To a unicorn, it might be salvation."

"And to a werewolf," Clef agreed. "Big changes are coming. It is our job to make the transition safe. If we don't, things could get extremely ugly."

Stile was recovering as he breathed the good air and ingested the nourishment of the soup. He started to strip off the wetsuit, all that had protected him from the chill of the cave passages. This chamber was like a slice of Heaven, coming so suddenly after his arduous trek. "Tell me everything."

"It's simple enough. Three hundred years ago, when they discovered that this planet was one of the occasional places in the universe where the frames of science and of fantasy intersected-would you believe Planet Earth was another such place in medieval times? — they realized that there were certain dangers in colonizing the fantasy frame. So they set up some powerful instruments for the purpose of securing an optimistic new order. A sophisticated self-willed computer and a definitive book of magic."

"A book of magic? I never heard of this."

"Well, you weren't supposed to. It contains the most potent spells in all modes, so that it would take years for a single person to invoke them all-not that anyone would want to. Spells of creation and destruction, of summoning and sending, of healing and harming. Any person with access to that book in Phaze would become an instant Adept, more powerful than any other, one who could virtually change the face of the frame in minutes. The computer contains all the data for science, finance, economics, and politics known at the time. Despite the passage of three hundred years, this knowledge is enough to assure the operator enormous power in Proton-perhaps enough to dominate the government."

"And someone is destined to get hold of these tools and turn them to wrong use? That could indeed be trouble!"

"No, great care was taken to safeguard against this danger. The two tools had to be preserved for the time when they were needed, and kept out of the hands of those who might squander or abuse them. They had to be ready for the great crisis of separation."

"Separation?"

"It seems the intersection of frames is a sometime thing. The elves who instructed me are not sure about that. As you know, they consider me to be the one they call the Foreordained, which simply means my particular talent will be useful in negotiating the crisis; there is nothing religious or supernatural about it. So they have been preparing me in a cram-course, while you have diverted the Adepts who might otherwise have interfered."

"So that's what I was doing. I was a decoy!"

"That's only part of your task. Anyway, they think the frames are going to separate, so there will be no more crossings, no further interactions. This is simply part of the natural order; it happened on Earth as the medieval period ended. After it, no one in Proton need believe in magic, and no one in Phaze need believe in science, and the episode of the interaction of the systems will seem like fake history. Since on this planet the fantasy frame was colonized from the science frame — though a number of Phaze creatures are evidently native to the fantasy realm, and perhaps the Little Folk too — er, where was I?"

"The frames are separating," Stile said.

"Ah, yes. When they do, the human alternative selves will be carried away, becoming complete in themselves, clones of their counterparts, and parallelism will no longer exist."

"Now that's another thing," Stile said. "I can see how the presence of people in one frame could generate similar people in the other frame, split by the curtain. With science overlapping magic, that sort of thing can happen. But after the initial ripple, why should it continue? I did not exist three hundred years ago; why should there have been two of me?"

"Again, the Little Folk aren't certain. It seems that when the experts made the computer and book of magic — two aspects of the same thing — they were able to juxtapose the frames. Science and magic operated in each, for the two were the same. Then the frames separated slightly, and each person and creature separated too. This was an unexpected occurrence; before that, there had been only one of each. It was as if the fantasy frame, vacant of human life, picked up a duplicate copy of each person in the science feme. It did not work the other way, for no dragons or unicorns appeared in Proton, perhaps because it lacked a compatible environment. Already the mining of Protonite was commencing, with attendant use of heavy machinery, construction of processing plants, and pollution of the environment. The Citizen class put things on what they termed a businesslike footing at the outset, permitting no pollution controls. There is evidence that magical creatures are extremely sensitive to environmental degradation; only a few, like the trolls, can endure it for any length of time. The Citizens of Proton simply put up force-field domes and continued their course unabated, ignoring the outside planet. In this manner Proton lost whatever it might have had in nature, sacrificed by the illiterate pursuit of wealth. But despite this gross difference between the frames, parallelism persisted; people tended to align. In fact, parallelism is the major factor in the present crisis."

"That's what I really want to understand," Stile said. "The frames may separate, but I don't see why that should destroy them unless, like Siamese twins, they can't exist apart."

"They can exist apart. To make the problem clear, I have to clarify parallelism. It's not just people; the entire landscape is similar. A change made in one frame and not in the other creates an imbalance and puts a strain on the entire framework. Dig a hole in the ground in Proton, and the stress won't be alleviated until a similar hole is made in Phaze. Unfortunately there is no natural way to do that, so the stress continues to build. Eventually something will snap — and we are now very close to the snapping point."

"Ah, I see. Like damming a stream — the water builds up behind and falls away on the other side, until it either spills over or breaks the dam. And we don't want the dam to burst."

"Indeed we don't. So we have to find a way to alleviate the pressure. We don't know what will happen if the frames equalize in their own fashion, but it would probably wipe out most of the inhabitants of both frames."

"So we need to fill holes and drain waters," Stile said. "Seems simple enough."

"Not so. Not so at all. You reckon without the human dynamics. You see, the major imbalance, the largest hole in the ground, literally, is from the mining of Protonite. This is displacing huge quantities of material, creating a substantial physical imbalance, and worse yet-"

"Protonite," Stile said. "In the other frame it's Phazite — the source of the energy for magic."

"Exactly. That makes the problem critical, and the solution almost prohibitively difficult. The Citizens are not about to stop mining Protonite voluntarily. Not until every last dreg of it is gone, like the original atmosphere. Protonite is the basis of their wealth and power. If it were only sand, we could arrange to transfer a few thousand tons from one frame to the other, relieving the imbalance. But as it is-"

"But if that much Protonite, ah, Phazite were transferred out, to restore the balance, what would happen to the magic?"

"It would be reduced to about half its present potency. The Oracle has calculated this carefully. The power of the Adepts, who are the main users, would diminish accordingly. They would not be able to dominate Phaze as they do now."

"That might not be a bad thing," Stile said. "And the Proton Citizens-"

"Their mining would have to be severely curtailed, perhaps cease entirely. They would have no renewal of their present resources. The galaxy would have to discover new sources of energy."

"But the galaxy depends on Protonite! Nothing matches it! There would be phenomenal repercussions!"

"Yes, that is why taking action is difficult. Civilization as we know it will have to change, and that will not

occur easily. Yet the alternative, the Oracle says, may be the complete destruction of this planet — which would also cut off the galaxy's supply of Protonite."

"I begin to comprehend the forces operating," Stile said. "The end of Phaze and Proton is approaching, and we have to do something. But both Citizens and Adepts would oppose the cutoff of Protonite mining and the transfer of Phazite, because without free use of this mineral their status suffers greatly. That's why the Adepts are after me now, and think that my elimination will alleviate their problem; they fear I can do something that will deplete them all-"

"You can."

"And that's why the self-willed machines knew I would have to become the wealthiest of Citizens. Wealth is power in Proton, and I need to be able to withstand the formidable opposition of the Citizens when this thing breaks."

"Exactly. You need enough of a voting bloc to tip the balance in your favor."

So many things were falling into place! "But why, then, did the computer try to destroy me? I don't want to see either Proton or Phaze come to harm and I should certainly work to achieve the best compromise. Why did the Oracle sic the Red Adept on me?"

"Because only you — and I — can do the job that must be done. A man who can cross the curtain freely, who is powerful in each frame, and who has the ability and conscience to carry through. A man who is essentially incorruptible without being stupid. The Blue Adept, your other self, was too limited; he could not cross the curtain, so he had no base in Proton, no experience with that society. He had lived all his life with magic; he depended on it. He would have been largely helpless in Proton during the crisis."

"So the Oracle killed him?" Stile demanded incredulously. "Just because he wasn't perfect? Why didn't the Oracle select someone else for the job?"

"The Oracle selected you, Stile. You had his excellent qualities, and you had lived a more challenging life; you were better equipped. But you could not enter Phaze. So the Blue Adept had to be eliminated — I do not speak of this with approval — in order to free you to cross the curtain. Had the decision gone the other way, you would have been the one killed, to free him to cross into Proton."

"But the attempt was made on me too!" Stile protested, shaken by this cold calculation.

"It was blocked in Proton," Clef said. "I knew nothing of this when I encountered you in the Tourney; believe me, I was appalled. But you were protected. The Oracle sent a second message-"

"The message!" Stile exclaimed. "I was trying to trace it! The Oracle-" But this, too, was coming clear now. One message to start the murder process, the other to intercept and nullify part of it. Diabolically efficient!

"Now you have been prepared," Clef continued. "The computer expects you to organize the juxtaposition and transfer."

"I'm not at all sure I want to cooperate with this emotionless machine. It has entirely disrupted my life, not stopping even at murder. What it put the Lady Blue through, and my friend Hulk-" Stile shook his head. "This is not the sort of thing I care to tolerate."

"I agree. But it seems the alternative is to let both frames crash."

"Or so the cynical Oracle says," Stile said. "That machine has shown itself to be completely unscrupulous in the manipulation of people and events. Why should I believe it now?"

"The Little Folk believe it," Clef said. "They despise it and want to be rid of it, but they believe it. It is a machine, programmed for truth, not for conscience. So its methods are ruthless, but never has it lied. Its sole purpose is to negotiate the crisis with minimum havoc, and it seems that the grief inflicted on you was merely part of the most rational strategy. It has no human will to power and, once it returns to Proton, it will serve its master absolutely."

"And who will its master be?"

"You, I think. I am called the Foreordained, but I believe the term is most applicable to you. Perhaps it was applied to me as a decoy, to prevent your premature destruction." He smiled, appreciating the irony. "The Oracle prophesies that Blue will govern Proton in the difficult period following separation of the frames. As you may have gathered, there is no limit on information when it deals with me. The computer will help you govern Proton, and the book of magic will assist the one who takes power from the Adepts in Phaze."

"And who is that?"

"I can't get a clear answer there. It seems to be you — but of course you can't be in both frames after they separate. I suspect the computer suffered a prophetic short circuit here. I can only conjecture that whichever frame you choose to remain in will be yours to govern."

"I want only to remain in Phaze with the Lady Blue and Neysa and Kurrelgyre and my other friends. Yet I have already been treated to the prophecy that Phaze will not be safe until Blue departs it."

Clef shook his head. "I wish I could give you a clear answer on this, Stile, but I can not. Your future is indistinct, perhaps undecided. It may be because you are the key figure, the one who will decide it. The uncertainty principle-" He shrugged.

Unwillingly, Stile had to concede the probable truth of this complex of difficult notions. Machines acted the way they were designed and programmed to act — and why would the experts of three hundred years ago have designed a machine to lie during a crisis? Surely they would not have. The very ruthlessness that Stile hated was an argument in favor of the Oracle's legitimacy.

"Where is this book of magic?" Stile asked at last. It was his grudging, oblique concession that he would have to go along with the Oracle and perform his part in this adjustment of frames.

"In Proton, under the control of the Game Computer."

"What's it doing in Proton? No one can use it there."

"That is why it is in Proton. To protect the two tools of power from premature exploitation and dissipation, the powers-that-were placed them in the wrong frames. The book of magic is impotent in the science frame, and the computer is greatly reduced in power in the fantasy frame. In order to resolve the crisis, both must be restored to their proper frames."

"So my job is to fetch the book and pass the computer back through?"

"These tasks are not simple ones," Clef cautioned him. Stile, of course, had already gathered that. "The book should be no problem in the acquisition, for the Game Computer will turn it over to anyone possessing the code-request. But the Citizens will do their utmost to stop it from being transported across the curtain. The computer — that relates to my job. It will cross only as the moving curtain intersects this location."

"Your job? Exactly what will you do as the Foreordained?"

"I will juxtapose the frames. That is the precondition for re-establishing parallelism."

Stile shook his head. "Just when I thought I had it straight, I am confused again. It is my limited present understanding that the frames are about to separate, but can't because of the imbalance of Protonite. I suppose their separation would tear that associated Phazite free and rupture our whole reality, like a knot pulled through a needlehole. But we have only to form a ball of Phazite and roll it across the curtain, where it will become the necessary Protonite. What's this business about juxtaposition?"

"Nice notion, that ball. But you don't just roll Phazite across the curtain. Phazite is magic; the curtain is really an effect of that magic, like a magnetic field associated with electric current or the splay of colors made by a prism in sunlight. Such a ball might rend the curtain, causing explosive mergence of the frames-"

"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 strange 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 to 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."

"Have no concern. I could block your magic by a single note, but don't have to. I trust you to get me to the Oracle in good order."

Stile paused in the air lock. "We may not meet again, but we shall be working together." He proffered his hand.

"Surely we shall meet," Clef said warmly, taking the hand, forgetting his own prior doubt on this score.

Then they opened the air lock, held their breath, and charged out to intersect the faintly scintillating curtain ahead. The air-lock door swung closed automatically behind them. It was camouflaged to resemble an outcropping of rock; Stile had passed it during his honeymoon without ever noticing.

They stepped through together. The bleak, barren desert became lush wilderness. Stile played a few bars on the harmonica, summoning his magic. Now he was conscious of the spirit of his other self within the instrument, facilitating his performance. No doubt he had been able to practice magic much more readily and effectively because of this help than would otherwise have been possible. "Adepts be deaf; computer get Clef," Stile sang. He was trying to conceal his magic from the awareness of the enemy; he wasn't sure that aspect would work.

Clef vanished. Stile played some more, restoring the expended potency of the magic. This time he was conscious of its source, Phazite, with an ambience of magic like a magnetic field; the music intensified and focused this on Stile, as a magnifying glass might do with a beam of sunshine. The transfer of Phazite to Proton-frame would diminish this ambience, robbing his spells of half their potency. Still, Phaze would be a magic realm — and of course he would probably leave it, so as to make it safe. "Conduct me whole," he sang, "to the East Pole."

He splashed in water. Naturally that was why, this region was not a tourist attraction. The water was foul too; the universal Proton pollution was slopping through. All the more reason for tourists to stay clear!

Stile trod water and played his music again. "Set it up solo: a floating holo."

A buoyed holographic transceiver appeared. Stile had really strained to get the concept detail on this one. This was to be his contact station, so that he could stay in touch with the two frames from either side. Because it was at the deserted, unpleasant East Pole, it should be secure for some time from the depredations of other Adepts or Citizens. He was sure that by this time the enemy Adepts had booby-trapped his fixture at the West Pole and would not expect this alternate ploy. Satisfied, Stile played more music. "Take me down to see Brown."

He arrived at the wooden castle of the Brown Adept, feeling nauseous. Self-transport never was comfortable, and he had done it twice rapidly.

In a moment the pretty, brown-haired, brown-eyed child dashed up to him. "Oh, Blue," she cried. "I was so afraid they had hurt thee!"

Stile smiled wanly. "I had the same fear for thee. Thou alone didst side with me, of all the Adepts."

She scowled cutely. "Well, they did tie me up with a magic rope or something. I was going to get a golem to loose me, but then Yellow came and let me go. She's real pretty in her potion-costume! She said all the others were after thee, and she really didn't like it but couldn't go against her own kind. Is that what I'm doing?"

"Thou art helping save Phaze from disaster," he assured her.

"Oh, goody!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

Stile had a second thought about using Brown as an ally. Could a child have proper responsibility? Yet he didn't seem to have much choice. She had at least had the courage to oppose the other Adepts, which was more than Yellow had had. "I need thy help in an important capacity," he said. "There may be hard work and even danger."

"If Phaze is in trouble, I'm already in danger," she said brightly.

"Aye. The other Adepts prefer to risk disaster later, for the sake of power now. I must do something that will make magic less effective, but will save Phaze for future centuries. Then must I leave Phaze."

"Leave Phaze!" she exclaimed, horrified. "I was only just getting to know thee!"

"I do not wish to leave, but a prophecy of the Oracle suggests Phaze will not be safe until I do. I love Phaze too much to hurt it by remaining."

A soulful tear rolled down her cheek. "Oh, Blue — I like this not!"

"I fear the Lady Blue will like it even less," Stile said, choking somewhat himself. "Neither will my friend Neysa the unicorn. But what must be, must be. Now must I cross the curtain before the other Adepts spot me. They tried to trap me in the goblins' demesnes, and now that I escaped, they will be attacking me anywhere they find me. In any event, there is something I must fetch in Proton-frame. So must I ask thee to be my coordinator in Phaze."

Her young brow furrowed. "What is this?"

"The creatures of Phaze must be warned. They must be told that the Oracle predicts disaster if certain things be not done, and that the Blue Adept is trying to do these things and may need their help. That the other Adepts are trying to prevent this program from being implemented and may attack any creatures who help me. Canst thou go to the creatures and tell them?"

"Oh, sure, I can send my golems," she said. "If they are not stopped by magic, they will speak the message."

"Excellent. I have set up a spell to keep thee in touch, so that thou canst check with me across the curtain. When I have what I need, I will return."

"I hope thy business there takes not long. This frightens me, Blue."

"It frightens me too! But I think we can get through." Stile played his harmonica, then sang: "Create a crystal ball, for Brown Adept to call."

The ball appeared. Stile presented it to her. "Speak to this when thou must reach me. I will answer if I can."

She smiled, her spirit rebounding quickly at the prospect of this new toy. "That should be fun!"

"Now must I go," Stile said. He sang a routine spell to take him to a little-used section of the curtain, then stepped across into a maintenance hall in Proton.

Soon he was in touch with Sheen and riding with her in a private Citizen capsule. "What is the present state of my fortune?" he inquired.

"Mellon has manipulated it into about sixty kilograms."

"Sixty kilos of Protonite? Already he's doubled it?"

"He's one of my friends," she reminded him. That meant Mellon had access to information not generally available to others, including Citizens — such as what supposedly random numbers might be generated by the Game Computer. That would of course be an enormous advantage. Stile did not like all of the implications, but decided not to inquire about the details.

"However," she said, "several things are disturbing the Citizens and making mischief for you. It may be difficult in the next few hours."

"It may indeed," he agreed. "The countdown for the juxtaposition of frames has commenced. I've already set most of the other Adepts against me, and soon the same will happen with most of the Citizens."

"Yes. First there is the matter of your rapid increase in fortune. They are concerned where it will stop, understandably. Second, they don't like your designating me as your heir. The panel approved it, but now many more Citizens are becoming aware of it. A robot with such a fortune would be awkward. Third, there is a rumor you mean to destroy the society of Proton. That notion is not at all popular."

"I should think not," Stile agreed. "As it happens, they are not far wrong."

"Will you update me, briefly? I fear things will complicate rapidly, now that you have reappeared, and I lack the living capacity to adapt to totally changed situations. Some Citizens even expressed hope you were dead, and in that hope their action was held in abeyance."

"So now they may seek to render me dead," Stile said. "I thought Citizenship would alleviate my problems somewhat, but they have only intensified. Very well — you get me to the Game Computer, and I'll fill you in."

"What do you want with the Game Computer?"

"It has the book of magic that will make me instantly more powerful than any person in Phaze has been before. I'll need it to protect myself from the massed power of all the other Adepts and to facilitate the transfer of Phazite across the curtain. Here it will be Protonite, with scientific energy instead of magical energy. Then the frames will separate forever, and the curtain will be gone."

She was quick to catch on. "Which world will you be in, then, Stile?"

Stile sighed. "You know I want to be in Phaze, with the Lady Blue. But I am of Proton, and there is a prophecy that tells me to get clear of Phaze. So I will be here."

He thought she would be pleased, but she was not. "The Lady Blue is to be widowed again?" she asked sharply.

"I could bring her here to Proton. But she is of Phaze; I fear it would destroy her to leave it forever. I don't think she would come here anyway, because here I am to marry you."

"So it is my fault you have to widow her?"

How had he gotten into this? "It is the fault of fate. I simply am not destined to be happy after my job is done." Then he bit his tongue. What an insult he had given Sheen!

"I will put in for reprogramming, so she can come here. You do not need to marry me."

Stile refused to take the bait. It was surely poisoned. Sheen might be less complicated than a living woman, but she did have depths. "I will marry you. It is the way it has to be."

"Have you informed the Lady Blue of this?" she inquired coldly.

"Not yet." There was a dreadful task!

They were silent for a while. Stile felt the weight of the harmonica in his pocket and brought it out for contemplation. "I wish you could come out," he said to it.

Sheen looked at him questioningly.

"My other self's soul is in this instrument," Stile explained. "Clef's Flute evoked it. Apparently the original Blue Adept conjured his spirit into his favorite possession. It helped me play the harmonica beyond my natural ability, and maybe won a round of the Tourney for me. So he helped me — but I can't help him. He's dead."

"This soul — you saw it in Phaze?"

"No. In Proton."

"But there's no magic in Proton."

Stile nodded thoughtfully. "I'm getting so used to magic, I'm forgetting where I am. That Platinum Flute can't evoke spirits in Proton — yet I swear it did. We thought maybe some magic leaked through, but that couldn't really happen."

"Unless this imbalance you talk of is getting worse. The fabric is starting to tear."

"That could be. The Flute did reach across to shake the mountains of Proton and perhaps also to give me the dream-vision of Clefs journey to the Little Folk. Juxtaposition of one kind or another is occurring; the boundaries are fogging. Which is why action is required now. I wish there were some way to restore my other self to life. Then he could go back to Phaze, his job done."

"Why not? All he needs is a body." "Like that of a robot or android? They can't function in Phaze."

"Perhaps a magic body, then. One that resembles you. With his soul in it-"

"Ridiculous. You assume that such things can be assembled like the parts of a robot." But Stile wondered. What was a person, other than a body with a soul?

"If I had a soul, I'd be real," Sheen said wistfully.

Stile had given up arguing that case. "The Brown Adept animates golems, but they're made of wood. Robots are made of metal and plastic. Androids are living flesh, but imperfect; they are stupid and often clumsy. If it were possible to fashion a golem made of flesh, with a mind like yours and a human spirit — wouldn't that be a person?"

"Of course it would," she said.

Stile decided. "Have your friends look into the matter. It's a far shot, but if there were any way to restore my other self to some semblance of life, I owe him that. If he died to save Phaze, it is right that he be restored to it."

"If you have any female souls floating around looking for a host, send one to me."

Stile took her hand. Her fingers were as soft and warm as those of any living person. "I regard the soul as the essence of self. If you hosted someone else's soul, you would become that person. I prefer you as you are."

"But you can't love me as I am."

"I can't love anyone other than the Lady Blue. When this business is done, I will accord to you whatever emotion I am capable of feeling for any woman, flesh or metal. You deserve better than this, I know."

"Half love is better than none," she said. "And if you restore your other self in Phaze, will he love the Lady Blue?"

"He's her husband!" Stile exclaimed. "Of course he loves her!"

"Then why did he give her up to you?"

"To save Phaze. It was an act of supreme sacrifice."

"I am a machine. I don't appreciate the delicate nuances of human conscience and passion as a human being can. To me it seems more likely that he found himself in an untenable situation, as do you with me, and simply opted out."

"That's an appalling notion!" But it also carried an insidious conviction. Suppose the Blue Adept, aware of the approaching crisis, knowing he had to make way for another, and perhaps no longer in love with his wife-

"I wish I could meet your other self," Sheen said.

"You are a creature of science, he of magic," Stile said. "Such meetings are difficult, even when both parties are alive. You are stuck with me."

She smiled, letting it go. "And we do have more serious business than such idle conjecturing." She put the holo on receive, and a call was waiting.

It was from Citizen Merle. "Ah, so you're back, Stile! Let me show you me in serf-guise. Private line, please."

"Merle, I'm with Sheen-"

"She knows that," Sheen said, setting up the nonintercept coding.

Merle stripped away her clothing with elegant motions. She had an excellent body. "Stile, beware," she murmured. "There are plots afoot to slay you."

Stile was startled by the contrast between her actions and her words. "I thought you had seduction in mind, Merle."

"I do, I do! I can't seduce you if you're dead, however."

There was that, "Merle, I don't want to deceive you. I'm not interested in-"

"I understand you have business with the Game Computer."

How much did she know? "Do yon intend to blackmail me?"

"By no means. You happen to be unblackmailable. But I might help you, if you caused me to be amenable."

"If I were amenable to your design, Merle, my fiancée here might get difficult."

"I suspect she would rather have you alive, well, and victorious. You see, some Citizens have the notion that you represent a threat to their welfare, so they have instituted a push to have your Citizenship revoked."

"Revoked! Is that possible?" Stile felt his underpinnings loosening. He had assumed his Citizenship was irrevocable.

"Anything is possible, by a majority vote of the kilos attending the evening business meeting. You will be on tonight's agenda. You will need whatever help you can get."

Stile glanced at Sheen. "This is news to you?"

"I knew something was developing, sir, but not that it had progressed to this extent."

"Citizens have avenues of communication not available to machines," Merle said. "I assure you the threat is genuine, and the vote may well go against you. Citizens, unfortunately, have very narrow definitions of self-interest." She smiled, turning her now-naked body suggestively. She had an excellent talent for display. "I will encourage my associates to support you, if you come to me. This could shift the balance. It is little enough I ask. Are you quite sure you can't be tempted?"

Sheen, meanwhile, had been busy on another private line. Now she glanced up. "It is true, sir," she said. "My friends verify that in the past hour a general disquiet has formed into a pattern of opposition. The moment news flashed that you had reappeared in Proton, momentum gathered. The projected vote is marginally against you. Merle's support could save you."

"Listen to her, Stile," Merle said. "The scales are finely balanced at the moment, but the full thrust of your opposition has not yet manifested. Sheen has more riding on this than her own possible Citizenship. If your Citizenship is revoked, your tenure will end and you will have to leave Proton. The prospect for her friends would decline drastically, perhaps fatally, incongruous as the term may be in that application."

"How much do you know, Merle?" Stile asked tightly.

"Stile, I research what intrigues me. I have learned much about you in the past few hours. This enhances my respect for you. It is a thing of mine to take a piece of those I respect. This is a harmless foible, and I always give fair return. Come to me and I will help you."

She had him in a difficult spot. If she knew about the self-willed machines and possibly about Stile's mission to restore parallelism in the separating frames, she could certainly cause him much mischief.

"Sir, I think you should go to her," Sheen said.

Stile found himself athwart a dilemma. He had told Mellon to arrange a private bet, to the limit of his available finances, that he would not be seduced by Merle. He did not care to lose that bet, for such a loss would wipe him out. But if her support was all that guaranteed his continuing Citizenship, he could lose everything despite winning the bet. He was between Scylla and Charybdis, the devil and the deep sea, the rock and the hard place.

"I am frankly surprised you do not heed your metal fiancée," Merle said. "She does seem to know what's best for you."

Stile's flash of rage was stifled by Sheen's imploring look. He decided to meet with Merle and try to explain. Maybe he could win through. "Give me your address."

She gave the code, and Sheen changed course. The book of magic would have to wait a little.

There was another call. This one was for Sheen, from Mellon. "We have a delivery for you," he said. "Cosmetics for our employer."

"I don't need-" Stile started to protest. But he was cut off by a glance from the serf.

"Thank you," Sheen said. "I'll pick them up at the nearest delivery tube when we leave the capsule." She gave him Merle's code, and the connection broke.

"Do I look that haggard?" Stile asked plaintively. "I had a good night's rest"

"Mellon is not concerned about your appearance. Obviously something is afoot. Maybe the Lady Citizen has placed an order for an intoxicating or sexually compelling drug, and this is the counteragent."

"Maybe," Stile agreed morosely. "Sheen, Merle is pretty enough in her rejuvenated state, and I'm sure she has a good mind and lots of experience. But I'm simply not interested in the sort of liaison she desires. How do I get out of this one without imperiling my Citizenship?"

"What you are interested in is not very important," she said. "Merle does not want any romance; she merely wants an act of sex to add to her collection. The practical thing is for you to give it to her."

"And lose my bet," Stile said.

Sheen looked startled. "Oh, my — I'm starting to think like a person! I forgot all about that! Of course you can't oblige her." She seemed relieved.

"If I oblige anyone in that way, it will be you."

"Any time."

"After we're decently married."

"It's not a decent marriage."

The capsule arrived, sparing him further comment. They got out at a small private terminal. From here there was access to three small domes, one of which was Merle's.

Sheen went to the delivery chute and punched the coding for Mellon's package. A small vial fell into her hand. Her brow furrowed as she brought the item back. "This is no cosmetic, sir. It's-" She broke off. "Let's move quickly, sir."

Suddenly gas hissed into the room from barred vents. Sheen launched herself at the entrance to Merle's dome. It was locked closed.

"I don't have the facility to analyze this gas," she cried. "But I'll bet it's not cleaning fog. Breathe this, sir." She opened the vial, holding it under his nose.

Vapor puffed out. Stile took the vial, sniffing it as the first waft of the other gas reached him. The vial's vapor was sweet and pleasant; the other gas was sour and stinging.

Sheen returned to the locked door. She opened her front cabinet, the left breast swinging out on hinges to reveal an array of small tools. Even in this crisis, Stile marveled at the completely womanish texture of that breast, when in fact it was a mere facade. Robotry was quite sophisticated.

In a moment Sheen had burned through the lock with a tiny laser unit and had the passage open. Stile hurried through. Sheen shut the door behind them, blocking off the gas, and closed up her breast cabinet. She was whole and normal and soft again.

Stile felt woozy and sick. The antidote in the vial had helped, but that poison gas was nasty stuff. Someone had tried to exterminate him!

Merle appeared. She was wearing a translucent negligee that did wonders for a body that hardly needed them. Stile noticed but hardly cared. He suffered himself to be led inside the Citizen's dome.

"I knew they were going to try something," Merle said. "I thought it would be at the Game Annex. I tried to get you here to safety, but they were too quick. I couldn't say anything on the holo; even a private line is only as private as the technology behind it."

"Our staff forwarded the antidote, sir," Sheen told her.

Stile sat in the comfortable chair where they had placed him, lacking initiative to do more than listen.

"My staff has found a better neutralizer," Merle said. She brought a breathing mask. "Use this, Stile." She fitted it over his face.

Immediately his head began to clear and his stricken body recovered.

"The official indication is a malfunction in the cleaning apparatus," Merle continued. "It's not supposed to fog when anyone is there, and this time the wrong chemicals were used. We won't be able to trace it, but I know the cause. There are activist Citizens who want you out of the way, Stile; I fear this is but the first attempt. You should be safe here, however."

Stile removed the breathing mask and smiled weakly. "I thought you had another notion, Merle."

"Oh, I do, I do. We have been through this before. But I do like you personally, Stile, and wish you well. You're the most refreshing thing to appear on the scene in some time. Fortunately the two notions are not incompatible."

"I fear they are, Merle. You have helped me get into a difficult situation." Stile's head had cleared, but his body remained weak; it was easier to talk than to act. He believed he could trust this woman.

"Do tell me!" she urged. "I love challenges."

"Are we private here?"

"Of course. I am neither as young nor as naïve as I try to appear."

"Will you keep my confidence?"

"About the liaison? Of course not! That must be known, or it doesn't count."

"About whatever I may tell you of my situation."

"I can't guarantee that, Stile. I know something about your situation already."

"Maybe you should tell me what you know, then."

"You are known as the Blue Adept in the other frame. Oh, yes, I have been to Phaze; my other self lacked rejuvenation and modern medicine and died a few years back of natural complications, freeing me. But magic is not for me; I remained there only a few hours and retreated to the safety of my dome here. The germs there are something fierce! I do, however, have a fold of the curtain passing through my property. I pay a harpy well to update me periodically on Phaze developments. This is how I learned more of you, once my interest in you was roused. You have been honeymooning with your lovely Phaze wife, but Adepts have been laying snares for you, until recently you disappeared into the demesnes of the goblins. My informant thought you dead, though she reports a dragon and a hawk emerged safely and flew rapidly southeast, eluding pursuit by Adept sendings. Evidently you survived by crossing the curtain. You seem to be a figure of some importance in Phaze — and perhaps in Proton too, judging by this assassination attempt."

"What could you pay a harpy to serve you?" Stile asked, intrigued by this detail.

"She loves blood-soaked raw meat, but is too old and frail to catch it herself."

"The others of her flock would provide," Stile said, thinking of the harpy attack Clef had weathered upon his entry into Phaze. How important that entry had turned out to be!

"This one is a loner. No flock helps her."

"Is she by chance your other self?"

Merle stiffened, then relaxed. "Oh, you have a sharp tongue, Stile! No, it doesn't work that way, or I couldn't cross. My other self was exactly like me, only she seemed older. She did befriend the harpy, and when she died I assumed the burden of that friendship. It is not easy to get along with a harpy! Now will you tell me what I do not know about yourself?"

"Will you accept that information in lieu of the sexual liaison?" "No, of course not, Stile. I accept it in exchange for the protection I am offering you here, and for the information I am giving you about the Citizen plot against you."

She would not be swayed from her objective! She wanted another notch for her garter. He would have to give her the full story and hope it would persuade her to help him without insisting on the liaison. She might be displeased to learn about his bet in that connection, but at least it was no affront to her pride.

There was a chime and glimmer of light in the air. "That's my holo," Merle said. "Call for you, Stile, blocked by my privacy intercept."

"Better let it through," he said. "The enemy Citizens know I'm here anyway."

The picture formed. It was the Brown Adept. "The creatures don't believe me, Blue," she said tearfully. "They think I'm with the bad Adepts, trying to fool them. They are attacking my golems."

Stile sighed. He should have known. "What would it take to convince them?"

"Only thee thyself, Blue. Or maybe one of thy close friends, or the Lady Blue-"

"No! The Lady Blue must remain guarded by the unicorns. The Adepts will be watching her."

"Maybe Neysa. She's friends with everybody."

"The Herd Stallion won't let her go." Stile hardly objected to the care provided for Neysa in her gravid state. Then he had an idea. "Thy demesnes are near to the range of the werewolves, are they not? Kurrelgyre's Pack?"

She brightened. "Sure, Blue. They come here all the time, hunting. But they don't believe me either."

"But if Kurrelgyre believed, his Pack would help. The other animals would believe him."

"I guess so," she agreed dubiously. "But thou wouldst have to tell him thyself."

"I will," Stile said. "Give me half an hour."

Brown's smile was like moonlight. "Oh, thank thee, Blue!"

"Nay, thank thee, Brown. It is an important service thou dost here."

"Gee." The happy image faded.

"So that's the Brown Adept," Sheen said. "A child. A cute child."

"She's a full sorceress, though," Stile said. "Her golems are tough creatures." He remembered his encounter with the golem shaped in his own image. He was glad to have those wooden men on his side, this time! He turned to Merle. "Now I have to explain to you my reason for not wishing to have this liaison, then hurry across your section of the curtain to straighten things out in Phaze."

"No need to explain," Merle said. "I can see you are busy, with people depending on you. I'll chalk this one up to experience."

"I do need your help," Stile said. "So I want you to understand-"

"You shall have my help, Stile. If that sweet child believes in you, so must I. I'm sure she is not asking any quid pro quo."

"Well, she may want a ride on a unicorn," Stile said, wondering whether he could believe this abrupt change of heart on her part. "But you still deserve to know-"

"About your secret bet," Merle said. "That's what made it such a challenge, Stile. But if you lose your fortune and can't do what you need to, that brown-eyed child will suffer, and I don't want that on my withered conscience. I'll show you to my corner of the curtain; that will get you neatly past the ambush awaiting you outside."

Stile stood, taking her hand. "I really appreciate this, Merle."

She drew him in for a kiss. "I think it was that child's thee's and thy's. You did it too, when you answered her. Somehow that melts me. I haven't been this foolish in decades."

They were before the curtain. It scintillated across Merle's huge round bouncy bed. No coincidence, that; she probably had a demon lover in the other frame. Beyond, Stile could discern the slope of a wooded hillside.

"How will I rejoin you?" Sheen asked.

"You'll come with me," Stile decided. "By now the enemy Citizens know how useful you are; they'll be trying to take you out too." He picked her up, strode across the bed, and willed himself through the curtain.

He stood on the forest slope, the inert robot in his arms. In Phaze, she was defunct. "Take this form of Sheen's to the wolves' demesnes," he sang. This was simplified; what he intended was for them both to travel there.

They arrived in good order. The wolves were snoozing in the vicinity of a recent kill, while several of the cubs growled at a golem they had treed. Half a dozen roused and charged Stile, converting to men and women as they drew near.

"Greetings, Blue Adept," Kurrelgyre exclaimed, recognizing him. "I see thou hast found a defective golem."

Stile glanced down at Sheen, startled. "I suppose I have, friend. In the other frame she is my fiancée."

"Ah, a bitch in every frame! Dost thou bring her here for animation by the Brown Adept?"

Again Stile was startled. Would such magic work? He would have to inquire. "I came to advise thee that I am at odds with the other Adepts, who seek to slay me. Thus I can not stay here long, lest they discover me and strike. Only the Brown Adept is with me, and I have asked her to spread warning to the tribes of the creatures of Phaze, whose help I may be needing soon."

"Ooooww!" Kurrelgyre howled, glancing at the tree. "I turned her down-"

"I know," Stile cut in. "I should have prepared better. Things have been very rushed. Now must I beg thee to help me by helping her. If thy wolves will go with her golems, to give them credence-"

"Aye, immediately," Kurrelgyre agreed. He made a signal at the tree, and the cubs quickly retreated, allowing the golem to come down. "Had I but realized before-"

Stile clapped him on the shoulder. "I thank thee. Now must I flee."

There was a wrenching. Oops — he had made an inadvertent rhyme, with Sheen leaning against him. Quickly he took better hold of her and willed himself to the Brown Demesnes. It worked; he landed neatly in the foyer of the wooden castle. The giant golem on guard did a double take, but managed to recognize him before clubbing him, and in a moment the Brown Adept was there.

"That's not one of mine!" she exclaimed, seeing the inert Sheen in his arms.

"This is Sheen, my Proton fiancée. She was with me when thou didst call a little while ago. Shell be all right when we cross the curtain. I just talked to Kurrelgyre, and the wolves will cooperate. Instruct thy golems; a wolf will go with each."

"Oh, goody!" But her attention was focused on Sheen. "I don't usually animate metal, but I can when I try. Of course her personality might not be the same-"

Stile had not intended to get into this now, but again he was intrigued. "Sheen always wanted to come to Phaze, but she's scientific. Thy golems are magic, and won't operate in Proton. I don't think it could work."

"Let me try, Blue. If I animate her, thou wilt not have to carry her."

"I'm in a hurry, Brown. The hostile Adepts could spot me at any moment. There isn't time-"

"Why dost thou not want to animate her here?" she asked with the direct naïvetd of a child.

That stopped Stile. The Lady Blue, his wife, was in Phaze, yet she could cross to Proton, where she had met Sheen. There really was no conflict. "How fast canst thou do it?"

"She is full-formed." Brown squinted at Sheen's torso critically. "Very full-formed. I have only to lay on my hands and concentrate. Most of the time I spend fashioning a golem is carving it to shape before animation."

"Try it, then. But if she is not herself — I mean, the golems can be-"

"Then will I deanimate her." Brown leaned over Sheen, where Stile placed her on the ground, and ran her hands over the body. Then she pressed her fingers across the face.

Sheen stirred. Her eyes opened.

Stile stood back, abruptly nervous. Golems were nonliving things, soulless ones animated only by magic. Brown's ability to make them function was phenomenal — but what monster in Sheen's image might rouse here?

Sheen sat up, shaking her head. She saw Stile. "Oh, we're back," she said. "I must have been set back by the deactivation. I feel funny."

She was herself! "Thou dost know me?" Stile asked, hardly daring to believe. A new golem would not have knowledge of him.

"Of course I know you, Stile! I'm not that forgetful, unless my memory banks get erased. And this child is the one who called you on holo. She-" Sheen broke off, surprised. "What is she doing here?"

"This is Phaze," Stile said. "The Brown Demesnes."

Sheen blinked. "I don't believe that is possible. I can't function across the curtain; you know that."

"I animated thee," the child said. "Thou art now a golem."

Sheen looked around, taking in the scene. She saw the wooden walls of the castle, and the golems standing near. "May I inspect this region?"

Stile was becoming nervous about the time. "Do it quickly, Sheen. Thou wilt be inert again if the enemy Adepts discover our presence here and attack." He was almost fidgeting.

"I think they are distracted by other events," Brown said. "They know not what my golems are doing."

Sheen completed her survey extremely quickly. "There is no dome. The air is natural. This is the other world. Will I remain animate? I feel no different."

"Yes," the Brown Adept said. "My golems never die, unless they are destroyed." Tactfully, she did not mention her ability to turn them off.

"Yet I am not alive," Sheen concluded sadly.

"That is beyond the power of magic," Brown agreed.

"And of science," Stile added. "Now must we go." He took Sheen's hand and sang a spell to take them to a private section of the curtain. One thing he had done during his honeymoon was survey likely crossing places.

They landed in a secluded glade in the Purple Mountain foothills. "Now that's an experience!" Sheen exclaimed. "It really is a magic land."

"It really is," Stile agreed. "Art thou able to cross the curtain by thyself now?"

Sheen tried, but could not. "I am not alive," she repeated. "I have no power to do what living creatures do."

Stile took her hand again and willed them across. They stood in a vehicle storage garage. "Do you remember?" he asked.

"I remember Phaze," she said. "I have not changed. Only your language has changed."

"So there is no loss of continuity as you shift from magic to science."

"None at all. I am the same. I wish I were not."

"Now let's get that book of magic before we are diverted again. We're close to a Game Annex terminal, by no coincidence. I can contact the Game Computer privately there."

"Let me do it," Sheen said. "There may be another ambush."

"You're my fiancée. I shouldn't let you take all the risks."

"Without you, I am nothing. Without me, you are a leading Citizen and Adept, capable of saving Phaze and helping my friends. Stand back, sir."

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 horror.

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 Came 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 roller-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 dose 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 locks 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.

They neared the surface. Trool paused. "There is yet day," he said. "Needs must I remain below." For he lacked his voluminous clothing, having had to discard it in order to masquerade as an android.

"By all means," Stile said. "Thou hast served us well, and fain would I call thee friend. We shall leave thee with our gratitude."

"It behooves not the like of thee to bestow friendship on the like of me," Trool said, gruffly pleased. He put his gnarled hands to the large flat rock that blocked the exit "Beyond this point it curves to the surface." He heaved.

Suddenly the roof caved in. Trool leaped back, shoving the other two clear. "Someone has tampered-"

Sunlight shone brilliantly down from above, angling in from the new hole in the ceiling to bathe the troll. "Sabotage!" Sheen exclaimed. "It would have crushed one of us-"

"Surely," Stile agreed. "The trap was meant for me."

"Look at Trool!" she cried, horrified.

Stile looked. The troll had been instantly destroyed by the light. He was now a figure of stone — a grotesque statue.

Suddenly it made a terrible kind of sense. Stile remembered how Serrilryan the werebitch had been fated to see the sidhe three times before she died; she had seen them the third time, then died. Trool had been fated to help Stile three times; he had done that, and had now been terminated.

"Damn it, this time I'm going to fight fate," Stile said angrily.